pairing: flower shop owner!seungcheol x reader
synopsis: When you were ten, Seungcheol taught you to blow dandelion seeds and make wishes. Years later, after moving away, you return to town and discover he's inherited his grandmother's flower shop. Inside an old drawer is a collection of childhood notes: "Things I wish for." Almost every one mentions you.
wc: 6.6k
genre: Fluff, Romance, Mild Angst, Slice of Life, Childhood Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Flower Shop AU
warnings: Grief/Loss of a grandparent (past event), Emotional Discussions about Separation and Missed Opportunities, Nostalgia, References to Childhood Loneliness
a/n: this was very fun to just make cheollie down baddd. this fic is a part of the First Bloom collab hosted by @svthub!
The strangest thing about coming home is discovering that the places you left behind never received the memo that you were gone.
You notice it almost immediately after stepping off the bus.
The old bakery on the corner still has the faded striped awning that seemed enormous when you were ten years old. The convenience store still has the crooked sign hanging above the entrance. Even the park across the road appears unchanged, the swings swaying gently in the afternoon breeze as if time itself had simply decided to settle down here and refuse to move forward.
Only you seem different. Only you seem out of place.
You stand beside your suitcase for a moment longer than necessary, staring down the familiar street while an uncomfortable ache settles somewhere beneath your ribs.
Three days ago, you had been packing up your apartment. Two days ago, you had been sorting through legal documents and answering sympathetic phone calls.
Now, after years of saying you'll visit eventually, after years of finding excuses and postponing plans and convincing yourself there would always be another opportunity, you're back in the town you spent most of your childhood trying to leave.
Not because you wanted to return. Because your grandmother died. The thought lands heavily, even now.
Your grip tightens around the suitcase handle. The funeral had been small. Simple.
Exactly what she would've wanted.
Most of the relatives had already left again, returning to their own lives, while you stayed behind to sort through paperwork and prepare the house for sale.
Just a few weeks, you told yourself. Long enough to finish everything properly. Long enough to say goodbye.
Then you'd leave again. The plan sounds reasonable in theory. In practice, every step through town feels like walking through memories.
The route to your grandmother's house passes the elementary school where you spent countless afternoons pretending to pay attention during class. The creek behind the football field still winds lazily through town, hidden beneath the same willow trees that once provided the backdrop for summer adventures so important they had felt life-changing at the time.
You know exactly where every turn leads. You hate how much of it you remember. The house itself sits exactly where it always has. The garden is slightly overgrown. The mailbox leans to one side. The front porch creaks beneath your weight.
Home.
Not home anymore. But close enough to hurt.
—
The first few days disappear beneath a mountain of responsibilities. Boxes. Documents. Phone calls. Dust-covered photo albums.
Closets packed with items your grandmother had somehow convinced herself she might need someday.
You spend hours sorting through decades of accumulated memories, discovering things you forgot existed and things you wish you could forget.
Old school reports. Birthday cards. Drawings. Photographs. Far too many photographs. By the fourth day, the house feels quieter than ever. The silence eventually becomes unbearable.
Which is how you find yourself wandering through town with no destination in mind, hands shoved into your jacket pockets while the late afternoon sun bathes everything in warm gold.
You tell yourself you're just getting fresh air. You tell yourself you aren't searching for anything. The lie lasts approximately fifteen minutes.
Because eventually you turn a corner. And stop.
The flower shop still stands exactly where it always did. For a second, you think you've imagined it.
The familiar brick storefront. The flower boxes beneath the windows. The painted sign hanging above the entrance.
Only one thing has changed.
The name.
Your chest tightens. Not because the shop exists. Because you know who owns it now. You learned it from one of the older ladies at the funeral.
"Oh, have you seen Seungcheol yet?"
As if that were the most natural question in the world. As if years hadn't passed. As if hearing his name didn't still do something strange to your heartbeat. You haven't seen him. Not yet.
You hadn't planned to.
But suddenly there he is. Standing inside the shop. Alive. Real. Older.
The breath catches somewhere in your throat. For a moment, all you can do is stare.
He's arranging flowers near the front counter, sleeves rolled to his forearms, dark hair falling slightly into his eyes as he focuses on adjusting a bouquet.
You knew he would have changed. Of course he would've changed.
The last time you saw him, he was fourteen years old and trying very hard not to cry while helping load boxes into a moving truck.
The man standing in front of you now is nothing like that boy. Except he is. The shape of his smile when he speaks to a customer. The way he absentmindedly scratches the back of his neck. The slight furrow between his brows when concentrating. Some things remain stubbornly familiar.
Then, as if sensing your stare, he looks up. And sees you.
The world doesn't stop. Nothing dramatic happens. Cars continue driving past. The shop door remains closed. The flowers continue existing. But something shifts.
You know it does because Seungcheol freezes. The bouquet slips slightly in his hands. For one stunned second, neither of you move.
Then his eyes widen. Your stomach drops. And suddenly you're ten years old again.
—
"You have to make a wish first."
"I already made one."
"That doesn't count."
"It does count."
"No, it doesn't."
"Why not?"
"Because I said so."
Ten-year-old Seungcheol had always been incredibly confident for someone who spent half his time making things up.
The two of you sat cross-legged in a field behind his grandmother's flower shop, surrounded by dandelions and sunlight.
He held one proudly between his fingers. You rolled your eyes.
"You literally just invented that rule."
"Every game has rules."
"This isn't a game."
"It is now."
You groaned dramatically. He ignored you.
"Close your eyes."
"No."
"Y/N."
"No."
"Trust me."
At ten years old, trusting Seungcheol was the easiest thing in the world. You closed your eyes.
"Now make a wish."
You sighed. Made one anyway.
"Done."
"Okay."
You opened your eyes just in time to watch him blow the dandelion apart. White seeds scattered into the wind.
"What'd you wish for?" you asked.
His expression became immediately suspicious.
"You can't tell people."
"You made that up too."
"Maybe."
"You definitely did."
"But what if it's true?"
You laughed. He grinned. The sunlight caught in his hair.
And somehow, without either of you realizing it, that afternoon became one of the memories that followed you everywhere.
—
The bell above the flower shop door rings softly when you finally step inside. The scent hits you immediately.
Fresh flowers. Soil. Greenery. Something sweet and familiar.
The same scent that used to cling to Seungcheol whenever he spent all day helping his grandmother. The same scent you haven't thought about in years.
He stands behind the counter now. Watching you. Still looking mildly shocked. You suspect you look exactly the same. For several awkward seconds, nobody says anything. Then—
"Hi."
Brilliant. Absolutely incredible. Years apart and that's the best you can manage. Seungcheol laughs. The sound eases something inside your chest instantly.
"Hi."
His voice is deeper than you remember. Everything about him feels older. Not unfamiliar. Just older.
"You came back."
The words aren't accusatory. If anything, they sound slightly disbelieving. You nod.
"Temporarily."
Something flickers across his face. Gone too quickly to identify.
"Right."
The conversation stumbles forward after that. Careful. Tentative. Questions about work. About family. About how long you've been back.
Neither of you mentions how strange this feels. Neither of you mentions how many years disappeared between one conversation and the next.
Eventually another customer enters. Then another. The moment passes. You tell yourself that's probably for the best. Still, when you finally leave, Seungcheol walks you to the door.
"If you're bored," he says casually, "you can stop by anytime."
You blink.
"What?"
"The shop."
He gestures vaguely around himself.
"I'm usually here."
The invitation sounds simple. Normal. Yet your heart reacts as if he's offered something much bigger. You smile before you can stop yourself.
"Maybe I will."
His smile mirrors yours.
"Good."
—
The following afternoon, you return. Then again two days later. Then once more. Not intentionally.
It just keeps happening.
Sometimes you help carry deliveries. Sometimes you organize shelves. Sometimes you sit near the counter pretending to read while Seungcheol works.
The ease returns surprisingly quickly. Not completely. There are still years between you. Still things unsaid. But the foundation remains.
As if friendship had simply been waiting patiently beneath the surface. One evening, after closing time, Seungcheol disappears upstairs to answer a phone call. You volunteer to finish organizing a neglected storage room.
The space is cramped. Dusty. Filled with forgotten boxes. You sneeze twice. Immediately regret your life choices.
And then you notice the drawer. Small. Wooden. Hidden behind a stack of old gardening catalogues.
Curiosity wins.
You pull it open. Inside are dozens of folded papers.
Hundreds, maybe.
All carefully preserved. You hesitate before reaching for the top one. The paper is yellowed with age.
The handwriting is instantly recognizable. Even after all these years.
Your breath catches.
Slowly, you unfold the note. Across the top of the page, written in uneven childhood handwriting, are four words.
Things I wish for.
And underneath:
For Grandma's roses to survive winter.
For my knee to stop hurting.
For Y/N to stop crying when they lose races because I don't like it.
At the bottom, squeezed into the corner:
I think wishes work better when you blow two dandelions instead of one.
– Seungcheol
You stare at the page. Then read it again. And again.
Somewhere upstairs, floorboards creak. The sound barely registers.
Because suddenly you're ten years old.
Standing in a field.
Holding a dandelion.
Listening to a boy make up rules about wishes.
And for the first time since returning home, you wonder whether maybe some memories never left at all.
—
The problem with nostalgia is that it never arrives alone.
It comes hand-in-hand with comparison, with grief, with all the quiet questions that only appear when you're staring at the person you used to know and trying to reconcile them with the person standing in front of you now.
By the end of the second week, you have become painfully aware of that fact. You have also become painfully aware of how often you find yourself at the flower shop. The first few visits had reasonable explanations.
You needed somewhere to walk. You needed a break from sorting through your grandmother's belongings. You needed a distraction.
The seventh visit is significantly harder to justify.
Especially when you're carrying two iced coffees and walking toward the shop before you've fully finished convincing yourself you're only dropping by for a few minutes.
The bell above the door rings. Seungcheol immediately looks up. The smile that appears on his face happens so naturally that neither of you seem to notice it.
You do. Unfortunately.
"You're late."
You stop.
"What?"
He gestures toward the wall clock.
"You usually get here fifteen minutes ago."
The realization settles over both of you simultaneously.
Because he's right. Because apparently you've established a routine. Because apparently Seungcheol has noticed.
Heat crawls up your neck.
"You timed me?"
"I didn't time you."
"You literally knew I was fifteen minutes late."
"I just noticed."
"That's timing me."
"It isn't."
"It absolutely is."
His laugh fills the shop. You hate how much you missed that sound.
—
The flower shop feels different now that you've spent enough time inside it to notice the details. The place still carries traces of his grandmother. The old cash register remains displayed on a shelf near the counter.
Framed photographs line one wall.
The ancient rocking chair in the corner somehow survived several decades despite looking permanently one bad day away from collapse.
But Seungcheol is everywhere too. The organization. The handwritten signs. The new displays. The garden outside. The entire place feels like a conversation between generations.
A continuation rather than a replacement.
His grandmother would've loved that. You think she already knew he would inherit the shop.
You glance up from the arrangement you're helping prepare.
"Daisies?"
"Dandelions."
He nods toward the window.
Outside, several bright yellow flowers have appeared amongst the carefully maintained garden beds.
You smile.
"They're kind of pretty."
"Exactly."
He sounds offended.
"Kind of?"
"Okay, they're pretty."
"There we go."
"You care way too much about dandelions."
"I inherited that."
His voice softens slightly.
"Grandma used to say they were the bravest flowers."
You pause.
"What does that mean?"
He carefully trims a stem.
"They grow everywhere."
A shrug.
"They survive getting stepped on."
Another cut.
"People call them weeds, but they keep blooming anyway."
You watch him for a moment. Sunlight filters through the front window. Dust drifts lazily through the air.
The shop smells faintly of lavender and soil. For a second, the years between childhood and now seem remarkably small.
"They sound stubborn."
Seungcheol grins.
"Exactly."
—
The first time someone mistakes you for his partner, you're unprepared. The culprit is an elderly customer named Mrs. Kim.
One moment she's purchasing carnations. The next she's looking between you and Seungcheol with obvious satisfaction.
"It's nice to finally meet them."
You blink.
"I'm sorry?"
Mrs. Kim waves dismissively.
"Don't worry."
Seungcheol visibly tenses. You immediately become suspicious.
"Don't worry about what?"
The woman pats your hand.
"Oh, honey, we've all heard about you."
Silence. Complete silence. You slowly turn toward Seungcheol. He refuses to make eye contact.
"Seungcheol."
"No."
"What does she mean?"
"No."
Mrs. Kim laughs. The traitor.
"You know, Y/N this and Y/N that and—"
"Mrs. Kim."
The warning in his voice only makes her smile widen. You stare. He stares determinedly at the floor.
A customer enters. The conversation mercifully dies.
Unfortunately your curiosity survives.
—
You corner him later.
"What exactly have people heard?"
"Nothing."
"That sounds suspicious."
"It isn't."
"Seungcheol."
He groans.
"You're impossible."
"You avoided the question."
"I mentioned you sometimes."
"Sometimes."
"Sometimes."
The response is entirely too fast. You narrow your eyes.
"How many times?"
His expression immediately suggests the answer is significantly higher than either of you would like.
—
That night, after returning home, you find yourself sitting cross-legged on the floor beside the drawer again. You know you probably shouldn't be reading the notes.
They're private. Personal. Hidden for a reason. And yet. The temptation wins.
Again.
The next paper is dated in messy twelve-year-old handwriting. You unfold it carefully.
Things I wish for:
To beat Jeonghan at soccer.
To grow taller.
For Y/N to stay here forever.
Don't tell them I wrote that.
You stare. Then reread the sentence. Then reread it again.
The words somehow feel heavier each time.
For Y/N to stay here forever.
Simple. Innocent. Childish. Yet something twists painfully inside your chest.
Because you didn't stay. Because neither of you had any control over that. Because twelve-year-old Seungcheol didn't know he was writing a wish that would never come true.
—
Middle school had been awkward. Not terrible. Not dramatic. Just awkward.
The age where suddenly everyone became aware that boys and girls existed. The age where friendships acquired strange new rules nobody explained properly.
You remember sitting beside Seungcheol during lunch one afternoon. He arrived carrying two juice boxes. Immediately handed you one.
Completely normal. Entirely routine. Unfortunately half your classmates witnessed the exchange. The teasing started instantly.
"Ooooh."
"Look."
"It's Y/N and Seungcheol."
You remember wanting the ground to swallow you whole. Seungcheol had looked equally horrified. The two of you spent the rest of lunch aggressively denying accusations nobody had technically made.
Neither of you acknowledged how red your faces became.
—
You wake the next morning determined not to think about old letters. The determination lasts approximately twenty minutes.
By lunch, you're back at the flower shop. By evening, you're helping prepare arrangements for a wedding. By closing time, you're laughing so hard you nearly drop an entire bucket of peonies.
The transition feels alarmingly natural. As if this version of life has been waiting patiently for your return. As if leaving had only been an interruption.
Not an ending.
The thought unsettles you.
—
The following week, the town begins treating your presence as permanent. The bakery owner asks whether you've found a job yet. The librarian asks if you're staying. Three separate neighbors mention available apartments.
You spend most conversations repeating the same answer.
"I'm only here temporarily."
Every single person responds the same way.
"We'll see."
The most irritating part is that nobody sounds uncertain.
Least of all Seungcheol.
—
One afternoon, while helping water plants behind the shop, you finally ask.
"Did everyone in this town secretly agree to annoy me?"
He laughs.
"Probably."
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
You splash water toward him. He dodges. Barely.
"Traitor."
"I didn't do anything."
"You never tell them I'm leaving."
His expression changes slightly. The smile remains. Something else disappears.
"Oh."
Immediately, guilt settles in your stomach. You hadn't meant—
"I mean—"
"It's okay."
The words are gentle. Too gentle. The conversation moves on.
Yet the silence lingers.
—
That evening, while closing up, Seungcheol disappears upstairs to search for inventory records. The opportunity presents itself. You tell yourself you're only checking one note.
One. That's all.
The lie fools absolutely nobody. Especially not yourself. You return to the drawer. Select another folded paper. Open it carefully.
The handwriting is older this time.
Less childish. More controlled. The date makes your chest tighten.
The year you moved away.
Things I wish for:
To have my own flower shop someday.
For Grandma to stop working so hard.
For Y/N to smile like they did before they found out they're moving.
I hate this wish.
The words blur slightly. You blink. Look away. Look back.
The paper remains unchanged.
The same ink. The same handwriting. The same impossible honesty.
For a long moment, you simply sit there.
Remembering.
—
The moving truck had arrived too early. Or maybe it only felt that way.
You remember cardboard boxes. Your mother's stressed voice. Relatives carrying furniture.
Everything happening much too fast. You remember friends saying goodbye. Teachers promising you'd make new ones. Adults insisting change was exciting.
You remember hating every second of it.
Most of all, you remember Seungcheol. Standing beside the driveway. Hands shoved into his pockets. Trying very hard to act normal.
You'd both promised to stay in touch. You'd both promised nothing would change. At fourteen, promises like that feel unbreakable.
Reality is less cooperative. Calls become texts. Texts become occasional messages. Then birthdays. Then silence.
Not because either of you stopped caring.
Because life happened. Because growing up happened. Because distance is sometimes quieter than heartbreak.
—
A floorboard creaks overhead. You quickly fold the letter. Return it to the drawer. Close everything.
By the time Seungcheol returns, you're standing beside a shelf pretending to examine gardening supplies.
His eyes narrow immediately.
"You look suspicious."
"What?"
"You look guilty."
"I do not."
"You absolutely do."
You point at a random bag of fertilizer.
"Did you know this contains nitrogen?"
The silence that follows is devastating. Then Seungcheol starts laughing.
The kind of laugh that forces him to lean against a table for support. You hate him. Possibly. A little.
—
Later, after you've returned home, sleep proves impossible. Your mind keeps returning to the notes.
The wishes. The years. Everything that existed while you were gone.
Eventually curiosity wins one final time. Near midnight, you retrieve the drawer once more.
One last letter. Just one. You unfold it slowly.
The handwriting immediately looks different.
Shakier. Messier. Lonelier.
The date makes your stomach drop. A few months after you left. Nothing else is written on the page.
No numbered list. No jokes. No soccer. No flowers.
Just a single sentence.
Things I wish for:
Y/N comes back.
Just once. That's all. For a long moment, the room remains completely silent.
Outside, wind rattles softly against the windows. Inside, your chest feels painfully tight. You remember all the times you almost visited. All the summers you said maybe next year. All the holidays that slipped away. All the opportunities lost to convenience and distance and the assumption that there would always be more time.
The note trembles slightly in your hands.
And for the first time since returning home, you begin to understand that maybe you weren't the only person who spent years missing someone.
The realization follows you long after the lights go out. Long after the letter is folded away. Long after sleep finally arrives.
And somewhere across town, completely unaware of the storm currently unfolding inside your chest, Seungcheol closes his flower shop for the evening and locks the front door, still carrying pieces of a wish he made twelve years ago.
—
The worst part about reading the letters is that they make everything impossible to ignore. Not impossible in the dramatic sense. Not in the way movies portray it, where suddenly every interaction becomes charged with unbearable tension and every glance feels life-altering.
Instead, it becomes impossible to ignore the accumulation of small things. The details. The habits. The spaces someone occupies in your life without permission.
Before finding the drawer, spending every afternoon at the flower shop had felt natural.
After finding the drawer, you become painfully aware that Seungcheol automatically hands you a drink before grabbing one for himself.
That he remembers how you take your coffee. That he moves around the shop with the unconscious expectation that you'll be somewhere nearby. That every time the front door opens, his eyes immediately search for you before searching for the customer.
None of these things mean anything individually. Together, they begin to feel like something dangerous. Something you've spent years pretending not to recognize. Something that looks suspiciously like first love growing up and refusing to leave.
—
The flower festival arrives at exactly the wrong time. Or perhaps exactly the right time. You haven't decided which.
The annual event has existed for as long as you can remember, transforming the town into something bright and overwhelming for a weekend every spring. Streets fill with flower displays. Local businesses compete for awards. Families wander between stalls carrying bouquets and iced drinks.
As children, you and Seungcheol used to treat it like the most important event of the year. Now, as adults, it means two weeks of preparation and approximately zero free time. Not that you mind.
Being busy makes it easier not to think.
Unfortunately, Seungcheol keeps ruining that strategy by existing.
—
"You're staring."
You nearly drop the box you're carrying.
"What?"
He raises an eyebrow.
"You've been looking at me for ten seconds."
"I was not."
"You were."
"No."
"Y/N."
The use of your name should not feel that unfair. It does. Especially when accompanied by a smile. Especially when he knows exactly what he's doing. You point aggressively at the display you're assembling.
"I was looking at the flowers."
"Sure."
"Why would I stare at you?"
His grin widens. You immediately regret speaking. Across the room, an elderly volunteer watching preparations sighs dramatically.
"Please date already."
Both of you nearly choke.
—
The town has become unbearable. Not because the people are cruel. Quite the opposite. The people are far too invested.
Everyone appears convinced that you and Seungcheol are one conversation away from getting married. The florist across the street keeps offering relationship advice. Mrs. Kim has started winking whenever she enters the shop. Even children seem suspicious.
At one point, a ten-year-old asks if you're Seungcheol's spouse. You spend five full minutes recovering.
Seungcheol spends ten.
—
The problem is that every joke lands slightly closer to the truth than either of you are comfortable admitting.
Because somewhere between sorting flowers and revisiting childhood memories and reading letters you definitely should not be reading, something has changed.
Or maybe nothing changed. Maybe you've simply stopped running from it.
You don't know which possibility scares you more.
—
One evening, after the shop closes, rain begins unexpectedly. Heavy. Relentless.
The kind that turns roads silver beneath streetlights. You're trapped. Not that either of you seem particularly bothered.
Seungcheol locks the front door and flips the sign to CLOSED.
The two of you remain inside. Waiting. The shop feels different after hours. Quieter. More intimate.
The scent of flowers seems stronger somehow. The silence stretches comfortably between conversations. You sit together behind the counter drinking tea.
Outside, rain taps steadily against the glass. Inside, memories linger everywhere.
"You know," Seungcheol says eventually, "Grandma used to think you were going to marry me."
You nearly inhale your tea.
"What?"
His laughter echoes through the empty shop.
"I'm serious."
"Why would she think that?"
"You were ten."
"That's not an answer."
"You followed me around everywhere."
"I did not."
"You absolutely did."
"You're making things up."
"I'm not."
"You are."
He shakes his head.
"She used to tell me all the time."
The smile softens.
"'That one loves you very much, Seungcheol.'"
Something catches unexpectedly in your chest. You look away.
The rain suddenly becomes fascinating.
—
Later that night, after returning home, you find yourself sitting on the floor beside the drawer again. You don't even pretend to resist anymore. The letters feel less like an invasion now.
More like a conversation delayed by years. The next note is dated two years after you left.
You unfold it carefully.
Things I wish for:
To stop thinking about Y/N.
Didn't work.
For several seconds, you simply stare. Then laugh. Actually laugh.
Because somehow, despite everything, fourteen-year-old Seungcheol and sixteen-year-old Seungcheol remain unmistakably the same person.
Hopeless. Earnest. Painfully honest. You continue reading.
The next note is eighteen.
Things I wish for:
To see Y/N again.
To stop comparing everyone else to Y/N.
Didn't work either.
The smile disappears. A strange ache replaces it. You know what he's implying.
You wish you didn't.
Because suddenly every year between then and now feels tangible.
Every missed opportunity. Every person he met. Every relationship that apparently failed to become something lasting.
The thought follows you into the final letter. Age twenty-one.
Things I wish for:
Y/N.
Just Y/N.
No explanation. No joke. No elaboration. Only your name.
The page trembles slightly in your hands.
—
The next morning, you arrive at the flower shop exhausted. Emotionally. Mentally. Possibly spiritually.
Seungcheol notices immediately.
"Rough night?"
You consider your options. Lie. Deflect. Change the subject.
Instead:
"Why didn't you throw them away?"
His hands stop moving. The flowers remain half-arranged between his fingers. For a moment, neither of you speak.
Then:
"The notes?"
You nod. The silence stretches. Long enough for your pulse to become annoying. Long enough for the question to feel dangerous. Finally, Seungcheol exhales softly.
"Because throwing them away felt like giving up."
The answer lands harder than expected. You stare. He continues looking at the flowers.
Neither of you moves. Neither of you looks away. The shop suddenly feels too quiet.
Too small. Too honest.
—
The conversation changes after that. Not dramatically. Not immediately. But something shifts.
A wall lowers. A distance disappears. You begin talking about things you've avoided for years.
University. Family. The struggles nobody posted online. The loneliness. The uncertainty. The versions of yourselves that existed while the other wasn't there to witness them.
For the first time, it feels like you're catching up properly. Not on events.
On each other.
—
The breakthrough arrives unexpectedly. Through gossip. Naturally. Because this town cannot help itself.
You're helping arrange flowers outside the festival pavilion when Mrs. Kim appears. You should have run. Instead, you smile politely. A mistake.
"Did you know," she begins immediately, "that Seungcheol never brought anyone serious home?"
Your heart stops.
"What?"
Mrs. Kim continues cheerfully.
"Such a waste."
You stare. The woman sighs dramatically.
"Everyone liked him."
The implications begin arriving one by one. Slowly. Terribly. You don't want to ask. You ask anyway.
"Why?"
Mrs. Kim blinks.
"Why what?"
"Why didn't he date anyone?"
The answer comes far too quickly.
"As if we don't all know."
Then she walks away. Leaving you alone with approximately twelve different emotional crises.
—
The festival opens the next day. Crowds flood the streets. Music drifts through the air. Children race between displays. Customers fill the shop. The entire town seems alive.
You should be enjoying it. Instead, you're distracted.
Because every time you look at Seungcheol, another letter appears in your memory.
Another wish. Another year. Another version of him quietly hoping for something he thought he would never get.
By evening, exhaustion settles over everyone. The crowds thin. Sunlight begins fading. And somehow you find yourselves alone behind the shop.
Again.
The garden glows gold beneath the setting sun. Dandelions sway gently amongst the flower beds.
The same flowers. The same stubborn flowers. Hope disguised as weeds.
Seungcheol sits beside you on a wooden bench. Close. Not touching. Close enough. For several minutes, neither of you speaks. The silence feels full. Waiting. Anticipating.
Like the final moments before a storm breaks. Then he says quietly:
"I was happy you came back."
Your breath catches. The confession isn't romantic. Not technically. But it feels significant anyway. You glance toward him. His gaze remains fixed on the garden.
A nervous habit you've started recognizing.
"I was happy too."
The words come easily. Truth always does. He smiles. Small. Soft. Real.
And suddenly you're struck by a realization so obvious it almost feels ridiculous. Every important moment in your life somehow leads back to him. Every memory. Every wish. Every version of home.
The thought settles heavily between your ribs. Not uncomfortable. Just undeniable. The sun sinks lower. The dandelions sway.
And for the first time, you begin wondering whether the final letter in the drawer isn't actually the end of the story.
Maybe it's only the beginning. Because tomorrow is the final day of the flower festival. Tomorrow you'll finish sorting the last boxes from your grandmother's house. Tomorrow you'll have to decide whether you're leaving again.
And somewhere deep down, beneath years of distance and excuses and carefully maintained walls, a small stubborn hope begins to bloom.
Much like a dandelion. Refusing to die. Refusing to be ignored. Refusing, despite everything, to stop growing.
—
The last day of the flower festival arrives far too quickly. You know this because you spend most of the morning trying not to think about it. Unfortunately, thinking about something and trying not to think about something are often the exact same activity.
By noon, you're painfully aware that this is your final week in town. By three o'clock, you've mentally packed your suitcase twice. By five, you've considered extending your stay. By six, you've considered cancelling your return entirely. None of these thoughts help.
Especially because every possible future seems to revolve around the same person. Across the square, Seungcheol is helping a little girl choose flowers for her mother. You watch him crouch down so they're eye level. Watch him listen seriously to her explanation. Watch him help arrange a tiny bouquet.
The girl leaves looking delighted. Seungcheol looks equally pleased. The sight hurts. Not because it's sad. Because it feels familiar.
Because it feels like home.
Because somewhere along the way, without realizing it, you've started measuring places by whether or not he exists in them.
And that seems like a dangerous way to live.
—
The festival winds down slowly. Stalls begin packing away displays. Families drift home. The streets gradually quiet.
For the first time all weekend, the town feels peaceful. You spend most of the evening helping return decorations to storage.
Boxes. Signs. Flower stands. The work is repetitive enough to keep your hands busy. Not your thoughts.
Those remain frustratingly active. By the time darkness settles over town, only a handful of people remain.
The cleanup continues. The shop stays open late. And eventually you find yourself alone.
Again. In the storage room. Again. Standing in front of the drawer. Again.
At this point, you suspect fate has completely given up pretending to be subtle.
—
The final note is hidden beneath all the others. Tucked carefully at the very bottom. Almost as if someone wanted it protected. Your pulse quickens immediately. Because unlike the others, this paper looks newer.
Not recent. Just newer. Adult handwriting. Adult paper. Adult ink.
Slowly, you unfold it. And the world narrows.
Things I wish for:
I don't think this one belongs to a dandelion anymore.
I think some wishes are supposed to be said.
I love Y/N.
I've loved them since we were kids making rules about wishes in the park.
And if they come back someday, maybe I'll finally tell them.
– Seungcheol
For a long moment, nothing happens. You simply stare. Reading the words once. Twice. Again. As if repetition might somehow make them less overwhelming.
It doesn't.
The confession sits plainly on the page. No jokes. No hiding. No pretending. Just the truth. The same truth that has apparently existed for years. The same truth you've spent the entire month slowly uncovering one letter at a time.
Outside the storage room, a floorboard creaks.
You look up.
Your heart immediately attempts escape.
Because Seungcheol is standing in the doorway. And judging by his expression, he knows exactly what you're holding.
—
"Oh."
Brilliant. An excellent response. Truly.
Years of emotional buildup and the first thing either of you manages is:
"Oh."
Seungcheol closes his eyes. Briefly. The expression on his face suggests he is considering several possible methods of spontaneous death.
"You found that one."
You hold up the paper.
"A little late to ask me not to read it."
His groan echoes off the walls. You almost laugh. Almost.
If your heart wasn't currently beating hard enough to qualify as a medical emergency. The silence stretches. Neither of you seem sure how to continue.
Finally:
"You were never supposed to find that."
Your eyebrows rise.
"There are literally eight hundred letters in that drawer."
"There are not eight hundred."
"There are enough."
The corner of his mouth twitches. Then disappears. The seriousness returns. And suddenly the air changes. The humor fades. The truth remains.
"You meant it?"
The question comes out quieter than intended. Seungcheol looks at the floor. Then the shelves. Then literally anywhere except you.
Eventually, he exhales.
"Yeah."
Just one word. Simple. Certain. Enough.
Your chest tightens painfully. Because there is no hesitation. No uncertainty. No attempt to take it back. Just honesty.
The kind that takes years to build. The kind that only appears when someone is finally tired of hiding.
"Since we were kids?"
A small laugh escapes him.
"Unfortunately."
The response is so Seungcheol that tears immediately threaten.
"You make it sound tragic."
"It was."
Now he smiles. Softly.
"I liked you for fifteen years."
Your laugh comes out suspiciously emotional.
"I was very committed."
The tears win. Just slightly. Enough for your vision to blur. Enough for Seungcheol's expression to immediately change. Concern replacing nervousness.
"Hey."
"I'm fine."
"You don't look fine."
"I'm having a normal reaction."
"This doesn't seem normal."
"It absolutely isn't."
And somehow that breaks the tension. Both of you laugh. Both of you look slightly overwhelmed. Both of you look suspiciously close to crying.
When the laughter fades, the truth remains. Patient. Waiting. You stare down at the letter again.
At your name. At years of wishes. At every version of him that existed before this moment.
Ten years old. Twelve. Fourteen. Twenty-one. Twenty-six. Every single one hoping for the same thing. Every single one writing your name.
The realization settles heavily inside your chest. Not because it's surprising.
Because it isn't. Not anymore.
Somewhere between the first letter and the last, you've already known.
You simply weren't ready to admit it.
"Do you know something funny?"
Seungcheol looks confused.
"A dangerous start."
You ignore him.
"I used to wish for you too."
The words leave before you can stop them. His expression freezes. Completely.
"What?"
You laugh softly. Because honestly, the universe has a terrible sense of humor.
"Every birthday."
You look down at the letter.
"Every shooting star."
A smile. Small. Embarrassed.
"Every dandelion."
Silence. Absolute silence.
"Seriously?"
You nod. His eyes widen.
"You never told me."
"You never told me."
"That's because I was terrified."
"So was I."
The answer arrives instantly. Truth again. Always truth.
—
The confession isn't dramatic. There are no grand speeches. No perfectly rehearsed declarations. No movie-worthy dialogue.
Instead, there is honesty. Messy honesty. The kind built from years of friendship.
Years of absence. Years of missing someone without fully understanding the shape of that feeling.
You talk. Really talk. For the first time. About moving away. About losing touch. About all the almost-visits.
The unanswered messages. The missed opportunities. The people you both tried and failed to become. And somehow, through all of it, the conversation keeps returning to the same conclusion.
You found your way back. Not immediately. Not perfectly. But eventually. You came back. And he waited. Not intentionally. Not actively. Just quietly.
Like someone protecting a wish.
—
The flower shop closes early the following evening. Not because business is slow. Because Seungcheol insists on taking you somewhere.
You recognize the destination immediately. The field.
The one behind the shop. The one from childhood. The one where everything started.
The walk there feels strangely familiar. As if no time has passed. As if every version of yourselves still exists somewhere among the grass.
The field is smaller than you remember. Most places are. The dandelions aren't.
They remain everywhere.
Bright. Stubborn. Impossible to ignore.
Exactly like him.
—
"Do you remember the rules?" Seungcheol asks. You laugh.
"The rules changed every week."
"They were very sophisticated."
"They were completely made up."
"They were based on science."
"They absolutely were not."
His offended expression is immediate. You grin. Some things never change.
Thank God.
—
Eventually the conversation fades. The evening settles around you. Warm. Peaceful. Comfortable.
Seungcheol picks a dandelion.
Then another. Holding one out. You accept it automatically.
Like muscle memory. Like childhood. Like home.
The white seeds tremble gently in the breeze. For a moment, neither of you speaks.
"What are you wishing for?"
The question is familiar. The same question from years ago. The same field. The same flowers. The same boy.
Only now he's a man looking at you like you're the answer to something. You stare at the dandelion. Then at him. Then smile.
"Nothing."
His eyebrows lift.
"Nothing?"
You shake your head.
"No."
The answer feels surprisingly easy. Certain. Complete.
For the first time in a very long time, there is nothing left to ask for.
No missing piece. No distance. No unanswered question. No wish waiting to be granted.
Just this. Just him. Just the future.
Whatever shape it takes. And somehow, that's enough.
More than enough.
Seungcheol smiles. Slowly. Softly. The kind of smile that belongs entirely to you.
Then together, sitting side by side in a field full of dandelions, you blow the seeds into the evening air.
Thousands of tiny white fragments drift upward.
Carried by the wind. Carried toward whatever comes next. Not because you need wishes anymore.
But because some traditions deserve to survive. Some things deserve to bloom again.
And some first loves, despite distance and time and every reason they should have faded, are stubborn enough to wait.
Like dandelions. Like hope.
Like Choi Seungcheol.
Like you.
The seeds disappear into the sunset. This time, neither of you watches them go.
Because for the first time, you're both looking in the same direction.
GENRE | TAGS. One-shot, non-idol!au, strangers to friends to lovers, fluff, smut.
WC. 14.9k+
RATING. Explicit adult content (MINORS DNI).
WARNINGS. Reader is dealing with anxiety, insomnia, mental health struggles, and here nobody believes in seeking medical help (apparently), just the plug, mentions of food, Scream (1996) spoilers (in case you never saw it), drug purchase, smoking, drug use, drug use before sexual activities, shotgunning, oral (f. and m. receiving), fingering, pussy eating, cum eating, multiple orgasms, blowjob, unprotected sex, dirty talk, hand kink, pulling out, cum-shot.
AN. I literally just brought this to another format, with a few small changes. And now I’m actually, actually back. Anyway, hope you enjoy it, and let me know what you think! <3
🎧 SOUNDTRACK. chocolate - the 1975, ojitos lindos - bad bunny, junk of the heart (happy) - the kooks, like real people do - hozier, disconnected - 5 seconds of summer, don’t come down - the maine, satellite - harry styles, fallin' for you - colbie caillat, drop dead - olivia rodrigo.
The streetlamp flickers overhead, casting long shadows across the cracked pavement. You pull your jacket tighter around your shoulders, checking the time on your phone screen for the fifth time in two minutes.
9:14 PM.
A very old blue jeep is parked halfway down the block, engine off, exactly where the dropped pin had indicated. As you approach, the driver’s side door clicks open.
Vernon steps out, casually pulling back the hood of his dark sweatshirt. He looks even more handsome than in the picture he sent earlier, which only makes you more nervous. His relaxed, unbothered posture immediately contrasts with your stiff and coiled tension. He leans against the car door, shoving his hands into his pockets as he watches you close the distance.
You stop a few feet away, practically vibrating with nerves. “Vernon?”
“Yeah.” His voice is low, carrying a slight rasp. He doesn’t move toward you, leaving a comfortable gap between to let you dictate the space. “You’re Chan’s friend.”
“Y/N,” you supply quickly, voice slightly breathless.
It was Chan who gave you his number after seeing you have an anxiety attack. He said Vernon was the seller with the best prices and the best products, that his stuff would definitely help you relax, and that he was a reliable guy.
Which is what brought here.
Vernon offers a small, crooked smile. “Nice to meet you, Y/N.” He pause, his eyes scanning the empty street before settling back on you. “Chan said you’d be reaching out. To be honest, I wasn’t sure if you’d actually show up after our texts earlier.”
“I... yeah.” You bite your lip hard, wrapping your arms around yourself against the night wind. “I’m sorry if the timing was weird, I just really needed to find a way to settle my head tonight.”
He nods slowly, his expression understanding. Vernon doesn’t treat your confession like a burden or a business pitch; he just listens. “No need to apologize. Chan’s a good guy. He wouldn’t have sent you my way if he didn’t think I could help you out.”
Vernon shifts his weight and reaches into his pocket. You instinctively flinch, taking a quick half-step back. The movement is entirely involuntary, a byproduct of the buzzing, suffocating anxiety that had driven you out here in the first place.
He freezes, slowly pulling his hand back out empty and resting it visibly on the roof of the car. His expression shifts, the casual politeness melting into something far more observant, and surprisingly gentle. He takes in the way your shoulders are practically up to your ears, the way your hands grip your phone and arms like a lifeline, and the wide, panicked look in your eyes.
“Hey,” Vernon says softly, dropping his voice a register. “Take a breath. You’re okay. I’m not here to make things harder for you.”
“I know, I just—” You swallow hard, embarrassed heat rising to your cheeks. “I’m not really used to this. Meeting strangers in the dark. It’s… a lot.”
“I get it. But you don’t have to look at me like I’m about to bite. You’re making yourself self-conscious.”
Your eyebrows shoot up, eyes widening even further. “I am?”
“Yeah.” The corner of his mouth ticks up, and he scratches the back of his head. “Don’t be, though. It’s a compliment. Most people around here try too hard to look like they aren’t feeling anything.”
The tension in your chest doesn’t vanish, but the sheer directness of his gaze makes the frantic buzzing start to slow.
Vernon finally reaches into his pocket again, moving slowly and deliberately this time, and pulls out a small paper bag. He holds it out, stretching his arm far enough that you don’t have to step completely out of your comfort zone.
“Here. The mellow option, like you asked. Should help quiet things down.”
As you reach out to take it, your fingers briefly brush against his. His skin is warm against the chill of the night air.
“Thanks,” you murmur, finally feeling the tight band around your chest loosen.
“Don’t mention it.” He steps back and opens his car door, but pauses before sliding into the driver’s seat, looking over his shoulder one last time. “Get home safe. Let me know if you need anything else. And seriously, breathe. You’re doing fine.”
As his taillights fades down the empty street, you stand on the sidewalk and take your first full, deep breath of the entire day.
“Sorry for the odd hour,” you say for the thousandth time, pulling your cardigan tighter around yourself. “I just… I can’t sleep. My brain won’t shut up. It’s okay if you want to charge me a delivery fee or something for the trouble.”
You’d been buying from Vernon for about a month. Almost every Tuesday, you left him a message to drop your usual order. Today, however, was Thursday, and you had been awake for nearly twenty-four hours without managing to close your eyes for even a single second. So you figured, why not see if he was awake and willing to sell you something strong enough to finally put you down?
And after a month of buying from him, you had decided it was okay to let him come up to your building floor instead of making him meet you out on the street. He had proven himself to be surprisingly reliable—exactly like Chan had promised you—, after one day when you could barely get out of bed, and he’d offered to bring your order up himself.
Now he was standing in the hallway of your building, looking like he hadn’t gotten much more sleep than you had, yet somehow far more awake than anyone had the right to be at this hour. And the craziest thing of all? He looked incredibly handsome, while you are pretty sure you looked hungover despite not having consumed a single drop of alcohol.
Vernon lets out a low, easy breath, shaking his head. “You’re good. I don’t sleep much anyway, so you’re not exactly interrupting a deep slumber.” He reaches into his pocket, his movements slow, as if he’s in no hurry at all. “Tell you what, I’ll give you the loyal customer discount tonight, Bambi.”
You blink, the name catching you off guard. “Bambi?”
He leans one shoulder against the doorframe, his gaze softening as it fixes on yours.
“Yeah.” Vernon tilts his head, studying your face with an intensity that makes your heart skip. Then he points at his own eyes with his index finger. “It’s the eyes. Yours are big and curious… like you’re seeing the world for the first time.”
You feel a flush of heat creep up your neck, and you look down at your slippers, trying to deflect. Vernon does that quite often; making you blush so hard you never know where to hide your face, that is. You don’t even know if that’s his actual intention or if he’s just naturally nice.
“If that’s the case, then I must look like a really tired bambi. Bags under my eyes and everything.”
Vernon chuckles, the warm sound seeming to fill the empty hallway. “You still look cute, though.” He shrugs, far too casually for your liking. “Just… don’t go bolting into traffic or anything like that. I need my favorite customer in one piece.”
The blush deepens, spreading across your face until even your ears feel hot. You duck your head further, fiddling with the hem of your sleeve.
You wanted to know if he was genuinely flirting with you or if it was just something he said to all his clients. You were still confused about how you felt about those two possibilities, but the first was the only one that made your stomach do those strange, fluttery little flips.
“Oh, I’ve got a new indica blend coming in next week,” Vernon continues, his tone slipping back into his usual seller mode. “I’ll bring some by. It’ll help you sleep like a rock, I promise.”
You manage a small, shy smile, finally looking back up at him. “You’re like a specialized pharmacist at this point. Should I be tipping you extra, or will a thank-you card do it?”
A slight smile appears on Vernon’s face, and he straightens up and takes a step back, preparing to head toward the elevators, but he pauses to look you in the eye one last time, making sure the panic has truly subsided. The teasing light in his expression fades into something sincere and unexpectedly sweet.
“Neither,” he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave. “You being less anxious is enough for me. That’s the only tip I need, Bambi.”
He turns to leave, tossing a lazy wave over his shoulder and leaving you leaning against your doorframe.
The phone screen goes dark, but the words “anything you want” seems to burn brightly behind your eyelids.
For the past twelve hours, you’d been pinned to the mattress since your alarm first went off in the morning. But those three words from Vernon acted like a sudden shot of adrenaline straight to your heart, breaking the paralysis and making you throw the heavy duvet off and practically scramble out of bed, your feet hitting the cold hardwood floor with an urgent slap.
Your apartment was the physical manifestation of a terrible mental health week. Half-empty water bottles clustered on the nightstand, clothes draped over every available surface like exhausted ghosts, and a tragic pile of unopened mail sat on the kitchen counter.
“Oh God,” you mutter, grabbing a laundry hamper and sprinting through the living room.
Sweatshirts, socks, and a pair of jeans are aggressively lobbed into the laundry basket. Books that had been discarded on the floor are shoved haphazardly onto shelves. A collection of coffee mugs is swept into the sink and buried unceremoniously beneath a layer of dish soap bubbles just to hide the evidence.
You move at a dizzying speed, pausing only to catch your breath and aggressively fluff the flattened sofa cushions.
Despite the sheer panic of the impromptu cleaning spree, there’s an undeniable warmth spreading through your chest. You’re nervous, yes—your hands shake slightly as you kick a stray pair of sneakers into the hall closet—but beneath the nerves, you’re overwhelmingly happy.
Vernon is coming over. Not just to drop off your usual or make a quick exchange in the doorway, but just… coming over. To keep you company.
It hits you right then, standing in the middle of the slightly less disastrous living room, just how drastically things have shifted between you two. Somewhere along the line, the boundaries had blurred, melted, and completely re-formed into something entirely different.
Lately, he hasn’t just been your plug—he’s been your friend too. And you’ve been texting. A lot.
It had started innocently a few weeks ago, after he dropped off a new indica strain at your doorstep, one that worked a little too well on you. Pleasantly immobilized and entirely trapped in your own head, you had spent twenty minutes staring at your palms before deciding they actually looked like clouds, and texted him to give feedback.
Most people in his line of work would have ignored it, or maybe replied with a laughing emoji. But Vernon had replied three minutes later, and after a single text, a floodgate opened. The sheer relief of not being mocked, of having someone lean into the absurdity of the moment, made you feel unexpectedly safe with him.
The texts didn’t stop the next morning, when you sent a mortified apology and he replied with a picture of a fluffy cloud. From there, it became a daily routine with good mornings, random memes, complaints about the weather, late-night philosophical tangents, and very, very high debates. Vernon had slowly woven himself into the absolute fabric of your day-to-day life.
But today was Tuesday, and normally, by 2:00 PM on a Tuesday, you would’ve texted him for the usual. Except today, you didn’t. And when you didn’t, he texted you first to check how you were doing.
The conversation didn’t take long before Vernon calmed you down in his usual quiet, steady way, and then, casually as always, he offered to come over. And you accepted immediately—even if it was just for him to sit with you and keep you company—which had led you to this moment, where you’re trying to shove dust under the living room rug.
A firm knock at the door pulls you violently out of your thoughts.
Smoothing down your oversized sweater and taking one last, desperate look at the living room to ensure no rogue laundry was visible, you walk to the door and pull it open.
Vernon stands in the hallway wearing a faded gray hoodie with the strings pulled unevenly and a pair of jeans. But it isn’t his clothes that catch your attention; it’s his hands. He isn’t holding a small bag or his phone. He’s holding two massive, grease-stained brown paper bags from the twenty-four-hour diner down the street, along with a cardboard drink carrier balancing two milkshakes.
“Hey, Bambi,” he greets you, his voice carrying that familiar low rasp. The corner of his mouth ticks up into a soft, unmistakable heart-shaped smile. “Hope you like fries, because I bought, like, an insane amount of them.”
“You didn’t have to do this,” you breathe out, the last residual knot of anxiety in your chest instantly dissolving at the sight of him. You can’t believe how absolutely gorgeous he looks standing there in your doorway, looking like he just rolled out of bed, dressed in the most casual clothes imaginable.
“I know.” He shrugs, stepping past the threshold as you step aside to let him in. Vernon kicks his shoes off by the door with an easy familiarity that makes your heart flutter. “But you said you couldn’t get out of bed today. Which means you definitely didn’t cook. And I couldn’t have you passing out on me. I need someone to help me eat all of this.”
He carries the food into the living room, setting it down on the coffee table. The smell of hot, salty fries, grilled burgers, and heavy diner food fills the apartment, instantly making it feel infinitely cozier, and your stomach lets out an angry, shameless growl.
You hover awkwardly by the armchair. “I... I really meant it, you know. I don’t have any cash on me. I feel awful making you drive all the way out here.”
Vernon stops unpacking the bags and stands up straight, turning to face you. He closes the distance between you in two long strides, his expression softening completely. He reaches out, his warm fingers lightly catching your shoulder, just enough to straighten you and make you look at him.
“I am not here for your money, Bambi.” The sincerity in his voice and eyes pines you to the spot. He has amazing eyes. “Nor am I here to be your delivery guy. I’m here because it’s Tuesday, you were having a bad day, and I wanted to see you. Do you understand?”
You bite your lip to suppress a smile, the warmth of his fingers sending a rush of electricity straight down your spine. “Yeah. I understand.”
He smiles softly. “Good,” he says, letting his hand drop, though his eyes linger for a second longer on your face before he turns back to the food. “Now, grab some napkins, Bambi. We’ve got a situation here with these milkshakes.”
You settle onto the floor, using the coffee table as a dining table. The food is incredible and exactly the kind of heavy, comforting, terrible-for-you meal that bypasses anxiety almost entirely and goes straight to the soul.
“Alright,” Vernon says around a mouthful of fries, leaning back against the base of the sofa. “We need a movie. Something that requires zero brain power but also something we can yell at.”
“Yell at?” you ask, dipping a fry into your milkshake. Vernon watches the fry-in-milkshake maneuver with mild disgust but don’t comment.
“Yeah. A classic. Something where the characters make terrible decisions and we get to judge them from our moral high ground on the floor.”
You scroll through a streaming service for ten minutes before finally settling on Scream.
“It’s the perfect choice,” Vernon argues as the eerie opening music swells through the television speakers. “The ultimate movie about teenagers who think they know all the rules of surviving getting absolutely humbled by another pair of teenagers in a cheap Halloween mask.”
“Sidney is actually smart, though,” you counter, pulling your knees to your chest. “She managed to not get killed in seven out of seven films.”
Vernon scoffs, pausing halfway through a bite of his burger. “Thanks to the power of being the protagonist, of course.”
You shake your head with a laugh. “Well, I stand by my opinion.”
He chews slowly, nodding as he points at you with his index finger. “A woman who stands her ground. I respect that.” You let out a small giggle, and Vernon swallows before continuing. “But she ran up the stairs instead of out the front door, Bambi. She literally locked the deadbolt and then trapped herself on the second floor when she had a clear shot to the yard.”
“It’s a classic trope!” you defend your point, laughing as Vernon rolls his eyes. You feel so at peace in his presence that you no longer remember a single thing that affected you in the last twenty-four hours.
“It’s a death wish! That was the entire problem!”
You eat and argue nonstop, the tension of the day bleeding out of you with every passing minute you spend in his presence. You debate the rules of surviving a slasher, whether you would actually make it out alive in Woodsboro, and roast the characters’ survival instincts.
“I know I would probably die,” you state with conviction, biting the end of the straw, “but it would never be because I went to investigate some strange, suspicious noise. Especially not if I were alone.”
Vernon chuckles, nodding along. “Ditto!”
You grab another fry, pointing it at the screen as Billy Loomis leans through Sidney’s bedroom window.
“Okay, but you have to admit, Billy and Stu are objectively very attractive. The whole ’90s grunge, floppy hair thing? It works.”
He pauses mid-chew. Slowly, his eyes slide from the TV to you, his expression flattening into an unimpressed, deadpan stare. “They look like they haven’t showered in a month.”
“Yeah, but look at the cheekbones,” you insist, another teasing smile breaking through the heavy exhaustion. “It’s attractive.”
“If the attractive is homicidal bedhead, sure.” Vernon scoffs, pointedly taking a long, exaggerated sip of his milkshake. “Good to know your bar is literally on the floor, Bambi.”
He shifts slightly, stretching his long legs out and casually crossing his arms, his tone perfectly nonchalant but carrying a subtle defensive edge.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re jealous of fictional ’90s teenagers,” you laugh between words, the sound bright and entirely devoid of anxiety. It would be completely ridiculous if he were, considering he looked like he’d stepped straight out of a ’90s movie himself.
“I’m deeply concerned for your survival instincts,” he corrects smoothly, not missing a beat, though he aggressively dunked a fry into his ketchup. “Remind me to never let you go to a Halloween party alone.”
As the movie shifts from eerie suspense to full-blown terror, the food begins to take its toll. The frantic, anxious energy that has kept you awake for the last twenty-four hours is suddenly entirely depleted. The apartment is warm, the couch against your back is soft, and the low, steady sound of Vernon’s voice beside you is the most effective sedative you’ve ever experienced.
Without realizing it, you begin to slide sideways. The debate over whether throwing a landline phone at the killer was actually an effective evasion tactic fades into background noise. The edges of your vision blur, the flashing light from the television softening into indistinct, hazy color. With a soft sigh, your head tips over, landing gently against the solid, warm curve of Vernon’s shoulder.
On the screen, Tatum screams. In the living room, Vernon stiffens completely. He had been mid-sentence, ready to deliver a scathing critique of Dewey’s police work, when he feels the sudden weight against his arm. He stops talking immediately, his jaw snapping shut. Slowly, carefully, he turns his head just a fraction to look down.
Your eyes are completely closed, your breathing already deepening into the slow cadence of genuine sleep. Your face, which had been tight with worry and exhaustion when he first walked in the door, is now entirely smooth. The dark circles under your eyes remain, but the tension in your body is gone. You look very peaceful.
Vernon feels a strange, tight pull right in the center of his chest. He glances at the empty takeout bags, the half-finished milkshakes, and you currently using him as a pillow, realizing he’s never been happier to lose a Tuesday night’s worth of business.
He doesn’t dare reach for the remote to turn the volume down, afraid that even the slightest shift in his muscles will wake you. He doesn’t reach for his phone either, which is buzzing in his pocket with texts of customers he no longer cares about.
Instead, Vernon adjusts his posture by a millimeter, shifting his weight just enough to give your head a better angle against his shoulder. He carefully leans his own head back against the sofa cushions, letting out a long and silent exhale.
On the screen, the survivors run for their lives. In the quiet of the apartment, Vernon sits perfectly still, entirely content to stay trapped in this exact position for as long as you need to sleep.
The next day, when you wake up tucked comfortably into your bed, everything is organized, clean, and back in its proper place. And unless you somehow did all of this in your sleep, there’s only one person who could have done it, even if he’s nowhere to be found in the morning.
Vernon drives with an relaxed posture, one hand resting lightly on the top of the steering wheel while the other rests on the center console. He doesn’t press for conversation, letting the low volume of the radio fill the space between you. Every so often, you catch him stealing a quick glance in your direction, his eyes checking to make sure you’re still breathing easily.
About an hour ago, you’d texted him about how awful your day had been, and within minutes he was at your door, ready to take you for a drive to clear your mind.
After a couple of minutes of driving, the dense architecture of the city gives way to the open stretches of the coastal highway. The streetlights grow sparse, replaced by the vast, ink-black expanse of the sky. The air rushing through the slightly cracked windows shifts from the smell of concrete to the sharp and cold scent of ocean mist and salt.
Vernon finally slows the car, the tires crunching against gravel as he pulls into a deserted overlook. The headlights sweep across a wooden barricade before he kills the engine, plunging them into darkness. Out the windshield, the ocean stretches endlessly, moonlight catching the white crests of the churning waves below.
“I didn’t know you liked the beach,” you whisper, pulling your jacket tighter around your frame. The cold seeps through the glass, but the car’s heater still blows warm air at your feet, creating a perfectly cozy contrast.
“I don’t usually,” he shrugs, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. He unbuckles his seatbelt and shifts his weight, turning slightly in his seat so he can look at you. “During the day, it’s a nightmare. Too crowded, too loud. But at night… it’s different.”
You nod slowly, looking out at the horizon. “It makes everything else feel really small. The ocean, I mean.” You tilt your head slightly, stealing a quick glance at him before continuing. “You look out there and realize how massive it all is, and suddenly worrying about emails or… or literally anything else just feels completely irrelevant.”
“Exactly,” Vernon agrees, leaning his head back against the headrest. He watches the water for a long moment, his profile sharp against the dim light filtering in from the moon. “We construct this entire, agonizing reality inside our heads.”
He pauses, a quiet, almost self-deprecating chuckle escaping his lips. He turns his head to look at you, his eyes looking thoughtful.
“You ever think we’re just brains in jars imagining stuff?”
You blink, caught entirely off guard by the sudden existential pivot. A laugh bubbles up in your chest, breaking the solemn quiet of the car. “Brains in jars? Really? That’s where we’re going at three in the morning?”
“I’m serious,” he defends himself, though the corner of his mouth is ticking upward. “Think about it. How do you know any of this is real? Your brain is just locked in pitch-black darkness inside your skull, hallucinating a reality based on electrical signals. For all we know, we’re just sitting on a shelf in some laboratory, running a simulation.”
“Well, if this is a simulation,” you counter, turning to face him completely and pulling your knees up onto the seat, “then the developers seriously need to patch my software. The anxiety settings are dialed way too high, and the executive dysfunction glitch is making the gameplay terrible.”
Vernon laughs properly then, the sound that echoing in the small space of the Jeep cabin, his gums on full display. “I’ll submit a bug report for you. Tell the admins to turn down the overthinking slider and boost the serotonin drops.”
You want to tell him that this happens every time you’re in his presence, but you aren’t sure if it’s acceptable to flirt with your plug. It’s been two months since you met, and you’re still amazed by how being with him shuts down your nervous system and makes you forget everything. Even if it’s just a phone call, hearing Vernon’s voice calms you like no weed or medicine ever could.
“Please do,” you smile back, resting your cheek against your knees. “But honestly… even if we are just brains in jars, I think I’m okay with whatever hallucination this is right now. It’s the quietest my head has been in days.”
The teasing amusement in Vernon’s eyes softens, melting into something more tender. He reaches across the center console, his fingertips lightly brushing your arm before settling on the edge of your sleeve. It’s a grounding touch, anchoring you to the present moment.
It’s strange how entirely safe you feel sitting in a dark car on a deserted cliffside with a guy who, on paper, you barely know. But looking at him now—the relaxed slope of his shoulders, the attentive way he listens to every word you say, the quiet intelligence in his eyes—you realize he isn’t just a guy or your plug anymore. He’s becoming someone indispensable.
“I really appreciate this,” you whisper softly. You look down at his hand, which is still resting near yours on the console. “You didn’t have to stay with me today, and you definitely didn’t have to drive me out here. So… thank you, Vernon.”
The name hangs in the air for a second. Vernon doesn’t flinch, but a subtle shift ripples through his posture. He’s quiet for a long beat, his thumb tracing a slow, absentminded circle against the fabric of your sleeve.
“Hansol,” he corrects quietly, his voice dropping into a register so low it’s almost a whisper.
You frown, blinking in confusion. “What?”
He lifts his gaze, his eyes locking onto yours, a small smile on his lips. There’s a vulnerability there he usually keeps buried under layers of nonchalance and cool detachment. “My name… it’s Hansol.”
“Oh,” you breathe out, a rush of embarrassment suddenly heating your cheeks. You pull your hands back slightly, feeling suddenly stupid. “Sorry, I thought everyone just called you Vernon.”
The realization hits you like a bucket of cold water. Could Vernon be his moniker? A professional handle used to keep a safe distance between the guys selling drugs and the people buying them? That wouldn’t be unusual in his line of work.
But Hansol doesn’t let you retreat. He shifts his hand, catching your fingers gently before you can pull away completely. His skin is warm, his grip steady and reassuring.
“Some do. It’s my middle name,” he explains, his gaze unwavering. “But people close to me call me Hansol.”
He pauses, letting the weight of that categorization settle between you. He’s drawing a line in the sand, officially pulling you across the boundary from client to someone close to him. You bite your lip to suppress a smile that wants so badly to form on your lips as the thought settles, the bucket of ice water from seconds ago already beginning to warm.
“You don’t have to,” he adds, an uncharacteristic hint of shyness briefly flickering across his features. “I just don’t mind it from you.”
Your heart does a violent stutter against your ribs. The sheer intimacy of the admission is overwhelming. You look at his hand holding yours, then back up at his face. He is waiting, giving you the space to decide what to do with the information.
“So you’re saying I’m close to you?”
Hansol doesn’t hesitate, leaning in just slightly, his thumb continuing the slow circle over your knuckles. “You text me at 1 a.m. and I show up every time. You slept on my shoulder the other night. We’ve talked about everything and anything at this point. I’d say we’re close, Bambi.”
You feel the air leave your lungs. It isn’t just the words; it’s the matter-of-fact way he says them, like it’s the most obvious truth in the world. He’s acknowledging the bond you’ve built in the quiet hours between midnight and dawn, admitting that you’re more than just his client, while you try to ignore the butterflies battering against the walls of your stomach, desperate to escape their cage.
“Hansol,” you test his name out loud. It feels foreign on your tongue, yet somehow incredibly right.
A small, devastatingly heart-shaped smile breaks across his face at the sound of his name in your voice. “Yeah. That’s it.”
You stayed at the overlook for another hour, the atmosphere in the car fundamentally changed. By the time his Jeep rolled to a stop outside your apartment building, the sky had begun to bruise with the first deep purples and blues of early dawn.
“I guess this is my stop,” you observe hesitantly, not wanting to get out of his car and put an end to the moment.
“Looks like it,” Hansol says. “You gonna be okay today?”
“Yeah,” you nod. “I think I am. Thanks to you.”
“Anytime, Bambi.”
You push the door open, stepping out into the crisp morning air, and turn back to look at him through the open door. “Drive safe, Hansol.”
“Always,” he replies, a smile lingering on his face at the sound of you saying his name. Then he leans across the passenger seat, catching the door frame to stop it from closing completely. Hansol tilts his head, eyes lazily tracking over your messy hair and the oversized sweatshirt you’re still wearing. “You looked extra Bambi today.”
The blush is instantaneous. It surges up your neck and floods your cheeks with a furious heat. Your jaw drops slightly, a flustered, embarrassed laugh escaping you as you struggle to find a comeback.
“Shut up!” you finally manage to stammer out, ducking your head to hide your flaming face.
Hansol lets out a low, victorious laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He pulls his hand back, letting you close the door, and you watch his taillights disappear into the morning light, your heart still racing.
Hansol doesn’t have much time tonight. His phone is already vibrating in his pocket with three other drop-offs pinned on his map, but when he reaches your door, his pace slows into effortless strides. He reaches out and gives the wood a lazy but firm knock.
When the door opens, the warm chamomile scent of your apartment spills out into the sterile hallway. You look tired as always but your eyes brightened the second they landed on him, dressed in his usual uniform of neutral colors, a hoodie pulled up just enough to frame his features, his hands buried deep in his pockets.
“Right on time,” you greet him, a smile spreading across your face as you lean against the doorframe where he usually stands.
He doesn’t say much at first, just offers a small, knowing tilt of his head as he hands over the plain brown bag. His fingers brush yours briefly during the exchange, a spark of heat that lingers longer than the transaction warrants.
You take the bag, your brow furrowing as you feel the weight and the shape of the contents inside. You peer in, eyes widening slightly. “Did you mean to put two in the bag?” you ask, looking back up at him.
“Yep,” he answers simply, his voice low and gravelly in the quiet corridor.
“But I only paid for one.”
“I know. The other one is on me.”
You hesitate, confused, chewing on your lower lip. “Is this like a promo, or are you high right now?”
A ghost of a smile touches his lips, that effortless charm radiating off him even in the dull atmosphere of the hallway. “Neither. You’ve had a rough week. Figured Bambi needed a little extra today.”
“That’s really sweet. But you don’t have to do that.”
He shifts his weight, closing the distance between you by just enough to make the air feel different. You hold your breath, acutely aware of how little space remains. Just a few inches more and your lips would touch.
“I want to.” Hansol’s voice is firm. “You’re not just a client. You know that, right?”
You look down at the bag, then back at him, your heart sinking into a slow, heavy thud. “Yeah. I think I knew that. I just didn’t want to assume.”
“Well, now you can assume a little,” he says, his gaze not wavering. “Also, tell me how that one hits. I picked it thinking of you, Bambi.”
You breath hitches. “You picked a strain thinking of me?”
“Yeah,” he replies nonchalantly, one shoulder rising in a casual shrug, as if he hadn’t just quietly flipped your entire world upside down. “Chill, warm, kinda sweet. Like you. Don’t overthink it.”
You let out a shaky laugh, leaning your head against the wood of the door. “Too late. I’m absolutely overthinking it.”
Hansol checks his phone screen, a flicker of genuine regret crossing his features. “I gotta go. Others are waiting,” he mutters, his gaze falling to your lips for the briefest moment before pulling back up to meet yours. “I wish I could stay longer.”
“Me too,” you admit without hesitating, looking up at him through your lashes. You don’t know where this sudden burst of courage came from, but it’s there, and it makes Hansol smile beautifully.
A genuine, incredibly warm smile breaks across his face at your words, not his usual confident smirk, but something entirely soft and real, gums showing and the heart shape of his lips coming back. He begins to back away toward the elevator, his eyes never leaving yours until he finally has to turn around.
He reaches the elevator and presses the button. Just as the bell chimes and the doors begin to groan open, you step out into the hallway, your voice echoing off the walls.
“Hansol!”
He pauses, one foot already inside the elevator. He turns his head, a playful, expectant look on his face. “What’s up, Bambi?”
“Nothing big,” you begin, hands gripping the doorframe behind you. “Just... wanted to know if you ever think about me when we’re not together or texting.”
He doesn’t even hesitate, the metal doors framing him like a portrait. “I think about you pretty much all the time.” he claims. “Even when we are texting.”
The honesty of it makes your stomach flip, the padlock that holds the butterflies in your stomach slowly loosening. “Good,” you manage softly.
“You’re flirting with your plug right now, Bambi,” he points out, his voice dropping an octave, teasing yet dangerously sincere.
“Maybe,” you counter, shrugging as a bit of courage grows. “Is that illegal?”
“Mm, no, not really. Especially if I flirt back.”
“And would you?”
The elevator starts to beep, a warning that the doors were going to close. He steps fully into the car, leaning his shoulder against the back wall, looking at you with a heat in his eyes that makes your knees weak.
“Have been for the past three months,” Hansol confesses, his smirk widening as the doors begin to slide shut. “Just hiding behind a lot of self-control.”
You let out a breathy laugh, your face flushing a deep crimson. “Hm. Self-control’s kinda hot.”
“So is the girl in her doorway,” he shoots back.
The doors click shut, severing the connection and leaving you standing in the hallway with a racing heart and a bag held tight to your chest. Behind those closed metal doors, Hansol is already checking his map for the next stop, but his mind is still back at that doorway.
When Hansol shows up at your apartment a few weeks later, you’re so nervous about the night’s activities that you almost forget how to open the door.
He’s wearing a simple gray shirt and black sweatpants, a baseball cap with the brim facing backward. He smells like soap, faint weed smoke, and something woodsy underneath it all. He leans against your doorframe the same way he’s been doing it for months now, and you are instantly, completely doomed.
Earlier this same day, you’d asked Hansol if he knew how to shotgun after the two of you saw it in a movie two nights before. Gently—and flirtatiously—he explained that it wasn’t that difficult, asking if you wanted to try it next time since it would involve the two of you getting closer than you ever had before.
Hansol always made you feel safe, and you knew he wouldn’t laugh at you, so you saw no reason not to try, even if there was still a chance you’d chicken out.
“You nervous?” he asks after you make room for him to come in. He slips off his shoes and tosses his keys onto the coffee table.
“A little,” you admit, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.
His mouth curves lazily, his eyes crinkling just a fraction at the corners. “Cute.”
You roll your eyes, quickly looking away. You have to. Because if you don’t, Hansol will see exactly how hard that single word hits, and then you’ll never recover.
You guide him toward the balcony where you usually light one up. There’s only one beach chair out there, something you bought at a thrift store right after moving in and renewed yourself. The balcony is so small that the chair is practically wedged between the railing and a tiny patio table, alongside a forgotten fern surviving purely on its own willpower.
After a brief, pointless argument about it, you let Hansol keep the chair while you lean against the railing with your back to the city. Your knees bump together with every small, abrupt movement any way, the balcony too cramped for there to be any real distance between you.
Hansol sets the tin on the tiny table and flips it open. You lean in slightly to get a better look at the contents.
“This isn’t your usual stuff,” he says by way of introduction. He’s not looking at you yet, just at the tin as he pulls out the papers, setting everything in order with that unhurried precision of his. “Just so you know.”
You look at it, then at him. “Should I be worried?”
“No.” Hansol says it simply. “I wouldn’t bring something that’d mess you up, Bambi. You just…” He meets your eyes for a second to reassure you even though he already knows you trust him blindly. “Your usual is too mellow for this. You’d just fall asleep on me.”
“I don’t fall asleep that easily.”
He gives you a look so unimpressed it makes you laugh. “You fell asleep the last time.”
You would argue it wasn’t really the weed; it was Hansol. With him, you felt safe enough to fall asleep whenever and wherever, to finally shut out everything that usually kept you awake.
After a couple weeks, it had become a routine: he’d make his deliveries, then stay a while to keep you company until you drifted off. Eventually, you started smoking together, and usually he’d just share whatever you normally rolled for yourself, never seeming too concerned about how hard it hit, just worried that you’d sleep soundly.
Something about the way he speaks, though—matter-of-factly, like he knows you too well by now—makes your chest feel like it’s leaping out of place before crashing back down where it belongs.
“That was different,” you finally say, resting your elbows against the railing behind you.
“You were out in twenty minutes, Bambi.”
“Well, I was tired.”
“You were cooked,” he counters, no judgment in his tone, just a fact. Because—shockingly—he knows your tolerance as well. Of course he does. “This is something in between. Hybrid. It’ll relax you, but it’ll keep you here. You’ll actually feel it without it running you over.”
You look at the bag again. “Where’s it from?”
“Same guy. Different batch.” Hansol picks it up again, turns it once in his fingers with the easy confidence of someone who can read these things on sight. “It’s good. Not complicated. You’ll like it.”
You believe him. That’s the thing about Hansol knowing exactly what you smoke—about him knowing you. He’s never steered you wrong. He remembers what worked, what didn’t, what made you text him at midnight saying never again. He filed it all away somewhere without making it a thing, and now he just knows.
“Okay,” you say, your teeth catching your lower lip.
Hansol smiles, and then he tears the paper with a casual precision that shouldn’t be interesting to observe. It is. You try not to examine that too closely as he spreads everything even, long fingers working slow and deliberate, and there’s something almost meditative about the way he does it, no wasted movement or fumbling. Just ease.
He rolls it between his palms, smoothing it down. Then he raises it to his mouth, the lick slow as he seals the edge, and runs his thumb along it afterward, pressing it closed with the kind of focus that makes you look up at the sky for a second because you have absolutely no business staring at his mouth or tongue.
A few seconds later, he holds it up once, looking quietly satisfied with his work. Then he flicks the lighter, the flame catching small and warm in the dim space of the balcony. He brings it to the tip, cupping his hand around it out of habit even though there’s barely any wind, and draws in slowly, the paper crackling faintly as the cherry burns bright orange and the scent of marijuana slowly surrounds you both.
He holds it in for a moment, then lets it out slowly through his nose, unhurried. A thin ribbon of smoke drifts upward toward the sky before disappearing completely. He takes another drag, longer this time, and leans back into the chair, his head tipping slightly against the wall behind him, eyes closing for just a second like he’s savoring it.
There’s no explaining the reactions moving through your body just from watching him in action. The aching tension low in your stomach, the way your thighs press together instinctively, the strange heat that blooms every time his mouth closes around the joint.
Almost as if he’s reading your thoughts, Hansol looks at you and holds it out. Not pushy or expectant, just offering you, his elbow resting on his knee and the smoke curling up lazily between his fingers. He watches you with that expression you still haven’t figured out how to read, somewhere between patient and quietly amused.
You take it from him and bring it to your lips without overthinking it, one elbow still resting against the concrete behind you, the light breeze pushing your hair back from your face. You wrap your lips around the joint and draw the smoke slowly into your lungs, letting it settle there for a moment and holding it for a beat. The warmth spreads through your chest in a slow unfurl that reaches all the way to your fingertips.
When you exhale, the smoke slips from your mouth in a thin stream, immediately snatched away by the night breeze. Hansol’s eyes follow it for half a second before they drift back to your face.
“There you go,” he says, voice low and approving enough to make heat crawl right back up your neck.
You take one more hit, feeling the night softening slightly, the city sounds below drifting to a different register, the small balcony going quieter around you. Then you throw your head back to exhale the smoke, watching it disappear into the dark sky above you.
When you lower your gaze again, you catch the way Hansol’s eyes have drifted down the line of your throat to your collarbone, lingering there for just a second too long. The look sends another rush of heat through you, and he notices you noticing. His gaze flicks back up immediately, but not before the corner of his mouth curves faintly, subtle and almost guilty, like he got caught staring but doesn’t regret it nearly enough.
You pass the joint back to him, and he takes it from you, fingers brushing against yours in the exchange without either of you commenting on it. Hansol holds it loosely between his fingers and watches you for a moment with that same unreadable patience.
“Feeling it?”
“A little.” You shrug lightly, though you’re not entirely sure you’re still talking about the weed. “Give it a minute.”
Another crooked smile tugs at his mouth as he nods. Hansol brings the joint to his lips, dragging in slowly before blowing another lazy cloud of smoke into the night air. “Good,” he whispers, smoke still curling lazily from between his lips.
You can’t explain why the sight feels so unfairly appealing, heat now unfurling lower in your body at something so simple. It’s not like you’ve never seen him do this before, because you did. Except tonight, everything about Hansol feels amplified somehow; his hands, his mouth, the slow rise and fall of his breathing. Even the way he looks at you feels… different, settling somewhere beneath your skin and and camping there.
Hansol takes another hit, the cherry burning bright for a moment before he pulls the joint away. He holds it there, and you watch his throat move slightly as he swallows the smoke. His eyes are half-closed, fixed somewhere out toward the city. He looks completely unbothered in a way that makes you feel the exact opposite.
Then he looks at you as he exhales one more time, his eyes searching yours through the haze. His brows arch slightly, and his voice comes out lower, roughened by the smoke he was holding in. “Ready?”
A wave of shivers travels across your skin like it has nowhere else to go. The butterflies in your stomach aren’t just fluttering anymore, they’re frantic, crashing wildly against your ribs every time your eyes meet his beautiful, inviting brown ones.
You’ve been thinking about this moment in various versions ever since you sent that text this morning. You’ve been thinking about it in the abstract, in the safe, theoretical space of it’s just a thing people do, it doesn’t mean anything, plenty of people do this without making it weird. You’ve spent hours constructing a very reasonable internal argument about proximity and exhaled smoke and the entirely non-romantic history of the practice.
All of that argument completely falls apart the moment Hansol says the word.
You just nod, pressing your lower lip between your teeth again before whispering, “Yeah.”
He explains how everything will work, walking you through each step, and even pulls his phone out of his pocket to show you a TikTok video in case it’s easier to learn visually. And maybe it’s ridiculous, but you love the effort he puts into making sure you feel comfortable, safe, completely at ease with him.
Hansol then sets the joint down on the edge of the glass ashtray. He doesn’t take his eyes off you as he shifts in your thrift-store beach chair, making space for you between his knees. Then he taps his thigh twice.
“C’mere, Bambi.”
Your breath catches in your throat.
The balcony is already tiny, but the space between the chair and the railing suddenly feels like a tightrope. You hesitate for a fraction of a second, not sure if you heard right, your heart doing a wild, erratic dance in your chest. Once again, Hansol doesn’t pressure you; he just waits, his hand resting casually on his knee, his brown eyes going completely dark and focused entirely on you.
Stepping forward, you slowly let go of your grip on the railing. Before your nerves can make you chicken out, you step into his space and sit down across his lap.
The shift in perspective is dizzying. Suddenly, you’re completely enveloped in his presence, somehow even more than before. The fabric of his shirt is thin enough that you can feel the solid heat of his chest underneath it. His hands move instinctively, settling firmly around your waist to steady you on his lap. His grip is grounding, holding you securely against him.
Looking down at Hansol, you realize just how close your faces are, the kind of close he mentioned earlier. With the brim of his baseball cap turned backward, there’s nothing shading his eyes. You can see every tiny detail of Hansol: the faint crinkle at the corners of his eyes, the heart-shaped curve of his mouth, the tiny freckles scattered across his nose, the intensity in his gaze as he looks up at you.
“Still nervous?” His voice drops so low and raspy it sends another wave of shivers straight down your spine, and you can barely hide the way your body reacts to it.
Your hands slowly find a home against his shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “A little more now,” you admit honestly, not finding any reason to lie or hide it.
“Don’t be.” Hansol lets out a breathless laugh that brushes against your lips, the vibration hitting your chest. “I’ve got you, Bambi.”
And you believe him.
Without ceremony, Hansol picks up the joint from the table and takes a long drag before turning fully toward you. When he leans in, it’s slow and unhurried, making you understand immediately that he’s giving you time to adjust, or back out, if you want to. Mostly, because he’s Hansol, and well… he does everything at his own pace while respecting yours just as carefully. Rushing doesn’t exist in his vocabulary.
You lean in too, not much, just enough to show him that everything’s okay, that you are okay with this, that he can proceed however he wants. And you can see the exact moment his expression shifts with understanding, settling in his eyes like he expected nothing less.
Hansol parts his lips and exhales smoothly. The smoke comes out slow, and you inhale it in through your lips exactly the way he taught you to, barely touching him, but close enough that the warmth of his breath folds into yours.
Your eyes close immediately, and you hold it in for a beat, then another, the whole world narrowing down to the inch of space between your mouths, the solid heat of his hands at your waist, and the distant sound of the city existing somewhere far below, fading into something completely irrelevant.
You let it out and open your eyes to find that Hansol still hasn’t moved back. He’s watching you attentively from beneath his lashes, and there’s nothing patient or unreadable about his expression anymore.
Perhaps the marijuana is clouding your better judgment, but the look in his eyes feels different now, focused in a way that makes your stomach do a double twist. He looks like someone who has already made up his mind and is simply waiting for the exact right moment to act on it, maybe searching for the perfect opening before finally giving in to what he’s been holding back.
You suspect it’s the same for him as it is for you.
When his gaze drops to your mouth, you’re convinced this new hybrid he bought is playing tricks on your mind, especially when his eyes linger there long enough to make your breathing go shallow before finally lifting back to yours again.
“Again.” Hansol’s voice is barely above a whisper, but it’s definitely not a question.
You don’t trust your voice right now, so you just nod.
He picks up the joint again and takes another slow drag, the cherry burning warm between your bodies. You watch his throat move as he holds the smoke in, and it absolutely shouldn’t make you all hot and bothered but it does. His hands still haven’t left your waist, one thumb tracing a small arc just above your hip—probably unconscious, probably not even something he realizes he’s doing—and somehow the touch burns straight through the thin fabric of your shirt
Hansol turns back to you even closer this time. Or maybe you’re the one who moved in closer. Truthfully, you stopped keeping track of who’s been closing the distance first somewhere minutes ago, if the distance between you even really exists anymore.
He exhales, and you inhale him in again, and this time, when it’s over, neither of you pulls away. You stay in the half inch that remains, sharing the same air, and letting the moment stretch itself, his eyes fixed on yours.
There had been a few moments during this strange new friendship with your plug when you’d caught yourself wanting him to kiss you, or wishing you had enough courage to kiss him first. But this was different. Now the desire felt overwhelming, practically screaming inside your head as you stared at his mouth from impossibly close range, silently hoping he could somehow read your thoughts and finally close the tiny distance still separating you.
“Hansol…” His name leaves your lips like a shaky plea. Maybe just to say something, maybe just to fill the space before it you swallows you whole.
“Yeah?” he murmurs back. His pupils are enormous, and just by looking at them, you think he already knows exactly what you’re thinking. “What do you want, Bambi?”
Your fingers tighten slightly against his shoulders, your pulse so loud you’re convinced he can feel it where your bodie1s are pressed together. “I—” The word catches in your throat before it can fully form.
For a second, all you can do is look at him, at the way his eyes keep flicking down to your mouth, at the patience still somehow woven through the tension sitting heavy between you. And then Hansol’s thumb drags slowly against your waist again, grounding and dangerous all at once, and your breath stutters.
His hand comes up to grip your jaw gently, thumb pressing against the corner of your mouth, and for one dizzy second you’re sure he’s finally going to kiss you. But instead, he keeps you there, close enough to feel his breath against your lips as his eyes lock onto yours.
“Tell me what you want, Bambi,” he breathes, voice rough and impossibly steady at the same time. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll give it to you.”
“Kiss me. Please.”
The words come out almost breathless, but the effect they have on Hansol is immediate. His eyes darken even more, and everything you can’t read in his expression is in his pupils, which dilate even further, if that’s even possible. His thumb brushes once across your jaw, and for a second, he just looks at you, like he’s letting himself fully believe you mean it.
Then his mouth curves faintly at the corner, a flicker of almost disbelieving amusement in his gaze. “Yeah?” he murmurs again, his voice low enough to melt straight through you.
You nod before he’s even finished speaking, and that’s all it takes for Hansol to stop hesitating. Without breaking eye contact, he reaches over blindly, pressing the glowing cherry of the joint into the glass ashtray until it goes out completely. The second his hand is free again, it returns to your waist, his grip firm as he pulls you that final, infinite inch closer.
When his lips meet yours, the sheer relief of it makes you exhale a soft sigh right into his mouth. It’s everything you’ve been agonizing over for the past three months, amplified by a thousand.
It starts slow, exploratory and incredibly filled with the same patient precision he applies to everything else. Your hands slide up from his shoulders to tangle in the soft hair at the nape of his neck, right beneath the edge of his backwards cap, and Hansol lets out the quietest grunt against your lips like he’s been wanting this just as badly as you have.
His hands at your waist tighten, pulling you flush against his chest until there’s nothing left between you. He adjusts you slightly so you’re seated more securely against him, surrounded by the solid warmth of his body, a jolt of electricity traveling straight down to your toes at the feeling of him pressed against you.
Tilting his head, Hansol parts your lips with his own, the kiss deepening into something that makes your head spin faster than any pot ever could. He tastes exactly like you imagined: sweet and earthy, like the lingering haze in the air around you, mixed with something unmistakably, comfortingly him.
The feeling of being held so securely, combined with the gentle, creeping warmth of the hybrid strain, makes everything around you fade. The apartment, the city sounds below, the cold night breeze, the small balcony; it all completely disappears. There is only the solid weight of Hansol beneath you, the steady, grounding grip of his hands on you, and the rhythm of his mouth moving deliciously against yours.
The butterflies in your stomach have ignited into a heavy heat that pools low in your belly as his tongue sweeps against your lower lip, coaxing you to open up more to him. You follow his lead blindly, completely lost in the sensation of his hands mapping the curve of your spine and his mouth devouring your every breath.
When you finally, breathlessly, pull back just enough to draw air into your burning lungs, you don’t go far. You rest your forehead against the brim of his cap, eyes closed, chest heaving. You can hear Hansol breathing just as heavily, his thumb gently stroking the sensitive skin along your jawline.
“You okay, Bambi?” he asks into the tiny space between your lips, a lazy, satisfied smile evident in the rough timbre of his voice.
You open your eyes to find him looking up at you with an expression so soft, so completely stripped of that unreadable patience, that it makes your heart ache in the absolute best way possible.
You nod, biting your lip to keep yourself from kissing him breathless again. “Better than okay,” you answer, nodding frantically, your hands sliding down to frame his face as you lean in briefly.
His hand comes up to brush a strand of hair from your face, his fingers lingering along your jawline. Hansol’s voice is soft when he speaks, a faintly amused crease forming between his eyebrows. “You sure?”
“I’m great,” you assure him, leaning into his touch. You can’t help but let out a shaky laugh, still in disbelief at what just happened. You just kissed. No, you just kissed Hansol. “Didn’t expect tonight to go like that.”
Hansol’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “Me neither. Not complaining though.”
Another flustered laugh escapes you, and you rest your forehead against his shoulder for a second to hide your face. “Just so you know... I literally asked you to come over to teach me how to shotgun. Not make out with me on my balcony.”
He hitches you a little higher on his lap. “Okay but... you didn’t exactly stop me.”
“I didn’t want to stop you,” you admit softly, looking back up at him, the honesty leaving you feeling completely vulnerable in his arms.
His gaze drifts down to your lips again, the air crackling with a heat that has nothing to do with the weed. “I want to kiss you again,” he confesses, his thumb brushing lightly against your lower lip. “Is that okay?”
You nod, too caught up in the intensity of his stare to manage words. Hansol leans forward, his hand cupping your jaw as he closes the distance between you again. He kisses you slowly once more, as though savoring every second. One hand slides from your jaw into your hair, while the other keeps you firmly anchored against him—not that you plan to go anywhere while he keeps kissing you like that.
You melt into his embrace, losing yourself in the taste of him further. You feel him grin against your mouth, his hands slipping under the back of your shirt to find the bare skin of your back. His palms are warm, and the slow drag of them up your spine makes you shiver. You feel the heat of his chest through the thin fabric of his shirt, and it’s not enough. You want to feel his skin beneath your fingers.
When he pulls back this time, it’s only far enough to start peppering your jaw with kisses. Your breath hitches as his lips move lower, skimming down the column of your throat until you can feel the heat of his mouth even through your shirt.
“Hansol,” you gasp against the crown of his head, hands reaching up to push his cap down and thread your fingers into his hair. “The balcony isn’t very private.”
He hums thoughtfully, but doesn’t stop the delicious maddening, drugging kisses he’s placing along your collarbone. “Your neighbors can see?”
A moan escapes your lips when he bites your most sensitive spot. You shake your head, trying to force words out. “Just the people below.”
He pulls back to look at you with a crooked smile. Hansol rests his forehead against yours, hand still cupping your face. “Sorry. I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” he admits, not a hint of shyness on his face.
“You have?” you ask, heart hammering in your chest.
“Of course I have.” Hansol chuckles, like it’s almost absurd to think otherwise, the sound sending shivers down your spine. “From the moment our eyes met.” He pauses briefly, then adds, “You’re impossible not to want, Bambi.”
Your breath hitches at his words, a blush spreading across your cheeks. “I want you too,” you whisper, suddenly feeling more bold. “I’ve wanted you since the first time I saw you under that shady streetlight.”
His grip on your waist tightens, his lips hovering just over yours. “Is that so?”
“It is.” You nod, unable to tear your gaze away from his.
With a single movement, Hansol stands up with you still in his arms, making you let out a small squeal as you wrap your legs around his waist to steady yourself, your arms linking around his neck, and face burying in the curve where his shoulder meets his neck.
He moves with an easy strength that makes your head spin, carrying you as if you weight nothing at all. The world tilts on its axis, the view of your tiny balcony shifting into a dizzying blur of city lights and dark sky. This side of him is almost enough to give you whiplash, but you can’t help but loving it.
As he moves, you inhale deeply, and the scent of him is a heady, overwhelming cocktail: the clean soap from his shower, the earthy tang of the weed clinging to his shirt, and something underneath it all that is just purely, intoxicatingly Hansol, something you’re still trying to figure out.
You feel him shift his grip, one hand supporting your thighs as he navigates the threshold of the sliding glass door. There’s a moment of slight awkwardness as he sidesteps into the living room, the cool night air replaced by the still, warm atmosphere of your apartment. But he doesn’t put you down. Instead, he kicks the door shut with the back of his heel, the soft thud echoing in the sudden silence.
The only light comes from the faint glow of the city filtering through the windows, casting long, distorted shadows across the room. It paints his features in soft grays and deep blacks, highlighting the line of his jaw and the curve of his lips. In the dim light, he looks less like your friendly neighborhood plug and more like a fantasy brought to life.
The effects of the weed hums pleasantly in your veins, a syrupy sensation that makes everything feel slow-motion and dreamlike. Every nerve ending in your body is awake and singing, amplifying the feeling of his body against yours, the texture of his shirt under your cheek, and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your chest.
Hansol crosses the small living room in three long strides and gently lays you down on the cushions of your couch. He doesn’t move away, though. He follows you down, one knee on the cushions between your legs, his hands bracketing your head as he leans over you. His body cages you in a welcome weight that makes you feel incredibly safe.
“You’re suddenly quiet,” he observes, his voice still a low, gravelly whisper.
His thumb traces the line of your cheekbone, the simple touch sending a cascade of sparks across your skin. The hybrid strain he brought is doing exactly what he promised: you’re relaxed, your limbs heavy and pliant, but your mind is sharp, hyper-focused on him. Every tiny detail is magnified—the way his eyes seem to drink you in, the sheer heat radiating from his body.
“Just… processing,” you manage to breathe out.
A slow, lazy smile spreads across his lips. “Processing what?”
“This,” you say, gesturing vaguely at the space between you. “Us. And the fact that you just carried me out of my own balcony like I was a sack of potatoes.”
Hansol lets out a low chuckle. “A very cute sack of potatoes.” He leans down, his lips brushing against yours, a feather-light touch. “I can process with you, if you want.”
You don’t need to answer. You just slide your hands from his shoulders up into his hair, your fingers sinking into the soft, thick strands. You pull his head down, and this time the kiss isn’t slow or exploratory. It’s hungry, desperate, a release of all the tension that has been building between you for months.
His mouth meets yours with equal force, his tongue sweeping past your lips to tangle with yours in a slick, heated dance. It’s messy and perfect and everything you’ve been craving. His hands leave the couch, one sliding down your side to rest possessively on your hip, the other threading into your hair, cradling the back of your head as he angles the kiss deeper.
A soft moan escapes your throat, and you feel him smile against your mouth. The sensation of his tongue in your mouth is an almost psychedelic experience. You can feel every texture, taste every note of him, the world narrowing down to the single, explosive point of contact between you, and it feels incredible.
His kisses trail from your mouth, hot and open mouthed, down the sensitive line of your jaw, to the frantic pulse fluttering at the base of your throat. You arch your back, granting him better access, your head tipping back against the cushions. His lips find the soft spot just above your collarbone, the same one he bit on the balcony, and he sucks gently, creating a pleasant pressure that sends a jolt of pure arousal straight to your core.
“Hansol,” you whine, your hips instinctively bucking up against him. The friction of his sweatpants against the thin fabric of your shorts is maddening.
“Yeah?” he murmurs against your skin, his breath hot and damp. He doesn’t stop his assault, his mouth moving lower, pressing kisses against the thin cotton of your shirt, right over your heart. You can feel the damp heat of his mouth through the fabric, while his tongue circles your nipple.
“I need…” You trail off at the feeling, not even sure what you’re asking for, just knowing you need more.
He seems to understand perfectly, pushing himself up slightly, just enough to look you in the eyes. His gaze is dark and intense, his pupils blown wide. Add in the messy hair and swollen lips, and it’s the most insane, delightful sight you’ve ever seen in your life.
“I know what you need, Bambi.”
Without another word, he moves down your body. His hands find the waistband of your shorts, his fingers hooking into the elastic. He pauses for a beat, his eyes asking a silent question. You give a single, shaky nod, and that’s all he needs. Your shorts and underwear are gone in one smooth, efficient motion, tossed onto the floor beside the couch.
The cool air of the room hits your bare skin, and you shiver, a mixture of cold and raw, unadulterated anticipation. He stays there for a moment, kneeling between your legs, his gaze slowly, reverently, taking in the sight of you. The look in his eyes isn’t lecherous; it’s one of pure, unadulterated appreciation, and it makes a fresh wave of heat pool low in your belly.
You like to think getting high has stripped away your usual inhibitions, leaving you feeling bold and open beneath his stare. You part your legs for him, exposing your folds entirely, a silent, shameless invitation. His answering smile is devastating. He leans forward, his hands coming to rest on your inner thighs, his thumbs stroking the soft skin there in slow, hypnotic circles.
“So beautiful,” he whispers, and you can just make out the slow smile forming on his lips. “Perfect fucking pussy.”
Hansol lowers his head, and his hot breath ghosts over your sensitive skin, making you gasp and buck against his hands. He presses a soft, chaste kiss to the top of your mound before his tongue finally sweeps down.
The first touch is electric. It’s a broad, wet slide from bottom to top that makes your entire body jerk. A strangled cry escapes your lips, and your hands fly up, fisting in the fabric of the couch cushions beside your head. He chuckles against you, before he settles in, and you realize with a jolt that his earlier patience and precision have returned, now focused entirely on your pleasure.
If he wasn’t your plug, you’d swear Hansol was a cartographer, mapping every fold and crevice with his mouth. His tongue is relentless, sometimes teasing with light, feathery licks around the edges, other times pressing down with a firm, insistent pressure that makes you see stars and the world dissolves into pure sensations.
You can feel the rough texture of his faint stubble against your inner thighs, the slick heat of his mouth, the gentle pull of his suction. Your hands leave the cushions, searching blindly for purchase. They find his head, your fingers tangling desperately in his hair. You grip him tight, your body starting to writhe as he finds your clit and circles it slowly, deliberately, driving you mad.
“Hansol,” you moan, tugging gently on the hair your fingers are tangled in. He pauses, his mouth still pressed against you, and look up, eyes wide with a mixture of lust and confusion. “Want your hand, too.”
If there’s one thing the night has left you with, it’s the thought of his hands, especially the way it looked while he rolled the joint.
He chuckles, a low, breathy sound that vibrates against your thigh. He pushes himself up, moving from between your legs to hover over you on the couch. The sudden loss of his mouth makes you let out a small, complaining whimper.
“My hand?” he asks, voice not even trying to hide the amusement. He held up his right hand, palm open, presenting it to you like a sacred offering.
And you take it, your own hands trembling slightly as you hold his. You bring it to your lips, pressing a soft kiss to the center of his palm before turning it over and kissing each of his long fingers one by one. You study his long deft fingers with a devotee’s focus, your gaze tracing the road map of pretty blue veins beneath his pale skin.
Every detail of it turns you on enough so you take the pad of his thumb into your mouth, sucking on it gently, your eyes fluttering shut as your hips rolled up against his thigh in a slow, needy grind. The solid muscle against your bare pussy pulls an even needier moan from your throat.
A deep groan rumbles in his chest, pupils going wider. He leans over you, free hand bracing on the couch cushion beside your head.
“Jesus, Bambi,” he gasp, lips now brushing against the skin of your stomach, sending a fresh wave of shivers through you. “Then let me fuck you with it.”
You release his thumb with a wet pop and let his hand go. He reclaims it, eyes burning into yours, before he moves back between your legs. He doesn’t waste a second, leaning down, his mouth finding your folds again, his tongue lapping at your pussy with a renewed vigor that makes you cry out. At the same time, he slips one of his long fingers inside you.
The sudden fullness combined with the merciless work of his mouth is too much. Your senses overload, a wave of pleasure building higher and higher until you’re certain you’re going to shatter. You writhe against the couch, back arching, hips lifting off the cushions to meet the pressure of his mouth and hand.
“Please.” The word tears itself from your throat before you can think. “Hansol, please.”
He hums in response, adding a second finger and giving a harsh suck to your clit. His fingers curl inside you, hitting a spot deep within that sent a lightning bolt of pure ecstasy tearing straight through your body, while his tongue works faster and harder against your clit.
You grip his hair like an anchor against the raging sea of pleasure he’s created, pulling him closer, your nails scraping lightly against his scalp as the wave crests. “Oh, god, I’m—I’m gonna—”
He seems to take that as a challenge, tongue flicking even faster, fingers curling inside you with precision until they find the spot that undoes everything. The wave doesn’t crest so much as collapse, and then you break completely.
Your orgasm crashes over you, a blinding, white-hot supernova of pleasure that rips a scream from your lungs, no room for thinking of anything as trivial as your neighbors. Your body convulses, your inner muscles clenching tightly around his head. You grip his hair tighter, hips bucking wildly as the waves of pleasure roll through you, one after another, leaving you utterly breathless and spent.
Hansol doesn’t stop, though, continuing to lick and soothe you through the aftershocks until your trembling subsides and you melt into the couch, a boneless, quivering mess.
He finally pulls away, and you let out a weak whimper at the loss of contact. He moves up your body, his face slick, lips swollen. He looks impossibly pleased with himself, a satisfied smirk playing on his mouth. He leans down and captures your lips in a wet kiss, and you can taste yourself on him, the flavor musky and sweet and incredibly erotic.
When he pulls back, you’re panting, your mind a blissful, hazy fog. “Wow,” is all you can manage to say.
He giggles, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’re very welcome, Bambi.”
You lie there for a moment, letting the last delicious tremors of your orgasm fade, watching him through heavy-lidded eyes. The need to reciprocate, to give him even a fraction of the pleasure he just gave you, is practically a primal urge. You reach out, your hand landing on the front of his sweatpants. You can feel the thick, hard length of him through the soft fabric, and a fresh wave of desire cuts through your post-orgasmic haze.
“My turn,” you whisper, your voice husky.
You push yourself up onto your elbows, then swing your legs over the side of the couch. You sit up and look at him, at the hunger in his eyes. Without a word, you slide off the couch and onto your knees on the rug in front of him. Hansol’s breath hitches audibly while you reach for the drawstring of his sweatpants, fingers fumbling slightly.
He covers your hands with his. “You sure?” he asks, voice rough.
You just look up at him through your lashes, meeting his intense gaze, and give a slow nod. He removes his hands and leans back against the couch, giving you complete control. You pull the string, loosening the waistband, and then slowly peel the gray fabric down his hips, revealing the taut line of his stomach and the trail of thin hair that disappears below. You push the sweatpants down past his knees, along with his black boxer briefs, freeing him.
He is beautiful. Long, thick, and perfectly straight. A single, clear bead of pre-cum glistens at the tip, and your mouth waters. You reach out a tentative hand, fingers wrapping around his velvety length. Hansol groans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates through the floor, his hips twitching involuntarily.
You lean forward, your hair falling around your face like a curtain, and take him into your mouth. You start slowly, your tongue tracing the prominent vein that runs along the underside of his cock, following it all the way to the head. He tastes like an incredible mix of salt and musk, and you take him deeper, lips creating a wet, tight seal around him.
Hansol hisses through his teeth, hands coming up to fist in your hair, but his grip is gentle, reverent, nothing like the desperate way you clung to him moments ago.
“Shit, that’s it,” he breathes, the words barely holding together when you hollow your cheeks and take him deeper.
You soon find a rhythm, bobbing your head up and down, one hand stroking the base of his cock in time with the movements of your mouth. You love the feeling of him filling your mouth, the way he pulses and hardens even further against your tongue. You love even more the sounds he makes, the low, broken groans and sharp intakes of breath that tell you exactly how good you’re making him feel.
He starts to move his hips, a slow, rocking motion that pushes him deeper into your throat with each thrust. You gag slightly, but it’s a good feeling, a feeling of being completely taken, completely used for his pleasure. You take him as deep as you can, your throat muscles contracting around him.
“Fuck, Bambi,” he grits out, his head thrown back against the couch, eyes squeezed shut. And you take a moment to appreciate this stunning view of Hansol. “You’re so good at this.”
His praise sends a thrill through you. You pick up the pace, your hand and mouth working faster, more desperately. You can feel the tension building in him, the way his whole body has gone rigid, his hips bucking more insistently against your mouth. You can feel the tell-tale pulse at the base of his cock that signals he’s close.
Just as you think he’s about to let go, he pulls back, his hands gripping your shoulders. “Wait, Bambi,” he gasps, his chest heaving. “Stop. I wanna be inside you.”
Hansol pulls you up from the floor, his movements urgent. You’re on your feet, swaying slightly, his hands firm on your hips. He doesn’t let you go. Instead, he hooks his thumbs into the hem of his own shirt and rips it over his head in one fluid motion, tossing it onto the floor.
Before you can fully process the view of his bare chest, his hands are at the hem of your shirt. His fingers are scorching hot against the skin of your stomach as he pulls the fabric up and over your head, eyes never leaving yours as he lets your shirt fall to the floor beside his.
The air is cool on your bare skin, but his gaze is molten hot. It drops from your eyes to your chest, and his breath hitches. His pupils dilate, swallowing the brown of his irises until they’re almost black. He looks at you with a kind of raw reverence that makes your heart hammer against your ribs.
“Fuck,” he breathes, the word a prayer. “Bambi, you’re… incredible.”
He closes the small distance between you, and his hands, those beautiful hands you were just worshipping, come up to cup your breasts. The feeling of his palms against your skin makes you gasp. He holds you with a surprising gentleness, his thumbs stroking over your nipples, coaxing them into tight, aching points. You moan, your head falling back as you arch into his touch, a silent plea for more.
That sound seems to break whatever restraint he had left. He pushes you back gently, your legs hitting the edge of the couch, and you tumble backward onto the cushions. He follows you down immediately, settling between your parted thighs, his bare chest pressing against yours.
“You’re still so wet for me,” he growls against your lips, his hand sliding down between your legs to confirm his words. Your slickness coats his fingers instantly, and he circles your clit with his thumb, making you whimper.
“Please, Hansol,” you beg, your nails digging into his broad back. “I need you inside me. Now.”
He positions himself at your entrance, the blunt head of his cock pressing against you, teasing you. He looks down at you, his eyes burning with a possessive glint. “Look at me, Bambi.”
You obey, your eyes locking with his. The connection is intense, electric.
And then Hansol pushes forward.
The feeling of him entering you is breathtaking. He moves slowly, stretching you, filling you inch by glorious inch. It’s a perfect, snug fit, a feeling of completion. You let out a long, shuddering sigh as Hansol sinks into you all the way to the hilt. He stays there for a moment, buried deep inside you, letting you adjust to the size of him. He rests his forehead against yours, his breathing ragged.
“Holy shit,” he breathes. “You feel… perfect.”
The sensation of being filled by him is almost overwhelming. You can feel every ridge, every vein, the incredible heat of him deep inside you. It’s as if your bodies were made for this.
He kisses the tip of your nose before saying, “So polite.”
He begins to move, in a rhythm that has your head spinning. He pulls back almost all the way, the sensation of his withdrawal a sweet torture, before thrusting back in, burying himself deep inside you again. Each thrust is a wave of pleasure, building on the last. He keeps his eyes locked on yours, watching your face as he fucks you.
Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him even deeper. Your moans mix with his grunts, creating a pornographic symphony in your living room. The pace quickens, his slow thrusts turning faster, harder, more frantic. He’s no longer the patient, gentle Hansol you know; he’s a man driven by pure need, and you meet his energy with your own, arching your hips to meet his every powerful thrust.
The friction is building, the pleasure coiling tight and hot in your lower belly. The couch creaks in protest beneath you, the only sound apart from your panting breaths and the wet, slapping sound of your bodies colliding. He leans down, his mouth finding your neck again, sucking a new bruise into your skin as he thrusts into you relentlessly.
“You’re so tight,” he groans into your ear, his voice strained. “So fucking good, Bambi.”
You’re close again, so close. The world is nothing but a blur of sensations: the feeling of him filling you, the heat of his skin, the scent of his sweat, the sound of his voice calling your name.
“Hansol, I’m—I’m close!” you cry out, your voice breaking.
“Me too, baby,” he pants, his thrusts becoming deeper, even more frantic, slamming into you with a desperate intensity. “Come for me. Let me feel you come apart around me.”
That’s all it takes. His words, combined with the relentless pressure of his cock deep inside you, push you over the edge. Your second orgasm hits you like a freight train, even more intense than the first. Your vision whites out, a scream tears from your throat, and your inner muscles clench around him in a powerful, milking release.
You can feel that your climax triggers his, but instead of driving deeper, he rips himself out of you with a wet, slick sound that echoes in the quiet room. The sudden feeling of emptiness makes you gasp. In a single, fluid motion, he positions himself over you, his hips hovering above your stomach.His eyes are squeezed shut, face a mask of pure pleasure as his body goes rigid. You watch, mesmerized, as thick, hot ropes of his cum splash across your belly.
Hansol collapses beside you on the couch, his chest heaving as he shudders through the last aftershocks of his own release. He pulls you into his side, one arm wrapping securely around you. You both lie there for a moment, catching your breath, the air thick with the scent of sex and sweat.
You look down at the pearly mess cooling on your stomach. Slowly, you lift a hand and dip your index finger into the thickest part of it. The texture is sticky and still warm. You lift your finger, your eyes finding his in the dim light, only to discover Hansol already watching you, his own gaze heavy-lidded and curious. You hold his gaze as you slowly bring your finger to your mouth, sucking the tip clean.
A groan escapes his throat, a sound of pure, astonished pleasure. His arm tightens around you, pulling you impossibly closer until your bodies are flush against each other. “You’re going to be the death of me, Bambi,” he rasps, his voice with a mixture of exhaustion and renewed desire.
He buries his face in your hair, and you melt into him, tangled together in a heap of sweaty limbs. The hazy, blissful fog of the weed settles over you like a warm blanket, cocooning you in the aftermath of pure, unadulterated bliss. His body is heavy and grounding next to yours, and you’ve never felt more safe, more sated, in your entire life.
The night was nothing like you expected, and everything you never knew you wanted.
But just then, an afterthought—one that doesn’t belong in this moment at all—surfaces and slips out before you can stop it. “Was that just because we were high?”
The light in Hansol’s eyes instantly softens, replaced by a profound, heavy sincerity that pins you to the spot. He reaches up, his fingers gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his touch incredibly gentle.
“Absolutely not,” he says, his voice steady and absolute. “At least not for me. I wanted you the first time I saw you. I just didn’t wanna mess up what we had, but being around you is kinda messing me up anyway. In a good way.”
Your heart skips a beat, a massive wave of warmth blooming in your chest. The butterflies have completely escaped their cage by now, flying far, far away.
“So what are you saying?” you ask softly. “You like me?”
“A lot more than I could describe probably.” Hansol nods, his brown eyes shining. “But yeah, I do like you. You’re stuck in my head all the time, Bambi.”
You look at him, a wide smile breaking across your face, completely erasing any residual trace of executive dysfunction or anxiety. “What if I like you back?” you tease, tilting your head and resting your chin on his chest.
Hansol’s smile turns incredibly bright, a boyish expression of pure relief taking over his features as he buries his face in the crook of your neck, holding you closer.
“Then I’m the luckiest plug in this city.”
# NAVIGATION | MASTERLIST | PERMANENT TAGLIST
If you’re enjoying it, don’t forget to reblog, helps so much and gets the fic out there!! 💗
GENRE | TAGS. One-shot, non-idol!au, strangers to friends to lovers, fluff, smut.
WC. 14.9k+
RATING. Explicit adult content (MINORS DNI).
WARNINGS. Reader is dealing with anxiety, insomnia, mental health struggles, and here nobody believes in seeking medical help (apparently), just the plug, mentions of food, Scream (1996) spoilers (in case you never saw it), drug purchase, smoking, drug use, drug use before sexual activities, shotgunning, oral (f. and m. receiving), fingering, pussy eating, cum eating, multiple orgasms, blowjob, unprotected sex, dirty talk, hand kink, pulling out, cum-shot.
AN. I literally just brought this to another format, with a few small changes. And now I’m actually, actually back. Anyway, hope you enjoy it, and let me know what you think! <3
🎧 SOUNDTRACK. chocolate - the 1975, ojitos lindos - bad bunny, junk of the heart (happy) - the kooks, like real people do - hozier, disconnected - 5 seconds of summer, don’t come down - the maine, satellite - harry styles, fallin' for you - colbie caillat, drop dead - olivia rodrigo.
The streetlamp flickers overhead, casting long shadows across the cracked pavement. You pull your jacket tighter around your shoulders, checking the time on your phone screen for the fifth time in two minutes.
9:14 PM.
A very old blue jeep is parked halfway down the block, engine off, exactly where the dropped pin had indicated. As you approach, the driver’s side door clicks open.
Vernon steps out, casually pulling back the hood of his dark sweatshirt. He looks even more handsome than in the picture he sent earlier, which only makes you more nervous. His relaxed, unbothered posture immediately contrasts with your stiff and coiled tension. He leans against the car door, shoving his hands into his pockets as he watches you close the distance.
You stop a few feet away, practically vibrating with nerves. “Vernon?”
“Yeah.” His voice is low, carrying a slight rasp. He doesn’t move toward you, leaving a comfortable gap between to let you dictate the space. “You’re Chan’s friend.”
“Y/N,” you supply quickly, voice slightly breathless.
It was Chan who gave you his number after seeing you have an anxiety attack. He said Vernon was the seller with the best prices and the best products, that his stuff would definitely help you relax, and that he was a reliable guy.
Which is what brought here.
Vernon offers a small, crooked smile. “Nice to meet you, Y/N.” He pause, his eyes scanning the empty street before settling back on you. “Chan said you’d be reaching out. To be honest, I wasn’t sure if you’d actually show up after our texts earlier.”
“I... yeah.” You bite your lip hard, wrapping your arms around yourself against the night wind. “I’m sorry if the timing was weird, I just really needed to find a way to settle my head tonight.”
He nods slowly, his expression understanding. Vernon doesn’t treat your confession like a burden or a business pitch; he just listens. “No need to apologize. Chan’s a good guy. He wouldn’t have sent you my way if he didn’t think I could help you out.”
Vernon shifts his weight and reaches into his pocket. You instinctively flinch, taking a quick half-step back. The movement is entirely involuntary, a byproduct of the buzzing, suffocating anxiety that had driven you out here in the first place.
He freezes, slowly pulling his hand back out empty and resting it visibly on the roof of the car. His expression shifts, the casual politeness melting into something far more observant, and surprisingly gentle. He takes in the way your shoulders are practically up to your ears, the way your hands grip your phone and arms like a lifeline, and the wide, panicked look in your eyes.
“Hey,” Vernon says softly, dropping his voice a register. “Take a breath. You’re okay. I’m not here to make things harder for you.”
“I know, I just—” You swallow hard, embarrassed heat rising to your cheeks. “I’m not really used to this. Meeting strangers in the dark. It’s… a lot.”
“I get it. But you don’t have to look at me like I’m about to bite. You’re making yourself self-conscious.”
Your eyebrows shoot up, eyes widening even further. “I am?”
“Yeah.” The corner of his mouth ticks up, and he scratches the back of his head. “Don’t be, though. It’s a compliment. Most people around here try too hard to look like they aren’t feeling anything.”
The tension in your chest doesn’t vanish, but the sheer directness of his gaze makes the frantic buzzing start to slow.
Vernon finally reaches into his pocket again, moving slowly and deliberately this time, and pulls out a small paper bag. He holds it out, stretching his arm far enough that you don’t have to step completely out of your comfort zone.
“Here. The mellow option, like you asked. Should help quiet things down.”
As you reach out to take it, your fingers briefly brush against his. His skin is warm against the chill of the night air.
“Thanks,” you murmur, finally feeling the tight band around your chest loosen.
“Don’t mention it.” He steps back and opens his car door, but pauses before sliding into the driver’s seat, looking over his shoulder one last time. “Get home safe. Let me know if you need anything else. And seriously, breathe. You’re doing fine.”
As his taillights fades down the empty street, you stand on the sidewalk and take your first full, deep breath of the entire day.
“Sorry for the odd hour,” you say for the thousandth time, pulling your cardigan tighter around yourself. “I just… I can’t sleep. My brain won’t shut up. It’s okay if you want to charge me a delivery fee or something for the trouble.”
You’d been buying from Vernon for about a month. Almost every Tuesday, you left him a message to drop your usual order. Today, however, was Thursday, and you had been awake for nearly twenty-four hours without managing to close your eyes for even a single second. So you figured, why not see if he was awake and willing to sell you something strong enough to finally put you down?
And after a month of buying from him, you had decided it was okay to let him come up to your building floor instead of making him meet you out on the street. He had proven himself to be surprisingly reliable—exactly like Chan had promised you—, after one day when you could barely get out of bed, and he’d offered to bring your order up himself.
Now he was standing in the hallway of your building, looking like he hadn’t gotten much more sleep than you had, yet somehow far more awake than anyone had the right to be at this hour. And the craziest thing of all? He looked incredibly handsome, while you are pretty sure you looked hungover despite not having consumed a single drop of alcohol.
Vernon lets out a low, easy breath, shaking his head. “You’re good. I don’t sleep much anyway, so you’re not exactly interrupting a deep slumber.” He reaches into his pocket, his movements slow, as if he’s in no hurry at all. “Tell you what, I’ll give you the loyal customer discount tonight, Bambi.”
You blink, the name catching you off guard. “Bambi?”
He leans one shoulder against the doorframe, his gaze softening as it fixes on yours.
“Yeah.” Vernon tilts his head, studying your face with an intensity that makes your heart skip. Then he points at his own eyes with his index finger. “It’s the eyes. Yours are big and curious… like you’re seeing the world for the first time.”
You feel a flush of heat creep up your neck, and you look down at your slippers, trying to deflect. Vernon does that quite often; making you blush so hard you never know where to hide your face, that is. You don’t even know if that’s his actual intention or if he’s just naturally nice.
“If that’s the case, then I must look like a really tired bambi. Bags under my eyes and everything.”
Vernon chuckles, the warm sound seeming to fill the empty hallway. “You still look cute, though.” He shrugs, far too casually for your liking. “Just… don’t go bolting into traffic or anything like that. I need my favorite customer in one piece.”
The blush deepens, spreading across your face until even your ears feel hot. You duck your head further, fiddling with the hem of your sleeve.
You wanted to know if he was genuinely flirting with you or if it was just something he said to all his clients. You were still confused about how you felt about those two possibilities, but the first was the only one that made your stomach do those strange, fluttery little flips.
“Oh, I’ve got a new indica blend coming in next week,” Vernon continues, his tone slipping back into his usual seller mode. “I’ll bring some by. It’ll help you sleep like a rock, I promise.”
You manage a small, shy smile, finally looking back up at him. “You’re like a specialized pharmacist at this point. Should I be tipping you extra, or will a thank-you card do it?”
A slight smile appears on Vernon’s face, and he straightens up and takes a step back, preparing to head toward the elevators, but he pauses to look you in the eye one last time, making sure the panic has truly subsided. The teasing light in his expression fades into something sincere and unexpectedly sweet.
“Neither,” he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave. “You being less anxious is enough for me. That’s the only tip I need, Bambi.”
He turns to leave, tossing a lazy wave over his shoulder and leaving you leaning against your doorframe.
The phone screen goes dark, but the words “anything you want” seems to burn brightly behind your eyelids.
For the past twelve hours, you’d been pinned to the mattress since your alarm first went off in the morning. But those three words from Vernon acted like a sudden shot of adrenaline straight to your heart, breaking the paralysis and making you throw the heavy duvet off and practically scramble out of bed, your feet hitting the cold hardwood floor with an urgent slap.
Your apartment was the physical manifestation of a terrible mental health week. Half-empty water bottles clustered on the nightstand, clothes draped over every available surface like exhausted ghosts, and a tragic pile of unopened mail sat on the kitchen counter.
“Oh God,” you mutter, grabbing a laundry hamper and sprinting through the living room.
Sweatshirts, socks, and a pair of jeans are aggressively lobbed into the laundry basket. Books that had been discarded on the floor are shoved haphazardly onto shelves. A collection of coffee mugs is swept into the sink and buried unceremoniously beneath a layer of dish soap bubbles just to hide the evidence.
You move at a dizzying speed, pausing only to catch your breath and aggressively fluff the flattened sofa cushions.
Despite the sheer panic of the impromptu cleaning spree, there’s an undeniable warmth spreading through your chest. You’re nervous, yes—your hands shake slightly as you kick a stray pair of sneakers into the hall closet—but beneath the nerves, you’re overwhelmingly happy.
Vernon is coming over. Not just to drop off your usual or make a quick exchange in the doorway, but just… coming over. To keep you company.
It hits you right then, standing in the middle of the slightly less disastrous living room, just how drastically things have shifted between you two. Somewhere along the line, the boundaries had blurred, melted, and completely re-formed into something entirely different.
Lately, he hasn’t just been your plug—he’s been your friend too. And you’ve been texting. A lot.
It had started innocently a few weeks ago, after he dropped off a new indica strain at your doorstep, one that worked a little too well on you. Pleasantly immobilized and entirely trapped in your own head, you had spent twenty minutes staring at your palms before deciding they actually looked like clouds, and texted him to give feedback.
Most people in his line of work would have ignored it, or maybe replied with a laughing emoji. But Vernon had replied three minutes later, and after a single text, a floodgate opened. The sheer relief of not being mocked, of having someone lean into the absurdity of the moment, made you feel unexpectedly safe with him.
The texts didn’t stop the next morning, when you sent a mortified apology and he replied with a picture of a fluffy cloud. From there, it became a daily routine with good mornings, random memes, complaints about the weather, late-night philosophical tangents, and very, very high debates. Vernon had slowly woven himself into the absolute fabric of your day-to-day life.
But today was Tuesday, and normally, by 2:00 PM on a Tuesday, you would’ve texted him for the usual. Except today, you didn’t. And when you didn’t, he texted you first to check how you were doing.
The conversation didn’t take long before Vernon calmed you down in his usual quiet, steady way, and then, casually as always, he offered to come over. And you accepted immediately—even if it was just for him to sit with you and keep you company—which had led you to this moment, where you’re trying to shove dust under the living room rug.
A firm knock at the door pulls you violently out of your thoughts.
Smoothing down your oversized sweater and taking one last, desperate look at the living room to ensure no rogue laundry was visible, you walk to the door and pull it open.
Vernon stands in the hallway wearing a faded gray hoodie with the strings pulled unevenly and a pair of jeans. But it isn’t his clothes that catch your attention; it’s his hands. He isn’t holding a small bag or his phone. He’s holding two massive, grease-stained brown paper bags from the twenty-four-hour diner down the street, along with a cardboard drink carrier balancing two milkshakes.
“Hey, Bambi,” he greets you, his voice carrying that familiar low rasp. The corner of his mouth ticks up into a soft, unmistakable heart-shaped smile. “Hope you like fries, because I bought, like, an insane amount of them.”
“You didn’t have to do this,” you breathe out, the last residual knot of anxiety in your chest instantly dissolving at the sight of him. You can’t believe how absolutely gorgeous he looks standing there in your doorway, looking like he just rolled out of bed, dressed in the most casual clothes imaginable.
“I know.” He shrugs, stepping past the threshold as you step aside to let him in. Vernon kicks his shoes off by the door with an easy familiarity that makes your heart flutter. “But you said you couldn’t get out of bed today. Which means you definitely didn’t cook. And I couldn’t have you passing out on me. I need someone to help me eat all of this.”
He carries the food into the living room, setting it down on the coffee table. The smell of hot, salty fries, grilled burgers, and heavy diner food fills the apartment, instantly making it feel infinitely cozier, and your stomach lets out an angry, shameless growl.
You hover awkwardly by the armchair. “I... I really meant it, you know. I don’t have any cash on me. I feel awful making you drive all the way out here.”
Vernon stops unpacking the bags and stands up straight, turning to face you. He closes the distance between you in two long strides, his expression softening completely. He reaches out, his warm fingers lightly catching your shoulder, just enough to straighten you and make you look at him.
“I am not here for your money, Bambi.” The sincerity in his voice and eyes pines you to the spot. He has amazing eyes. “Nor am I here to be your delivery guy. I’m here because it’s Tuesday, you were having a bad day, and I wanted to see you. Do you understand?”
You bite your lip to suppress a smile, the warmth of his fingers sending a rush of electricity straight down your spine. “Yeah. I understand.”
He smiles softly. “Good,” he says, letting his hand drop, though his eyes linger for a second longer on your face before he turns back to the food. “Now, grab some napkins, Bambi. We’ve got a situation here with these milkshakes.”
You settle onto the floor, using the coffee table as a dining table. The food is incredible and exactly the kind of heavy, comforting, terrible-for-you meal that bypasses anxiety almost entirely and goes straight to the soul.
“Alright,” Vernon says around a mouthful of fries, leaning back against the base of the sofa. “We need a movie. Something that requires zero brain power but also something we can yell at.”
“Yell at?” you ask, dipping a fry into your milkshake. Vernon watches the fry-in-milkshake maneuver with mild disgust but don’t comment.
“Yeah. A classic. Something where the characters make terrible decisions and we get to judge them from our moral high ground on the floor.”
You scroll through a streaming service for ten minutes before finally settling on Scream.
“It’s the perfect choice,” Vernon argues as the eerie opening music swells through the television speakers. “The ultimate movie about teenagers who think they know all the rules of surviving getting absolutely humbled by another pair of teenagers in a cheap Halloween mask.”
“Sidney is actually smart, though,” you counter, pulling your knees to your chest. “She managed to not get killed in seven out of seven films.”
Vernon scoffs, pausing halfway through a bite of his burger. “Thanks to the power of being the protagonist, of course.”
You shake your head with a laugh. “Well, I stand by my opinion.”
He chews slowly, nodding as he points at you with his index finger. “A woman who stands her ground. I respect that.” You let out a small giggle, and Vernon swallows before continuing. “But she ran up the stairs instead of out the front door, Bambi. She literally locked the deadbolt and then trapped herself on the second floor when she had a clear shot to the yard.”
“It’s a classic trope!” you defend your point, laughing as Vernon rolls his eyes. You feel so at peace in his presence that you no longer remember a single thing that affected you in the last twenty-four hours.
“It’s a death wish! That was the entire problem!”
You eat and argue nonstop, the tension of the day bleeding out of you with every passing minute you spend in his presence. You debate the rules of surviving a slasher, whether you would actually make it out alive in Woodsboro, and roast the characters’ survival instincts.
“I know I would probably die,” you state with conviction, biting the end of the straw, “but it would never be because I went to investigate some strange, suspicious noise. Especially not if I were alone.”
Vernon chuckles, nodding along. “Ditto!”
You grab another fry, pointing it at the screen as Billy Loomis leans through Sidney’s bedroom window.
“Okay, but you have to admit, Billy and Stu are objectively very attractive. The whole ’90s grunge, floppy hair thing? It works.”
He pauses mid-chew. Slowly, his eyes slide from the TV to you, his expression flattening into an unimpressed, deadpan stare. “They look like they haven’t showered in a month.”
“Yeah, but look at the cheekbones,” you insist, another teasing smile breaking through the heavy exhaustion. “It’s attractive.”
“If the attractive is homicidal bedhead, sure.” Vernon scoffs, pointedly taking a long, exaggerated sip of his milkshake. “Good to know your bar is literally on the floor, Bambi.”
He shifts slightly, stretching his long legs out and casually crossing his arms, his tone perfectly nonchalant but carrying a subtle defensive edge.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re jealous of fictional ’90s teenagers,” you laugh between words, the sound bright and entirely devoid of anxiety. It would be completely ridiculous if he were, considering he looked like he’d stepped straight out of a ’90s movie himself.
“I’m deeply concerned for your survival instincts,” he corrects smoothly, not missing a beat, though he aggressively dunked a fry into his ketchup. “Remind me to never let you go to a Halloween party alone.”
As the movie shifts from eerie suspense to full-blown terror, the food begins to take its toll. The frantic, anxious energy that has kept you awake for the last twenty-four hours is suddenly entirely depleted. The apartment is warm, the couch against your back is soft, and the low, steady sound of Vernon’s voice beside you is the most effective sedative you’ve ever experienced.
Without realizing it, you begin to slide sideways. The debate over whether throwing a landline phone at the killer was actually an effective evasion tactic fades into background noise. The edges of your vision blur, the flashing light from the television softening into indistinct, hazy color. With a soft sigh, your head tips over, landing gently against the solid, warm curve of Vernon’s shoulder.
On the screen, Tatum screams. In the living room, Vernon stiffens completely. He had been mid-sentence, ready to deliver a scathing critique of Dewey’s police work, when he feels the sudden weight against his arm. He stops talking immediately, his jaw snapping shut. Slowly, carefully, he turns his head just a fraction to look down.
Your eyes are completely closed, your breathing already deepening into the slow cadence of genuine sleep. Your face, which had been tight with worry and exhaustion when he first walked in the door, is now entirely smooth. The dark circles under your eyes remain, but the tension in your body is gone. You look very peaceful.
Vernon feels a strange, tight pull right in the center of his chest. He glances at the empty takeout bags, the half-finished milkshakes, and you currently using him as a pillow, realizing he’s never been happier to lose a Tuesday night’s worth of business.
He doesn’t dare reach for the remote to turn the volume down, afraid that even the slightest shift in his muscles will wake you. He doesn’t reach for his phone either, which is buzzing in his pocket with texts of customers he no longer cares about.
Instead, Vernon adjusts his posture by a millimeter, shifting his weight just enough to give your head a better angle against his shoulder. He carefully leans his own head back against the sofa cushions, letting out a long and silent exhale.
On the screen, the survivors run for their lives. In the quiet of the apartment, Vernon sits perfectly still, entirely content to stay trapped in this exact position for as long as you need to sleep.
The next day, when you wake up tucked comfortably into your bed, everything is organized, clean, and back in its proper place. And unless you somehow did all of this in your sleep, there’s only one person who could have done it, even if he’s nowhere to be found in the morning.
Vernon drives with an relaxed posture, one hand resting lightly on the top of the steering wheel while the other rests on the center console. He doesn’t press for conversation, letting the low volume of the radio fill the space between you. Every so often, you catch him stealing a quick glance in your direction, his eyes checking to make sure you’re still breathing easily.
About an hour ago, you’d texted him about how awful your day had been, and within minutes he was at your door, ready to take you for a drive to clear your mind.
After a couple of minutes of driving, the dense architecture of the city gives way to the open stretches of the coastal highway. The streetlights grow sparse, replaced by the vast, ink-black expanse of the sky. The air rushing through the slightly cracked windows shifts from the smell of concrete to the sharp and cold scent of ocean mist and salt.
Vernon finally slows the car, the tires crunching against gravel as he pulls into a deserted overlook. The headlights sweep across a wooden barricade before he kills the engine, plunging them into darkness. Out the windshield, the ocean stretches endlessly, moonlight catching the white crests of the churning waves below.
“I didn’t know you liked the beach,” you whisper, pulling your jacket tighter around your frame. The cold seeps through the glass, but the car’s heater still blows warm air at your feet, creating a perfectly cozy contrast.
“I don’t usually,” he shrugs, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. He unbuckles his seatbelt and shifts his weight, turning slightly in his seat so he can look at you. “During the day, it’s a nightmare. Too crowded, too loud. But at night… it’s different.”
You nod slowly, looking out at the horizon. “It makes everything else feel really small. The ocean, I mean.” You tilt your head slightly, stealing a quick glance at him before continuing. “You look out there and realize how massive it all is, and suddenly worrying about emails or… or literally anything else just feels completely irrelevant.”
“Exactly,” Vernon agrees, leaning his head back against the headrest. He watches the water for a long moment, his profile sharp against the dim light filtering in from the moon. “We construct this entire, agonizing reality inside our heads.”
He pauses, a quiet, almost self-deprecating chuckle escaping his lips. He turns his head to look at you, his eyes looking thoughtful.
“You ever think we’re just brains in jars imagining stuff?”
You blink, caught entirely off guard by the sudden existential pivot. A laugh bubbles up in your chest, breaking the solemn quiet of the car. “Brains in jars? Really? That’s where we’re going at three in the morning?”
“I’m serious,” he defends himself, though the corner of his mouth is ticking upward. “Think about it. How do you know any of this is real? Your brain is just locked in pitch-black darkness inside your skull, hallucinating a reality based on electrical signals. For all we know, we’re just sitting on a shelf in some laboratory, running a simulation.”
“Well, if this is a simulation,” you counter, turning to face him completely and pulling your knees up onto the seat, “then the developers seriously need to patch my software. The anxiety settings are dialed way too high, and the executive dysfunction glitch is making the gameplay terrible.”
Vernon laughs properly then, the sound that echoing in the small space of the Jeep cabin, his gums on full display. “I’ll submit a bug report for you. Tell the admins to turn down the overthinking slider and boost the serotonin drops.”
You want to tell him that this happens every time you’re in his presence, but you aren’t sure if it’s acceptable to flirt with your plug. It’s been two months since you met, and you’re still amazed by how being with him shuts down your nervous system and makes you forget everything. Even if it’s just a phone call, hearing Vernon’s voice calms you like no weed or medicine ever could.
“Please do,” you smile back, resting your cheek against your knees. “But honestly… even if we are just brains in jars, I think I’m okay with whatever hallucination this is right now. It’s the quietest my head has been in days.”
The teasing amusement in Vernon’s eyes softens, melting into something more tender. He reaches across the center console, his fingertips lightly brushing your arm before settling on the edge of your sleeve. It’s a grounding touch, anchoring you to the present moment.
It’s strange how entirely safe you feel sitting in a dark car on a deserted cliffside with a guy who, on paper, you barely know. But looking at him now—the relaxed slope of his shoulders, the attentive way he listens to every word you say, the quiet intelligence in his eyes—you realize he isn’t just a guy or your plug anymore. He’s becoming someone indispensable.
“I really appreciate this,” you whisper softly. You look down at his hand, which is still resting near yours on the console. “You didn’t have to stay with me today, and you definitely didn’t have to drive me out here. So… thank you, Vernon.”
The name hangs in the air for a second. Vernon doesn’t flinch, but a subtle shift ripples through his posture. He’s quiet for a long beat, his thumb tracing a slow, absentminded circle against the fabric of your sleeve.
“Hansol,” he corrects quietly, his voice dropping into a register so low it’s almost a whisper.
You frown, blinking in confusion. “What?”
He lifts his gaze, his eyes locking onto yours, a small smile on his lips. There’s a vulnerability there he usually keeps buried under layers of nonchalance and cool detachment. “My name… it’s Hansol.”
“Oh,” you breathe out, a rush of embarrassment suddenly heating your cheeks. You pull your hands back slightly, feeling suddenly stupid. “Sorry, I thought everyone just called you Vernon.”
The realization hits you like a bucket of cold water. Could Vernon be his moniker? A professional handle used to keep a safe distance between the guys selling drugs and the people buying them? That wouldn’t be unusual in his line of work.
But Hansol doesn’t let you retreat. He shifts his hand, catching your fingers gently before you can pull away completely. His skin is warm, his grip steady and reassuring.
“Some do. It’s my middle name,” he explains, his gaze unwavering. “But people close to me call me Hansol.”
He pauses, letting the weight of that categorization settle between you. He’s drawing a line in the sand, officially pulling you across the boundary from client to someone close to him. You bite your lip to suppress a smile that wants so badly to form on your lips as the thought settles, the bucket of ice water from seconds ago already beginning to warm.
“You don’t have to,” he adds, an uncharacteristic hint of shyness briefly flickering across his features. “I just don’t mind it from you.”
Your heart does a violent stutter against your ribs. The sheer intimacy of the admission is overwhelming. You look at his hand holding yours, then back up at his face. He is waiting, giving you the space to decide what to do with the information.
“So you’re saying I’m close to you?”
Hansol doesn’t hesitate, leaning in just slightly, his thumb continuing the slow circle over your knuckles. “You text me at 1 a.m. and I show up every time. You slept on my shoulder the other night. We’ve talked about everything and anything at this point. I’d say we’re close, Bambi.”
You feel the air leave your lungs. It isn’t just the words; it’s the matter-of-fact way he says them, like it’s the most obvious truth in the world. He’s acknowledging the bond you’ve built in the quiet hours between midnight and dawn, admitting that you’re more than just his client, while you try to ignore the butterflies battering against the walls of your stomach, desperate to escape their cage.
“Hansol,” you test his name out loud. It feels foreign on your tongue, yet somehow incredibly right.
A small, devastatingly heart-shaped smile breaks across his face at the sound of his name in your voice. “Yeah. That’s it.”
You stayed at the overlook for another hour, the atmosphere in the car fundamentally changed. By the time his Jeep rolled to a stop outside your apartment building, the sky had begun to bruise with the first deep purples and blues of early dawn.
“I guess this is my stop,” you observe hesitantly, not wanting to get out of his car and put an end to the moment.
“Looks like it,” Hansol says. “You gonna be okay today?”
“Yeah,” you nod. “I think I am. Thanks to you.”
“Anytime, Bambi.”
You push the door open, stepping out into the crisp morning air, and turn back to look at him through the open door. “Drive safe, Hansol.”
“Always,” he replies, a smile lingering on his face at the sound of you saying his name. Then he leans across the passenger seat, catching the door frame to stop it from closing completely. Hansol tilts his head, eyes lazily tracking over your messy hair and the oversized sweatshirt you’re still wearing. “You looked extra Bambi today.”
The blush is instantaneous. It surges up your neck and floods your cheeks with a furious heat. Your jaw drops slightly, a flustered, embarrassed laugh escaping you as you struggle to find a comeback.
“Shut up!” you finally manage to stammer out, ducking your head to hide your flaming face.
Hansol lets out a low, victorious laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He pulls his hand back, letting you close the door, and you watch his taillights disappear into the morning light, your heart still racing.
Hansol doesn’t have much time tonight. His phone is already vibrating in his pocket with three other drop-offs pinned on his map, but when he reaches your door, his pace slows into effortless strides. He reaches out and gives the wood a lazy but firm knock.
When the door opens, the warm chamomile scent of your apartment spills out into the sterile hallway. You look tired as always but your eyes brightened the second they landed on him, dressed in his usual uniform of neutral colors, a hoodie pulled up just enough to frame his features, his hands buried deep in his pockets.
“Right on time,” you greet him, a smile spreading across your face as you lean against the doorframe where he usually stands.
He doesn’t say much at first, just offers a small, knowing tilt of his head as he hands over the plain brown bag. His fingers brush yours briefly during the exchange, a spark of heat that lingers longer than the transaction warrants.
You take the bag, your brow furrowing as you feel the weight and the shape of the contents inside. You peer in, eyes widening slightly. “Did you mean to put two in the bag?” you ask, looking back up at him.
“Yep,” he answers simply, his voice low and gravelly in the quiet corridor.
“But I only paid for one.”
“I know. The other one is on me.”
You hesitate, confused, chewing on your lower lip. “Is this like a promo, or are you high right now?”
A ghost of a smile touches his lips, that effortless charm radiating off him even in the dull atmosphere of the hallway. “Neither. You’ve had a rough week. Figured Bambi needed a little extra today.”
“That’s really sweet. But you don’t have to do that.”
He shifts his weight, closing the distance between you by just enough to make the air feel different. You hold your breath, acutely aware of how little space remains. Just a few inches more and your lips would touch.
“I want to.” Hansol’s voice is firm. “You’re not just a client. You know that, right?”
You look down at the bag, then back at him, your heart sinking into a slow, heavy thud. “Yeah. I think I knew that. I just didn’t want to assume.”
“Well, now you can assume a little,” he says, his gaze not wavering. “Also, tell me how that one hits. I picked it thinking of you, Bambi.”
You breath hitches. “You picked a strain thinking of me?”
“Yeah,” he replies nonchalantly, one shoulder rising in a casual shrug, as if he hadn’t just quietly flipped your entire world upside down. “Chill, warm, kinda sweet. Like you. Don’t overthink it.”
You let out a shaky laugh, leaning your head against the wood of the door. “Too late. I’m absolutely overthinking it.”
Hansol checks his phone screen, a flicker of genuine regret crossing his features. “I gotta go. Others are waiting,” he mutters, his gaze falling to your lips for the briefest moment before pulling back up to meet yours. “I wish I could stay longer.”
“Me too,” you admit without hesitating, looking up at him through your lashes. You don’t know where this sudden burst of courage came from, but it’s there, and it makes Hansol smile beautifully.
A genuine, incredibly warm smile breaks across his face at your words, not his usual confident smirk, but something entirely soft and real, gums showing and the heart shape of his lips coming back. He begins to back away toward the elevator, his eyes never leaving yours until he finally has to turn around.
He reaches the elevator and presses the button. Just as the bell chimes and the doors begin to groan open, you step out into the hallway, your voice echoing off the walls.
“Hansol!”
He pauses, one foot already inside the elevator. He turns his head, a playful, expectant look on his face. “What’s up, Bambi?”
“Nothing big,” you begin, hands gripping the doorframe behind you. “Just... wanted to know if you ever think about me when we’re not together or texting.”
He doesn’t even hesitate, the metal doors framing him like a portrait. “I think about you pretty much all the time.” he claims. “Even when we are texting.”
The honesty of it makes your stomach flip, the padlock that holds the butterflies in your stomach slowly loosening. “Good,” you manage softly.
“You’re flirting with your plug right now, Bambi,” he points out, his voice dropping an octave, teasing yet dangerously sincere.
“Maybe,” you counter, shrugging as a bit of courage grows. “Is that illegal?”
“Mm, no, not really. Especially if I flirt back.”
“And would you?”
The elevator starts to beep, a warning that the doors were going to close. He steps fully into the car, leaning his shoulder against the back wall, looking at you with a heat in his eyes that makes your knees weak.
“Have been for the past three months,” Hansol confesses, his smirk widening as the doors begin to slide shut. “Just hiding behind a lot of self-control.”
You let out a breathy laugh, your face flushing a deep crimson. “Hm. Self-control’s kinda hot.”
“So is the girl in her doorway,” he shoots back.
The doors click shut, severing the connection and leaving you standing in the hallway with a racing heart and a bag held tight to your chest. Behind those closed metal doors, Hansol is already checking his map for the next stop, but his mind is still back at that doorway.
When Hansol shows up at your apartment a few weeks later, you’re so nervous about the night’s activities that you almost forget how to open the door.
He’s wearing a simple gray shirt and black sweatpants, a baseball cap with the brim facing backward. He smells like soap, faint weed smoke, and something woodsy underneath it all. He leans against your doorframe the same way he’s been doing it for months now, and you are instantly, completely doomed.
Earlier this same day, you’d asked Hansol if he knew how to shotgun after the two of you saw it in a movie two nights before. Gently—and flirtatiously—he explained that it wasn’t that difficult, asking if you wanted to try it next time since it would involve the two of you getting closer than you ever had before.
Hansol always made you feel safe, and you knew he wouldn’t laugh at you, so you saw no reason not to try, even if there was still a chance you’d chicken out.
“You nervous?” he asks after you make room for him to come in. He slips off his shoes and tosses his keys onto the coffee table.
“A little,” you admit, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.
His mouth curves lazily, his eyes crinkling just a fraction at the corners. “Cute.”
You roll your eyes, quickly looking away. You have to. Because if you don’t, Hansol will see exactly how hard that single word hits, and then you’ll never recover.
You guide him toward the balcony where you usually light one up. There’s only one beach chair out there, something you bought at a thrift store right after moving in and renewed yourself. The balcony is so small that the chair is practically wedged between the railing and a tiny patio table, alongside a forgotten fern surviving purely on its own willpower.
After a brief, pointless argument about it, you let Hansol keep the chair while you lean against the railing with your back to the city. Your knees bump together with every small, abrupt movement any way, the balcony too cramped for there to be any real distance between you.
Hansol sets the tin on the tiny table and flips it open. You lean in slightly to get a better look at the contents.
“This isn’t your usual stuff,” he says by way of introduction. He’s not looking at you yet, just at the tin as he pulls out the papers, setting everything in order with that unhurried precision of his. “Just so you know.”
You look at it, then at him. “Should I be worried?”
“No.” Hansol says it simply. “I wouldn’t bring something that’d mess you up, Bambi. You just…” He meets your eyes for a second to reassure you even though he already knows you trust him blindly. “Your usual is too mellow for this. You’d just fall asleep on me.”
“I don’t fall asleep that easily.”
He gives you a look so unimpressed it makes you laugh. “You fell asleep the last time.”
You would argue it wasn’t really the weed; it was Hansol. With him, you felt safe enough to fall asleep whenever and wherever, to finally shut out everything that usually kept you awake.
After a couple weeks, it had become a routine: he’d make his deliveries, then stay a while to keep you company until you drifted off. Eventually, you started smoking together, and usually he’d just share whatever you normally rolled for yourself, never seeming too concerned about how hard it hit, just worried that you’d sleep soundly.
Something about the way he speaks, though—matter-of-factly, like he knows you too well by now—makes your chest feel like it’s leaping out of place before crashing back down where it belongs.
“That was different,” you finally say, resting your elbows against the railing behind you.
“You were out in twenty minutes, Bambi.”
“Well, I was tired.”
“You were cooked,” he counters, no judgment in his tone, just a fact. Because—shockingly—he knows your tolerance as well. Of course he does. “This is something in between. Hybrid. It’ll relax you, but it’ll keep you here. You’ll actually feel it without it running you over.”
You look at the bag again. “Where’s it from?”
“Same guy. Different batch.” Hansol picks it up again, turns it once in his fingers with the easy confidence of someone who can read these things on sight. “It’s good. Not complicated. You’ll like it.”
You believe him. That’s the thing about Hansol knowing exactly what you smoke—about him knowing you. He’s never steered you wrong. He remembers what worked, what didn’t, what made you text him at midnight saying never again. He filed it all away somewhere without making it a thing, and now he just knows.
“Okay,” you say, your teeth catching your lower lip.
Hansol smiles, and then he tears the paper with a casual precision that shouldn’t be interesting to observe. It is. You try not to examine that too closely as he spreads everything even, long fingers working slow and deliberate, and there’s something almost meditative about the way he does it, no wasted movement or fumbling. Just ease.
He rolls it between his palms, smoothing it down. Then he raises it to his mouth, the lick slow as he seals the edge, and runs his thumb along it afterward, pressing it closed with the kind of focus that makes you look up at the sky for a second because you have absolutely no business staring at his mouth or tongue.
A few seconds later, he holds it up once, looking quietly satisfied with his work. Then he flicks the lighter, the flame catching small and warm in the dim space of the balcony. He brings it to the tip, cupping his hand around it out of habit even though there’s barely any wind, and draws in slowly, the paper crackling faintly as the cherry burns bright orange and the scent of marijuana slowly surrounds you both.
He holds it in for a moment, then lets it out slowly through his nose, unhurried. A thin ribbon of smoke drifts upward toward the sky before disappearing completely. He takes another drag, longer this time, and leans back into the chair, his head tipping slightly against the wall behind him, eyes closing for just a second like he’s savoring it.
There’s no explaining the reactions moving through your body just from watching him in action. The aching tension low in your stomach, the way your thighs press together instinctively, the strange heat that blooms every time his mouth closes around the joint.
Almost as if he’s reading your thoughts, Hansol looks at you and holds it out. Not pushy or expectant, just offering you, his elbow resting on his knee and the smoke curling up lazily between his fingers. He watches you with that expression you still haven’t figured out how to read, somewhere between patient and quietly amused.
You take it from him and bring it to your lips without overthinking it, one elbow still resting against the concrete behind you, the light breeze pushing your hair back from your face. You wrap your lips around the joint and draw the smoke slowly into your lungs, letting it settle there for a moment and holding it for a beat. The warmth spreads through your chest in a slow unfurl that reaches all the way to your fingertips.
When you exhale, the smoke slips from your mouth in a thin stream, immediately snatched away by the night breeze. Hansol’s eyes follow it for half a second before they drift back to your face.
“There you go,” he says, voice low and approving enough to make heat crawl right back up your neck.
You take one more hit, feeling the night softening slightly, the city sounds below drifting to a different register, the small balcony going quieter around you. Then you throw your head back to exhale the smoke, watching it disappear into the dark sky above you.
When you lower your gaze again, you catch the way Hansol’s eyes have drifted down the line of your throat to your collarbone, lingering there for just a second too long. The look sends another rush of heat through you, and he notices you noticing. His gaze flicks back up immediately, but not before the corner of his mouth curves faintly, subtle and almost guilty, like he got caught staring but doesn’t regret it nearly enough.
You pass the joint back to him, and he takes it from you, fingers brushing against yours in the exchange without either of you commenting on it. Hansol holds it loosely between his fingers and watches you for a moment with that same unreadable patience.
“Feeling it?”
“A little.” You shrug lightly, though you’re not entirely sure you’re still talking about the weed. “Give it a minute.”
Another crooked smile tugs at his mouth as he nods. Hansol brings the joint to his lips, dragging in slowly before blowing another lazy cloud of smoke into the night air. “Good,” he whispers, smoke still curling lazily from between his lips.
You can’t explain why the sight feels so unfairly appealing, heat now unfurling lower in your body at something so simple. It’s not like you’ve never seen him do this before, because you did. Except tonight, everything about Hansol feels amplified somehow; his hands, his mouth, the slow rise and fall of his breathing. Even the way he looks at you feels… different, settling somewhere beneath your skin and and camping there.
Hansol takes another hit, the cherry burning bright for a moment before he pulls the joint away. He holds it there, and you watch his throat move slightly as he swallows the smoke. His eyes are half-closed, fixed somewhere out toward the city. He looks completely unbothered in a way that makes you feel the exact opposite.
Then he looks at you as he exhales one more time, his eyes searching yours through the haze. His brows arch slightly, and his voice comes out lower, roughened by the smoke he was holding in. “Ready?”
A wave of shivers travels across your skin like it has nowhere else to go. The butterflies in your stomach aren’t just fluttering anymore, they’re frantic, crashing wildly against your ribs every time your eyes meet his beautiful, inviting brown ones.
You’ve been thinking about this moment in various versions ever since you sent that text this morning. You’ve been thinking about it in the abstract, in the safe, theoretical space of it’s just a thing people do, it doesn’t mean anything, plenty of people do this without making it weird. You’ve spent hours constructing a very reasonable internal argument about proximity and exhaled smoke and the entirely non-romantic history of the practice.
All of that argument completely falls apart the moment Hansol says the word.
You just nod, pressing your lower lip between your teeth again before whispering, “Yeah.”
He explains how everything will work, walking you through each step, and even pulls his phone out of his pocket to show you a TikTok video in case it’s easier to learn visually. And maybe it’s ridiculous, but you love the effort he puts into making sure you feel comfortable, safe, completely at ease with him.
Hansol then sets the joint down on the edge of the glass ashtray. He doesn’t take his eyes off you as he shifts in your thrift-store beach chair, making space for you between his knees. Then he taps his thigh twice.
“C’mere, Bambi.”
Your breath catches in your throat.
The balcony is already tiny, but the space between the chair and the railing suddenly feels like a tightrope. You hesitate for a fraction of a second, not sure if you heard right, your heart doing a wild, erratic dance in your chest. Once again, Hansol doesn’t pressure you; he just waits, his hand resting casually on his knee, his brown eyes going completely dark and focused entirely on you.
Stepping forward, you slowly let go of your grip on the railing. Before your nerves can make you chicken out, you step into his space and sit down across his lap.
The shift in perspective is dizzying. Suddenly, you’re completely enveloped in his presence, somehow even more than before. The fabric of his shirt is thin enough that you can feel the solid heat of his chest underneath it. His hands move instinctively, settling firmly around your waist to steady you on his lap. His grip is grounding, holding you securely against him.
Looking down at Hansol, you realize just how close your faces are, the kind of close he mentioned earlier. With the brim of his baseball cap turned backward, there’s nothing shading his eyes. You can see every tiny detail of Hansol: the faint crinkle at the corners of his eyes, the heart-shaped curve of his mouth, the tiny freckles scattered across his nose, the intensity in his gaze as he looks up at you.
“Still nervous?” His voice drops so low and raspy it sends another wave of shivers straight down your spine, and you can barely hide the way your body reacts to it.
Your hands slowly find a home against his shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “A little more now,” you admit honestly, not finding any reason to lie or hide it.
“Don’t be.” Hansol lets out a breathless laugh that brushes against your lips, the vibration hitting your chest. “I’ve got you, Bambi.”
And you believe him.
Without ceremony, Hansol picks up the joint from the table and takes a long drag before turning fully toward you. When he leans in, it’s slow and unhurried, making you understand immediately that he’s giving you time to adjust, or back out, if you want to. Mostly, because he’s Hansol, and well… he does everything at his own pace while respecting yours just as carefully. Rushing doesn’t exist in his vocabulary.
You lean in too, not much, just enough to show him that everything’s okay, that you are okay with this, that he can proceed however he wants. And you can see the exact moment his expression shifts with understanding, settling in his eyes like he expected nothing less.
Hansol parts his lips and exhales smoothly. The smoke comes out slow, and you inhale it in through your lips exactly the way he taught you to, barely touching him, but close enough that the warmth of his breath folds into yours.
Your eyes close immediately, and you hold it in for a beat, then another, the whole world narrowing down to the inch of space between your mouths, the solid heat of his hands at your waist, and the distant sound of the city existing somewhere far below, fading into something completely irrelevant.
You let it out and open your eyes to find that Hansol still hasn’t moved back. He’s watching you attentively from beneath his lashes, and there’s nothing patient or unreadable about his expression anymore.
Perhaps the marijuana is clouding your better judgment, but the look in his eyes feels different now, focused in a way that makes your stomach do a double twist. He looks like someone who has already made up his mind and is simply waiting for the exact right moment to act on it, maybe searching for the perfect opening before finally giving in to what he’s been holding back.
You suspect it’s the same for him as it is for you.
When his gaze drops to your mouth, you’re convinced this new hybrid he bought is playing tricks on your mind, especially when his eyes linger there long enough to make your breathing go shallow before finally lifting back to yours again.
“Again.” Hansol’s voice is barely above a whisper, but it’s definitely not a question.
You don’t trust your voice right now, so you just nod.
He picks up the joint again and takes another slow drag, the cherry burning warm between your bodies. You watch his throat move as he holds the smoke in, and it absolutely shouldn’t make you all hot and bothered but it does. His hands still haven’t left your waist, one thumb tracing a small arc just above your hip—probably unconscious, probably not even something he realizes he’s doing—and somehow the touch burns straight through the thin fabric of your shirt
Hansol turns back to you even closer this time. Or maybe you’re the one who moved in closer. Truthfully, you stopped keeping track of who’s been closing the distance first somewhere minutes ago, if the distance between you even really exists anymore.
He exhales, and you inhale him in again, and this time, when it’s over, neither of you pulls away. You stay in the half inch that remains, sharing the same air, and letting the moment stretch itself, his eyes fixed on yours.
There had been a few moments during this strange new friendship with your plug when you’d caught yourself wanting him to kiss you, or wishing you had enough courage to kiss him first. But this was different. Now the desire felt overwhelming, practically screaming inside your head as you stared at his mouth from impossibly close range, silently hoping he could somehow read your thoughts and finally close the tiny distance still separating you.
“Hansol…” His name leaves your lips like a shaky plea. Maybe just to say something, maybe just to fill the space before it you swallows you whole.
“Yeah?” he murmurs back. His pupils are enormous, and just by looking at them, you think he already knows exactly what you’re thinking. “What do you want, Bambi?”
Your fingers tighten slightly against his shoulders, your pulse so loud you’re convinced he can feel it where your bodie1s are pressed together. “I—” The word catches in your throat before it can fully form.
For a second, all you can do is look at him, at the way his eyes keep flicking down to your mouth, at the patience still somehow woven through the tension sitting heavy between you. And then Hansol’s thumb drags slowly against your waist again, grounding and dangerous all at once, and your breath stutters.
His hand comes up to grip your jaw gently, thumb pressing against the corner of your mouth, and for one dizzy second you’re sure he’s finally going to kiss you. But instead, he keeps you there, close enough to feel his breath against your lips as his eyes lock onto yours.
“Tell me what you want, Bambi,” he breathes, voice rough and impossibly steady at the same time. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll give it to you.”
“Kiss me. Please.”
The words come out almost breathless, but the effect they have on Hansol is immediate. His eyes darken even more, and everything you can’t read in his expression is in his pupils, which dilate even further, if that’s even possible. His thumb brushes once across your jaw, and for a second, he just looks at you, like he’s letting himself fully believe you mean it.
Then his mouth curves faintly at the corner, a flicker of almost disbelieving amusement in his gaze. “Yeah?” he murmurs again, his voice low enough to melt straight through you.
You nod before he’s even finished speaking, and that’s all it takes for Hansol to stop hesitating. Without breaking eye contact, he reaches over blindly, pressing the glowing cherry of the joint into the glass ashtray until it goes out completely. The second his hand is free again, it returns to your waist, his grip firm as he pulls you that final, infinite inch closer.
When his lips meet yours, the sheer relief of it makes you exhale a soft sigh right into his mouth. It’s everything you’ve been agonizing over for the past three months, amplified by a thousand.
It starts slow, exploratory and incredibly filled with the same patient precision he applies to everything else. Your hands slide up from his shoulders to tangle in the soft hair at the nape of his neck, right beneath the edge of his backwards cap, and Hansol lets out the quietest grunt against your lips like he’s been wanting this just as badly as you have.
His hands at your waist tighten, pulling you flush against his chest until there’s nothing left between you. He adjusts you slightly so you’re seated more securely against him, surrounded by the solid warmth of his body, a jolt of electricity traveling straight down to your toes at the feeling of him pressed against you.
Tilting his head, Hansol parts your lips with his own, the kiss deepening into something that makes your head spin faster than any pot ever could. He tastes exactly like you imagined: sweet and earthy, like the lingering haze in the air around you, mixed with something unmistakably, comfortingly him.
The feeling of being held so securely, combined with the gentle, creeping warmth of the hybrid strain, makes everything around you fade. The apartment, the city sounds below, the cold night breeze, the small balcony; it all completely disappears. There is only the solid weight of Hansol beneath you, the steady, grounding grip of his hands on you, and the rhythm of his mouth moving deliciously against yours.
The butterflies in your stomach have ignited into a heavy heat that pools low in your belly as his tongue sweeps against your lower lip, coaxing you to open up more to him. You follow his lead blindly, completely lost in the sensation of his hands mapping the curve of your spine and his mouth devouring your every breath.
When you finally, breathlessly, pull back just enough to draw air into your burning lungs, you don’t go far. You rest your forehead against the brim of his cap, eyes closed, chest heaving. You can hear Hansol breathing just as heavily, his thumb gently stroking the sensitive skin along your jawline.
“You okay, Bambi?” he asks into the tiny space between your lips, a lazy, satisfied smile evident in the rough timbre of his voice.
You open your eyes to find him looking up at you with an expression so soft, so completely stripped of that unreadable patience, that it makes your heart ache in the absolute best way possible.
You nod, biting your lip to keep yourself from kissing him breathless again. “Better than okay,” you answer, nodding frantically, your hands sliding down to frame his face as you lean in briefly.
His hand comes up to brush a strand of hair from your face, his fingers lingering along your jawline. Hansol’s voice is soft when he speaks, a faintly amused crease forming between his eyebrows. “You sure?”
“I’m great,” you assure him, leaning into his touch. You can’t help but let out a shaky laugh, still in disbelief at what just happened. You just kissed. No, you just kissed Hansol. “Didn’t expect tonight to go like that.”
Hansol’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “Me neither. Not complaining though.”
Another flustered laugh escapes you, and you rest your forehead against his shoulder for a second to hide your face. “Just so you know... I literally asked you to come over to teach me how to shotgun. Not make out with me on my balcony.”
He hitches you a little higher on his lap. “Okay but... you didn’t exactly stop me.”
“I didn’t want to stop you,” you admit softly, looking back up at him, the honesty leaving you feeling completely vulnerable in his arms.
His gaze drifts down to your lips again, the air crackling with a heat that has nothing to do with the weed. “I want to kiss you again,” he confesses, his thumb brushing lightly against your lower lip. “Is that okay?”
You nod, too caught up in the intensity of his stare to manage words. Hansol leans forward, his hand cupping your jaw as he closes the distance between you again. He kisses you slowly once more, as though savoring every second. One hand slides from your jaw into your hair, while the other keeps you firmly anchored against him—not that you plan to go anywhere while he keeps kissing you like that.
You melt into his embrace, losing yourself in the taste of him further. You feel him grin against your mouth, his hands slipping under the back of your shirt to find the bare skin of your back. His palms are warm, and the slow drag of them up your spine makes you shiver. You feel the heat of his chest through the thin fabric of his shirt, and it’s not enough. You want to feel his skin beneath your fingers.
When he pulls back this time, it’s only far enough to start peppering your jaw with kisses. Your breath hitches as his lips move lower, skimming down the column of your throat until you can feel the heat of his mouth even through your shirt.
“Hansol,” you gasp against the crown of his head, hands reaching up to push his cap down and thread your fingers into his hair. “The balcony isn’t very private.”
He hums thoughtfully, but doesn’t stop the delicious maddening, drugging kisses he’s placing along your collarbone. “Your neighbors can see?”
A moan escapes your lips when he bites your most sensitive spot. You shake your head, trying to force words out. “Just the people below.”
He pulls back to look at you with a crooked smile. Hansol rests his forehead against yours, hand still cupping your face. “Sorry. I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” he admits, not a hint of shyness on his face.
“You have?” you ask, heart hammering in your chest.
“Of course I have.” Hansol chuckles, like it’s almost absurd to think otherwise, the sound sending shivers down your spine. “From the moment our eyes met.” He pauses briefly, then adds, “You’re impossible not to want, Bambi.”
Your breath hitches at his words, a blush spreading across your cheeks. “I want you too,” you whisper, suddenly feeling more bold. “I’ve wanted you since the first time I saw you under that shady streetlight.”
His grip on your waist tightens, his lips hovering just over yours. “Is that so?”
“It is.” You nod, unable to tear your gaze away from his.
With a single movement, Hansol stands up with you still in his arms, making you let out a small squeal as you wrap your legs around his waist to steady yourself, your arms linking around his neck, and face burying in the curve where his shoulder meets his neck.
He moves with an easy strength that makes your head spin, carrying you as if you weight nothing at all. The world tilts on its axis, the view of your tiny balcony shifting into a dizzying blur of city lights and dark sky. This side of him is almost enough to give you whiplash, but you can’t help but loving it.
As he moves, you inhale deeply, and the scent of him is a heady, overwhelming cocktail: the clean soap from his shower, the earthy tang of the weed clinging to his shirt, and something underneath it all that is just purely, intoxicatingly Hansol, something you’re still trying to figure out.
You feel him shift his grip, one hand supporting your thighs as he navigates the threshold of the sliding glass door. There’s a moment of slight awkwardness as he sidesteps into the living room, the cool night air replaced by the still, warm atmosphere of your apartment. But he doesn’t put you down. Instead, he kicks the door shut with the back of his heel, the soft thud echoing in the sudden silence.
The only light comes from the faint glow of the city filtering through the windows, casting long, distorted shadows across the room. It paints his features in soft grays and deep blacks, highlighting the line of his jaw and the curve of his lips. In the dim light, he looks less like your friendly neighborhood plug and more like a fantasy brought to life.
The effects of the weed hums pleasantly in your veins, a syrupy sensation that makes everything feel slow-motion and dreamlike. Every nerve ending in your body is awake and singing, amplifying the feeling of his body against yours, the texture of his shirt under your cheek, and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your chest.
Hansol crosses the small living room in three long strides and gently lays you down on the cushions of your couch. He doesn’t move away, though. He follows you down, one knee on the cushions between your legs, his hands bracketing your head as he leans over you. His body cages you in a welcome weight that makes you feel incredibly safe.
“You’re suddenly quiet,” he observes, his voice still a low, gravelly whisper.
His thumb traces the line of your cheekbone, the simple touch sending a cascade of sparks across your skin. The hybrid strain he brought is doing exactly what he promised: you’re relaxed, your limbs heavy and pliant, but your mind is sharp, hyper-focused on him. Every tiny detail is magnified—the way his eyes seem to drink you in, the sheer heat radiating from his body.
“Just… processing,” you manage to breathe out.
A slow, lazy smile spreads across his lips. “Processing what?”
“This,” you say, gesturing vaguely at the space between you. “Us. And the fact that you just carried me out of my own balcony like I was a sack of potatoes.”
Hansol lets out a low chuckle. “A very cute sack of potatoes.” He leans down, his lips brushing against yours, a feather-light touch. “I can process with you, if you want.”
You don’t need to answer. You just slide your hands from his shoulders up into his hair, your fingers sinking into the soft, thick strands. You pull his head down, and this time the kiss isn’t slow or exploratory. It’s hungry, desperate, a release of all the tension that has been building between you for months.
His mouth meets yours with equal force, his tongue sweeping past your lips to tangle with yours in a slick, heated dance. It’s messy and perfect and everything you’ve been craving. His hands leave the couch, one sliding down your side to rest possessively on your hip, the other threading into your hair, cradling the back of your head as he angles the kiss deeper.
A soft moan escapes your throat, and you feel him smile against your mouth. The sensation of his tongue in your mouth is an almost psychedelic experience. You can feel every texture, taste every note of him, the world narrowing down to the single, explosive point of contact between you, and it feels incredible.
His kisses trail from your mouth, hot and open mouthed, down the sensitive line of your jaw, to the frantic pulse fluttering at the base of your throat. You arch your back, granting him better access, your head tipping back against the cushions. His lips find the soft spot just above your collarbone, the same one he bit on the balcony, and he sucks gently, creating a pleasant pressure that sends a jolt of pure arousal straight to your core.
“Hansol,” you whine, your hips instinctively bucking up against him. The friction of his sweatpants against the thin fabric of your shorts is maddening.
“Yeah?” he murmurs against your skin, his breath hot and damp. He doesn’t stop his assault, his mouth moving lower, pressing kisses against the thin cotton of your shirt, right over your heart. You can feel the damp heat of his mouth through the fabric, while his tongue circles your nipple.
“I need…” You trail off at the feeling, not even sure what you’re asking for, just knowing you need more.
He seems to understand perfectly, pushing himself up slightly, just enough to look you in the eyes. His gaze is dark and intense, his pupils blown wide. Add in the messy hair and swollen lips, and it’s the most insane, delightful sight you’ve ever seen in your life.
“I know what you need, Bambi.”
Without another word, he moves down your body. His hands find the waistband of your shorts, his fingers hooking into the elastic. He pauses for a beat, his eyes asking a silent question. You give a single, shaky nod, and that’s all he needs. Your shorts and underwear are gone in one smooth, efficient motion, tossed onto the floor beside the couch.
The cool air of the room hits your bare skin, and you shiver, a mixture of cold and raw, unadulterated anticipation. He stays there for a moment, kneeling between your legs, his gaze slowly, reverently, taking in the sight of you. The look in his eyes isn’t lecherous; it’s one of pure, unadulterated appreciation, and it makes a fresh wave of heat pool low in your belly.
You like to think getting high has stripped away your usual inhibitions, leaving you feeling bold and open beneath his stare. You part your legs for him, exposing your folds entirely, a silent, shameless invitation. His answering smile is devastating. He leans forward, his hands coming to rest on your inner thighs, his thumbs stroking the soft skin there in slow, hypnotic circles.
“So beautiful,” he whispers, and you can just make out the slow smile forming on his lips. “Perfect fucking pussy.”
Hansol lowers his head, and his hot breath ghosts over your sensitive skin, making you gasp and buck against his hands. He presses a soft, chaste kiss to the top of your mound before his tongue finally sweeps down.
The first touch is electric. It’s a broad, wet slide from bottom to top that makes your entire body jerk. A strangled cry escapes your lips, and your hands fly up, fisting in the fabric of the couch cushions beside your head. He chuckles against you, before he settles in, and you realize with a jolt that his earlier patience and precision have returned, now focused entirely on your pleasure.
If he wasn’t your plug, you’d swear Hansol was a cartographer, mapping every fold and crevice with his mouth. His tongue is relentless, sometimes teasing with light, feathery licks around the edges, other times pressing down with a firm, insistent pressure that makes you see stars and the world dissolves into pure sensations.
You can feel the rough texture of his faint stubble against your inner thighs, the slick heat of his mouth, the gentle pull of his suction. Your hands leave the cushions, searching blindly for purchase. They find his head, your fingers tangling desperately in his hair. You grip him tight, your body starting to writhe as he finds your clit and circles it slowly, deliberately, driving you mad.
“Hansol,” you moan, tugging gently on the hair your fingers are tangled in. He pauses, his mouth still pressed against you, and look up, eyes wide with a mixture of lust and confusion. “Want your hand, too.”
If there’s one thing the night has left you with, it’s the thought of his hands, especially the way it looked while he rolled the joint.
He chuckles, a low, breathy sound that vibrates against your thigh. He pushes himself up, moving from between your legs to hover over you on the couch. The sudden loss of his mouth makes you let out a small, complaining whimper.
“My hand?” he asks, voice not even trying to hide the amusement. He held up his right hand, palm open, presenting it to you like a sacred offering.
And you take it, your own hands trembling slightly as you hold his. You bring it to your lips, pressing a soft kiss to the center of his palm before turning it over and kissing each of his long fingers one by one. You study his long deft fingers with a devotee’s focus, your gaze tracing the road map of pretty blue veins beneath his pale skin.
Every detail of it turns you on enough so you take the pad of his thumb into your mouth, sucking on it gently, your eyes fluttering shut as your hips rolled up against his thigh in a slow, needy grind. The solid muscle against your bare pussy pulls an even needier moan from your throat.
A deep groan rumbles in his chest, pupils going wider. He leans over you, free hand bracing on the couch cushion beside your head.
“Jesus, Bambi,” he gasp, lips now brushing against the skin of your stomach, sending a fresh wave of shivers through you. “Then let me fuck you with it.”
You release his thumb with a wet pop and let his hand go. He reclaims it, eyes burning into yours, before he moves back between your legs. He doesn’t waste a second, leaning down, his mouth finding your folds again, his tongue lapping at your pussy with a renewed vigor that makes you cry out. At the same time, he slips one of his long fingers inside you.
The sudden fullness combined with the merciless work of his mouth is too much. Your senses overload, a wave of pleasure building higher and higher until you’re certain you’re going to shatter. You writhe against the couch, back arching, hips lifting off the cushions to meet the pressure of his mouth and hand.
“Please.” The word tears itself from your throat before you can think. “Hansol, please.”
He hums in response, adding a second finger and giving a harsh suck to your clit. His fingers curl inside you, hitting a spot deep within that sent a lightning bolt of pure ecstasy tearing straight through your body, while his tongue works faster and harder against your clit.
You grip his hair like an anchor against the raging sea of pleasure he’s created, pulling him closer, your nails scraping lightly against his scalp as the wave crests. “Oh, god, I’m—I’m gonna—”
He seems to take that as a challenge, tongue flicking even faster, fingers curling inside you with precision until they find the spot that undoes everything. The wave doesn’t crest so much as collapse, and then you break completely.
Your orgasm crashes over you, a blinding, white-hot supernova of pleasure that rips a scream from your lungs, no room for thinking of anything as trivial as your neighbors. Your body convulses, your inner muscles clenching tightly around his head. You grip his hair tighter, hips bucking wildly as the waves of pleasure roll through you, one after another, leaving you utterly breathless and spent.
Hansol doesn’t stop, though, continuing to lick and soothe you through the aftershocks until your trembling subsides and you melt into the couch, a boneless, quivering mess.
He finally pulls away, and you let out a weak whimper at the loss of contact. He moves up your body, his face slick, lips swollen. He looks impossibly pleased with himself, a satisfied smirk playing on his mouth. He leans down and captures your lips in a wet kiss, and you can taste yourself on him, the flavor musky and sweet and incredibly erotic.
When he pulls back, you’re panting, your mind a blissful, hazy fog. “Wow,” is all you can manage to say.
He giggles, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’re very welcome, Bambi.”
You lie there for a moment, letting the last delicious tremors of your orgasm fade, watching him through heavy-lidded eyes. The need to reciprocate, to give him even a fraction of the pleasure he just gave you, is practically a primal urge. You reach out, your hand landing on the front of his sweatpants. You can feel the thick, hard length of him through the soft fabric, and a fresh wave of desire cuts through your post-orgasmic haze.
“My turn,” you whisper, your voice husky.
You push yourself up onto your elbows, then swing your legs over the side of the couch. You sit up and look at him, at the hunger in his eyes. Without a word, you slide off the couch and onto your knees on the rug in front of him. Hansol’s breath hitches audibly while you reach for the drawstring of his sweatpants, fingers fumbling slightly.
He covers your hands with his. “You sure?” he asks, voice rough.
You just look up at him through your lashes, meeting his intense gaze, and give a slow nod. He removes his hands and leans back against the couch, giving you complete control. You pull the string, loosening the waistband, and then slowly peel the gray fabric down his hips, revealing the taut line of his stomach and the trail of thin hair that disappears below. You push the sweatpants down past his knees, along with his black boxer briefs, freeing him.
He is beautiful. Long, thick, and perfectly straight. A single, clear bead of pre-cum glistens at the tip, and your mouth waters. You reach out a tentative hand, fingers wrapping around his velvety length. Hansol groans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates through the floor, his hips twitching involuntarily.
You lean forward, your hair falling around your face like a curtain, and take him into your mouth. You start slowly, your tongue tracing the prominent vein that runs along the underside of his cock, following it all the way to the head. He tastes like an incredible mix of salt and musk, and you take him deeper, lips creating a wet, tight seal around him.
Hansol hisses through his teeth, hands coming up to fist in your hair, but his grip is gentle, reverent, nothing like the desperate way you clung to him moments ago.
“Shit, that’s it,” he breathes, the words barely holding together when you hollow your cheeks and take him deeper.
You soon find a rhythm, bobbing your head up and down, one hand stroking the base of his cock in time with the movements of your mouth. You love the feeling of him filling your mouth, the way he pulses and hardens even further against your tongue. You love even more the sounds he makes, the low, broken groans and sharp intakes of breath that tell you exactly how good you’re making him feel.
He starts to move his hips, a slow, rocking motion that pushes him deeper into your throat with each thrust. You gag slightly, but it’s a good feeling, a feeling of being completely taken, completely used for his pleasure. You take him as deep as you can, your throat muscles contracting around him.
“Fuck, Bambi,” he grits out, his head thrown back against the couch, eyes squeezed shut. And you take a moment to appreciate this stunning view of Hansol. “You’re so good at this.”
His praise sends a thrill through you. You pick up the pace, your hand and mouth working faster, more desperately. You can feel the tension building in him, the way his whole body has gone rigid, his hips bucking more insistently against your mouth. You can feel the tell-tale pulse at the base of his cock that signals he’s close.
Just as you think he’s about to let go, he pulls back, his hands gripping your shoulders. “Wait, Bambi,” he gasps, his chest heaving. “Stop. I wanna be inside you.”
Hansol pulls you up from the floor, his movements urgent. You’re on your feet, swaying slightly, his hands firm on your hips. He doesn’t let you go. Instead, he hooks his thumbs into the hem of his own shirt and rips it over his head in one fluid motion, tossing it onto the floor.
Before you can fully process the view of his bare chest, his hands are at the hem of your shirt. His fingers are scorching hot against the skin of your stomach as he pulls the fabric up and over your head, eyes never leaving yours as he lets your shirt fall to the floor beside his.
The air is cool on your bare skin, but his gaze is molten hot. It drops from your eyes to your chest, and his breath hitches. His pupils dilate, swallowing the brown of his irises until they’re almost black. He looks at you with a kind of raw reverence that makes your heart hammer against your ribs.
“Fuck,” he breathes, the word a prayer. “Bambi, you’re… incredible.”
He closes the small distance between you, and his hands, those beautiful hands you were just worshipping, come up to cup your breasts. The feeling of his palms against your skin makes you gasp. He holds you with a surprising gentleness, his thumbs stroking over your nipples, coaxing them into tight, aching points. You moan, your head falling back as you arch into his touch, a silent plea for more.
That sound seems to break whatever restraint he had left. He pushes you back gently, your legs hitting the edge of the couch, and you tumble backward onto the cushions. He follows you down immediately, settling between your parted thighs, his bare chest pressing against yours.
“You’re still so wet for me,” he growls against your lips, his hand sliding down between your legs to confirm his words. Your slickness coats his fingers instantly, and he circles your clit with his thumb, making you whimper.
“Please, Hansol,” you beg, your nails digging into his broad back. “I need you inside me. Now.”
He positions himself at your entrance, the blunt head of his cock pressing against you, teasing you. He looks down at you, his eyes burning with a possessive glint. “Look at me, Bambi.”
You obey, your eyes locking with his. The connection is intense, electric.
And then Hansol pushes forward.
The feeling of him entering you is breathtaking. He moves slowly, stretching you, filling you inch by glorious inch. It’s a perfect, snug fit, a feeling of completion. You let out a long, shuddering sigh as Hansol sinks into you all the way to the hilt. He stays there for a moment, buried deep inside you, letting you adjust to the size of him. He rests his forehead against yours, his breathing ragged.
“Holy shit,” he breathes. “You feel… perfect.”
The sensation of being filled by him is almost overwhelming. You can feel every ridge, every vein, the incredible heat of him deep inside you. It’s as if your bodies were made for this.
He kisses the tip of your nose before saying, “So polite.”
He begins to move, in a rhythm that has your head spinning. He pulls back almost all the way, the sensation of his withdrawal a sweet torture, before thrusting back in, burying himself deep inside you again. Each thrust is a wave of pleasure, building on the last. He keeps his eyes locked on yours, watching your face as he fucks you.
Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him even deeper. Your moans mix with his grunts, creating a pornographic symphony in your living room. The pace quickens, his slow thrusts turning faster, harder, more frantic. He’s no longer the patient, gentle Hansol you know; he’s a man driven by pure need, and you meet his energy with your own, arching your hips to meet his every powerful thrust.
The friction is building, the pleasure coiling tight and hot in your lower belly. The couch creaks in protest beneath you, the only sound apart from your panting breaths and the wet, slapping sound of your bodies colliding. He leans down, his mouth finding your neck again, sucking a new bruise into your skin as he thrusts into you relentlessly.
“You’re so tight,” he groans into your ear, his voice strained. “So fucking good, Bambi.”
You’re close again, so close. The world is nothing but a blur of sensations: the feeling of him filling you, the heat of his skin, the scent of his sweat, the sound of his voice calling your name.
“Hansol, I’m—I’m close!” you cry out, your voice breaking.
“Me too, baby,” he pants, his thrusts becoming deeper, even more frantic, slamming into you with a desperate intensity. “Come for me. Let me feel you come apart around me.”
That’s all it takes. His words, combined with the relentless pressure of his cock deep inside you, push you over the edge. Your second orgasm hits you like a freight train, even more intense than the first. Your vision whites out, a scream tears from your throat, and your inner muscles clench around him in a powerful, milking release.
You can feel that your climax triggers his, but instead of driving deeper, he rips himself out of you with a wet, slick sound that echoes in the quiet room. The sudden feeling of emptiness makes you gasp. In a single, fluid motion, he positions himself over you, his hips hovering above your stomach.His eyes are squeezed shut, face a mask of pure pleasure as his body goes rigid. You watch, mesmerized, as thick, hot ropes of his cum splash across your belly.
Hansol collapses beside you on the couch, his chest heaving as he shudders through the last aftershocks of his own release. He pulls you into his side, one arm wrapping securely around you. You both lie there for a moment, catching your breath, the air thick with the scent of sex and sweat.
You look down at the pearly mess cooling on your stomach. Slowly, you lift a hand and dip your index finger into the thickest part of it. The texture is sticky and still warm. You lift your finger, your eyes finding his in the dim light, only to discover Hansol already watching you, his own gaze heavy-lidded and curious. You hold his gaze as you slowly bring your finger to your mouth, sucking the tip clean.
A groan escapes his throat, a sound of pure, astonished pleasure. His arm tightens around you, pulling you impossibly closer until your bodies are flush against each other. “You’re going to be the death of me, Bambi,” he rasps, his voice with a mixture of exhaustion and renewed desire.
He buries his face in your hair, and you melt into him, tangled together in a heap of sweaty limbs. The hazy, blissful fog of the weed settles over you like a warm blanket, cocooning you in the aftermath of pure, unadulterated bliss. His body is heavy and grounding next to yours, and you’ve never felt more safe, more sated, in your entire life.
The night was nothing like you expected, and everything you never knew you wanted.
But just then, an afterthought—one that doesn’t belong in this moment at all—surfaces and slips out before you can stop it. “Was that just because we were high?”
The light in Hansol’s eyes instantly softens, replaced by a profound, heavy sincerity that pins you to the spot. He reaches up, his fingers gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his touch incredibly gentle.
“Absolutely not,” he says, his voice steady and absolute. “At least not for me. I wanted you the first time I saw you. I just didn’t wanna mess up what we had, but being around you is kinda messing me up anyway. In a good way.”
Your heart skips a beat, a massive wave of warmth blooming in your chest. The butterflies have completely escaped their cage by now, flying far, far away.
“So what are you saying?” you ask softly. “You like me?”
“A lot more than I could describe probably.” Hansol nods, his brown eyes shining. “But yeah, I do like you. You’re stuck in my head all the time, Bambi.”
You look at him, a wide smile breaking across your face, completely erasing any residual trace of executive dysfunction or anxiety. “What if I like you back?” you tease, tilting your head and resting your chin on his chest.
Hansol’s smile turns incredibly bright, a boyish expression of pure relief taking over his features as he buries his face in the crook of your neck, holding you closer.
“Then I’m the luckiest plug in this city.”
# NAVIGATION | MASTERLIST | PERMANENT TAGLIST
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Bound by a cold family alliance by day, Mingyu returns to the shadows of the bedroom to reclaim his true obsession through a silent, primal vow of skin and soul.
The next few days passed in a blur of separation. You were buried in textbooks and lectures, the structured world of school a stark contrast to the secret, sensual one you shared with Mingyu. He was absorbed in work, texts and calls pulling him into a world of contracts and meetings you couldn’t penetrate. The house felt hollow without him, a museum of quiet rooms where you wandered, touching things he’d touched, remembering.
One afternoon, you returned from classes, the quiet of the mansion greeting you as you dropped your bag. Then you heard it—voices in the kitchen, sharp and strained. Not the usual relaxed chatter of your parents. It was Mingyu’s voice, low and forceful, and your father’s, defensive and rising. You crept closer, your heart a nervous flutter in your chest. You couldn’t catch the words, just the tense timbre of an argument.
Suddenly, the kitchen door swung open. Mingyu emerged, his face a mask of controlled frustration. He saw you, frozen in the hallway, and his expression softened for a fleeting second. He strode towards you, his movements quick and decisive. Before you could speak, he was upon you. One powerful hand cupped your chin, tilting your face up. He leaned down and planted a firm, warm kiss on the crown of your head, his lips lingering for a heartbeat. His eyes, dark and turbulent, met yours. “Don’t worry,” he murmured, so low it was almost a breath. Then he was gone, his footsteps echoing down the hall, followed by the distant roar of his car engine pulling away.
You stood there, the phantom heat of his kiss tingling on your scalp. You pushed into the kitchen. Your mother was wiping the counter, her movements brisk. “What was that about?” you asked.
She shrugged, a dismissive gesture. “Business talk. Men and their deals.” Her smile was tight, unconvincing.
Your stepfather, Mingyu’s father, cleared his throat. “Dress nicely for dinner tonight,” he said, his tone formal. “We have guests.”
The instruction felt cold, a command. You nodded, a knot of unease tightening in your stomach.
You chose a simple pink baby doll dress. It was soft, short, the kind of thing you wore when you wanted to feel pretty and innocent. You styled your hair, applied a touch of gloss to your lips, and descended to the dining room.
The scene that greeted you was a tableau of polished perfection that chilled you to the bone.
Mingyu sat at the table, his posture rigid, his jaw set. He looked like a statue carved from ice. Beside him was a woman. Sarah. You already saw and briefly met her in a family party once. She was beautiful, sophisticated, dressed in a deep burgundy silk dress that clung to her curves and plunged in the front to showcase a generous, elegant cleavage. Her hair was perfectly styled, her smile practiced and charming as she listened to the older man across from her—her father, Mr. Cho. He was distinguished, sharp-eyed, speaking with a confident cadence about market synergies and legacy. Mrs. Cho, an elegant older woman with her daughter’s poise, nodded along, her gaze lingering on Mingyu with a look of satisfied appraisal. Your parents smiled, playing the gracious hosts.
You were introduced again. Sarah’s eyes flicked over you, a quick, dismissive scan. “Yeah I remember her. Such a sweet little sister,” she said, her voice like honey.
The dinner unfolded like a scripted play. Plates were served, wine poured. The conversation was a steady stream of business mergers, family alliances, future prospects. Mingyu spoke little, his answers curt, his eyes occasionally drifting to you. Each glance felt like a secret handshake, a fleeting connection in this foreign land.
Then Mr. Cho cleared his throat, placing his napkin neatly on the table. “Of course, the most beautiful synergy,” he said, his smile widening, “would be the one joining our families personally. Sarah and Mingyu have known each other for years. Their compatibility is obvious. We’ve been discussing… an arrangement.”
The words hung in the air, sharp and clear.
An arrangement. A marriage.
Your fork slipped, clattering softly against your plate. You felt a hot, acidic wave of jealousy surge through you, so violent it stole your breath. You looked at Mingyu. His face was impassive, but his knuckles were white where he gripped his wine glass. He looked at you, and his eyes held a silent apology, a storm of regret you could feel across the table.
You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t sit there another minute, smiling politely while they carved out your future, your secret, your him.
“Excuse me,” you said, your voice surprisingly steady. “I have homework to finish.” It was a lie, but it gave you an exit.
You fled. You didn’t look back. In your room, you tore off the pink dress, a symbol of the innocence they all saw you as. You lay on your stomach on your bed, face buried in your pillow, the image of Sarah’s hand on Mingyu’s arm, her confident smile, burning in your mind. His baby girl? Was that just a secret fantasy, a thing he kept in the shadows while the real world prepared a bride for him?
The hurt twisted into a dull ache, and exhaustion pulled you down into a fitful sleep.
You didn’t hear the door open. You didn’t hear the footsteps.
You felt it first—a warm, broad hand sliding up your inner thigh, under the loose fabric of your dress. The touch was slow, possessive. Then a warm breath, followed by a low, deep inhale right at the apex of your thighs, a sniff that was so primal, so intimate, it woke you from the depths of sleep with a jolt.
Your eyes flew open. Mingyu was there, sitting on the edge of your bed. He wore only a pair of black boxer briefs, his torso bare, the powerful lines of his body shadowed by the dim light from your bedside lamp. His eyes were fixed on you, dark and intense.
He bent over, his lips finding your ear. “You left the table,” he whispered, his voice a rough velvet against your skin. His kiss trailed to your nape, a soft, lingering press. “Are you jealous, baby girl?”
You didn’t answer. The hurt was too fresh, too big. You just looked at him, your eyes wide and accusing in the gloom.
He didn’t wait for an answer. His hands, strong and sure, grasped your arms. He lifted you, pulled you up until you were sitting upright. Then he shifted you, pulling you across his lap until you were straddling him, facing him, your legs on either side of his powerful thighs. The position was intimate, dominant. You were perched on him, your weight settling onto the hard muscle of his legs, your core inches from the thick bulge straining against his briefs.
You just looked at him, your silence a wall.
He looked at you, his gaze sweeping over your face, your dress. “You looked so pretty tonight,” he said, his voice softening. “This dress… it made me so hungry for you. Sitting there, listening to them, all I could think about was peeling it off you.” His hands slid around your waist, holding you firmly. “Whatever happens out there,” he murmured, his face so close you could feel his breath, “married or not, you will always be my baby girl. Only mine.”
Then he kissed you.
It wasn’t a kiss of passion. It was a kiss of ownership. His lips claimed yours, slow and deep, his tongue pushing into your mouth with a deliberate, conquering sweep. You melted into it, the jealousy and hurt dissolving under the sheer force of his desire. Your hands came up, clutching his shoulders, your fingers digging into the hard muscle.
His arms tightened around you, a steel band binding you to him. You felt his strong thighs underneath you, solid and unyielding. One of his hands left your waist, moving to the back of your neck, finding the zipper of your pink dress. He pulled it down, the sound a soft rasp in the quiet room. The dress loosened, and he pushed it down your shoulders, letting it fall away, pooling around your waist on his lap.
You were bare to him, your breasts exposed in the lamplight. His eyes dropped to them, that familiar, hungry reverence flooding his features. He didn’t speak. He just leaned forward, his mouth descending.
His lips closed around one nipple, sucking it into the wet, hot cavern of his mouth. He laved it, his tongue circling the peak, flicking it, then sucking deeply, drawing a moan from your throat that was pure, unfiltered pleasure. He switched to the other, giving it the same devoted attention, his teeth grazing lightly, making you arch against him. His hands moved to your hips, holding you steady as he worshipped your breasts, his groans of satisfaction vibrating against your skin.
When he pulled back, his lips were wet, his eyes blazing. “I need you,” he breathed, the words raw and honest. “All of you.”
His hands went to your panties, pulling them down. You helped, kicking the dress and your undies off, leaving you completely naked, straddling his lap. He was still in his briefs, the dark fabric taut over his enormous erection.
He reached between you, his fingers hooking into the waistband of his briefs. He pulled them down, freeing himself. His cock sprang up, thick and long, the head flushed a dark red. It lay against his stomach, a formidable presence. Your eyes widened. You’d seen it, tasted it, but the reality of its size, here, between your bodies, was daunting.
He saw your hesitation. His hands came to your face, cradling it. “I’ll be gentle,” he promised, his voice a low thrum. “So gentle. Your wetness will help. Trust me.”
You did. You nodded, a tiny movement.
He smiled, a soft, reassuring curve of his lips. Then his hands returned to your hips, gripping them firmly. “Look at me,” he instructed. “Only at me.”
You obeyed, locking your eyes with his. His gaze held you, steady and possessive, as he began to guide you.
He lifted you, just slightly, adjusting your position over him. You felt the hot, blunt head of his cock press against your entrance. You were wet, achingly wet for him, your arousal a slick, welcoming heat. He nudged forward, just an inch.
A sharp, stretching sensation made you gasp. It wasn’t pain, but a profound, overwhelming fullness. Your body resisted, tight and unyielding.
“Relax,” he murmured, his thumbs stroking your hips. “Breathe for me, baby. Let me in.”
You focused on his eyes, on the love and hunger burning there. You took a deep, shuddering breath, and as you exhaled, you felt your body open, just a little.
He pressed forward again, another inch, the stretch intensifying. You moaned, a sound of strain and pleasure mixed. Your wetness helped, a slick cushion, but the size of him was undeniable. He was big, and you were small, and the joining was a slow, deliberate conquest.
He kept going, his movements infinitesimal, patient. He filled you, inch by agonizing, glorious inch. You felt every ridge, every vein, the overwhelming presence of him inside you. Your hands clutched his shoulders, your nails digging in. Your breaths came in short, sharp pants.
“You’re taking me so well,” he groaned, his own breath ragged. “So perfect. My perfect girl.”
Finally, he was fully seated. He was inside you, all of him, your body stretched to accommodate him. You were joined, a deep, complete connection that stole your thoughts. You were full, so full you could feel him pressing against your very limits. The sensation was overwhelming—a mix of intense pressure, a stretching ache, and a deep, radiating pleasure that began to bloom in your core.
He didn’t move. He held you there, letting your body adjust, letting you feel the sheer reality of him occupying you. His hands moved from your hips to your back, pulling you closer until your breasts were pressed against his chest, your forehead against his shoulder.
“You feel…” he whispered into your hair, “…like heaven. Like everything I ever wanted.”
Then, slowly, he began to move.
It was a shallow, gentle rocking at first. He lifted you slightly, then let you sink back down onto him. The movement dragged his cock inside you, a slow, sensuous slide that made you cry out. The friction was exquisite, the fullness shifting, creating new waves of sensation.
He built a rhythm, slow and deep. Each time he lifted you, you felt a moment of slight relief, then the delicious, penetrating drag as you sank back down, taking him deeper again. His hands guided you, his strength making the motion effortless for you. You were riding him, but he was controlling the ride, setting a pace that was tender, exploratory, deeply romantic.
Your body began to accept him, to welcome him. The initial stretching ache melted into a hot, pooling pleasure. Your inner muscles clenched around him, instinctively pulling him deeper. You moaned, your voice a soft, continuous melody against his neck.
“That’s it,” he encouraged, his voice thick with arousal. “Feel me. Let me feel you.”
He increased the pace, just a little. The strokes became longer, more deliberate. You could feel him everywhere—the pressure against your inner walls, the hot slide, the incredible intimacy of his body moving within yours. Your hands wandered over his chest, feeling the hard planes, the heat of his skin. You kissed his shoulder, his neck, your lips seeking his skin.
He turned his face, finding your mouth. He kissed you as he moved inside you, a deep, consuming kiss that matched the rhythm of your joining. It was a fusion—his mouth on yours, his body inside yours. You were surrounded by him, claimed by him in every way.
The pleasure built, a slow, rising tide. It wasn’t the sharp, frantic climax of before. It was deeper, more profound, rooted in the very core of your being. Each stroke pushed you higher, each retreat pulled a thread of ecstasy through you. Your moans grew louder, your movements on his lap becoming more eager, more synchronized with his.
He felt it. His hands tightened on your back. “Come for me,” he breathed against your lips. “Come on my cock, baby girl. Let me feel you come around me.”
The words, the command, the sheer possessiveness of them, tipped you over the edge.
The orgasm unfolded like a flower blooming in slow motion. It started deep inside, a warm, expanding wave of pure sensation. It radiated outward, washing through your belly, your chest, your limbs. Your muscles tightened around him, a rhythmic, clutching pulse that drew a ragged groan from his throat. You cried out, your head falling back, your body arching against him as the wave peaked, shimmering through every nerve.
He held you through it, his movements continuing, driving you through the peak and into the lingering aftershocks. Then his own control shattered.
His rhythm lost its gentle cadence, becoming faster, harder. His thrusts were deeper, more urgent. He buried his face in your neck, his breaths hot and ragged against your skin. “Fuck,” he gritted out, his voice strained. “You’re so tight… so perfect…”
He drove into you, his powerful thighs flexing as he lifted and lowered you with more force. The bed creaked softly beneath you. His release was building, a tension you could feel in the coil of his muscles, in the desperate edge of his movements.
With a final, deep thrust that pressed him impossibly deep inside you, he pulled out and climaxed.
He held you, still fully seated on his lap, as he came. You felt it—the hot, sudden flood of him on your thighs and on your folds, a pulsing, intimate claim. He groaned, a long, low sound of pure release, his body shuddering against yours. He held you tight, his arms wrapping around you completely, as his orgasm spent itself on you.
For a long moment, you stayed like that, joined, his body softening within yours, your bodies slick with sweat, breathing in unison. The room was silent except for your mingled, slowing breaths.
Slowly, he loosened his embrace. He leaned back, his eyes finding yours. They were soft, satisfied, full of a deep, unspoken emotion. He brushed a thumb over your cheek, wiping away a tear you hadn’t realized had fallen.
“My baby girl,” he whispered, the words a vow in the quiet dark. “Now and always.”
📍everything that are included in my fics are mere fiction; it is not my intention to offend anyone. all works stated below are protected by section 107 of the Copyright Act 1976, so please do not claim my works as your own. give proper credits.
📂 EXIT LIBRARY. | 📂 ARE U IN A GLITCH MODE.
𝗦𝗧𝗜𝗖𝗞𝗘𝗥 𝗧𝗔𝗚𝗚𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗧𝗔𝗚𝗚𝗜𝗡𝗚, 𝗡𝗖𝗧 𝟭𝟮𝟳
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11.83k words
태용 [ taeyong ]
🖇 LOVE ME IN 7 DAYS | You loved and you lost in the past, and yet, you still chose to ignore all the pain it caused you. Meeting Taeyong did you a thing or two, and your thankful he was able to open your scars because now, you’ve finally leaned your lesson.
angst, fluff
best friend! playboy!taeyong x reader
6.72k words
🖇 VID CALLS WITH HOT STEP BRO | suggestive :: step brother!jeno x reader :: 871 words.
유타 [ yuta ]
🖇 RED FLAG | there are exactly three reasons why you shouldn’t fall for a man named nakamoto yuta: (1) he had a reputation of being a cheater. (2) he’a your sister’s ex. (3) he always carries a red flag.
angst, fluff, mini crack
sister’s ex-boyfriend!yuta x reader
3.21k words
𝗦𝗖𝗥𝗔𝗧𝗖𝗛 𝗧𝗛𝗔𝗧 𝗚𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗖𝗛, 𝗡𝗖𝗧 𝗗𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗠
해찬 [ haechan ]
🖇 SMILE FOR THE CAMERA | School’s almost over and you’re finally going to live as an adult in college. Also, you’re just happy that you won’t get to see your sworn enemy ever since childhood, Lee Donghyuck, anymore. There is just no way that you’ll be keeping any memory of him as you step in another chapter in your life—until he told you to smile for the camera.
fluff, crack
enemy! skater!haechan x reader
1.87k words
🖇 IN THE MIRROR | Was it all really just a sick twisted fairytale in his head? Haechan knows he loves you the moment your fingers touched in the mirror. You make him so happy that he just wants to keep you all to himself.
🖇 WAIT…WHAT? | fluff :: best friend!haechan x reader :: 0.49 words.
🖇 5 MINUTES | fluff, angst, crack :: ex-boyfriend! mafia!haechan x reader :: prompt ask game
재민 [ jaemin ]
🖇 GHOST OF YOU | So, the school’s most famous heartthrob killed himself and now everyone in school is depressed Jaemin’s gone—well, that’s what you thought until Na himself asked for your help to bring justice to his actually murdered death.
fluff, crack, angst
ghost! playboy!jaemin x reader
3.86k words
🖇 SHOOT! | Right when Na Jaemin finally had you cornered, he realized that he was the one in trouble—not you. The catch? You’re one really pretty thief who stole his heart and wallet.
fluff, crack
police officer!jaemin x crook!reader
1.5k words
🖇 THANK YOU FOR DANCING WITH ME | If a mysterious man hidden under a squid game mask and named himself ‘j’ asked you to dance with him, then you’re willing to join for the ride, right?
fluff
idol!jaemin x staff!reader x idol!jeno
1.20k words
마크 [ mark ]
🖇 PAST OF MY FUTURE | The red string connects soulmates and helps them find each other. But after realizing that yours and Mark’s string doesn’t connect, he chose to leave you alone. Now after many years, you both see each other again with a certain red string connected on each of your pinkies.
angst
ex-boyfriend!mark x reader
1.83k words
🖇 BMW (lovesick playlist) | After the party, Mark Lee decides to help your druken state and helped you climb in his BMW sedan. But after your teasing and the growing tent in his pants, let’s just say, the night turned into something none of you could ever forget.
smut
frat boy! hard dom!mark x good girl! sub!reader
3.44k words.
🖇 OF LIES AND WRONGS | when mark wants to be proven wrong.
angst
mark x reader
2.040k words.
제노 [ jeno ]
🖇 FUCKIN’ ROUND WITH YA | What hurts more? Loving good boys or loving bad boys? For sure we all expected that it’s the bad boys who’ll be ripping our hearts in pieces—but Lee Jeno begs to differ. He’s a great heartbreaker in disguise under those innocent glasses.
smut, angst
nerdy! good boy!jeno x reader
6.91k words.
🖇 DIWATA :: prologue, interlude, epilogue (magic dust) | Lee Jeno was always warned never to visit the forest as it has been rumoured a fairy guards the area. But the curious boy couldn’t help but follow his heart that lead to the lonely and mythical diwata, who’s waiting for someone to visit her.
smut, fluff, fantasy, angst
country boy!jeno x fairy!reader
possibly 3k+ words per part
🖇 JEALOUS | angst :: ex-boyfriend!jeno x reader ft jaemin :: 0.42 words.
🖇 I’LL WAIT | angst, fluff :: mafia!jeno x reader ft. haechan :: prompt ask game
천러 [ chenle ]
🖇 DADDY ON DUTY (kisses and fireworks) | After a long day of stressful practice, Chenle finds himself in deep sleep on his bed and wakes up when a strange child that came from nowhere jumped on him—scaring him in the progress. To add to everything, the young idol learns that he just traveled to the future and is able to meet his future daughter. But will Chenle be able to be that great husband and father when he doesn’t even have a single clue on what’s going on?
angst, fluff, crack, heartfelt
idol!zhong chenle x reader
6.41k words.
지성 [ jisung ]
🖇 PLAYGROUND ESCAPES | Jisung takes his daughter, Jisu, on a quick escape to make up for the time he didn’t get to be there for and to show her she’s not the burden she thought she was.
angst, fluff, slice of life, heartfelt
aged-up! dad!jisung and daughter!park jisu moments
1.45k words.
🖇 NOT UR USUAL LOVE STORY | You love stories. If anyone would ask, you’d rather live in it then wake up another day in a world where everyone’s having the love story you’ve been daydreaming about. Of course falling in love with your best friend never came across your mind so it was a bit of a mess when you realized Jisung didn’t only view you as a ‘friend’.
pure fluff, angst if u squint
best friend! park jisung!jisung x reader (ft. jake sim)
7.251k words.
🖇 SHE’S ACTING WEIRD! | fluff, crack :: best friend!jisung x reader
𝗡𝗘𝗢 𝗚𝗢𝗧 𝗠𝗬 𝗕𝗔𝗖𝗞, 𝗡𝗖𝗧 𝗨
쇼타로 [ shotaro ]
🖇 ONE DAY? | Osaki Shotaro’s unofficial guide on how to confess to ur crush <3: (1) act like a man. (2) get ready with huge flowers and romantic gifts. (3) chicken out. (4) and congratulations, you never got to confess at all.
fluff, crack
high school student!shotaro x high school student!reader
3.21k words.
𝗬𝗢𝗨 𝗚𝗢𝗧𝗧𝗔 𝗞𝗜𝗖𝗞 𝗕𝗔𝗖𝗞, 𝗪𝗔𝗬𝗩
양양 [ yangyang ]
🖇 YU AND YANG (crazy and crazier) | One minute you’re a normal college teen student, enjoying your life, and the next is that you’re suddenly the only one who could control the fate of your family’s lifetime business. While badly ill, your dad couldn’t be able to handle the failing company, your mom not being strong enough to handle it, and so you’re the only one left on the list. But you weren’t prepared for the pressure your going to have to experience. To add to that, now you suddenly have to marry the Qian’s only son to save the company. Thank god for Hendery and Yangyang though, they really helped you get through this new mess in your life.
📐 SCHOOL BOYS | nct dream :: HEY YOU! yes you. do you hate school? good. because this is strictly for cool kids who hates school zone. oh, do you see what i see? it’s the dreamies making a club to revolt! interested? read more about us in https://schoolboys.com. ; ongoing
📐 MAGIC DUST | jaemin, jeno, and jisung :: a series that showcases three very special Philippine Mythology creatures: (1) diwata or fairies, (2) encanto or enchanted spirits, (3) sirena or mermaids. ; ongoing
📐 31 DAYS (and nights) WITH NA JAEMIN! | jaemin :: a mini series that consists of drabbles with your long time boyfriend, na jaemin. there will be the bad times, good times, especially sexy times but you both prefer to keep it private…unless.. ; ongoing
>>pairing: jungkook x reader / dilf jk x grocery store clerk oc
>>genre: strangers to lovers, friends with benefits, smut, fluff
>>status: on going
** snacks are drabbles that can be read as stand alones. they are not relevant to the plot. they are not written chronologically, but i order them as such as i go **
most recent work will be labeled: !! NEW !!
you find a baby in your store and in turn, a dilf finds you
❥⁞ part one: the art of wanting - 10.3k words, (m)
you find a baby in your store and in turn, a dilf finds you.
❥⁞ snack: the art of caring - 4.7k words, (m)
jk picks you up after a fight with your roommates… he and nari are better company anyway!!
❥⁞ snack: gardening/pool day drabble - 1.2k words, (pg)
nari plays in the dirt while jk gardens and you make a bet
❥⁞ part two: the art of playing - 6.3k words, (m)
costumes are a must for jk’s work party… they come with the cutest heart-shaped cuffs… now what could they be used for?
❥⁞ part three: the art of craving - 6.9k words, (m)
jk takes you to a bbq at his friend’s house. the tri-tip is good but the creampie is even better.
❥⁞ snack: the art of waiting - 3.9k words, (m)
jk comes back from his business trip and he’s wearing new pjs… you must get his face between your legs.
❥⁞ part four: the art of doubting - 17k words, (m)
seeds of doubt are planted and unfortunately they grow faster than love. things with jk fall apart.
❥⁞ part five: the art of yearning: pt 1 - 15.7k words, (m)
jungkook wants you as much as he misses you.
❥⁞ part six: the art of trying - 29.3k words, (m) !! NEW !!
you’re trying to forget about jungkook, but he’s trying to make sure you remember why you shouldn’t.
all nct subunit masterlists can be read here or through all imagines on my #nct imagines tag
for the time being Mark and Hyuck will be in the 127 section
Every piece of writing on this masterlist is set in the NCT!Frat-verse Enjoy!
Members, besides Johnny and Jaehyun, are written for upon request
updated November 17, 2025
-
random frat!gf lore!
Taeyong- reader is referred to as Bug
[5:09 pm]- Taeyong’s calm afternoon is interrupted when a stray dog goes running into the backyard and you do too
[6:49 am]- Taeyong is a guy who enjoys the privacy of your relationship, so much so that his bros don't even think you guys are intimate in any way
Johnny- reader is referred to as Honey/Bee/Honeybee- blurbs
Johnny and Bee x Jaehyun and Sweets double date!
Yuta- reader is referred to as baby girl
[1:46 pm]- the bros think Yuta’s girlfriend isn’t real until you actually show up and are even cooler than Yuta described
[9:36 am]- Yuta has the perfect opportunity to be the most perfect boyfriend while you stay with him during your break
Doyoung- reader is referred to as Sunshine- blurbs
[8:03 am]- Doyong’s frat brothers are scared to see his reaction to your birthday decorating for him, what they don’t know is that Doyoung is a different person around you
Jaehyun- reader is referred to mostly as Sweets-blurbs
Johnny and Bee x Jaehyun and Sweets double date!
Jungwoo- reader is referred to as Princess
[6:05 pm]- Jungwoo has managed to hide the fact that he’s dating you, a badass Judo fighter, from his frat brothers
[12:28 pm]- Jungwoo tends to you, his precious Judo fighting girlfriend, after a dirty fight
Mark- reader will be referred to as Lover
[9:43 pm]- you boyfriend, Mark, doesn't recognize you while drunk
[7:58 pm]- it’s your first time meeting your boyfriend, fratboy!Mark’s, frat brothers so why is he more nervous than you?
Jeno- blurbs
[11:08 pm]- Jeno has somehow managed to hide the fact that he's been dating you, his girlfriend since he was 12, from his frat brothers
Haechan- reader is referred to as Bear/Gomi- blurbs
[10:39 pm]- Best Friend!Haechan thinks you look so hot, when did that happen?
[11:57 am]- you didn’t know you and your best friend with benefits, Haechan, were dating! Why?! Well, he never asked you!
[12:14 pm]- you boyfriend, Haechan, is really close to his girl best friend and no! you’re not jealous of her– you’re jealous of him!
Jaemin- reader is referred to as Pretty
[1:47 pm]- Jaemin has a big crush on you, his coworker, good thing the kids he works with are great wingmen
𝜗𝜚 welcome to the dream fraternity! seven dreamy boys, seven absolutely cheesy love stories where you’re the main character! warning: you might hate yourself during the process…but what’s love without a little chaos?
contains 18+ content
I. STUPID CUPID
pairing: fuckboy! na jaemin x secret identity! reader
synopsis -> mr. cupid — anonymous radio host. running the #1 most popular radio show on campus. famous for his thoughtful advice and classified as a true hopeless romantic. na jaemin — photography major, the sweet fuck-boy. described to be affectionate and gentle…but don’t fall for his tactics! once he’s done with you, he’s gone with the wind. your best friend unfortunately happened to be on the receiving end of this. what happens when you find out that the anonymous radio host is none other than na jaemin himself? sweet revenge.
𝜗𝜚
II. FLYING KISS
pairing: childhood best friend! lee jeno x nerd! reader
synopsis -> you and lee jeno go way back, as in diapers and all that. before he was known as the chill fuckboy, he was an all time nerd! just like you! tired of being a loser who can’t even get the guy you wanted, you badly needed tips and a makeover. who’s better to ask for help than your childhood best friend, who has proven that a nerd can be sexy?
𝜗𝜚
III. SORRY, HEART
pairing: friends with benefits! mark lee x tutor! reader
synopsis -> sex helps him focus. focus he needs for your tutoring sessions. it was a win-win for mark lee when you proposed to add a stress-relief session to the schedule. the favorite fuckboy and the girl who doesn’t believe in love equals the ultimate friends with benefits set-up. it’s the perfect dream team! but uh oh…it seems like mark has been shot by cupid’s arrow. will mark survive all of your attempts at pushing him away?
𝜗𝜚
IV. IRREPLACEABLE
pairing: enemy! lee haechan x ex bff! reader
synopsis -> lee haechan, theatre major, absolutely hated your guts. you felt the same exact way. the only girl in this whole university that hasn’t fallen for the most popular fuckboy’s charms. which is why it sucks that you have both landed the main roles in the theater’s upcoming play, romeo and juliet. what was that saying about love and hate being a thin line?
𝜗𝜚
V. MY FIRST AND LAST
pairing: bff! zhong chenle x fake gf! reader
synopsis -> zhong chenle, the lowkey fuckboy, captain of the basketball team, doesn’t believe in romance. flowers? chocolates? handwritten letters? ew. too cheesy. but he can’t seem to shake this crazy girl off of him so he goes to you, his best friend, cheerleading captain, for help. will you be his fake girlfriend? sure. the catch? it has to be believable so for the first time in his life he buys the flowers and the chocolate and writes the handwritten letters.
𝜗𝜚
VI. BREATHING
pairing: fuckboy! jisung x convenient gf! reader
synopsis -> park jisung has sworn off love after being cheated on. he’s been doing a really great job breaking hearts and not looking back. the boys are worried that they’ve taken fuckboy101 too seriously and have now created the ultimate fuckboy. this conversation was heard by your group of friends who never backs away from a challenge. and so the bets are on: get the ultimate fuckboy to fall in love with you and you’ll get $125 from each friend. deal?
𝜗𝜚
VII. I HATE FRUITS
pairing: fake bf! renjun x best friend’s gf! reader
synopsis -> huang renjun, the fuckboy by association, couldn’t care less about romantic relationships. he’s perfectly fine with being single — prefers it, actually. when he accidentally drops a box on your head and you wake up with temporary amnesia, he’s forced to finally take care of a person other than his own self. what’s worse? you think he’s your boyfriend.
authors note: this is a work of fiction only and should not be taken seriously. the way the dream boys are portrayed in these stories are obviously not a representation of who they are in real life. thank you and have fun reading!
⏦ﾟ♡︎ likes, reblogs and comments are not required but is very appreciated ⏦ﾟ♡︎
if you enjoyed this series and would like to show extra love and support, my ko-fi is open <3
synopsis: a story in which a depressed satoru gets sent to the future and sees just how bright it eventually becomes. meanwhile, you're reminded of how much of a brat your husband used to be when you first started dating.
cw: MDNI, time travel, smut w/ a touch of angst bc we LOVE plot, satoru's actually so mean at first lol, dad!jo (him and reader share a daughter together)
notes: hiiii we got 6.5k words for this one ❤️ comm for the lovely @sadlittlecucumber i hope u like!!!!
song rec: drag path — twenty one pilots
Satoru’s life ended up being a fucking bummer.
His best friend’s a mass murderer. Shoko’s gone off to do her own thing with medicine. Nanami left to go become a banker or whatever. Ijichi’s… Ijichi. Oh, and Haibara’s dead. Everyone who’s alive seems to have moved on— so should Satoru, honestly. But times proved that to be quite difficult.
He’s starting to understand where Suguru was coming from with the whole exorcise-absorb mantra. Except for him, it was exorcise and destroy, leaving every cursed site he’s stepped foot on looking like god himself decided to hit the reset button to obliterate the place.
Nobody says anything about it. He’s probably the closest thing to a god. Despite having tried his hardest all throughout his youth to fit in and act as if he was just like everyone else, people were still terrified to fuck with him.
And despite the chaos he’s constantly surrounded by— mainly from his own doing— the days still find a way to bleed into each other, morphing into a never ending cycle of boredom and violence. It’s quite the combo. The higher ups are lucky he’s too tired to plot anything behind their backs.
He’s exhausted.
The past is too blurry. The future’s too bleak.
Gojo was bound to fuck up sooner or later. The thought of him finally snapping like Suguru did, dangling in the back of his mind, taunting him.
He didn’t snap. It’s so much worse than that. At least in the eyes of the arrogant boy who got bested by, what he assumed to be a grade two curse because of how pudgy and stupid it looked. The thing that caught him lacking looked like a fucking blob fish that struggled with crippling anxiety, how the hell was he supposed to know that it could mess with timeof all things?
One moment he’s laughing at the way it looks, the next he’s in the complete dark.
That was the first time he’s smiled in months, by the way.
“Huh?” Satoru huffs out, trying to look around before eventually realizing that he has a blindfold on, and rips it off in annoyance. “Don’t tell me that thing knocked me out,” he begins to grumble to himself. It’d explain why he had a blindfold on… but then he realized he was in a completely different outfit, one that you didn’t put on someone who was currently in rest and recovery.
He highly doubts Shoko would even change him, anyway, at least not for this.
“Oh hey, you’re home.”
Home?
He looks around, and all he knows is this isn’t the dorm he’s continued to stay in after graduation, purely due to the fact that he was already out on missions for up to 18 hours each day. Not to mention that the penthouse he was currently standing in was too clean to be his. Too warm. Way too comfortable.
You already knew there was something deeply off in those first few seconds of looking into his eyes. This wasn’t your husband— this was the hot mess you met and still fell in love with all those years ago.
You tilt your head to the side, more curious than cautious, “Everything alright?”
“Yeah,” he snorts, literally the worst liar ever. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“I don’t know,” you hum, holding eye contact long enough to leave him feeling a bit unsettled. “You tell me.”
First of all, who the fuck do you think you are speaking to him like that?
Second, who even are you?
Something big and shiny on your finger catches his attention, then he looks at his own hand that has an equally shiny band around his ring finger.
Fuck.
“Honey–”
Satoru physically cringes at the pet name, giving himself away once again.
“I’m not Satoru,” he blurts out, rubbing his eyes in frustration. “I mean, I am, but I’m not— FUCK– some fuckin’ curse blasted me into the future, and I need to go back.”
Well, that was quick. He’s always quick to fold under pressure when it comes to you— it’s something he’s unaware of though, as he fights back the urge to start pacing back and forth.
There’s a light smack from your mouth when you go to open it, only for the words to never even come, let alone die out. Nothing about this surprises you. This is not the craziest thing that’s happened since you’ve met Satoru.
Your lips thin into a smile as you take a deep breath, knowing you had no choice but to accept your new circumstances.
“Okay.”
“Okay?” He raises a brow at how you just… accepted it.
“Yeah… I believe it.” You respond flatly, then point at him, casually motioning your finger up and down. “Your attitude kinda sucked when we first met.”
He grimaces, taken aback by the statement. “No, it doesn’t–”
“You also liked to argue, too.”
“Okay— whatever,” he waves a dismissive hand, not at all interested in hearing what else you had to say. At this point, it just sounded like you wanted to shit on him, something he actually doesn’t have any fucking time for right now. “You’re a sorcerer… right?”
“No.”
“Christ.” Satoru sighs, turning on his heel. “You’re fuckin’ useless—“
You scoff, more humored than offended. “Where are you going?”
“To figure this shit out!” he snaps, throwing his arms out as he turns around to face you.
“Okay,” you shrug, still way too calm for Satoru’s liking, as it pisses him off even more. “If you don’t get it all figured out tonight, you can always come back. We have a guest room.”
“Yeah, thanks.” He huffs out a bitter laugh, as if that was the dumbest suggestion he’s ever heard. “I appreciate the offer.”
–
“Yaga” Satoru storms into the principal’s office, ignoring all his cursed stuffed animals, but noticing what he’s done with his hair. “What the fuck happened to you?”
The principal's brows pinch together, wishing he had locked the door to his office. Satoru fucked with him enough today by showing up to a meeting 20 minutes late with some sugary frap in his hand, and now he’s storming into his office, insulting him out of nowhere.
“Actually, nevemind.” Satoru waves a hand to stop him from even answering his question, reminding himself not to get sidetracked right now. “Look, I need your help. I got sent into the future by some curse, and I need to get back.”
Yaga inhales sharply. “What are you even talking about?”
“Exactly what I just said! I’m from 2009! Not whatever age I am now—”
“31.”
Satoru throws up a little in his mouth. “Send me back.”
Yaga lets out a long, disappointed sigh. It’s always something with Satoru. Always. Having to deal with the younger version of him was a painful reminder that he’s been dealing with his bullshit for well over a decade now. Nothing surprises him anymore.
“Let me see if some other windows would be willing to help look through the library. I’m sure you’ll be able to find information on what kind of curse you got hit with.”
“Thank you,” Satoru groans, still not very pleased by everyone’s reactions thus far, but grateful that he can at least get somewhere with Yaga… unlike a certain somebody.
Hours later, he finds himself at the school’s dusty, unkept library. It looks worse than it originally looked before he walked in. Books sprawled everywhere. Research papers were scattered all over the tables and floor. Assistants running around in every direction, more than half of them terrified at the total 180 in Satoru’s attitude.
“W-we can’t find anything,” Ijichi says, too old to be acting this scared in Satoru’s opinion.
He hums, elbows still resting on his knees, not bothering to sit up. “Hey, Ijichi?”
Ijichi gulped loudly, managing to annoy the world’s strongest sorcerer even more. “...Yes?”
“How are you even more incompetent now than you were before?”
“I tried my best! I swear!”
“Well, it’s not good enough— I’m still here!” he snaps at the nervous wreck of a man. Thank fucking god Ijichi listened to him and just became a window. He sucks at it too, but at least it’s easier for this dumbass to avoid death. “God— what the fuck am I supposed to do now?!”
“This is just one of the libraries, there’s more! And some in Kyoto too, that we’ll have the Kyoto branch check out.”
“Do whatever you need to do. I’m just letting you know right now that if I'm not back by tomorrow, you better watch the fuck out.”
The threat is followed by complete dead silence, aside from a certain someone's breath catching in horror.
“Me?!” Ijichi squeaks out.
The sorcerer doesn’t bother answering that and instead walks away, grumbling something insulting under his breath, just in complete and utter disbelief over how Ijichi truly hasn’t changed.
—
You figured your husband would eventually come back, so you set some food aside for him, and now you’re sitting at the dinner table, trying not to laugh at the pout on his face as he picks at his dinner with the chopsticks in his hand.
“Is the food good?”
“Sure.”
“I can warm that up for you, if you want?” you ask, barely trying to hide your amusement.
“No thanks,” he curtly responds before shoving another piece of karaage into his mouth. He’s known to have a sweet tooth, but chicken karaage’s probably his favorite food, savory wise. You almost want to tell him that he’s allowed to enjoy food even if his day hasn’t gone the way he had planned. “I’d appreciate it if you stopped staring.”
Your lips twitch, threatening to break out into a fit of laughter. “Right, sorry.”
“Mommy…? Is Daddy home yet?”
Oh great. As if the day couldn’t get any worse— now there’s a child.
“Yeah,” you respond in a tentative tone, shooting Satoru a look that screams ‘behave or else’, and even though you are currently a stranger to him, it intimidates him enough to behave for the time being.
A little girl, no older than 4 years old, walks into the kitchen and Satoru’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head upon seeing his daughter. It’s pretty obvious she’s his with her baby blue eyes and stark white hair. Her facial features are entirely yours, though. It’s strange to see.
“Hey… kiddo—” he awkwardly says, not really sure how to address the little girl. You clear your throat, mouthing ‘princess’ when he looks at you, because your daughter also happens to have her dad’s attitude. “I mean princess.”
It’s hilarious how unnatural it sounds right now when he was the one who started calling her that the moment you two took her home from the hospital.
“You pomis to wead bedtime stowie,” she starts to pout— same exact way he does.
“Did I?” He gives the girl a sympathetic look, albeit fake.
“Yeah,” she frowns as she walks up to you, giving him the world’s nastiest side eye. “Liar.”
Why is that the one word she’s able to enunciate correctly? She didn’t even stutter.
“Yeah— I was a little busy with work today,” he murmurs, as if she knew what that even meant. With the glare she was giving him, he doubted she’d even care if he broke down what work and the importance of it was. “Maybe mommy can read to you tonight?”
Sai wasn’t having that.
Satoru spent the end of his night reading her favorite book to her. Multiple times. He almost asked if it was some form of punishment for not upholding a promise he didn’t technically make himself, but decided against it in fear that she’d make him read it one more time. Sai fell asleep… eventually. Despite there being no way to prove it, he knows that the little girl forced herself to stay up out of pure spite.
But still, he finds himself smiling as he thinks about his nightmare of a future, not wiping it off quickly enough when you lightly knock on the guest bedroom door.
“Here’s some jammys for the night.” You smile back as you walk up and hand him a pair of sweats and a white t-shirt, both neatly folded up. “Figured you wouldn’t want to sleep in your work clothes.”
“Oh uh— thanks.” He clears his throat and forces out a laugh, pushing through the embarrassment of getting caught smiling to himself.
You’re giving him that look again. The one that’s mixed with amusement and a bit of fondness, where you look like you’re about to start making fun of him, but never do. Satoru would rather die than admit it makes him nervous.
“What?”
There’s a small pause as your smile grows. “Do you like your kid?”
“She’s weird.”
“Yeah, no— you wouldn’t believe who she got that from.”
“Fuck off.” A laugh easily slips through his lips this time, unable to stay serious at the thought of her inheriting even just a quarter of the traits he had as a child. Then it grows quiet again as he realizes she probably has the freedom to be a kid.
He wants to ask, but you beat him to it with a statement that answered the question he had in mind.
“Your duties as her father don’t end just because you managed to time travel by the way,” you say playfully, though he knows you’re being dead serious.
He can only guess what other horrors that little girl will subject him to for the rest of his time here. To put it simply, she’s not afraid of Dad.
For once, somebody doesn’t look at him as a god to fear.
—
It’s been over a month.
Ijichi and the rest of the windows are just as useless as they were when they first started trying to find answers. All that’s changed is that Nanami knows, and doesn’t seem to be too thrilled about the fact that he is now involved.
But still, the search for the fix to his predicament continues, turning every library and warehouse upside down. That’s all they could really do— aside from asking the elders for assistance of some sort.
Over his dead body.
Knowing they’d most likely do more harm than good, everyone’s agreed to keep this all a little secret from them.
So all that’s left to do, or rather forced to do, is to be patient. It’s hard. Satoru doesn’t do patient— he’s the type to snap his fingers and have a solution magically appear right before his eyes. You can only imagine how difficult it’s been for him to accept that he can’t immediately get what he wants right now.
Not to mention the fact that he had to continue working throughout all of this, but that wasn’t very surprising.
Now, what was surprising was learning that he has his weekends completely to himself. If anything, he assumed he’d just work more as time went on, but no. Turns out he threatened to kill the higher-ups if they didn’t let him have that when you two got married.
Satoru looks over your body once.
Twice.
He totally understands his future self.
He looks again for a third time, and you just so conveniently turn around, showing off your cute, frilly little apron covered in flour streaks.
It’s Sunday— you’ve been baking sweet treats all morning, and he wishes he had been a little nicer to you. Especially a couple of days ago when he snapped at you.
You had found him sitting alone on the balcony, head in his hands from yet another day of failure.
“Hey… any good news?”
“No,” he said impatiently. “If there was, I wouldn’t fucking be here right now.”
“Fair enough.” Your voice took a dip as you looked at the ground, allowing yourself to feel a little hurt for a moment before trying to lift the mood again. “Well… me and Sai stopped by your favorite bakery and got you the cookies you like if you wanted some—“
“No— no,” Satoru cut you off. “I don’t want your fucking cookies. I don’t want to do a family movie night where all we watch is Ms. Rachel. I don’t want to read some book about a mouse trying to become a fucking painter over and over again. I don’t want ANY of it. I want to fucking go home— what part about that do you not get?”
You tried to stand as straight as possible despite your shoulders growing heavier, pushing against the small frown threatening to carve itself across your face. You forgot how mean he used to be, at least during that first year of dating him. It only stings more because the man you married would never raise his voice like that, and you remind yourself that this isn’t him.
After a long pause, he looked up at you and immediately felt guilt wash over him.
“I didn’t mean that,” he tried to meet your eyes as he began to backtrack. “I’m sorry, I just— fuck. I didn’t mean any of that—”
“It’s fine.” You forced yourself to look at him again and smile. “I’ll uh… give you some space.”
The one thing about Satoru is that he doesn’t apologize. Like ever. So, one could only imagine how painfully awkward it was later that night when he knocked on your bedroom door to say he was sorry. It didn’t help that you were in a paper-thin silk slip, skin glistening from the lotion you rubbed all over it— he spent half his time trying not to stare at your tits. Had you been anyone else, it wouldn’t have felt as genuine.
But thank fuck he apologized, you probably would’ve spent all day ignoring him.
You raise a brow, and his cheeks start to pink. “What are you staring at?”
“Nothing, you just–” he awkwardly gestures at your entire body, “there’s flour all over you.”
It almost sounds like he’s offended by it. He kind of is. You keep your foot on his fucking neck— he doesn’t even know why he came out here.
“Oh, right— 'cause messes have always bothered you,” you lean over the island ever so slightly. The pink on his cheeks darkens as you do, unable to control his eyes from drifting down to your cleavage. And while he’s not exactly ashamed of looking— you are his wife after all— he can’t help but be a little flustered.
He’s always had a thing for milfs.
Especially when said milf is talking about messes— he knows a couple of places he could make a mess on right now.
“Nah,” he rests his elbows on the marble counter as a playful grin stretches across his face. “This is nothing compared to how I like it.”
You tilt your head, a small laugh escaping you as you rest your chin over your palm, curious to see where this conversation will get you.
“How do you like it?” you ask, as if you didn’t already know how filthy and depraved he could get when he’s alone in a room with you.
And you fucking miss that.
He opens his mouth to respond.
Then you hear your daughter whimpering about waking up alone. It’s nothing new, and you revert back to mom mode as you watch her turn the corner and waddle towards you.
Satoru, on the other hand, is not used to this. The slightly bruised laugh he lets out just barely masks his desire to fucking scream. What a fucking cockblock— no wonder you only have one kid.
His kid completely ignores his existence as she wraps herself around your leg, continuing to whimper despite no actual tears streaming down her cheeks. “I had a nightmawh.”
Meanwhile, there’s Satoru, who has yet to wake up from his very own nightmare. He internally sighs, then attempts to grab her attention because it doesn’t feel very good watching her give it all to you. “You wanna share a muffin with daddy?”
It’s starting to sound more natural.
“Y-yeah,” she sniffles.
Minutes later, she’s sitting on his lap, absolutely demolishing the blueberry muffin they ended up splitting— a complete 180. He couldn’t be mad, even if he tried.
His little girl was a dream.
—
Month two. Ijichi is still as useless as ever. He stopped complaining to you about him, though. You noticed he doesn’t talk about going back to his original timeline all that much anymore.
It’s not like Satoru’s given up hope, he’s just more present, as if he finally realized that wallowing in self-pity wasn’t going to send him back any faster. He’s unknowingly more like his future self— laid back, not a care in the world.
He’s even sleeping in for once. It’s not that hard though when Sai’s gone for the day. She seemed to care more about getting the hell out of the house with her grandparents than greeting her father a good morning. You didn’t push her to, either— figuring Satoru needed the sleep. He always does.
It’s too bad that his phone started blowing up at around 10:00 am. Unfortunately for you, he left his phone in the living room, leaving you to get up and grab it since the master bedroom was the closest room to it. With how thick the walls are, you doubt he’d even hear it.
With a long sigh, you rise from bed, rubbing the sleep off your eyes as you snatch the stupid phone off the coffee table.
The snores coming from Satoru reach your ears before you even open the door. You have to hold back a laugh as you walk in and take a look at him. Face down, his long limbs sprawled over the bed, messy white hair sticking out in all directions.
You reach out and place a gentle hand on his shoulder, surprised infinity is off.
“Toru?” He stirs a bit, and you cautiously attempt to wake him up again. “Toru— someone’s been trying to call you for the past 10 minutes now.”
He lifts his head, eyes still sealed shut as he murmurs, “Who?”
“Uhh,” you look at the screen, unsure of who it might be. “Your contact name for them is nerd.”
You know it’s not Ijichi because his contact name is “courage 🐶” in his phone. Someone else must've annoyed Satoru for him to change yet another contact.
Satoru shoves his head back into the pillow and groans before taking the phone off your hands.
It’s Nanami. He, of all people, should know now is not the time to be blowing up his phone right now because he is fucking sleeping. It’s a Saturday for fucks sake.
Satoru sighs and accepts the call, grumbling into the phone. “What?”
Nanami cuts straight to the chase, as he would rather be doing anything else right now.
“How long are you planning on hiding your secret from the higher-ups?” he asks in a clipped tone.
Satoru rubs his eyes, too tired to return the same sense of urgency his friend seems to have at the moment. “Forever.”
“Don’t give me that.” A vein pops up on the side of the usually stoic man’s forehead. “They asked me about you this morning. They know something’s up. I can’t keep covering for you if it means my own safety’s on the line.”
“You really haven’t changed, have you?” It’s more of a statement than a question.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean—“
“You’ll be fine,” Satoru cuts him off. “They’re always up my ass anyway. I doubt they’re even suspicious. They just don’t know how to mind their own fuckin’ business. Seriously. You’re worrying over nothing right now.”
“I swear to god Gojo, if you—“
“Kay’ good night.”
Click.
Nanami’s probably fuming right now, but he’ll get over it. Satoru wanted to enjoy this. Lying in a comfy bed, surrounded by nothing but peace and quiet. He closes his eyes and stretches a bit, then rests his hands behind his head.
He would’ve forgotten that you were still sitting at the edge of the bed had you not lightly cleared your throat. One eye opens to look at you, then closes. The last thing he wants to do is share the reason why Nanami had been blowing up his phone all morning.
“Just because you can’t see me doesn’t mean I’m not here.” You cross your arms. “What was that all about?”
“Nothin’,” he easily says. “Just Nanami being Nanami— the guy’s a fuckin’ stickler for no reason.”
“That’s a little rude, no?” you chastise him.
“So is waking me up.”
“Sai wakes you up all the time, though.”
“Sai’s a ball of sunshine,” he says, quickly coming to her defense. “Not a grown man with depression— where is she by the way?”
“She’s spending the afternoon with my parents.”
Both eyes open this time, and stay open. “Why didn’t you go with them?”
“No way,” you wave a hand. “I need a break, too.”
“Yeah, no— I’m sure,” he agrees, feeling flustered all the sudden.
And Satoru being Satoru, he doesn’t do a very good job of hiding it, once again forgetting that you can read him better than anyone else can.
You smile, scooching closer, “You good there?”
“Yeah, m’fine,” he murmurs, trying not to shift around too much.
“I can take care of that, you know.”
“What?”
“That.” You look down at the boner he’s been trying to hide since finding out it’s just you two here.
“That’s not—“ His brain straight up short-circuits. “You don’t think that’s weird?”
“No.” You continue to inch forward, getting closer to him. “Do you think it’s weird?”
“No— never,” he shakes his head, answering a little too fast. “Fuck— won’t future me get mad?”
“Not at all. The most he’d probably do is make me show him what we did.”
“Make you show him?” he repeats after you in disbelief.
“Is that a problem?”
“No, that’s— that’s fuckin’ hot.”
Minutes later, you’re leaning forward with your hand wrapped around his base, and his breath catches as you start to slowly pump his cock.
“Feel good?”
His lids lower as he hums, “yeah— keep going.”
You lean forward, letting a string of spit fall from your lips to the tip of his cock, letting it mix with the precum that was already beading down from it. The wet sounds of you stroking him begin to grow, making the heat in between your legs start to pool.
“Can I sit on it?” You look up at him, batting your lashes as you innocently ask.
“Please,” he blurts out, just about ready to start begging you to.
You’d be lying if you said you weren’t just as eager as him after all the weeks spent pretending like you don’t notice the way he stares at you. Lustfully. The slip you’re wearing happens to be extra short today, so you forego stripping down and practically pounce on him. Your soaked panties grazing over his rock-hard length as you straddle him, letting yourself get comfortable while Satoru grows impatient.
His hands find themselves planted on your hips and pull you down. A low groan escapes him as he grinds you against him. “God— fuck me. Please.”
“Well, since you’re being so sweet—”
You reach down, hooking a finger into the fabric of your panties, pulling them to the side. He’s already lining himself up with your entrance, teasing your hole as he runs his tip through your folds, collecting all the slick. His lips part as he watches in awe at how damn wet you are.
His head tips back as you lower yourself, groaning and rambling to himself as if you weren’t there to hear it all.
"Fuck. You’re so hot.” His words come out strained as he watches you start to take him inch by inch, slowly working yourself open. “So fuckin’ tight, too.”
“Mmm— forgot how big you are.” Your voice is all soft and breathy from the fullness, nails slowly digging into his abs as you bottom out.
It takes a minute to adjust— it has been 3 months after all. But then you finally roll your hips, and Satoru almost starts singing praises at how good you are at that— lifting your hips all the way up and throwing them back, taking all of him.
"Fuck yeah– just like that," he breathes, fingers digging into the flesh of your hips. "Feels so fucking good."
You murmur back a measly, “kay,” already dizzy from the stretch. You’re able to keep up the pace on your own for a bit, until you feel his grip on you tighten and the sounds of skin slapping against his start to grow as he starts to help you out.
You wouldn’t exactly call it help though, not when he ended up doing all the work— holding you steady while he practically bounces you on his cock, pulling more and more moans out of you as the head of his cock repeatedly kissed your sweet spot with almost no effort.
"You take it so good," he groans, pupils blown wide as he starts to feel himself lose control, snapping his hips up a little harder than the last. He wants more, he always wants more— so he pulls you forward and pulls your straps down far enough for your tits to spill out. "Perfect fuckin’ tits. Been thinking about these for weeks."
You let out a surprised gasp as he pops a nipple in his mouth with no warning. You fully believe him with the way he starts sucking and swirling and flicking his tongue over your sensitive bud, all while snapping his hips up harder.
He pulls back with a pop, looking up at you for approval. “Was that good?”
“Mhm.” There’s a fucked out expression on your face as you weakly nod. “Harder.”
“You want me to fuck you harder?”
“Yeah.”
Something in him snaps. Eager to please you, he flips you over and folds you underneath him— grabbing the back of your knees and pinning them to your chest so he can drive his cock into you deeper.
“Better?”
He drives his hips forward again, knocking the air out of your lungs. “God— yes.”
“I can’t— fuck— can’t believe you’re all mine, can’t believe I get to have you,” he starts to ramble as the sounds of him absolutely pounding into you fill the room. “You’re so fuckin’ perfect— all of you.”
He crashes his lips into yours— the kiss is messy, powered by hunger. Satoru’s always been overwhelming, but it’s been years since it’s been this emotionally intense. He fucks you like he needs you, like he’s been waiting for you all his life.
Your walls begin to squeeze and flutter around his cock, pulling another groan out of him. “You close?”
“Yeah,” you whine, feeling the pressure begin to coil. “Keep going.”
He’s close too, you can tell by how sloppy his thrusts have grown, no longer trying to control himself as he starts chasing after both of your releases. He shoves his face into the crook of your neck and fucks you faster, harder— balls slapping against your ass with each lewd wet squelch.
Your orgasm hits you hard after one particularly rough thrust. Scratching at his back as a cry tears through you, and it only goes straight to his dick, not even realizing just how overstimulated you are from the way he drills into you.
“Fuck.” It’s just one word that comes out of his mouth after realizing how hard he’s about to fucking cum. He bites into your shoulder as his balls start to tighten, squeezing his eyes shut as he braces himself.
When it happens, it’s a lot. He shoves himself deep inside of you, unaware of all the weight he puts on you as hot spurts of cum begin to flood your walls. Slowly grinding against you, letting your tight pussy milk the rest of him.
You’re wrecked by the end of it. You both are— lids tired and heavy, bodies sore and out of breath.
And in the end, you just let yourself fall asleep, unaware of the soft kiss pressed against your temple as he watched you.
—
It’s month three, and Satoru doesn’t want to go back.
What was the point? It’s not like he had anyone or anything to go back to. Jujutsu Society never crumbled from him getting shot into the future. Would it really be that bad if he just never went back and continued on with his life from here?
He hasn’t uttered a word about it out loud, but the way he completely stopped asking Yaga and Ijichi for updates was telling of where he was at mentally.
Acceptance.
He likes his life here.
You’ve come to your own conclusion after these last three months.
No wonder why he was so hot and cold when you were trying to get to know him. Satoru got a little taste of genuine comfort, only for it to be ripped away from him sometime before you two actually met. It explains all the times you wondered why he even tried with you, despite being too emotionally inept to even be in a relationship. He probably went through the beginning of your relationship thinking you could disappear at any second.
With that being said, he can’t stay here. As much as you’d love to continue being the source of comfort for this version of Satoru, he needs to experience the last year he spent alone before meeting you. He needs to feel cautious around you. He needs to try and fail at opening up a handful of times before getting comfortable with the idea of truly being vulnerable with a person. Getting over that element of fear he had towards getting close to others is what made him a husband and father— he couldn’t just skip that part of his life.
You have no idea how you’re going to tell him that, though. You’re not one to kick a sick puppy, especially one as cute as him. He’s so happy here with you and Sai that the thought of doing so makes your chest ache.
He’s having a tea party with Sai right now, limbs way too long to sit in the little stool she pulled up for him to sit in. He drinks imaginary tea from the plastic pink cup she hands him, and your chest aches some more. You force yourself to look away before the tears start.
You’d do the next 11 years all over again if you could.
“Hey, Honey?” Satoru calls out to you.
There’s a pause before you whip your head around— it’s been months since he’s called you that. There’s nothing but warmth and fondness in his eyes as his gaze meets yours. “Why is Nanami’s number saved under ‘nerd’ in my phone?”
He’s back.
“I don’t know,” you laugh, despite the tear falling down your cheek. “You tell me.”
—
Satoru didn’t want to believe it when everything around him went dark once again. It’s not until his feet touch the ground with a soft thud and he finds himself back in his messy, cold dorm when reality slapped him across the face.
Something between a sob and a gut-wrenching scream rips from his throat. Grabbing the round shades he had hoped he’d never have to fucking wear again, he rips them off his face and sends it crashing into the wall, breaking into a hundred little pieces. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t give himself a chance to even breathe or think before raising his hand and releasing a purple orb with just a flick of his fingers.
Impulsive. Reckless. Deadly.
Satoru was fucking devastated.
Nobody knew what triggered him that night. All they knew was that the east wing of the school looked like it had been hit by an asteroid by the time he calmed down. He didn’t speak to anyone for a good two weeks following the incident. Everyone wants to think he was lucky the explosion didn’t have any casualties, but then they remembered who he was: Satoru fucking Gojo.
God’s don’t get punished, nor do natural disasters— it’s hard to tell which one he was at this point.
One Year Later
“If it’s that small of a curse, why are you sending me there?” Satoru continues to argue with one of the new managers over the phone.
It wasn’t that small of a curse. It was a grade one. But still, given the sorcerer’s title as a special grade, he was overqualified for the job.
“I’m sorry, we just don’t have anyone available to take on the case at the moment.” The young woman continues to apologize over the phone. “I think we might have a grade 3 available for the job. I- I can check—”
“Save it.” Satoru cuts her off. He wasn’t that heartless to push the case off to some 15 year old. That’s exactly how Haibara died. “Send me the address.”
The mission was nothing short of an inconvenience for him. He liked a challenge when exorcising curses, and the damn thing didn’t even put up a fucking fight. He traveled 2 hours to get here just for that? Unbelievable.
He wasn’t ready to leave and sit on a train for another 2 hours just yet, so he decided to walk around the town for a bit.
It was a cute place, a little quiet. Kinda boring. That’s never a bad thing, though. Lots of mom and pop shops, a few coffee shops scattered around, one of which he decided to try. A little sugar’s always good, at least to him.
The smell of vanilla and roasted coffee beans hit him as he walked into the place. There was a decent amount of customers inside. Not too much to feel crowded, but enough to stay busy. He keeps his eyes on the menu the entire time. The line moves fast, and he figures out what he wants just in time.
“And what can I get started for you today?”
His eyes are still on the screen, reading the item off the menu.
“Can I get a white chocolate mocha frappuccino, with an extra pump of…” his words die out, and his eyes widen as he finally looks at the girl taking his order. “Hey.”
“Hi.” You laugh at the way this stranger loses his train of thought. “Extra pump of white chocolate syrup?”
“Yeah.” He exhales, unable to rip his eye off you as you write the words down on the plastic cup with a sharpie.
“Name for the order?”
“Go– Satoru,” he corrects himself. “It’s Satoru.”
He’s a little awkward, but you still find him quite charming and smile. “Alright, Satoru. Your order should be ready in about 10 minutes.”
“Awesome. Thanks,” he nods rather pathetically, then goes to sit in an empty corner of the shop with only one thought in mind:
He has 10 minutes to come up with what to say to get your number.
SUMMARY: You can tolerate a lot. You don’t care when someone messes up your documents or when your situationship ghosts you after two dates or when your manager is drowning your work in red ink. It was annoying, but survivable. If someone steals your lunch, especially the one you woke up early to make for yourself, that's where you draw the line. No one is hot enough to be forgiven for food theft. Not even the annoyingly calm, morally upright, infuriatingly handsome attorney from the legal department. And you’re about to catch him.
add tags❦︎: attorney! wonwoo, reader is in pr team, strangers to lovers, food puns (intended), wonwoo is kinda of an asshole here, minghao side quest, booseoksoon mentioned ft. mingyu, jeonghan you piece of shit, crackfic, dom!wonwoo, implied inexperienced reader, happy ending aye.
a/n: i'd like to think that im creative. also pls don't play with your food guys, inspired by one of the indie VN games i played.
No one is hot enough to be forgiven for stealing food.
And you’re about to catch that rat in action.
There’s nothing more infuriating than someone eating your lunch, especially when you made it that morning. With your own groceries. Your own money and your own time.
Your blood, sweat, and tears.
Oh, you’re about to be devastatingly mad. You want to throw the trash bin across the pantry, curse at the manager, maybe even consider resigning on the spot.
But did you?
Obviously not. Moment of weakness, as we speak.
Two hours earlier.
…
Work-life balance? Don’t know her.
Your life had been mundane as usual, and honestly, you didn’t mind that. You just wished your corporate life would stop trying to actively ruin it. Ever since the new CEO took over the man who stepped in after his father—you weren’t sure what to think of him. What you did know was that the company had been overworking its employees nonstop.
You wouldn’t even complain if they at least upgraded the cafeteria menu.
The new caterer didn’t seem to care about repeating the same dishes over and over to the point that one of your coworkers ended up with a stomachache. Not to mention the coffee drip machine sucked. Like, genuinely sucked. Thousand-dime company, yet they never bothered to upgrade the damn coffee machine.
No one wanted to drink that brown liquid. You’d rather dehydrate than willingly swallow it.
Since then, most people have started going out for lunch. Some just kept working through it, to the point of developing gastritis or borderline malnutrition.
But not you.
You refused to starve yourself.
Your mother always said: never be stingy with money when it comes to food. Money comes and goes.
That’s what she said.
Nothing beats a home-cooked meal. You’d choose that over takeout any day, unless you were really busy.
Just in time, it was finally lunch.
You had been anticipating this. Your lunch. Your heavenly five-star meal that you poured your whole heart into this morning.
Heck, you didn’t even eat breakfast. Just that cheap black coffee from the café downstairs.
Today’s packed treasure? A hamburg steak with a molten cheese filling in the center, paired with soft, fluffy rice.
You didn’t forget the fiber either broccoli and roasted potatoes to balance the meal. You swore nothing beat homemade meat: freshly ground beef, breadcrumbs, and spices that actually made sense together.
You’d like to think you’re very good at pounding meat.
The mental image of that juicy steak, gravy cascading over the top and soaking into white rice, made your stomach growl loudly.
God, you couldn’t wait to devour the whole thing. It was your self-reward after hours of sitting in your office chair to the point your ass might permanently imprint into it.
Sure, you couldn’t eat it fresh off the stove but at least the microwave here was more competent than the company’s infrastructure.
With a small, happy hum, you walked to the pantry fridge.
Around this time, the shelves were usually emptier. Only one or two transparent containers remained, so spotting yours should’ve been easy, the pink lunchbox. Your trusted Tupperware.
Of course your food deserved the best of the best. Duh.
You picked it up.
And immediately, something felt… off.
There was a sauce stain around the lid. And now that you thought about it somehow felt lighter than it had that morning.
You frowned but didn’t overthink it.
Until you opened it.
Your steak was…
Gone.
Like, all gone.
Your thick, juicy steak. Your fluffy rice. Your vegetables drowned lovingly in gravy.
Vanished.
Your stomach growled again as you blinked down at the empty container.
You weren’t just hungry. You were starving.
A small, devastated wail almost slipped out of you.
How could someone steal another person’s lunch? That was straight-up cruel. There was absolutely no excuse to think someone needed it more than you.
If anything, you needed it the most.
Because you deserved it. After all the prep. The early alarm. The effort.
You inhaled slowly, trying to be rational.
It would be wildly unprofessional for someone from the PR team to crash out over stolen food. So fine. You’d handle this professionally.
You pulled out your phone and speed-dialed HR. It was important to keep essential contacts ready. That’s what Seungkwan always said.
The call connected.
“Hello, this is Hyunsuk from Human Resources,” a flat voice answered. “How may I help you?”
“Hi, Hyunsuk. I’d like to report a theft.”
“Okay,” he replied. “What was stolen?”
You didn’t hesitate. “My lunch.”
There was a brief pause.
“Was it during company hours or on company property?”
“Yes and yes.”
“Unfortunately, we cannot compensate for your loss.”
You frowned. “I don’t want compensation, Hyunsuk.”
You swore you could hear him sigh. “An employee’s lunch is considered personal property.”
“Yes, but isn’t it concerning that theft is happening on company grounds?”
“We have cases like this happen very often,” he said. “The company is not responsible for them.”
“Yes, I know, but—”
“If you have anything else to report, please send an email,” he cut in. “My lunch break is starting.”
The line went dead.
Hyunsuk hung up.
You stared at your phone in disbelief. “…But my hamburg steak…”
Your eye twitched.
He just said it happens often.
Then do something about it?
“Whatever. Nobody even likes Hyunsuk.”
In fact, you weren’t sure he liked anyone at all.
With nothing else you could do, you begrudgingly poured yourself a lukewarm cup of coffee and returned to your desk with empty stomach, extra caffeine, and a growing vendetta.
The next day, you decided to let it go.
Okay, maybe you were being too forgiving. But hey, you were just hangry yesterday. Surely it was a one-time thing.
Still, the way Hyunsuk said these “theft incidents” happened often baffled you. As if they were normalizing it.
Like, what’s even the function of all those security cameras around the office?
If they can draw a hard line on “no inappropriate office activities,” then surely they can give justice to your stolen lunch too.
Crazy.
The last time people went into the pantry, they literally saw used condoms in the bin. Goodness gracious, as if the toilet didn’t exist. You’d rather not walk past and hear… unwanted noises either.
You did consider writing a company-wide email and CC’ing everyone. After all, who the hell knew who ate your lunch?
You refused to take this as egg-ceptance.
…Maybe not yet.
Despite yesterday’s tragedy, you still brought your lunch today.
After all, you made mapo tofu. And you were not backing down.
How did you make it again?
Oh, right.
Sichuan peppercorns.
While you weren’t a huge fan of overly spicy food, the spice of life played an important role in cooking. You could never forget the nose-numbing aroma of roasted Sichuan pepper. The thick red oil from the fermented bean paste. The firm, bouncy cubes of tofu holding heat so intense it transcended taste buds.
The Mapo Tofu.
You paired it with plain white rice but nothing could overpower the fragrance of chili oil and peppercorns.
It reminded you of that business trip, when Minghao introduced you to mala hotpot and a whole new universe of Chinese spices. You even brought souvenirs back, mostly seasonings to experiment with.
Bless him and his encyclopedic knowledge.
But today’s version?
Different.
Just in case, you doubled the heat. Twice the ground peppercorn. Extra chili flakes. A spice level too powerful for the mortal tongue.
Right before sealing the lid, you sprinkled a little more pepper.
If anyone dared to open your lunch, a red powdery explosion would await them.
Maybe you did this on purpose.
If they stole it again, you hoped their ass would explode in the toilet like that scene in White Chicks.
Serves them right.
…
Lunch break came.
You approached the fridge like a soldier returning to war.
You prayed the thief hadn’t struck again.
But the moment you picked up your Tupperware, the weight or lack of it—felt ominous.
You opened it and found it was already gone.
Again.
Empty.
But how? Why?
First of all, what the fuck? Second of all, who the hell devoured that hellishly spicy mapo tofu? Surely their stomach would declare war soon.
And third…
What. The. Fuck.
Who was this food-crazed glutton?
“…Wait,” you muttered to yourself. “If someone ate my super spicy Sichuan mapo tofu, their lips should be bright red right now!”
You didn’t hesitate.
Within the remaining minutes of your break, you scanned the entire floor like a detective on a mission.
Red lips. Red lips. Red lips.
But to no avail.
Your pepper-kissed burglar was nowhere to be found.
Much to your annoyance, there were simply too many employees in this company. Half of them wore bold red lipstick anyway. You couldn’t tell if it was spice-induced inflammation or just cosmetics.
You didn’t care.
You just wanted the rat-stealing-food burglar.
It was almost time to go home but unfortunately, a major project was in peak season. Several departments had to stay for overtime.
Including yours.
No one liked overtime.
Sure, you got paid. But was it worth it?
Maybe you should start your own business one day. Open a brunch café. Lower stress. Maybe finally use your bachelor’s degree properly.
You sighed.
Seokmin had given you a small box of macarons earlier after seeing the fury on your face but you hadn’t eaten them. You refused to fill your stomach with pity sweets. Too busy drowning in despair and caffeine as you typed aggressively at your keyboard.
The loud clacking and flipping of papers earned you a few glances.
You didn’t care.
Your food had been stolen. Twice.
Why should you care about their peace when they didn’t care about yours?
Fair is fair.
Eventually, you brushed it off and went downstairs to the convenience store before returning to the office. Instant noodles and sausages.
How classic.
You weren’t alone though.
There was a guy sitting a few seats away. Still in work clothes. His blazer hung over the back of his chair, sleeves rolled just above his elbows. He was eating two cups of buldak ramen, the spicy kind.
It reminded you of your Sichuan mapo tofu.
You felt like you were mourning a loss.
And for some reason, you caught a faint scent of pepper clinging to his suit.
Maybe you were imagining it.
People had been avoiding you all day anyway, some even spraying air freshener after you walked past.
Still, you kept glancing at him.
Was it common for two people to coincidentally crave spicy food on the same day? Watching him slurp down two buldak ramens made your stomach twist.
Noticing your stare, he paused.
He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and turned to you. “You got some staring problem?”
His voice was deep and calm but the tone carried an edge.
“What?”
“I said,” he continued, face still stoic, cheeks slightly puffed with noodles, “got some staring problem? I know I’m a sight for sore eyes, but didn’t anyone teach you it’s rude?”
You blinked.
“Excuse me?”
Now it was your turn to feel offended.
You almost apologized earlier. Good thing that you didn’t.
This guy is insufferable.
Judging by his face alone, of course he was. The only good thing about him was his face. And unfortunately, the bad thing was also his face. What a waste of something that pretty.
You couldn’t help but hope there was at least one imperfect thing about him. Maybe his personality was rotten. Maybe he snored. Maybe—
Whatever.
You just hoped his dick is ugly. Then again, no dick is ever pretty anyway.
“Rude…” you muttered under your breath before returning to your convenience-store “meal.”
After a while, you finished dinner and headed back into the company building, americano in hand.
And much to your surprise—
The guy was there too.
Walking in the same direction.
For a second, you almost thought he was a creep.
And then came the real disappointment.
He fucking worked here.
You nearly lost it on the spot.
Of course he did. Why wouldn’t he? People in this company were either painfully dull, aggressively gray, or casually insufferable. If you were lucky, you’d meet someone with a decent moral compass.
Rare species.
Standing in the same elevator as him didn’t help. You had a talent for meeting the worst people at the worst possible times.
What’s new?
Still, you caught it again.
That scent. It was faint now but familiar.
The lingering peppery aroma. The same one from your stolen mapo tofu.
Okay. Maybe you were slightly unhinged, grieving over lost lunch.
But still.
You sniffed subtly and shifted a little closer.
The man frowned at you like you’d just malfunctioned.
“Hypothetically speaking,” he said flatly, “if you want to fuck me, you could just say so.”
You blinked.
Excuse me?
Oh, you would absolutely fuck him up alright but that was a different story.
He was insufferable. And irritating him suddenly felt therapeutic.
You scoffed and stepped back into your space.
“You have your entire life to be a jerk,” you shot back. “Why not take today off?”
Now it was his turn to look at you properly.
“I don’t know what your problem is,” he replied calmly, “but I’m guessing it’s difficult to pronounce.”
Oh, he was annoying.
“If I wanted to hear from an asshole,” you said sweetly, “I’d fart.”
There was a brief silence.
He stared at you.
You stared back.
He genuinely looked like he was calculating whether you were capable of doing it.
The elevator doors slid open.
You stepped out first.
“See you not later, Mr. Hodenkobold.”
He looked like he was about to fire back but the doors closed before he could.
For once, it felt nice to rage-bait someone else.
Especially after your lunch had been stolen.
So you decided.
For the next two days, you were going to catch the rat-stealing-lunch and end this once and for all.
For a brief, dangerous second, you did consider rat poison. But the thought of going to jail?
Absolutely not.
As tempting as it was, you couldn’t risk it. You had a baby to feed back at your studio apartment.
Your cat.
While you were suffering over your stolen gourmet lunches, your cat—Wonton, the name you lovingly gave her, was happily eating premium-grade cat food.
It was unfair. Really.
So you came up with a plan.
This time, you packed a cute bento-themed lunchbox: omelet nori rolls and rice balls.
Except—
They were made of wax.
Yes. Wax.
You followed a YouTube tutorial. Styrofoam base. Acrylic paint for texture. You even added gloss to make it look freshly glazed. Turns out, you had raw talent for this.
It looked absolutely gouda. An egg-cellent fake lunchbox.
You were certain the food stealer was souper hungry right now.
Okay. You really needed to stop hanging out with Seokmin and his endless food puns.
You even added a faint pepper scent to make it smell convincing. Surely no one was dumb enough to fall for fake food.
…Right?
But if they did? It would be hilarious.
…
When you returned at lunch break and opened the lid, you froze.
“….”
There was one—no, two chunks missing.
A bite taken out of the fake omelet.
You blinked.
What kind of unhinged human gluttony was this?
You couldn’t brie-lieve it.
They actually ate the wax.
The next day, you switched tactics.
You made curry fish head, rich curry paste blooming in oil, coconut milk thickening the broth just the way you liked it. You had to thank Minghao again for that Southeast Asia culinary expedition.
This time?
Untouched.
The container was slightly shifted, the lid smudged but the food remained intact.
You assumed the thief wasn’t a seafood fan.
Or maybe allergic.
That theory lasted exactly twenty-four hours.
The following day, you packed creamy rosé pasta with shrimp and clams. Garnished with basil. Sprinkled with oregano. And, of course, little octopus-shaped cocktail sausages.
You stared at it in disbelief at the bold, neat handwriting.
Slowly, you lifted the paper then tore it to shreds with your teeth, pure rage simmering in your veins.
The audacity must be on clearance sale.
When you opened the container, your jaw tightened.
Your pasta? Gone. The noodles devoured and the octopus-shaped sausages? Missing.
The shrimp and clams?
Only to be left behind.
Oh.
So they weren’t allergic.
They were picky.
You clenched your jaw, saliva dampening the dry paper as it scraped against your tongue. “Wow. Tasty, indeed,” you mocked under your breath.
This needs to end now.
You honestly need to lock the fuck in this time, to catch that rat-stealing-food burglar. You just hoped they stepped on dog shit today, that both their pillows smelled horrible, and that they’d have the worst fucking nightmare the moment they woke up.
“Hey,” Seokmin approached you with Soonyoung beside him. “Rice to meet you today.” He greeted cheerily, but the moment he noticed your moody face, he faltered. “Okay… berry sorry for that.”
Both of them leaned against the railings beside you. Soonyoung offered you a lollipop. You needed that so much instead of lighting up tobacco, which you’d quit back in your college days.
“Is it about the lunch stealing again?” he asked. “I carrot believe that person’s kept the stealing streak going this far.”
You gave him a look. It seemed like Seokmin had rubbed off on him with all those food puns.
He raised his hands in surrender. “In my defense, I’m feeling saucy today. It’s alright, we can grab dinner after this—my treat, of course.” Soonyoung tried to reassure you, knowing how furious you get when your food gets stolen.
“Yeah, let’s meat up for dinner!” Seokmin chimed in, making you roll your eyes.
Wait.
That’s it.
You have to meet that fucking rat-stealer face to face.
...
This time, you made your well-crafted most scrumptious, katsu sandwich. Cut in halves, three thick slices stacked neatly inside your Chiikawa-pattern container. Minghao had given it to you after his business trip to Japan, and you gladly accepted it since the cartoon was trending everywhere lately.
You liked the yellow rabbit character. It reminded you of yourself because he’s a big back.
Just like you.
Anyway.
You were not about to let your lunch get taken away this time.
And this time, you were going to protect it like it mattered more than your own life. For the sake of your health insurance, you tried not to pounce on that food burglar.
You were not about to let your money, sweat, and time go to waste again.
Now that you think about it, you probably should’ve shown up ten minutes earlier before catching the culprit.
Standing from your seat, you headed toward the office pantry and peeked inside.
You couldn’t believe your eyes.
Someone was hunching over the fridge, hand hovering over the transparent containers then toward your Chiikawa lunchbox.
“Hm, this is new…” he murmured. “…and tacky.”
Excuse me?
You weren’t about to back down when someone literally mocked your precious lunchbox pattern. So what? You liked when your mom packed your food in a Hello Kitty container with those little fruit picks shaped like cat ears.
You cleared your throat to catch his attention. He jumped slightly, straightening up.
“Isn’t it too early for lunch break?” you asked, slowly approaching him, arms crossed.
He blinked.
It was the same four-eyed dude who inhaled two fire spicy bowl ramens the other day. You almost scoffed.
“You again,” he echoed. “And who are you?”
He still stood there, relaxed like he hadn’t just been caught red-handed.
“Me?” you repeated nonchalantly. “I’m not that important. Rather, why don’t we start with you, buddy.”
He looked like he didn’t want to continue this conversation. Probably hoping you’d leave.
Fine.
You indulged him for a moment and gave your name. When he finally replied, you learned his.
Jeon fucking Wonwoo.
You plastered a smile on your face. He turned away, ignoring you. The two of you just stood there for a few tense seconds.
“Don’t you have work to do?” he asked, sounding impatient.
“How’s that coffee?” you shot back, blatantly ignoring his question.
Wonwoo frowned, more like bristled at it, as if offended.
“Why would I drink that slimy brown liquid?” he said. “Don’t tell me… you drink that thing?”
“It’s not that bad,” you shrugged.
(It absolutely sucks.)
He chuckled, clearly mocking you. “You sound like you hate yourself.”
Oh, he’s so cocky.
Three days. Three days you’ve suffered because of this stealing bitch.
“Actually…” you stepped closer. “What did you do these past few days?”
He cocked an eyebrow and leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “Why? It’s a workweek. What else would I be doing?”
You weren’t buying it. “Do you always come to the pantry this often?”
“…I mean, I have to eat,” he replied like it was obvious. “Of course I come here.”
“Wow, me too!” you exclaimed sarcastically. “I have an idea—why don’t we eat together then?”
That made him falter.
He suddenly looked uneasy at your smile. Like you were plotting something.
“…No, thank you. I prefer eating alone. Now can you leave?”
“Why not?” You stepped closer, almost chest to chest even though he was much taller.
He stiffened but tried to maintain composure, clearing his throat before a grin slowly spread across his face.
“I see. If you wanted me so much, you shouldn’t have thrown yourself at me like that,” he chuckled lowly, eyes dragging down your figure. “All you had to do was ask.”
Your smile dropped instantly and stepped back.
You wanted to wipe that stupid grin off his face. That smug look made you want to chop off all his limbs.
“Oh, don’t lose that smile,” he tutted. “I’d rather think that mouth could do better. Maybe you’d be my cup of tea. Either way, it’s cheesed to meet you, Miss ____.”
Hell nah.
You were not backing down either.
Smiling sweetly, you replied, “You know what else my mouth could do, Mr. Jeon?”
His eyebrow lifted.
“Hurt your feelings. I think dildo is a perfectly acceptable insult. I’d call you a dick—but you’re not real enough.”
That caught him off guard.
He opened his mouth. Closed it again.
For the first time, Jeon Wonwoo didn’t know what to say.
“Cat got your tongue?” you smiled. “Or maybe my words are true—your dick isn’t that real.”
His eyes darkened as he stepped forward.
“Watch it. Say that again and I’ll put that mouth to good use.”
And then—
A sudden loud gasp from behind.
Both of you turned toward the doorway to see Seungkwan, Seokmin, and Soonyoung frozen in place, hands dramatically covering their mouths.
“You heard that, guys?!” Seungkwan gasped. “What the fudge—she was about to get dicked down!”
Seokmin clutched Soonyoung’s arm. “Look at them pudding up against each other! They’re both nuts!”
“That’s tea-rrific,” Soonyoung added, “but whisk I’m willing to take for a pear like this!”
“GET OUT OF HERE!” you and Wonwoo barked simultaneously.
In the end, you shared your katsu sandwich with him.
Somehow, it turned into a mutual rant session about Hyunsuk. No one likes him anyway. Glad you’re both on the same boat.
He ended up taking you to dine at a downtown French bistro. Claimed it was “compensation.” Not that you were entirely forgiving about it.
You learned he works in the legal department. Recently promoted. Employee of the Month. Overworked to death.
“So, do you not have a life then?” you asked, noticing he’d loosened two buttons of his dress shirt, sleeves rolled up.
He’s handsome.
Annoyingly attractive.
If only he’d shut up.
But again, no attractive person should be forgiven for food stealing. Especially your lunch.
“I did,” he said, sipping his wine. “Until they put me to work.”
You nodded slowly. Then circled back.
“You could’ve just ordered takeaway. Why my lunch?”
He grinned, leaning back. “Why? Your lunch, of course. Yours is the best I’ve tasted so far.”
The audacity.
Rich in audacity. Poor manners.
“So… what would you like to order?” the waiter asked.
“Right. Food.” Wonwoo skimmed the menu.
“What do you recommend?” you asked.
He hummed, closing the menu and looking directly at you. “Anything that tastes good.”
Your throat dried slightly. Maybe you’re imagining things.
“Oh? Like what?”
“Meat.”
Silence.
“…Okay. I’ll just get ratatouille.”
“But that’s all vegetables.”
“Shut up, meathead.”
The waiter coughed. “How cooked would you like your steak, sir?”
Wonwoo was still looking at you.
“Make it medium rare. And make it two,” you smiled. “I’d like a piece of meat too.”
The waiter jolted and left immediately.
“How long have you been stealing?” you circled back.
He sighed. “Look, I didn’t mean to do that—well, that was until I met you.”
“M-me?”
“Your lunch.”
Oh.
“I don’t like takeaways. I used to live with my roommate, Mingyu. He cooked for both of us until I moved into my own apartment,” he said. “And I can’t cook for shit.”
“Can tell,” you replied smoothly. “Your personality is probably as shitty as your cooking.”
He glared.
You smiled.
“Watch that,” he warned. “I’m definitely putting that smart mouth to good use—”
“Shut up. Save it for later. I’m not riding that fake dick.”
“…”
Silence.
You took a sip of wine, scanning the dim lights of the restaurant. Fine dining. Expensive plates. His salary was probably double yours anyway.
“Here’s the deal,” you said. “Stop eating my lunch. That’s it.”
He considered. “Fine. I’ll pay for your groceries. How about that?”
“Nah.”
Wonwoo frowned, fingers lacing together. “Okay, I’m sorry. But I really don’t like the dripping coffee machine. And the cafeteria sucks. And I hate that the caterer keeps slipping her phone number onto my tray.”
“All I ate were ham and cream cheese bagels,” he continued. “Depressing, I know.”
You raised a brow, unimpressed. “Why not? For an attention whore like you, I thought you’d enjoy it.”
“She’s married. With five kids.”
“….”
Okay. Fair enough.
“Alright,” you sighed. “I’ll bite.”
His eyes lit up.
He almost reached across the table, close to your hand then thought better of it and grabbed the napkins instead.
“Can I go to your place after this?” he asked suddenly.
You nearly choked on your wine. “Excuse me? Aren’t we going too fast?”
“To inspect your goods,” he deadpanned. “Your fridge.”
Yeah.
He’s definitely messing with you.
You did let him come back to your studio apartment, after all the groceries were paid for by him, of course. In return, you taught him how to make the katsu sandwich he’d been annoyingly edging about all night.
And yes, it turns out he really doesn’t like seafood. Wonwoo said it upsets his stomach, and once was enough for him to swear it off forever.
You set the groceries aside just as your cat greeted you, weaving around your ankles while you washed your hands, Wonwoo hovering awkwardly behind you.
Your place was cozy. Very you, he thought.
“Who’s this little companion?” he asked, crouching down to pet your white Persian cat. “Got a name?” He glanced up at you, finally noticing the frilly apron you were wearing.
“Wonton,” you said, peeling onions as you passed him another apron, this one reading Kiss the Cook.
He slipped it over his head without complaint. “That’s funny. Do you have a food phase or something?”
Now that you thought about it… yeah.
“Yeah. I got dumpling takeaway that night, and she was inside the box when she was still a kitten. So I named her Wonton.”
The rest of the time, you walked him through each step carefully.
“So,” he said casually, “how often do you pound the meat?”
Silence.
You looked up.
He looked back, utterly oblivious. “The fried chicken sandwich yesterday was delectable.”
“Not much,” you muttered, going back to chopping potatoes. “Other than salty food—do you like sweets?”
He hummed while dipping the meat into egg batter and breadcrumbs. “Not really to be exact. I had it during a business trip in Europe. I don’t remember what it’s called. Something like… quickie?”
Your knife froze mid-chop.
“…Quiche,” you corrected. “It’s called quiche, Wonwoo.”
His face lit up, nodding like he’d just learned a new word.
For a moment, you wondered if he was messing with you but the genuine reaction told you otherwise.
“Are you messing with me?”
He blinked. “What? Did I say something wrong?”
You didn’t push it. It was pointless.
“Why can’t you cook?” you asked instead, lowering the coated meat into hot oil.
“Well, there’s this thing called ‘I just don’t,’” he said. “I once almost ate half-burnt scrambled eggs and decided never again.”
You scoffed. “It costs nothing to be kind with your words, you know.”
“Some days it costs me my fucking sanity, honey,” he shot back, eyes sharp.
Which would’ve been intimidating if he weren’t wearing that Kiss the Cook apron.
Your mom was right. There’s nothing romantic about cooking together. Move the fuck away.
“You know what?” you said. “Let’s split up to cover more ground. I’ll go left, and you go fuck yourself.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” he grinned. “Just don’t ogle me when I pound my meat. I’d know myself for the whole course of the meal.”
He’s so hot. If only he shut up.
“Calling yourself a meal when you’ve had an STD?” you said, setting the fried cutlet aside. “Okay, food poisoning.”
He frowned. “I’d have you know I’m very healthy and clean. So you’re safe.”
“No one said I’d fuck you.”
“Fuck you.”
“Gladly,” you replied. “But after we finish this, I’ll have my way with you later.”
“…..”
“So,” he said, scanning your apartment. “You live like this while working at a million-dollar company?”
“I live alone,” you shrugged, cutting the sandwich in half and handing it to him. “No reason for a big place. I do need a spacious kitchen, though.”
He nodded, biting into it. “Fair. What about a boyfriend? Girlfriend?”
“Don’t have time for that.”
“It’s alright,” you added. “At least I get to rest on weekends. What about you? Hobbies?”
He hummed. “I dissociate. I play games. And lately, my bed is the only thing calling me.”
“Oh,” you said. “Then… hookups?”
He leaned closer, smirking. “Are you offering?”
“Hell no,” you said immediately. “I don’t have the energy.”
“For what?”
You gestured at him.
He rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Half of your personality is just symptoms.”
“Your mom.”
“My mom passed away four years ago,” he said simply.
Well. That rhymed.
Silence stretched between you.
You swallowed. “…Sorry to hear that.”
“It’s okay,” he said, finishing his sandwich. “It’s been a while. I still miss her.”
Another quiet beat.
“So…” you said carefully, “wanna catch up on Bridgerton?”
...
That night, you both sat on the couch with a noticeable gap between you, a cushion clutched to your chest like a shield.
The room was dim, lit only by the TV. Surprisingly, he was fully invested in Bridgerton. What was supposed to be one episode turned into a full marathon.
For some reason, it felt intimate.
Jeon Wonwoo, your coworker. The man who stole your lunch for a week. Also, the cause of your suffering.
Insufferable. Infuriating. Hot as fuck.
It would be a lie to say you’d never found him attractive. Well, except for that foul mouth. Not that you were any better.
The problem with this show was the sex scenes.
You’d completely forgotten how many there were.
Every time one came on, you felt the urge to skip it but Wonwoo didn’t move. He watched with the same unreadable expression, completely composed like poker-faced.
It was impossible to tell what he was thinking inside his head.
Another scene started.
Just great.
You were very aware of how you shifted slightly, how your fingers tightened around the cushion, how your knees pressed together. The small breath you exhaled without meaning to.
The couch shifted.
He turned his head toward you.
He definitely noticed and yet, he said nothing. That somehow made it worse.
Because he remembered the way you talked to him.
The insults. The degradation. The way you never backed down.
Fuck.
Maybe that’s what did it.
Maybe Jeon Wonwoo was turned on by the way you spoke to him like you weren’t afraid.
“Do you want to make out and make noises?” he asked suddenly, looking at you like it was the most normal thing in the world.
You blinked.
For a moment, your brain short-circuited.
Then you thought: when else are you going to get the chance to make out with a disgustingly attractive man like this?
Exactly.
“Thought you’d never ask,” you muttered, dropping the cushion before swinging a leg over his lap.
“Hell yeah,” he breathed.
His hands found your hips instantly.
The kiss wasn’t gentle.
It was messy. Almost clumsy at first, teeth knocking, breaths uneven but it quickly deepened. His mouth moved slowly against yours, deliberate now. One hand slid up to the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, holding you there.
You let out a soft sound against his mouth without meaning to.
Your body pressed closer.
He let out a low groan, restrained but it vibrated against your lips. You could feel his hardness pressed against yours, and it’s big.
When his tongue brushed yours, it wasn’t rushed. It was slow and intentional. Like he was testing how much you’d let him have.
You were already giving too much.
Time blurred.
When you finally pulled back, it wasn’t far. Just enough to breathe. A thin string of saliva caught in the dim light before breaking.
He looked up at you, and whatever was in his eyes now wasn’t smugness.
It was hunger.
Like he hadn’t had enough.
His head leaned closer until the tip of his nose brushed yours as he murmured, “…I want you,” he breathed. “Please. I need to have you tonight.”
Your heart pounded at the sound of his voice. The way his ragged breath fanned against your lips.
His hand wandered, softly caressing your back before sliding lower to grip your ass, making you jump slightly.
He grinned at your reaction. “Is that a yes?” he chuckled lowly, squeezing more firmly this time, drawing a gasp from you as your hands instinctively gripped his shoulders.
“Cute,” he murmured, kissing the corner of your lips before looking up at you again. “…I need that pretty mouth of yours working now, since you’ve been such a smartass with me the whole time.”
Something about his piercing gaze made the heat pool low in your stomach. God, his commanding voice alone was enough to make you melt like chocolate left out too long under the sun.
You’re not a masochist, of course.
His thumb traced slowly over your lips before pressing gently, parting them as he slid the pad of his thumb just inside. His voice dropped.
“Get on your knees. Now.”
Did you listen? Hell yeah.
“Normally, I wouldn’t get on my knees for a man, but here I am,” you muttered as you moved between his thighs, while he spread his legs slightly, working at his belt and the sleek pants he’d worn earlier to dinner.
“I’m flattered to be the first man,” he chuckled. You could see the damp, slight pre-cum stain against his boxer. Then pulling the underwear down to reveal his shaft.
Giving a few pumps as he strokes his dick, groaning as his head goes over the couch. “Fuck, now go make use of that pretty mouth, baby.”
You breathe out, seeing that shafts make you hesitate a bit. Okay, that was a real dick; you take that back for insulting and calling his stupid dick fake.
Slowly wrapping your delicate hands around his shaft, you glance up to see his head thrown over the couch as you give a kiss on the tip of his cockhead.
His breath hitched as he watched you kneel between his legs, those soft eyes looking up at him with a mix of nervousness and determination. The sight alone made his cock throb harder in your gentle grip.
"Fuck..." he breathed out, his head tilting back against the couch cushion as he felt your lips brush against his sensitive tip.
His fingers instinctively tangled in your long wavy brown hair, not pulling but just... holding on. Grounding himself. The way your hands wrapped around his shaft made him stroke himself slower, more deliberately, letting you set the pace.
"You're so fucking pretty like this," he murmured, his voice rough and low as he watched your every move. "But you know what... I don't want your hands right now."
He gently guided your head down, his cock pressing against your lips as he guided you to take him in. Not all at once, he didn't want to make you gag or feel uncomfortable. Just... enough to feel you.
"Mmm... that's it," he groaned softly, his other hand moving to cup the back of your head possessively. "Use that pretty mouth of yours now. I want to hear from you."
His hips gave a subtle thrust, not demanding but encouraging. His eyes stayed locked on you, watching the way your lips stretched around him, the wet sounds filling the room.
"Christ... you're incredible," he breathed, his thumb stroking along your jawline tenderly despite the rough situation.
You stiffen slightly, feeling his whole length around your mouth. Slowly making your jaw work as you bobbed your head, sucking him good.
He stopped you mid-blowjob, pulling you up by your waist with surprising strength. The way you were panting, lips swollen from worshipping his cock, made him nearly lose control entirely.
"Fuck... you look so good like this," he growled, his voice strained as he guided you toward the bed.
Setting you down gently on the mattress, he immediately followed, positioning himself between your thighs. His hands pushed your skirt up slowly, deliberately, savoring how exposed you were for him.
"Shit…" he breathed, his eyes darkening as he stared at your glistening core. "So fucking wet for me already."
Without hesitation, he leaned down and buried his face between your legs, his tongue immediately seeking out your clit. The taste of you made him groan against your sensitive flesh.
"Mmm... fuck, you taste so good," he murmured against you, his tongue working in slow, deliberate circles. "Let me eat you properly before I take you."
His fingers gripped your thighs gently but firmly, spreading you wider as he feasted on you with renewed focus, determined to make you come on his tongue first.
You gasped sharply, your palm flying to your mouth, feeling his mouth dive in like a starved man. He knows exactly what you need to push you over the edge. Your fingers tangled in his hair, holding him close.
He laughs against your core, feeling your fingers tangle in his hair. It made him groan with satisfaction. The way your body trembled beneath his mouth, your gasps growing louder.
It was fucking intoxicating.
He continues to lap on your cunt, wanting you to come undone by his tongue. He could feel you’re coming close as he works closer and closer to the edge. His fingers thrust in and out of you, over and over again.
“Fuck— you’re so close already,” he murmured against your soaked folds, his tongue working faster now. “Let go baby, let me taste it.”
You could feel your orgasm coming closer as he kept pumping into you. When you finally came, his fingers still pumping inside you, he felt your walls clench around him rhythmically. The sight of you completely undone, head thrown back as pleasure washed over you— it made him nearly lose control too.
You swore you almost saw stars and later, he was going to make you see the entire fucking galaxy once he was inside you.
“God, you look so beautiful like this,” he breathed, slowly pulling his fingers out of you with a soft, wet sound. “So fucking beautiful when you let go.”
You gave him a weak tap, blinking as you tried to catch your breath. God, you hadn’t felt this good in a long time. Or maybe no one had ever made you feel this good.
It was embarrassing to let him see you like this. Kind of pathetic, honestly, to get so worked up just from being eaten out.
Wonwoo chuckled, settling himself between your thighs as he looked down at you, almost menacingly. “Take your time, sweet pea. I’m not done with you yet.”
Then, surprisingly, he said something reasonable. “Just to make sure—give me a safe word.”
You blinked, finally propping yourself up on your elbows against the mattress as you considered it.
“Strawberry,” you said.
He raised an eyebrow. “Make it shorter. Do you think you can say that before I pound you like dough?”
You huffed. “Cherry, then.”
“Fair enough.” He leaned in to kiss you again but stopped midway. “I don’t have condoms, though…”
And you weren’t on pills. You couldn’t blame him. No one had expected this to happen.
You checked the drawer beside your bed. It had probably been sitting there for two years, back when you never expected there’d be a man in your life again.
When you handed it to him, he bristled, letting out a laugh and flashing a cocky grin. “This isn’t my size, sugarplum. It’s alright—I’ll pull out immediately,” he promised, pressing a kiss to your temple then running his hands along your curves possessively.
He sheathed himself slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. There was no hesitation in his movements, yet something raw, almost vulnerable flickered across his expression.
“I’m clean,” he murmured, his voice more serious now. “And I’ve never done this without protection before. So… yeah.” His gaze softened just slightly. “I’m trusting you, too.”
You let out a small whimper, feeling himself positioned at your entrance, his cock pressing against your wet heat. His thumbs framed your face, cradling it gently.
“Tell me you want this,” he said softly, eyes searching yours. “Tell me you want me inside you bare.” His hips gave a small thrust, just teasing waiting for your answer.
Almost cussing out at him for purposely made you feel this way, you breathe out almost pleadingly despite your bite. “...you asshole, stop playing—” you sharply inhaled when he thrusted his cock inside you.
He felt you gasp as he pushed inside, his cock stretching you open slowly.
Fucking hell.
The way you clenched around him immediately made him grit his teeth, might as well come inside you at this point.
“Fuck…” he breathed out, his hands moving to grip your hips. “So tight…fuck, you’re so fucking tight.” He didn’t slam in, he took his time, letting you adjust to him. The way your walls squeezed him rhythmically was almost too much, but he forced himself to stay controlled.
And you—you never felt so fucking amazing right now. You think you might ascend to heaven. Eyes rolling over with your grip tightens on the sheets.
“Still with me, sweet pea?” he asked, voice strained as he hilted himself completely inside you.
You nodded slowly at him, murmured softly, “...yeah…you can move faster now.”
His fingers dug into your skin slightly, not quite bruising but definitely holding on tight. Breath hitched when you finally gave him permission, that single nod making his control slip dangerously. The way your walls were already clenching around him was driving him insane.
“Thank fuck,” he breathed out, hips already starting to move. He pulled back slowly, feeling every inch of you squeeze around him then thrust forward with more purpose. The wet sounds of your tangled bodies filled the room.
Your poor cat, Wonton, is already scurrying away somewhere.
He could feel your body trembling beneath him, and it made something possessive ignite in him. He wanted every gasp, every moan and every shudder of pleasure entirely for himself.
His thrusts became faster, more desperate as his breath came in harsh pants against your neck. “Tell me how it feels,” he demanded softly, one hand moving to cup your chin, fracking you to look at him. "Tell me when you’re close.”
His cock throbbed inside you, pre-cum leaking out but he was determined to make this last. To make you feel as good as you made him feel earlier with that perfect, needy mouth.
“You’re killing me,” he admitted breathlessly, his forehead resting against yours. “But I’m not pulling out until I see you completely destroyed…”
...on my cock.” you heard him finished, his voice thick with need.
God, you can’t even talk properly with him. Did he just fucked you this good?
His hips snapped against yours, making you gasp. The change in rhythm was almost punishing— harder, faster and deeper. Each thrust he gave, sent pleasure spiraling through your waves, making your toes curl and your visions blur.
“Fuck…fuck— Wonwoo! You cried out, back arching off the bed slightly as he drove into you relentlessly.
One of his hands moved from your hip to your hair, fisting it rough;y and tilting your head back. His lips crashed against yours in a desperate, messy kiss that tasted like desperation and need.
“Say my name while I fuck you.” He demanded between kisses, his other hand moving to your throat, just barely pressing, not choking but claiming.
“Wonwoo!” you sobbed into the kiss, voice breaking.
It was all too much. His mouth on yours, hands on you and the way he was fucking you like he wanted to imprint himself on your very soul. Your orgasm built faster than you could handle, climbing higher and higher until you were breathless and dizzy.
“I’m—oh god— I’m—” you couldn’t even finish the sentence as pleasure crashed over you in waves, your inner walls clamping down around him.
He felt you come, your body shaking and clenching around his cock, and it was his undoing. With a guttural groan, he buried himself deep inside then immediately pulled out as he promised. His remains spilled on your stomach, giving a few last pumps as he stays there.
“Fuck… fuck…” he breathed against your neck, his body collapsing onto yours as aftershocks rippled through both of you.
You stayed like that for a while, limbs tangled, your body slowly growing heavy with exhaustion.
But goddamn. That was the best sex you’d ever had.
(You’d only had, like, two back in school, but whatever.)
Just when you thought he was finished, he lifted his head and looked down at you before finally shrugging off the dress shirt that had been hanging open. He pulled it over his broad shoulders, revealing the hard planes of his chest and the lean muscle beneath.
God, you silently thanked the heavens for giving you an asshole that looked like him.
Grinning cockily, he hovered over you, his voice dropping into a husky murmur. “Oh, I’m not done yet, honeybun. That was just the appetizer. We still have the full course and dessert.”
Okay, maybe you should’ve bought the condoms and pills when you were grocery shopping with him.
“Now strip bare before I devour you for real.” He smacked your ass and squeezed, making you yelp.
The rest was history.
The next morning. Thank heavens it was Saturday. You would not have survived this if it were Monday and a workweek.
You fumbled beneath the comforter, still half-asleep. Then it hit you.
You’d been dicked down by the most insufferable, food-thieving man alive.
Slowly, you sat up, immediately feeling the soreness between your thighs.
Thanks a lot to that bastard for bottoming you out so good.
And you loved every single second of it.
Noticing the empty space beside you, your gaze drifted across the room—only to find him in nothing but his boxers, crouched beside Wonton, your cat. It looked like he’d already fed her.
Wow.
The sight of him watching your cat eat was almost… innocent.
Was that really the same person who pounded you like a beast last night?
Whatever.
You looked down and realized you were wearing his dress shirt. He probably cleaned you up before you passed out.
Pushing yourself out of bed, you shuffled toward the kitchen. You were starving, might as well whip something up.
He noticed you rummaging through the fridge and followed after you.
“Morning,” he murmured, wrapping his arms around your waist as you worked at the counter. “What’s for breakfast?”
“Me,” you joked.
He immediately groped your chest, making you yelp as you slapped his hands away.
He didn’t look sorry at all. “You said it. I’m just taking what I want,” he grinned against your ear, pressing a soft kiss there.
“Let’s get married,” he suddenly said. “I need you for a lifetime.”
You hummed thoughtfully while whisking the pancake batter. “For what? The food or the sex?”
“Both,” he confirmed easily. “I already paid for the groceries. I’m basically your wallet at this point. Marry me and you get both—my dick and my money.”
You had to stifle a laugh.
His arms tightened around you as he added, “Then I can finally fuck you without using those damn condoms and pills.”
That made you turn to look at him, eyebrow raised as he flashed that stupidly annoying grin.
“Was that a threat?”
“A promise,” he corrected. “We’d make a great pear. And I wouldn’t mind putting a few little peanuts in you.”
He nuzzled your nape like an oversized cat.
You stared at him in disbelief.
“You’re crazy.”
“Yeah,” he said smoothly. “I’m nuts for you, sweetie pie.”
Since that day, you kept seeing Wonwoo during lunch breaks at work.
With a price, of course. The lunch arrangement.
For some reason, you couldn’t help but notice the change in his personality. Well… he’d been a lot nicer lately.
And it scared the shit out of you.
You’d rather have him insufferable as always, wearing that stupid cocky grin.
Okay, maybe not. That was too annoying. You weren’t sure you could restrain your fist from connecting with his majestic face.
“Have you been sitting in all that sugar you bake with? Because you’ve got a sweet butt,” Wonwoo suddenly said.
A loud crash echoed through the kitchen as you dropped the baking tray in your hands, staring at him in horror.
Noticing your mortified expression, he took a step back. “Sorry. Too forward?”
He’d been crashing at your place again, insisting on driving you home as an excuse to spend more time together.
“Have you been laying in sugar, sweetheart?” he tried again. “Because you’re looking pretty sweet. Is that better?” he asked, almost apologetically.
You honestly didn’t know what to say, setting the meatloaf aside.
“I mean…” you started slowly, “…you always smack my ass whenever you get the chance, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t do it when I’m about to get into the passenger seat.”
He waved a dismissive hand. “I think all of you are sweet, really.” Then he added, “I can tell your parents were bakers—they’d have to be to make a cutie pie like you.”
You blinked, finally turning to look at him. “…Well, my mom was a baker. And my brother owns a café, so yeah. Technically.”
“Wait, really?” he asked, momentarily dropping the act. “Why didn’t I know that?”
“You never asked,” you replied simply, waving him off. “By the way, what’s with all these cheesy pick-up lines? Where did you even learn them?”
Completely ignoring your question, he continued, “Are you bread? Because you’re the loaf of my life.”
Your lips twitched. “Okay, now you’re up to something. Did you lose a bet?”
“I think I’ve got cavities, because you’re too sweet.”
You chuckled, leaning against the kitchen counter in your pink frilly apron. “If you’re trying to seduce me into baking cookies, you could’ve just asked.”
“I don’t know about cookies,” he shot back smoothly, “but you and I would bake a great couple.”
Your smile widened as you pushed off the counter and slowly walked toward him. “Oh? Is that what you think?”
He audibly gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he watched you approach.
“Did you just come out of the oven?” he continued weakly. “Because you’re hot.”
You let out a soft giggle, stopping in front of him and placing your hands on his shoulders. “I don’t know if I’m scared of you or attracted to you.”
His hands naturally found your waist. “Marry me, please. Let me be your husband. I’ll take care of you… and our little peanut. Soon.” He nuzzled into your neck.
Smiling, you couldn’t help but laugh. “Hey, Won,” you murmured, “if you want something sweet, there’s plenty of sugar right here.”
You tapped your lips playfully. He didn’t hesitate before pressing his mouth to yours.
A moment later, you both pulled back, laughing and giggling like idiots, foreheads resting against each other.
“By the way,” you asked softly, “where did you even learn those pick-up lines?”
He paused, thinking for a second.
“Jeonghan,” he said simply.
Ah.
Of course.
You never liked him. Same department as Wonwoo…just more obnoxious.
He definitely put him up to this on purpose.
One thing you actually learned from your mother's advice that surprisingly worked was that the fastest way into a man’s heart was through his stomach.
Turns out, he stopped stealing your food. He found something sweeter to keep instead.
FIN.
A/N: once again, thanks a lot for staying until the end, apples!! finally we've come to the end. if you're interested in more of my fics, feel free to check my page and my masterlist, if any of you guys are interested include in my taglist, feel free to sign in the form link.
feedbacks and comments are appreciated!! (for future purposes, so that i will improve my writings more.) pls do support me if you found this entertaining! ˙𐃷˙ here
》 pairing: seokmin x fem!reader
》 plot: love was always easy for you, until it wasn't. young and careless, you let him fall for you and walked away before admitting he was the one. years later, with the world pressing in and your heart still quietly aching; you meet him again by chance and realize some love never fades, only waits.
》 wc: 2.4k
》 genre(s): non-idol!AU, second chances, romance, angst, fluff
》 content: 1920's AU, BANTER, the reader is a very focused on her academics, lowkey a man hater, seokmin is a sweetheart </333, both the reader and seokmin are in college, and a school mixer... (not too much happens in this part tbh)
[RATING: PG]
[ᝰ.ᐟ] hi everyone! i'm back from the dead... YAYYYYY!!! this fic is part of the beautiful puttin' on the ritz collab with @studiosvt hehe. i was finally able to honor my username and make a fic for kyeom!! this is the first part out of three so i hope you guys get to enjoy the beginning of a somewhat(?) long series. i really tried my best to stay as accurate as possible but this is my first period piece so i doubt that it will be perfect... but it's the effort that counts! anyways, i hope y'all enjoy!!
Attraction | Longing | Spellbound
The latest issue of Vanity Fair lies open across your writing desk, the thin paper warmed by the afternoon sun filtering through your dormitory window. You hum absentmindedly while flipping between the crisp pages; briefly admiring the illustrations that decorate every other article.
The wireless hums faintly on Florence’s bedside table, a low ribbon of jazz slipping in and out of clarity. She sits cross-legged on her bed, her attention focused on fixing a small tear on one of her favorite blouses.
Your gaze lands on a particular article.
The Modern Girl—And Why She Is Painted
Huh.
You clear your throat. “I see we’re being analyzed again.”
Florence only snorts.
Which is an understandable reaction by now. It feels as if there is a new article released every day, criticizing your generation’s modern-day woman. It’s amusing in a way, seeing how strongly the older generations feel about the youth and their “incorrigible” ways.
You settle deeper into your chair and continue reading the article.
This one seems to be a bit more reasonable at times. At least they want to understand us this time, you think.
“Besides, during the Victorian era, she served an unusually long bondage to the domestic virtues…” Your voice trails off.
The sentence makes you pause for a moment—you tilt your head slightly, considering it.
Florence notices the unusual silence on your end. “Well?”
“The author isn’t entirely wrong,” you admit carefully.
You continue. “Shall we blame her if, seeing her opportunity, she takes her fling for a while and gives rein to the decorative and histrionic impulses of her nature?”
Florence lowers the volume on the wireless just enough for the music to fade into a soft, low hum.
She shifts herself towards you as she asks, “Do you agree with him?”
You don’t answer her immediately. You run your finger along the margin of the page, rereading the sentence in your head.
Another beat passes.
“I think,” you say slowly, “he believes he’s being generous.”
Florence only huffs at your statement.
“No, listen,” you insist, leaning forward. “He’s not condemning her. He’s not entirely calling her foolish or immoral. He’s saying that after centuries of being told her entire worth resided in obedience and modesty… perhaps we shouldn’t be surprised if she wants to be seen.”
She studies you for a moment.
“You’re being quite understanding today.”
“I am always understanding,” you huff out. “I don’t see what’s so terrible about wanting to enjoy one’s youth.”
That gets a giggle out of her. “You do enjoy yours, don’t you?”
You glance up at her, one brow lifting.
Florence grins. “You’re practically the bee’s knees at every social function Moonridge hosts.”
You roll your eyes at her. “Don’t be ridiculous now.”
But you know what she means.
You’ve always drawn attention wherever you go.
Although it has never felt like power to you. If anything, it has felt… inevitable. Almost predictable in a way.
You return your gaze to the article.
“Beauty as the whole duty of women,” you read quietly. “That part I dislike.”
Florence tilts her head. “Why?”
“Because it suggests that even our freedom must be decorative.”
You close the magazine gently and let it rest on your desk.
“I don’t mind being admired,” you continue, “I simply don’t want admiration to be the only language addressed to me.”
Florence watches you with that knowing look—the one that says she understands more than she lets on.
But before she can respond, the door suddenly flies open, rattling the wall on impact.
Irene stands there, cheeks pink from running.
“Please tell me you’re ready,” she says breathlessly.
Florence straightens at her tone. “What have we forgotten now?”
“The mixer,” Irene says. “With Ashbourne. We promised Mrs. Abernathy we’d help set up. She’ll have our heads if we’re late.”
You glance at the mantle clock.
Oh.
Florence groans dramatically. “I didn’t even get to finish sewing my blouse!”
You snicker at her dilemma.
“Darling, you could wear a potato sack to the mixer and you would still have a line of men wanting to talk to you.” You remarked as you stood up from the desk and smoothed your skirt over.
Florence rolls her eyes in response.
“Come on, we’ll be late!” Irene cries out, hand tugging at your wrist.
“I don’t see why my punctuality is such a community concern,” you grimace.
“Because,” Florence says, already grabbing at your other wrist, “half of the boys across the avenue attend these things in hopes you’ll grace them with ten minutes of your time.”
You sigh.
“That is precisely why I wasn’t in a hurry.”
The gymnasium has been transformed with an enthusiasm that borders on excessive.
Paper lanterns hang from the rafters, glowing softly against the high beams. Streamers loop along the walls, each one placed with meticulous care. It is all very earnest. Ambitious even. Too much care, if you had any say in it.
You arrive just in time to help adjust centerpieces and align the chairs into straight, disciplined rows. This part is usually the only one you find yourself enjoying; no eager men to bother you yet.
By the time the doors officially open, the four of you look less like volunteers and more like the evening’s main attraction.
The young men from Ashbourne file in shortly after, jackets neatly pressed, and hair styled with annoying precision. They stand stiffly at first, clustered near the entrance as if uncertain where to situate themselves.
Florence laughs first, enjoying the awkward view in front of her. Irene waves at a particular group of boys. Lillian whispers something wicked that makes you hide a smile.
It begins like it always does.
Introductions are made, names are exchanged, and compliments are delivered with that same careful, rehearsed cadence you’ve grown very accustomed to.
Your group eventually spreads out—each one of your friends already having particular men or groups to talk to.
And you?
You are surrounded.
It happens at every mixer. The music swells, the men grow braver, and suddenly the room reorganizes itself into groups orbiting whichever young woman has most recently declared “quite exceptional”.
Tonight, unfortunately, that young woman seems to be you.
“Miss—may I have the next dance?”
“You look quite radiant this evening.”
“I was hoping to secure at least one waltz before the night concludes—”
With a polite smile, you incline your head graciously. You decline two dances with gentle regret and accept one with equal courtesy. The waltz is tolerable. The fox-trot is less so.
One gentleman with too much pomade attempts to monopolize your attention, leaning too close for your comfort.
“You’ve been difficult to secure all evening.”
“So it seems,” you reply pleasantly.
“I was warned I’d have to be swift if I wanted a chance.”
You smile without any real warmth to it. “We’ll have to see about that.”
He laughs, but there’s a faint trace of irritation beneath it. He does not seem to enjoy your ambiguity.
Another tries to wedge himself into the conversation. A third hovers.
You feel the familiar tightening in your smile—not distress, yet, but the quiet calculation of how to remove yourself without appearing rude eats at you. You had hoped to slip into the background tonight. Wishful thinking.
It is not unpleasant, exactly. It’s something you’re used to already, but it sure can get repetitive.
You begin planning your escape. A headache would suffice. Perhaps a prior obligation even?
But just as you draw breath to excuse yourself, a new voice cuts through the group.
“Gentleman!” A warm voice cuts in, light but firm.
The circle jolts.
You turn toward the intruder.
He stands just outside the cluster, hands loosely clasped behind his back. His expression is quite… pleasant.
There is nothing confrontational about him. Nothing aggressive either. And yet, the other men straighten at the sound of his voice.
One weakly clears his throat. “We were simply—”
“Conversing,” He supplied helpfully. “Yes, I gathered that from all of the overlapping.”
You try to fight back a smile.
The pomade enthusiast to your left bristles. “And you are?”
“Temporarily concerned,” the newcomer replies easily, gesturing toward the formation around you. “About ventilation.”
There is a brief pause as the comment settles.
“Ventilation?” Someone repeats.
“Yes,” he says gravely. “If one more gentleman joins this formation, we may require permits.”
A strangled laugh escapes you before you can stop it.
The tension fractures. Two of the boys step back, embarrassed. Another one mutters something about securing refreshments. The remainder of the group disperse with wounded dignity, eager to pretend that they had never been part of such an arrangement.
Space. Finally.
You find yourself exhaling in relief.
The newcomer finally looks at you properly. His expression shifts from mischievous to something more sheepish.
“I hope that wasn’t presumptuous,” he says. “You looked as though you were one second away from bursting.”
You stare at him for a moment, deciding whether or not he’s one of them.
Though there’s something about his smile that tells you he didn’t act out of pure interest.
“Was it that obvious?”
His shoulders relax at your response.
“You would have to be blindfolded to not see that mess.”
You laugh at that.
But you also notice a few things.
He hasn’t offered his hand. Nor has he implied that you owe him any gratitude.
He simply stands there, as though this were the most natural exchange in the world.
You tilt your head. “Any other observations?”
He thinks for a second before replying.
“You possess admirable stamina,” he says without any hesitation. “Most would have escaped by now.”
You nod. “I was considering it.”
You study him more closely now.
His suit is well-pressed but not ritzy. His tie is slightly off-center. His hair is neat but not lacquered into submission like some of the other men do. And… there’s a faint dimple when he smiles.
You decide to continue the conversation.
“And what method of escape would you have recommended?”
“The refreshment table is too exposed,” he says thoughtfully. “The doors are heavily trafficked as well. I would suggest moving closer to the piano. No one lingers there unless they intend to sing.”
You stare at him in astonishment.
“You’ve thought this through.”
He’s quick to reply. “I prefer to understand my surroundings.”
The jazz surges into a faster tempo. Couples swirl past, skirts brushing, polished shoes gliding across the floor.
“You haven’t asked me to dance,” you observe.
“I have not.”
“Why not?”
He does not answer immediately. Instead, he watches a pair nearly collide on the floor before speaking.
“You did not seem eager to accept the previous invitations.” He answers.
“That has never stopped anyone before.”
“It seemed redundant,” he murmured timidly. “You did not appear in need of another obligation.”
A slow smile spreads across your face.
“Very well,” you say. “Since you’ve saved the evening’s airflow, you may at least tell me your name.”
“Lee Seokmin.”
The name feels warm when you repeat it.
“And you are?”
You tell him your name.
Recognition flashes briefly across his face.
“I’ve heard of you,” he admits.
You squint your eyes at him. “…That sounds ominous.”
“You won a debate last spring,” he says quickly. “On women in academia.”
You stare at him again, stunned.
“You attended?”
“Yes.”
“And you remember it?” You ask him skeptically.
Seokmin shrugs, almost bashfully. “It was compelling.”
That sparks your interest.
“So… what do you study, Mr. Lee?”
“Literature.”
“Voluntarily?” You jest.
Laughter escapes him—the sound gathering the attention of a few students nearby.
“Yes. Voluntarily.”
“And what do you intend to do with it?”
“Teach, I hope.”
There is no bravado in his statement. No attempt to impress you with wealth or ambition. It’s refreshing.
“I’m sponsored,” he adds after a moment. “A friend of my father’s insisted I apply. I consider myself very fortunate.”
You pause.
That sort of admission is rare in rooms like this. Most men from prestigious universities like his prefer to show off their lineage. It must be challenging for him at times.
“That’s admirable,” you say.
“It’s generous,” he corrects gently. “I don’t intend to waste it.”
Something in your chest shifts.
The conversation flows after that. Easily.
You speak of your desire to become a librarian as well as the infuriating limitations placed upon your college’s access to certain texts.
“I find it ridiculous,” you confess, lowering your voice slightly, “that we’re still deemed too delicate for certain volumes.”
“I agree,” he says immediately.
You blink.
“Yes, I believe access should not be restricted by gender.”
The simplicity of it catches you off guard. There’s no argument or teasing dismissal.
Just a simple agreement.
A familiar voice interrupts—a young man you once allowed to walk you home twice before deciding that he bored you.
“Am I interrupting something here?”
“Yes,” you reply instantly.
He hesitates.
“You promised me the second dance.”
“I don’t recall promising anyone a dance.”
His mouth opens and then shuts.
“I’m afraid I’m occupied at the moment,” you add.
He retreats, slightly wounded from the interaction.
Seokmin watches the exchange with faint amusement.
“You’re quite formidable,” he says lightly.
You give him a weak glare. “He is fortunate I was gracious enough to spare him. One should know better than to interrupt a conversation.”
He smiles at that.
Time slips by again without either of you noticing. The music fades into softer numbers. Nearby conversations dwindle.
When Irene eventually appears at your elbow, eyebrows raised playfully, you glance toward the clock and realize the evening has nearly ended.
“We must go,” she whispers.
Already?
You turn back to Seokmin.
“I volunteer at Ode & Quill’s bookstore on Thursdays,” you say, as casually as you can manage. “If… you ever wish to continue our discussion.”
His expression brightens in a way that feels earnest.
“I would like that.”
“Goodnight, Mr. Lee.” You say as you head toward your friend group, offering him a polite wave.
“Goodnight.” He waves back.
As you leave, Florence nudges you.
You can already presume what she wants to discuss with you. Considering that you ended up talking to a man for the entire night, one might think you’ve finally taken a liking to someone.
You’re not sure if you even want to discuss it with anyone at the moment.
“You didn’t dance with him.” She states.
“Mhm.”
“But you spoke to him the entire night… what was that about?” She turns to look at you attentively.
“Nothing special.” You mutter out.
All three girls smile at your defensiveness.
You know exactly what they’re thinking, but you can’t deny that something has shifted tonight.
You’re just not entirely certain what it is or what to call it.
I reblogged her late last year and my 2024 has been very satisfying work-wise and (secure enough to not stress out) money-wise so far. Money Snake is wise and good.
Taglist open!! (If you don't want to be tagged for all members please precise it)
The warnings will be detailed for each chapter!!
A/N: reader is a different person for every chapter, they will not be dating the same girl!! The chapters will be oneshots, one for each member and will be around 10k words long.
The chapters will be posted every 3 weeks approximately
son of Zeus!Seungcheol x daughter of Hecate!reader
Trope: enemies to lovers
Summary: He’s all power and bravado, she’s subtle and strategic. Their clashes, his lightning versus her magic, always shake camp, until they realize their storms fit together.
Wc: 11.4k
Out now!!
son of Aphrodite!Jeonghan x daughter of Athena!reader
Trope: the beauty and the bookworm
Summary: He charms with a smile, she resists with logic. At first, she sees him as shallow, but his persistence reveals depth, and her heart proves more vulnerable than her brain expected.
Wc: 11.5k
Out now!!
son of Poseidon!Joshua x daughter of Demeter!reader
Trope: childhood friends to lovers
Summary: They’ve known each other since they were kids, playing at the lake and growing plants by the shore. Now older, they find that water and earth have always belonged together.
Wc: 11.7k
Out now!!
son of Athena!Junhui x daughter of Ares!reader
Trope: slow burn Rivals
Summary: She’s a warrior, he’s a strategist. She calls him a nerd, he calls her reckless. But battles have a way of proving that brains and brawn are stronger side by side.
coming soon
son of Ares!Hoshi x daughter of Apollo!reader
Trope: grumpy and sunshine
Summary: He’s short-tempered and always ready to fight; she sings, laughs and heals wounds. She’s the calm to his storm, and he finds himself craving her light.
coming soon
son of Hades!Wonwoo x daughter of Apollo!reader
Trope: dark prince and golden girl
Summary: He walks with shadows, she carries the sun. He never thought light could want him, but she teaches him that even darkness deserves warmth.
Wc:12.3k
Out now!!
son of Apollo!Woozi x daughter of Aphrodite!reader
Trope: the artist and his muse
Summary: He plays guitar at the campfire, she’s the goddess of beauty’s daughter, his muse and his harshest critic. Together, they turn melody and charm into harmony.
Wc: 12.7k
Out now!!
son of Apollo!Dokyeom x daughter of Ares!reader
Trope: the healer and the warrior
Summary: He patches her wounds after every fight, and she teases him for worrying too much. But over time, their banter turns into something softer, something she fights for as fiercely as any battle.
Wc: 10.1k
Out now!!
son of Hephaestus!Mingyu x daughter of Aphrodite!reader
Trope: sex buddies to lovers
Summary: He thinks he’s awkward and unworthy, covered in soot and calluses. She sees brilliance in every invention. Together, they build something more enduring than steel.
Wc: 10.1k
Out now!!
blessed by Artemis!Minghao x daughter of Aphrodite!reader
Trope: forbidden love
Summary: Artemis forbids romance, yet her protégé finds himself tangled in it with love’s child. Their story is one of secret glances and quiet rebellion against divine rules.
coming soon
son of Demeter!Seungkwan x Artemis huntress!reader
Trope: sunshine and sunshine protector
Summary: He loves peace, nature, and quiet fields; she’s a huntress, sharp-eyed and fierce. He grounds her when she forgets softness, and she reminds him that wildness is beautiful.
coming soon
son of Hermes!Venon x daughter of Athena!reader
Trope: the rogue and the strategist
Summary: He steals snacks and breaks rules, she follows every one of them. At first, she wants nothing to do with the trickster, but eventually, his mischief teaches her that sometimes breaking rules leads to love.
Wc: 10.2k
Out now!!
son of Nyx!Dino x daughter of Apollo!reader
Trope: the shadow and the light
Summary: He thrives in darkness, she shines in daylight. Though they’re opposites, he’s drawn to her warmth like a moth to flame, and she finds herself fascinated by the beauty of the night.
You and Kim Mingyu have always walked that thin line between professional respect and something dangerously close to flirtation, but neither of you have ever quite slipped. So covering his newest case should be routine — but suddenly, keeping things professional isn't as easy as it used to be.
⇢ pairing. lawyer!mingyu x journalist!reader
⇢ genre. fluff, angst, idiots/acquaintances? to lovers.
⇢ word count. approx. 7.5k
⇢ warnings. f!reader. miscommunication (sorry). lots of pining + tension. a few moral dilemmas but nothing crazy. almost definitely inaccurate depictions of courtroom and law stuff. ft. a few of the itzy girls bc why not!!!
⇢ a/n. happiest of birthdays to one of my favourite people on this planet!!!!! my beloved @gyuswhore this one is for you!! emberly i'm about to type an essay in ur dms anyway but just know that i love u enormous amounts. so so much. and i apologise for the banner its not my best work 😭
THE COURTHOUSE LOBBY is already humming with activity when you step through security: attorneys in suits speed-walking towards elevators, clerks juggling stacks of paper, the espresso machine in the café sputtering and filling the air with the smell of burnt coffee. You’re used to it all by now, and it doesn’t seem anywhere near as chaotic as you used to find it.
But the best part of your mornings tend to be six foot two and annoyingly well-dressed.
You spot Mingyu the moment you step through security: tall, sleek, and freshly pressed, balancing a stack of colour-coded folders against his hip while stirring what you know is an obscene amount of sugar into his coffee.
He doesn’t notice you at first. He’s too busy reading something on a sticky note, lips shaping the words. You hesitate a beat, just long enough to be annoyed at yourself for it, then head his way.
“Mr Kim,” you call out, voice just loud enough to cut through the lobby chatter.
His head snaps up. And there it is, that small flicker of recognition followed by the not-quite-smile he always tries to tamp down.
“Ah. My favourite journalist.” He shifts the folders to greet you properly, pretending he’s not already straightening his tie. He always straightens his tie around you. “Here to make my day harder?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” You hold up your recorder, tilt your head to the side hopefully. “Pre-hearing comment? Thirty seconds. Forty if you’re feeling generous.”
He huffs a soft laugh and gestures toward the hallway with the tip of his coffee cup. “You ambush me the second you walk in the building and expect me to string something together? It’s barely nine.”
“And yet,” you counter, walking beside him, “you look like you got eight hours of sleep and ironed that suit with time to spare.”
“It’s an illusion. I slept three hours and ate some almonds on my way here.”
“Almonds,” you repeat, snorting. You rummage in your bag, pull out a cereal bar, and hold it up between two fingers. His eyes actually light up, but just before his hand can brush yours, you whisk it out of reach and instead tap your recorder against your palm.
He stops walking to give you a displeased look, nose scrunching. “Really?”
You shrug, entirely unbothered. “Needs must.”
“One might call that bribery, Miss ___.”
“One would then have to remember – it’s a cereal bar, Mr Kim.” You raise your eyebrows. “I’m starting to think you don’t want to give me a quote.”
You’ve interviewed dozens of prosecutors over the years, in this very building. But Mingyu is the only one who makes courthouse mornings feel a little lighter. Maybe it’s because he listens, doesn’t shrug you off immediately like some others do. Maybe it’s because he looks at you like the two of you are in on some private joke – and sometimes you are. Maybe it’s because every time you talk, there’s a hum under your ribs you keep telling yourself to ignore.
He pauses at the bulletin board, scanning the docket. “Just a fraud case today. Honestly, I’m surprised you’re covering it.”
“I can’t resist a good public official messing with paperwork,” you say. “It speaks to me.”
“Fraud speaks to you?”
“Don’t judge my hobbies. Besides, you know better than anyone it’s not just a fraud case when it’s Lee Junhyeon behind it all. Do I get a quote or not?”
It’s easy, this back-and-forth. Easier than it should be. Easier than it ever is with anyone else you interview. There’s comfort baked into the rhythm you two have built – teasing layered over familiarity layered over something neither of you names aloud.
He takes one last sip of his coffee, narrows his eyes at the cereal bar, straightens ever so slightly – and nods at your recorder. “Alright. Go ahead. But if I pass out mid-sentence, you’re liable.”
“I’ll include that as a quote.”
“Please don’t.”
You hit record, and he slips effortlessly into prosecutor mode, smooth, concise, measured. You watch the shift happen in real time: the warmth fades, replaced by sharp professionalism, like flipping a switch only he seems able to control.
He finishes. You stop the recorder.
“There,” he says with a tiny tilt of his head, shoulders slumping just the slightest bit. “Was that quick enough?”
“Almost disappointing how cooperative you are.”
“Just trying to stay on your good side.”
You open your mouth to reply, but someone calls his name from down the hall.
He sighs, and you give him a knowing look. “Duty calls.”
“I’ll see you inside?” he asks.
“Wouldn’t miss it.” You press the cereal bar on top of his folders, and he glances down at it in surprise. “Don’t inhale it in front of the judge.”
“No promises,” he grins. And he takes a few steps backward toward the courtroom doors, eyes lingering on you for a beat longer than necessary. Then he turns away, and whatever was pressing down on your chest loosens.
The hallway outsidethe courtroom is louder after the lunch recess, the kind of restless noise that means every reporter is suddenly convinced they’re about to miss something. You weave through the clusters of them, not exactly late, but later than you meant to be, with your notebook tucked under your arm and your phone buzzing with your roommate’s texts about dinner plans.
The Lee Junhyeon case had drawn more media attention than expected for something technically labeled “administrative fraud.” But feeding money into a shell charity he chaired leads to a lot of public interest. Which is why you’re here.
Mingyu and his team arrive from the opposite end of the hall: three attorneys behind him, another two in step beside him, all mid-discussion about something pedantic. He’s flipping through a binder while listening to someone else’s briefing, brows drawn, tie slightly loosened from the morning’s work. He looks focused, a little wrinkle on his forehead, lower lip caught between his teeth. Not that you’re looking at his lips, you remind yourself firmly, clicking your pen.
Which, of course, is exactly when his eyes lift and land right on you.
It’s not a smile – that would be too much – just a brief softening of his features, a small acknowledgment, something only noticeable because you’re tuned to it. He returns his attention to his colleague almost immediately.
Still. Somehow, one look is enough to warm the little dent between your ribs and your stomach,
A handful of other reporters notice him too, and like sharks scenting blood, they move as a group, mics angled, questions already thrust forward. Someone elbows you lightly, not unkindly, but with just enough push that you step to the side to avoid being boxed in.
Mingyu’s team slows. His second chair, Ms. Han, glances over the crowd with unimpressed precision. You join the cluster, not leading it, not hiding either. When one reporter pushes ahead to ask a badly formed question, Mingyu stops walking just long enough to give them a neutral, measured response.
His gaze slips to you again.
You pretend you don’t notice. Or at least you pretend you’re good at pretending.
You ask your question, and he answers just as cleanly, just as concisely. But still, there’s something in how he talks to you. The subtlest, tiniest, warmest thing edging his words, and then he’s gone.
You claim a seat at the press bench again, open your laptop, and start shaping the morning’s notes into something publishable. Your article won’t run until the day after tomorrow, but drafts don’t write themselves – and you’ve learned the hard way that waiting until evening means Ryujin starts threatening to hide your laptop under the couch.
Most of the testimony is dry. A lot of financial analysts, paper trails, the mind-numbing march of spreadsheets projected onto the courtroom screen. The judge interrupts twice; Lee’s defense interrupts five times; the gallery sighs in unison at least twelve. None of this interests you much, but a job is a job, and you know that despite hating it, you’re good at it.
But when Mingyu rises for cross-examination, the room straightens. You do too.
His voice fills the space with that particular calm authority he has, the kind that makes people assume he’s older than he is. You know this version of him well, have reported on his cases more than enough times to be well-acquainted with the gestures he makes, the inflection of his questions. You respect this version of him – you write about it.
But when his eyes pass over the gallery and catch yours, completely by accident, fleeting – you feel something you can’t put in print.
Your stomach drops. You tear your eyes away, look back down at your laptop and type with unnecessary intensity.
You’re still typing later that same evening. Your living room is a battlefield of snack wrappers, loose leaf documents, and Ryujin’s abandoned crochet project. She’s sprawled across the couch like a cat, scrolling through her phone while you type cross-legged on the floor, laptop balanced on your lap.
“I just think there are very few pros to your job, and many, many cons,” Ryujin says, squinting at you over her screen. “You hate it.”
“I don’t hate it. I tolerate it.”
“You tolerate it the way I tolerate dental cleanings,” she mutters. “Which is to say: not at all.”
You glance up then. “Speaking of, you have spinach in your teeth.”
She doesn’t fall for your bait, rolling her eyes. “But there is one pretty big advantage, I guess,” she says, suddenly sing-song, and you already know what she’s going to say. “Because it keeps you seeing a certain prosecutor, right?”
You determinedly fix your eyes on your screen. “I see lots of prosecutors.”
“But only one who emails back at 10p.m.”
“It was nine-forty-seven, I’ll have you know,” you mutter darkly. And then you sigh, roll your shoulders, and take a sip of cold coffee. Grimace, put the mug down. “It’s a big case. It matters.”
“You know what else matters? The hot prosecutor. He matters.”
“There is no ‘he,’” you say, typing harder than necessary. “It’s work. He’s work.”
“Mhm. But work is six foot two, and looks like that.”
(You’d made the mistake of giving Ryujin his name, just once, and from there she’d found his LinkedIn and his Instagram – which was private, of course, but the profile picture alone was enough.)
You don’t dignify her with a response.
She groans. “I’m just saying, if you two ever – ”
“We won’t,” you interrupt quickly. Too quickly. She grins at you wickedly, and you exhale again. “It wouldn’t be right, anyway. I’m covering his case – I always end up covering his cases. There’s gotta be some kind of – conflict of interest, some kind of rule I would be breaking.”
“But you would?” She presses, her phone long forgotten. “If it wasn’t for your job and your rules, you would?”
You close your laptop a little too fast. “I’m going to get more coffee.”
“That’s a yes!”
You lean back against the wall, groan and bury your face into your hands. You know just as well as Ryujin claims she does, that yes, you would. Absolutely, you would. And the rational part of you knows that Mingyu – well, you’re not blind. You see how he looks at you. But you also see how he rearranges his features every time you catch him looking.
You know you can’t want something like Mingyu.
“Yes,” you say finally, “Yes, Ryujin, I would, but I can’t, and he can’t, so what’s the point?”
“You’re letting the possible love of your life go because of a job you hate,” she says. “You tell me, what’s the point?”
You don’t have an answer.
The case settles into the city, but the buzz doesn’t quite die down, only fades a little. By the second week of hearings, you’re pretty sure you can recite all of Lee Junhyeon’s shell companies by name.
You arrive earlier than usual, the lobby quieter. You expect to beat him for once (it’s become a private scoreboard in your head, who gets here first) but when you step through security, Mingyu’s already there.
He’s leaning over the front desk, signing something with a clerk, tie slightly crooked like he got dressed in a hurry for the first time in his life. You catch yourself pausing again. That’s becoming a habit you don’t appreciate.
The clerk spots you approaching before he does.
“Oh,” she says, brightening. “He said you’d probably be here right about – ”
Mingyu straightens too fast, almost drops his pen, and clears his throat. “I said she’s usually here around now. That’s not – I didn’t mean – ”
The clerk giggles into her sleeve. You fight down a smile.
“Ignore him,” Yeji says to you in a conspiratorial whisper. “He’s jumpy today.”
“I can tell,” you say, eyes flicking to his crooked tie. “Good morning, Mr Kim.”
He notices. Of course he does. “I was running late,” he mutters, and then he glances at your empty hands. “No coffee?”
“What,” you say lightly, “did you want me to get you one?”
He stiffens so hard you nearly laugh. “No. No. I just thought – never mind.”
You should leave it at that. You should walk to the elevators, get your seat in the press row, start preparing the notes you need. But something makes you linger; maybe the way he’s still holding his pen mid-air like he forgot what to do with it, maybe the faint pink rising at his collar.
“Rough morning?” you ask, tone neutral enough that you hope it passes for professional curiosity.
“Not rough,” he says quickly. “Just early. And I had to prep some stuff, and fix…” His hand twitches uselessly toward his tie. “This.”
He looks so mildly defeated you almost feel bad.
“Come here,” you sigh, stepping closer before you can talk yourself out of it.
His eyes widen. “What are you—”
“Relax,” you say. He goes still – like he thinks if he moves you’ll vanish – and you straighten the knot with the same brisk efficiency you use on your own clothes before interviews. He blinks down at you, and it’s a mistake to look up at him because suddenly the distance between you feels a little too charged.
“There,” you blurt, a little too loud, stepping back quickly.
“Thank you,” he says, too soft for the lobby. Then he tries to recover, clearing his throat, straightening his spine. “I could have done it myself.”
“No,” you say, heading for the elevators before either of you gets stupid. “You really couldn’t have.”
He follows automatically, matching your pace without thinking. You wish he wouldn’t do that – not because you mind, but because your cheeks are still burning, and you can still feel the ghost of his warmth under your fingertips.
“You’re early,” he says, voice settling back into something steadier. “I thought you hated mornings.”
“I do,” you admit. “But I needed time to re-read the testimony from the other day.”
“Ah.” He exhales. “Good luck. It put half my team to sleep last night.”
“Tell them to eat more almonds.”
The corner of his mouth tilts up. “Was that a joke?”
“Don’t get used to it.”
It keeps happening.
You don’t plan to run into him every morning. You tell yourself that constantly. But you leave home at the same time, and catch the same bus,and the courthouse security line always moves faster than you expect, and Mingyu always, always seems to step into the lobby within thirty seconds of you.
Today, he approaches from behind while you’re staring at the display on a broken vending machine.
“Miss ___,” he greets, with a faint smile. “You look like you’d rather be anywhere else.”
You don’t jump; you refuse to give him that satisfaction. “Do I? I guess I’m too obvious.”
He snorts. “You hate it that much?”
“No,” you say, in a bland tone that obviously means yes. “I’m just waiting for my editor to text me back.”
“Do you need a second opinion?” he asks, already sipping his coffee.
“On my editor’s competence or my writing?”
“Both.”
You let out a laugh. It’s bright, rings through the lobby a little louder than you mean it to. And when you look over at him –
God.
He’s looking at you like he wasn’t prepared for the sound. Like it hit him somewhere unexpected. His expression softens, just slightly, before he pulls it back. You watch it happen, the warmth fading just a little, smile turning down the tiniest bit.
You look away first.
You always do.
An intern or something rushes over with a folder, interrupting the moment as quickly as it appeared. Mingyu takes it, thanks her, and turns back to you.
“I should go.”
“Of course.” You hesitate. “See you in court, Mr Kim.”
He lingers a second, like he wants to say something else.
He doesn’t. He leaves instead, shoulders straighter than before.
You exhale only after he’s out of sight.
It’s one week later, you’re on your way back from the bathroom, typing notes on your phone, when you nearly collide with him as he’s rounding the corner.
Mingyu steadies you before you stumble, one hand hovering near your elbow without actually touching.
You freeze. So does he.
“You alright?” he asks.
“Fine.” Too fast. Too clipped. You clear your throat, try again. “Fine. Thank you.”
He withdraws his hand immediately, stepping back as if he’s not sure how close he’s allowed to be. You can see the calculation behind his eyes; professional boundaries, reporters everywhere.
Except there aren’t reporters everywhere – not right now, at least. Not in this narrow hallway behind the stairwell, empty except for the two of you and the quiet hum of the fluorescent hallway lights.
He seems to realize that at the exact same moment you do.
You clear your throat again, tucking your phone into your bag. “Sorry. I wasn’t looking.”
“No,” he says. “No, it’s fine. I wasn’t, either.”
The air feels different – heavier, somehow. Neither of you moves.
He looks unusually… unsure. Mingyu rarely looks unsure. You’re used to seeing the confident version of him: the prosecutor, the man who can dismantle a witness with three clean questions. Occasionally, you see the slightly clumsy version of him, a little more light-hearted.
But right now, his voice is lower, softer, more hesitant than ever.
“Long day?” he asks.
“Same as any other.”
“Right,” he says, but it’s not really agreement, it’s more like he’s buying time, trying to settle himself.
You shift your weight. He looks down when you move, then up again, slowly, as if tracking you is involuntary.
God, why does the hallway suddenly feel so small?
“Your tie is crooked again,” you blurt.
You want to smack yourself.
He blinks, glancing down with widened eyes. “Is it?”
You should say it’s fine and move on. You should turn, keep walking, go anywhere else except closer to him.
But you don’t. A beat slips between you, long enough you could step away, long enough he could laugh, long enough for both of you to choose sense over impulse.
Neither of you chooses it.
“May I?” The question leaves your mouth before your brain approves it.
He inhales, sharply, quietly, and the only reason you hear it is because of the silence between you - and then he nods once.
You step closer. Close enough to smell the faint starch of his shirt, the ghost of coffee on his breath. Your fingers brush the fabric of his tie, and it feels different to last week. Feels even more tense, with nobody around, no clerk laughing at his clumsiness.
His breath hitches.
When you look up – the same mistake – he’s already looking down at you. There’s something in his expression he never lets slip in court, very rarely lets slip outside. It’s quiet and warm and unguarded, pooling in his brown eyes.
Your hand is still on his tie. You straighten it slowly, but don’t quite pull back. His hand raises, hovering near your hip. Like he wants to close the distance but knows he shouldn’t.
“Miss ___,” he says, but it comes out like your first name. Like he forgets halfway through that he isn’t supposed to say it so gently.
“Mhm?” Your voice barely works.
“We’re…” His jaw tightens. He swallows, and you follow the movement down his throat unconsciously. “We shouldn’t be this close.”
“I know.”
Neither of you moves.
He searches your face like he’s trying to memorise it – that, or he’s trying to convince himself to step back. His eyes drop to your mouth for one split second.
It’s enough.
Heat rushes to your face. Your heart kicks so hard you swear he can hear it, feel it in the air between you, and then you’re leaning in, and he is, too. Noses are inches apart, breaths mingling.
And then – he stops. You stop. Or you stop, and then he stops, you’re not quite sure. It feels simultaneous; if someone had done it first, it’d only be by a millisecond.
Either way, the moment cracks like thin ice.
You pull back first, hand dropping from his tie as if burned. Mingyu steps away so quickly he nearly hits the wall. His breath leaves him in one unsteady exhale he tries and fails to disguise.
“I shouldn’t – ” he starts, voice rough. He clears his throat, tries again. “We can’t.”
“I know,” you whisper.
He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling hard, composure unraveling in a way you’ve never seen. It makes something twist painfully, sharply, inside your chest.
“If I could…” he begins.
You look up.
“If I could,” he says again, lower now, some kind of urgency pushing his words into the space between you. “I would.”
You can’t breathe.
“But I can’t,” he adds quickly, too quickly, like if he doesn’t say it immediately he’ll lose the ability to say it at all. “Not while you’re covering this case. Not while I’m –” He gestures vaguely to the courtroom, to the entire world you both have to answer to, at least for now. “You know why.”
You nod. Because you do know, you’ve always known. “I get it,” you say softly.
He steps back another inch, like distance is the only thing keeping him sane. “I should go,” he says, then, and you don’t stop him. Just watch him leave, noting through your daze how tight his shoulders are, how rigid his steps are.
When he disappears around the corner, you finally let yourself exhale.
By the time you make it home that night, your legs feel like someone else’s. The walk from the bus stop is only seven minutes, but it stretches out, heavy, your thoughts just racing further with every step.
Ryujin is sprawled on the couch when you walk in, laptop open, hair perched in a precarious bun at the top of her head. She peeks over the screen the moment she hears the door.
“You’re home late,” she says. “What’d the justice system do to you this time? Suck the remaining life out of you?”
You drop your bag by the coat rack. “Basically.”
Ryujin narrows her eyes in exaggerated suspicion. “You didn’t answer my text earlier.”
“I was busy.”
“With court stuff,” she says, as if warming up to a theory she’s been itching to present all day. “Or with your favourite lawyer?”
She says it with a deep, smug, knowing tone.
You glare at her. “He’s not my favourite lawyer.”
“Uh-huh.” She closes her laptop halfway, leaning her chin on her palm. “You’re lying poorly again. Want to try that sentence one more time with dignity?”
You toe off your shoes and join her on the couch, sinking into the cushion like it’s been years since you last sat down. “There’s nothing going on.”
Ryujin doesn’t blink. “Yet.”
You grab a throw pillow and smack her with it. “Not yet, not ever,” you correct. “At least, not until I get rid of this stupid job.”
“And is that in the cards any time soon?”
You stare at the ceiling for a moment, listening to the faint hum of the fridge. You knew this conversation would happen eventually. You just thought you’d have more time to figure out what you want.
“I’ve been applying for new jobs since before this case started,” you admit.
Ryujin sits up straighter. “Wait. Really?”
“Yes.” You chew on the inside of your cheek. “I like writing. You know I do. I just don’t think this lane is where I want to stay. The court stuff, it’s interesting, but it’s not what I got into journalism for. You know that.”
Ryujin blinks, processing. “So this isn’t about him.”
“No,” you say. “It’s not. I’d do this whether I’d met him or not.”
She watches you carefully, long enough that you start to feel exposed under it, then she nods. “Okay. Good. Because quitting a whole career path for a guy would be stupid.”
“You’re very supportive,” you deadpan. “Weren’t you the one going on about oh, the love of your life or a job you hate?”
“I wasn’t serious, you know that. I’m realistic,” she counters, kicking your shin gently. “But if you’ve been unhappy, then yeah! Leave. Apply to every job. Apply to the ones you don’t even want. Chaos is free.”
You laugh, weak but genuine.
“And…” Ryujin raises her brows, voice shifting softer. “It does make it easier for you to go ahead, and, you know. Ask out the man of your dreams.”
You cover your face with your hands. “It’s – he is not – ”
“He absolutely is,” she says. “But that’s fine. We’re not judging. We’re just stating things accurately.”
“Just because I quit doesn’t mean we’re going to magically live happily ever after. He might not even like me like that.” You know that’s not true, especially after today. Still, you hate how much you sound like you’re back in high school.
“You sound like you’re back in high school.”
You groan, sliding down the couch until your head rests against the armrest. “I hate you.”
Ryujin pats your knee affectionately. “No you don’t. You love me. I’m wise.”
“You’re annoying.”
“I am large. I contain multitudes.”
You stare at the ceiling again, but this time, it feels a little lighter. Less like the world is closing in, more like it’s shifting forward.
Ryujin nudges you with her foot. “So. New jobs. What are we looking for?”
You hesitate, but only for a second, because you’ve thought about it so much. “Something with more features. Maybe like, one of those, you know, fancy arts magazines. Or the literature stuff.”
Her grin spreads slow and pleased. “Then we’ll find it. Easy.”
You know it’s not easy – it’s been weeks of sending applications into the void – but the conviction in her voice warms something inside you.
“And hey,” she adds, sitting back with her laptop. “If your tall hot lawyer happens to read your award-winning future articles and regret the day he ever let you walk away, that’s his problem.”
You throw another pillow at her face, and she catches it, triumphant.
You’re not expecting to see anyone from the courthouse on a Saturday morning, least of all Mingyu. The café is a good twenty minutes away from the district building, far enough away that you don’t get any familiar faces whenever you come here to work, except when you drag Ryujin with you.
Today, though, it’s just you, your laptop, a croissant, and yet another job application form. You’re halfway through uploading some of your writing samples when the bell over the café door jingles.
You don’t look up, not until you hear a familiar voice say, “You have got to be kidding me.”
Your fingers freeze over your keyboard.
You raise your eyes slowly. Mingyu stands in the doorway, holding an iced Americano and wearing glasses you’ve never seen before, round, thin-framed, unfairly flattering. His hair is slightly messy, like he didn’t bother styling it for once, and for once, he’s not wearing a suit.
“You’re following me,” you say, because it’s the first thing your mouth decides to go with.
He huffs. “Do you really think I have time for that?”
You close your laptop halfway. “Compelling argument, Mr Kim.”
He winces. “Please don’t call me that here. It’s Saturday.”
You can’t help laughing, and the sound makes him stop mid-step, just for a beat, barely noticeable. His expression softens as he moves toward your table.
“You working?” he asks, nodding at your laptop.
“Trying to,” you reply. “Not court stuff, so don’t worry.”
He hesitates, standing there with his coffee, shifting his weight. “Mind if I…?” He gestures vaguely to the empty seat across from you.
And this – this is where you should say no. Because it’s weird. Because you spend too much time in hallways and lobbies together already, because you almost kissed the last time you were alone together.
But he’s looking at you with hopeful eyebrows, and it’s Saturday, and you’re tired of replaying the same loops in your head.
“Sure,” you say lightly, but as he sits, you angle your laptop away from him without thinking. He notices.
“I’m not trying to peek,” he says, hands raised in surrender.
You smile. “I didn’t think you were.”
There’s a brief lull as he unwraps his straw, stirs his drink, takes a sip. Something about the normalcy of it, the absence of suits, no fluorescent lighting hanging above you – it feels absurdly intimate.
“So am I allowed to ask what you’re working on that’s not court stuff?” he asks. “Creative writing? Exposé about the corruption of local cafés?”
Your eyes widen, feeling caught.
He blinks at your silence, and you see him withdraw just the tiniest bit, a smile plastered on his face. “You don’t have to tell me, you know.”
“Job applications,” you say before you can soften it.
His eyebrows shoot up, surprise breaking across his features. “You’re leaving City News?”
You sigh, pushing a hand through your hair. “Trying to.”
He sits up abruptly. “Why?”
You lean back a little, startled by his sudden change in tone, almost harsh. “What?”
“Listen,” he says, urgently, quickly. “If this is about – last week.”
“What,” you say slowly, raising an eyebrow. If he won’t say it, you will. “When we almost kissed?”
His cheeks redden, but he pushes forward. “Yes, that. If this is about that, then don’t – I mean, it shouldn’t have happened.”
It feels like something cold is dousing your chest, trickling down into the pit of your stomach. “I know that.”
“Because we’re in the middle of an active case.” He insists on continuing, like he hasn't heard you. “It wouldn’t be right, you know that. And besides, it was just – it was bad timing. A mistake. We were, you know, exhausted, and we’ve always been friendly, but you don’t have to le–”
You cut him off. “A mistake?”
“I’m trying to say, you don’t have to quit just because of that. It wouldn’t be right. We can just forget it ever happened!”
You’re still hung up on that word. A mistake. “I’m sorry,” you say, letting out a derisive snort. “If I could, I would – isn’t that what you said? And now it’s suddenly just a mistake?”
Mingyu’s eyes widen, like he’s just realising he’s done something wrong. Like he’s just realising he’s misunderstood this whole entire thing.
“For your information, Mr Kim, I’ve been applying for new jobs for over a month,” you bite out, shoving your stuff into your bag. “It has nothing to do with you, or whatever mistake we made last week.”
“Wait – wait, ___,” he starts, but you don’t let him finish.
“Listen, if you want to forget about it, feel free. Consider it done. I’ll never bring it up again, and once I get my new job, you never have to see my face again.” You’re tired, embarrassed, angry, and all of it knots together inside your chest. “I’ll see you in court, Mr Kim.”
He doesn’t come after you.
You don’t expect the silence to be this absolute.
A part of you thinks that once you step back into the courtroom, once you’re surrounded by clerks and attorneys and the usual shuffle of papers, things will fall back into their familiar rhythm, that he’ll make some quiet comment as he passes your table, or nod in that way that’s half-greeting, half-habit.
Instead, Mingyu barely looks at you.
The first time you see him after the argument, he’s already leafing through a binder. His expression is the same one he wears for every session in court: composed, serious, utterly focused. But he doesn’t lift his gaze when you walk in – not when you take your seat, not even when you have to shift your chair because one of your colleagues squeezes past, the scrape of the metal legs loud against the tile.
You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You tell yourself it’s for the best.
You tell yourself that yesterday’s email, beginning with Congratulations! means you won’t have to do this for much longer. Except then, outside the courtroom, you ask a follow-up question to something your co-worker asks, and when he replies, your stomach twists because you can hear the difference.
He talks to you the way he talks to every other reporter in the room.
When court breaks, you linger by the aisle to avoid crossing paths. It works for exactly two minutes, until a clerk tries to hand you a set of documents and they slip, scattering across the floor. You kneel to gather them at the same moment someone else does.
Long fingers. A watch you’ve teased him about before.
You stop.
Mingyu hovers for half a second, clearly debating whether to continue. Then, very slowly, painfully slowly, he puts the pile he’s gathered down, retracts his hand and stands.
“I’ll let you take those,” he says, softly.
“Thank you,” you answer, eyes fixed on the papers, pulse loud in your ears.
You don’t look up. You can’t.
He steps away, shoes quiet against the polished floor.
The ink on the papers blur for a second, and you blink hard, blaming the courtroom’s dry air. You breathe again only when the door closes behind him.
Time passes, and the distance settles into a horrible routine.
He holds doors open for everyone, including you, without pausing or meeting your eye. When he makes an objection that gets sustained, you don’t let yourself smile. When he wins a point you predicted he would, you don’t feel the same sense of satisfaction. When he glances up mid-argument, you keep your gaze locked on your laptop.
On one of the later days, he falters, just for a moment – mid-sentence, his breath catches on a word. No one else notices, but you do, and you reflexively look up, his eyes are on you. There’s a beat, and then he continues speaking, steady and smooth as ever, but that single slip echoes inside you.
By the last day of trial, the courthouse feels different.
Not quieter – if anything, it’s louder, people sliding through hallways with more purpose than usual – but the air around you feels muted. As if you’re wrapped in thick cotton, watching everything from a half-step removed.
And maybe that’s because you spend the entire morning doing what you’ve perfected over the past week: not looking at Kim Mingyu. Not unless you absolutely, professionally must.
He doesn’t look at you either. Not unless he absolutely, professionally must.
When you enter the courtroom, he’s already sitting, files arranged in his impossibly neat stack, suit crisp, expression unreadably calm. You don’t let your gaze linger. You don’t give yourself that indulgence. Instead you slide into the press row, notebook out, pen ready.
The judge enters. Everyone rises. Everyone sits.
You take notes mechanically, fingers moving on their own. Working without really thinking, just trying your best to keep your focus away from him, as you have been over the past few weeks. You focus on the defendant instead, on the closing arguments, anything but him.
But Mingyu, of course, makes that impossible.
He stands to deliver the prosecution’s final statement, and even though you stare fixedly at the edge of your notebook, you hear every word, clear, steady, composed. He’s good. More than good. Same as he always is.
Your pen slips once, leaving a long ink drag across the margin.
When he returns to his seat, you don’t look up, you keep writing.
You try not to hear your pulse.
The afternoon stretches. The jury is out deliberating, leaving everyone suspended in that suffocating pre-verdict limbo. Some reporters mingle in the hallway. Others type up summaries. You sit on a bench outside the courtroom, laptop open, pretending to fine-tune your article when really you’re trying not to look down the hall.
Because he’s there, talking to someone on his team, looking completely collected – except for the way he keeps rubbing the back of his neck like he’s trying to ease out the tension.
You shouldn’t notice that, and you shouldn’t know that gesture as well as you do.
Ryujin messages you once – still going ok? want me to bring u a coffee?? – and you send back a short, all good, last day anyway. She doesn’t push.
You sigh, keep your head down, but eventually, your eyes pull upward on their own. Just for a second. Just to confirm that he’s still there, that he’s –
He’s looking at you.
Only for a moment, but it’s enough that you jolt, like you’ve been caught doing something wrong. You drop your gaze so fast your whole body jerks with the movement, your laptop screen wobbling.
The distance between you feels like a physical thing, thick, uncomfortable, heavy with everything unsaid. And after so much of it, you’re beginning to realize something awful:
You miss him.
You miss teasing him in the lobby. You miss his quick quips, you miss the way he’d accidentally catch your eye in court. The way he’d nod at you in greeting whenever he passed by, the faintest of smiles on his lips.
You press your fingers to your temple. You brought this on yourself, you know that. For some reason, it doesn’t make it easier.
It’s late afternoon when the jury returns.
Everyone shuffles back inside, and the verdict is delivered, a mixture of charges upheld, others dismissed. You type each one out dutifully to draft up later, but you don’t have much interest in your screen. You already know this is your last case to cover, possibly your last time in this courtroom.
When court adjourns, the room splits into a hum of conversation. Attorneys shake hands, reporters drift forward, and you close your laptop slowly. You’re not in a rush, but you don’t have good reason to linger either.
You pack your bag, slip past a cluster of colleagues, and make for the aisle. You almost make it out without a word to anyone, which is quite a feat, but then Mingyu steps, ever so carefully, into your path. His expression is careful,gentle around the edges, but careful. Walking on eggshells.
“Hey,” he says, quietly. He opens his mouth, closes it, wets his lips with his tongue, and finally settles on – “Good work.”
You swallow, throat tight. “You too.”
He nods once, like he expected that. Like he doesn’t expect anything else from you anymore. And then someone’s calling his name from across the room, another attorney, and your phone starts buzzing, and the moment breaks.
Mingyu steps back. Offers you a polite, nearly formal incline of his head, and then he’s gone.
Good work.
Two weeks pass before you set foot in the courthouse again.
You tell yourself it won’t feel strange. You’re here to pick up a few documents, one last errand for City News, nothing more. Nothing to do with prosecutors or defence attorneys or even Lee Junhyeon. Nothing to do with Mingyu, either.
The courthouse looks the same when you approach it, though: winter sun catching on its windows, the wide stone steps as familiar as always. Inside, the lobby buzzes with the usual noise, heels, echoing voices.
You focus on the desk you need to get to. You focus on not looking around. You almost pull it off, chatting to the clerk, Yeji, about your new job with a smile. Chaeryeong comes up behind you both. “___!” she says. “What are you doing here?”
“She’s quitting,” Yeji answers for you, beaming. Even she knew how much you wanted to leave.”She’s going to work at one of those fancy arts and culture magazines.”
“No shit,” Chaeryeong says, admiringly. “You got a new job?”
And then you hear Mingyu, somewhere to your side.
Of course you hear Mingyu. His voice stands out even when you don’t want it to.
“Really?” he asks, soft in a way that hits you low in the stomach. “Where?”
Your throat tightens, half nerves, half guilt. You hadn’t planned to tell him. You hadn’t planned to avoid telling him, either. It was just so much easier this way.
Yeji opens her mouth, probably to answer, but she must see your face, and closes it, suddenly standing up and grabbing Chaeryeong’s hand. “We’re going to, uh. Go do our job. Somewhere else.” And they disappear down the hallway before you can even say anything.
You turn, and for one awful, suspended second, you and Mingyu stare at each other across the lobby. There’s surprise on his face first, then relief, then something unreadable that he very quickly pushes away. He steps toward you, and you force your spine straighter.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi.”
Silence stretches, thin and taut.
You exhale through your nose. “I didn’t know you were here today.”
“I could say the same,” he replies. “I thought – ” He stops, shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter.”
You nod. Another silence. It’s not the comfortable kind you used to share, this one is awkward and delicate.
“Congrats,” he says finally. “On the new job.”
“Thank you,” you reply. “I’m excited.”
“You should be.” He means it; you can tell. “It’s a good move for you.”
You swallow. “Listen, Mr –” you start, and then change your mind. “Mingyu. About the other day, in the café. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that. I’m sorry.”
“No,” he says, quickly, eagerly. “I’m sorry. I messed up my words, you had every right to be upset.”
“I still shouldn’t have said it like I did,” you say. “You didn’t deserve that.”
His mouth curves. “Maybe a little.”
You huff out a breath that’s an excuse for a laugh, hands tightening around the strap of your bag. You want to say more, but the words won’t come. And even if they did, this isn’t the place. Not with clerks walking by and the elevator dinging open and shut, not with the ghosts of the last few weeks crowding the air between you.
“I should get going,” you say instead.
“Right. Of course.”
You turn first. You always turn first. You walk toward the exit, and you don’t look back, even though you want to, even though everything in you pulls tight at the thought of leaving things like this again.
The courthouse doors swing open. Morning light spills across the steps. You’re halfway down when you hear your name, called after you.
You stop.
Mingyu’s footsteps are quick, uneven, like he didn’t think before he moved. When you pivot, he’s there, eyes wide, tie, as always, crooked.
“Wait,” Mingyu says, slightly breathless. And he’s looking at you with that expression he never lets slip in court: unguarded, earnest, a little scared and a lot certain. “___,” he says softly, stepping closer. “I know the timing is awful,” he says, voice low but steady.
“The timing is always awful,” you agree, but you’re smiling.
His lips twitch slightly in response, but then he’s serious again. “I don’t want to leave things like this.”
Your pulse stutters.
“And I know we said we needed boundaries before,” he continues quickly, pushing on like he’s afraid you’re going to take flight. “We were right. But you’re not covering my cases anymore. And I’m not your source. And – ” He stops, exhales hard. “Can I take you to dinner?”
The world hangs still.
Not the courthouse behind you or the street below or the people passing, just the two of you and the question he finally asks.
You blink at him.
Then:
“Yeah,” you say, the word soft but sure. “You can.”
Relief unfurls across his features, warm and bright and so unmistakably Mingyu that your chest aches.
“Okay,” he says, almost laughing under his breath. “Okay. Great.”
“Great,” you echo, failing to control the smile that spread across your face.
He stands there a moment longer, like he’s afraid you’ll change your mind. You meet his eyes, really meet them, and something settles between you both, warmer and sweeter than ever.
a/n: i was struggling w/ ideas initially but i remembered a convo em and i had like Forever ago about how smart mingyu is and i was like. let me do something with that. and this is what came out. anyway. happy birthday to em. i love u.
Genre: Angst, Smut, Fluff, exes to co-parents to lovers au, second chances au.
Synopsis: Jeon Wonwoo, the calmest and untainted CEO to ever exist, gets his world shaken up when he finds you as the legal department head at his own company and your only registered family is a little guy who resembles him a bit too much.
Alternatively, you are smooth in onboarding Wonwoo into your son's life but problems arise when he tries to slide back into yours.
Warnings: Themes of co parenting, mentions of past difficult pregnancy, misogynistic slurs being used at workplace, wonwoo suffers from hyperventilation once, reader suffers from gastroenteritis, reader questions herself a lot, secret identity, workplace jargons.
Word Count: 11k
This fic is a part of THAT'S SHOWBIZ, BABY! Collab which also marks my first time participating in an event. Please support all the fics in the Collab!
Thanks again to @lovetaroandtaemin , Ally for coming up with this beautiful banner!
[ SVT Masterlist ] [ SVT Flick - Fic Masterlist]
Teaser | Part 1 | Final
“What are you doing here alone, little guy?”
Wonwoo wasn't supposed to visit the headquarters today but a sudden rescheduling of an important meeting had him rushing in.
With the meeting ending sooner than expected, he decides to spend some time in the gaming zone, in hopes of not to be seen by any of the employees.
And to his surprise, it isn't an employee he bumps into, it is a little boy wearing specs bigger than the size of his face.
And he reminds Wonwoo so much of himself.
Wonwoo crouches down to his level and asks, “Are you lost? Who did you come here with?”
The boy looks at him wide eyed.
“I'll contact the security team.”, his secretary, Mr. Jung informs promptly.
Wonwoo smiles as he ruffles the boy’s hair. It's astonishing, the way he feels extremely inclined towards the tiny human.
“What's your name?”
Seeing the reluctance, he decides to approach the boy with something that might pique his interest.
“Do you like playing games?”
And that works, the boy nods politely as his eyes light up and Wonwoo fights off all his urges to squish his cheeks.
“Let's play until that uncle”, he points towards Mr. Jung, “finds your family or relatives to get you.”
It was supposed to be a normal busy day at the company. The edifice echoes constant clicking of shoes, hushed murmurs and flipping of pages.
It is all good so far until a phrase starts spreading floor by floor, gets passed up in the canteen, being told in the cubicles.
‘Did you see a kid roaming in the building? He looks like a little carbon copy of our CEO, Mr. Jeon.’
Your heart thumps as you overhear your colleagues from behind the closed bathroom door. It can't be, you say to yourself. You pull up your phone to read the clauses stated in the company portal under the tab ‘Policies’. You are not allowed to bring your family to the premises unless there's an occasion or you're explicitly required and instructed to do so, states the rules.
Relief floods your senses, there's no way your son would be brought and led inside the building on a regular workday, that too without your knowledge or consent.
The day goes on as you submerge yourself in preparing a lawsuit against an accuser for trying to damage the reputation of the company and sabotaging the career of an artist under it by staging false allegations.
It's lunchtime and you're still reviewing the drafts when there's a knock on the cabin door. Your gaze doesn't even lift from the screen when Mr. Joo enters. You suppress your urge to roll your eyes, preparing yourself to be bombed with another set of misogynistic slurs being inserted after each line the old man says.
You've been recruited as the head of the legal department for unarguably the best in the entertainment and music industry, The Carat Company, eight months ago. And Mr. Joo who was so sure about getting promoted as the head, the position he eyed for (more than worked for) couldn't quite accept an outsider that too a woman who's much younger than him to snatch something from him which was never his to begin with.
You wonder how long until your tolerance runs dry and the man in front gets slammed by a lawsuit which wouldn't only end up with him losing his job.
After a draining ten minutes conversation with Mr. Joo, you head towards the canteen. You find your group at the table, as always saving you a seat.
“My son has a fancy dress competition at his school today. He went dressed up as Harry Potter.”, Sunjae from the IT department recites, taking out his phone and showing the pictures his wife has sent him. Everyone at the table coos at the cuteness.
The chattering continues with you all catching up on work, workplace gossip and family tales.
“My daughter hasn't been feeling well, I'll be clocking out early today.”, Sooji from the marketing department says, concern evident in her voice. You all nod in unison, even urging her to leave post lunch.
A sad smile splits onto your lips. You too want to show how cute Wonjae looked when you dressed him up for the picnic you both went to last week. Everyone knows that you're a single mother and that you've a son. That he's an intelligent kid, that he's the bundle of joy that shines in your life. But that's all they get to know because you want to keep it lowkey.
How could you show him to them when he looks exactly like his father? That he's more like Wonwoo than Wonwoo himself. Same Wonwoo, who's also the CEO of the company you are working at. Records would give away that you both attended the same university, practically batchmates, shared lectures. You're afraid of any digital footprints either of you could have left behind. You can't afford to shake up any rumours.
Prior to applying for this job, you had taken time, there were months of mental preparation before you sent across the application. You had no choice but to succumb to this economy and walk into the lion’s den.
Now everyday before leaving the house, you pray not to cross paths with Wonwoo. You wonder if he'd even recognise you, you don't want him to but there's an ache in your heart at the thought of it.
“I saw a kid roaming in our block. You won't believe at a glance I thought he's the son of Mr. Jeon.”, Sunjae recollects.
“Mr. Jeon isn't even married.”, Yoongi, from finance deadpans, “Though you don't need to be married to make a–”
Collective shushes make him shut up.
It piques your interest, you wonder who it could be until your phone buzzes with a call from Jihoon, the HR Manager.
And you're panting, down on your knees as you see your son, Wonjae standing in front of you.
“How did you get here?”, you ask the little boy, who stares at you with glossy eyes and jutted lips.
“Are you angry at me, mama?”, he asks with a quiver in his voice and your heart sinks.
You give him soft kisses on his forehead, patting his arms gently, “Jae, I'm not angry, I just want to know what happened.”
“I brought him here, Y/N.”, Jeonghan steps up and says with his head hung low, “I'm sorry.”
You sigh and get up rubbing your temples.
“Jae said he wanted to see the place where you work. I thought I could give him a quick tour, as getting permission won't be a problem.”, Jeonghan continues, “I brought him here only after confirming that Wonwoo won't come to office today.”
“And you didn't think of informing me?”, you ask using your strict voice, causing Jeonghan to cower a bit, “How did he end up roaming alone around the entire office?”
“I got a call when I was walking him through the gaming zone and it went on for a while. When I hung up, he was gone. After searching for a bit, I had to run by the security division and found him through the CCTVs.”, Jeonghan grimaces, “I'm really sorry, Y/N.”
Jeonghan and you, go way back. He's a prominent and popular artist under the company but you were friends, well to be precise he was Wonwoo's friend and you knew Jeonghan through him during the university days. Then circumstances caused you to cut ties with him. It was two weeks ago when Jeonghan (another person you wanted to avoid) found you while taking the same elevator.
And he didn't let you slip away. You hated how persuasive he was because he made you spill your life out which you don't do with others. It enraged you that he didn't even have to be perceptive to know who Wonjae’s father was.
“The entire office is talking about him, Jeonghan.”, you whine out in defeat.
“And that's not the worst part, Y/N.”, Jihoon who was watching the scene, the one who called you, the only one in the office who without any prior connection to you knows about your situation, articulates, “I found Wonjae inside the CEO’s office. He was playing Jenga with Mr. Jeon. I took him by saying he's the son of one of the new crew members.”
The ground beneath you slips. Everyone watches you holding their breaths. Your mind runs miles, producing hundreds and thousands of thoughts. And this moment of truth makes you question everything.
Were you too numbed by the pain of your miseries that you neglected your son's wants? What if he wants his father in his life? What if he hates you for not letting him be with his father? What if–
A little pair of hands grabbing yours, breaks your reverie.
“Mama, I'm sorry.”, Wonjae cries, waddling a bit towards you, hugging your legs.
You collapse on the floor, embracing your son tighter, letting your own tears fall. You rarely cry, tears are a luxury, you think. But today, maybe the tears are falling because you can't bottle up anymore.
You pull away, wiping his tears, “Shhh. Don't cry, I'm not upset.”
The trembles subsides and Wonjae hugs you again, face planted against your chest. It's a habit, he hides his face and complains, “Papa bumped into me, I almost fell.”
You listen quietly, caressing his back.
“Then he took me to his office.”, you see him swaying his right hand in the air, “I told him my name and age but I didn't tell him about you, mama.”
Wonjae takes a lot after his father, in his appearance, stances and habits. He is calm, patient and has better intelligence and emotional quotient compared to the kids of this age. He knows about his father, he understands that there must be a reason behind his parents not living together unlike his friends’.
And most importantly, he trusts you. He knows whatever you do, it will be for his good, so he's compliant and obedient.
“Mama, can we go home?”, he says yawning, “I want to sleep.”
You understand, you get it. Wonjae has seen his father countless times on the screens and the covers but today was the first time he met him. Knowing your little guy, you know that he has used all of his brain capacities today in spending time with his father. So you'd let him rest today.
The conversation you want to have with him, has to be shelved tonight. It's something you'd have to thread carefully with Wonjae.
And after dinner when your son falls asleep, you stay wide awake.
Maybe, you can't avoid Wonwoo all your life. And maybe, you shouldn't avoid Wonwoo anymore.
You wonder if certain strings of incidents are bound to happen. It was last week only when your son met his father and today, it seems you'd be meeting your past lover.
A sudden allegation about copyrights being charged against the company, an emergency board meeting and now a briefing about the legal action items to dissolve the matter.
And being the legal head, you'd be leading the meeting. You look at your reflection in the mirror, chanting the same words in your mind. You understand the gravity of the situation, the urgency it holds because within the months of your joining, this is the first time you'll be directly reporting to the CEO.
You think Wonwoo wouldn't recognise you. A mere fling, that's what you were to him after all. And even if he does, it would be best in his interest to ignore.
Wonwoo enters the meeting room and you find your gaze fixated upon him and it brings back all the memories.
You don't meet his eyes when his secretary introduces you both but you do feel the touch of his hand lingering longer on yours.
The meeting goes on and you're proud of yourself for not becoming a mess under his gaze. There are no questions from him, he just listens to what you offer and you take it as a good sign.
“I'll prepare the draft version of the clauses and send across to you, Mr. Jung.”, you say standing up from your seat while sizing the papers laying on the table, “It shouldn't be a major threat because I have found some discrepancies in their lawsuit, they most probably want to stir up some buzz about themselves and make some money out of it.”
Mr. Jung nods, “I'll be expecting the final draft today, we can discuss it further.”
You take it as a sign to take a leave. You walk out of the meeting room only to slide into the next empty one you found because your legs almost give up. You take deep breaths, drink water and assure yourself that it's not a big deal. You're sure that Wonwoo would want no business with–
The door opens and you freeze.
It's Wonwoo who's standing on the threshold.
“Y/N”, he calls out your name with so much vulnerability that it makes your heart twist with an ache.
“I never thought I'd find you again.”, he says almost breathlessly.
“Sorry, I know seeing me again caused a lot of disappointment.”, you blurt out even before thinking and sigh, “I did apply here knowing that it's your company but be assured I didn't come here because of you.”
You could see his face drop and he's about to open his mouth to speak again but you beat him, saying, “Mr. Jeon, if you'd excuse me, I have a meeting in five minutes.”
Wonwoo says nothing but just as you cross him to walk out of the room, he grabs your arm.
And he looks at you holding an unspoken plea in his eyes, while yours glare back at him. Your eyes hold the same intensity, Wonwoo thinks.
“I don't think what you're doing is appropriate, Mr. Jeon.”, you articulate, trying to free your arm from his firm grip, “Let me go.”
While you successfully yank out your arm, his next words leave your head spinning.
“I'll let you go now but we'll be seeing each other often from now on, Y/N.”
And he is true to his words.
The employees are confused, the legal department is in uproar. Why is the CEO visiting their department every other day?
“Y/N, is there something serious going on within your department?”, Yoongi asks oneday, during lunch, “I thought the copyright allegation lawsuit was resolved.”
You feel like banging your head on the very first surface you lay your eyes on. Wonwoo has been trying to talk to you and honestly if he wanted he could summon you anytime and you would have no other choice but to oblige. But you don't get what he's trying to establish by making trips throughout the office, especially the legal department.
“There are some ongoing issues which might escalate if not taken care of right now, so we're having rounds of discussion.”, you lie through your teeth, hoping for Yoongi to believe it.
Yoongi nods but he in fact does not believe it. Because you may not be aware, but he is, aware of the fact that you have a son, about whom when asked you always dodge the topic. He has seen Wonjae one night walking down the streets of the market with you. It wasn't something very peculiar until he found out that you have studied at the same university as Wonwoo, the graduation year matching as well. He didn't make his presence known, he just watched. He has a hunch that there's a past that you've been trying to bury so earnestly. That's why he doesn't pry.
Work is done for the day and you drive to your favourite spot, in hopes of getting a breather, a break from all the chaos.
“Sorry to interrupt your alone time.”, you hear a very familiar voice and smile instantly.
“You're not interrupting anything if we had decided to meet here, Chanie.”
Chan walks upto beside and leans against the railing, watching the city lights blaze underneath.
“How's everything going?”
“I don't know, but one thing for sure, this is something I don't want to do at all.”, he answers with a tinge of agony in his voice.
Lee Chan is the CEO of Sebong Corp., the company known to be a rival of The carat company. He is definitely someone who shouldn't have anything to do with you but you both go way long back. When he was still a student and you were just a law major who was working multiple part times while searching for a job.
You took pity on a student who always looked lost and saved him the food packets hiding from your boss only to give it to him when he made a routine tour to the store.
And that student almost cried out of gratitude whenever the pregnant worker sneaked him food late at night.
It goes on for a few months, until Chan reveals that he's actually a chaebol and in line to inherit the family business.
You were rendered speechless. But Chan was annoyingly sticky, he appeared whenever you worked begging for forgiveness until you gave in.
You wonder if you attract these kinda people.
Apart from Mina, he's the one who stayed by your side, always offering help if you ever needed and spoiling Wonjae whenever you would let him.
You are proud of how Chan is handling everything and still staying rooted to the ground.
“Next time, let me take you and Jae to a nice restaurant to eat.”, he suggests but frowns the next moment, “I doubt he'd even remember his one and only favourite uncle, it's been so long since we met.”
“True, why don't you come home over this weekend? I'll make you your favourite dishes.”
“Deal done.”, he beams and you turn to him and open your arms.
He instantly hugs you and you pat his back, “I'm so proud of you, Chanie. You're doing so well.”
He sighs, all the tension leaving his body, “Needed to hear this today, thanks.”
Not every bond has to be blood related, some go beyond everything.
“What's going on, Mr. Jeon?”, Mr. Jung asks as he notices Wonwoo spacing out again.
“You can drop the honorifics, Uncle.”, Wonwoo says in a lite tone. He slumps against the chair, his eyes fixating against the white wall of the ceiling, “It's her, Uncle. I had no idea she was working here.”
Mr. Jung’s expression solemns, “It explains your erratic behaviour. Did you get a chance to talk to her? Instead of going around the office, you could just summon her.”
“I have a lot to tell her, but where do I start?”, Wonwoo grimaces, “Wouldn't it be an abuse of authority to summon her for any personal agenda.”
Mr. Jung just nods.
“I have so much to say but at the same time I don't have any words that I could give out.”, He rubs his eyes, they're glistening, “Maybe, I just want to know how she has been because I am a selfish prick who needs to hear that the girl he dumped back then is unscathed so that he can be guilt ridden.”
He lets out a chuckle, “Honestly, I am just parading around the legal department because I get to see her, hear her voice and sometimes we even have a conversation because of work.”
“You say that you don't regret the choices you made. It certainly doesn't seem so.”
Wonwoo doesn't reply, he doesn't have an answer. He was doing just fine, living his life, doing his work diligently non stop for years. So what changes now?
It's late in the evening as the office empties out. There's a cramping pain in your stomach and you curse out when you discover that you've forgotten the medicines at home. You feel nauseous, there's a throbbing ache in your head and it intensifies everytime you look at the long chains of emails that sit inside the folders, all labelled with high importance and needing to be made some progress today.
You walk out of your cabin and enter the cafeteria to get some cookies as you call your son to inform him that you'll be going home late tonight. You tell him to do his homework and heat the food before eating. You also tell him to not wait for you and go to bed.
“Check the monitor first. Don't open the door to strangers.”, you remind him, “I love you, Bye.”
You hang up and get the fright of your life when you see Wonwoo standing beside you.
“Who was it?”, Wonwoo asks, his brows raised and arms crossed over his chest.
“W-What are you doing here?”, you ask panicked as you try to peep behind him, hoping no one sees the two of you.
“Let’s go to your cabin, I need to talk to you.”, he says and waits for your rejection because he knows there's no way you're willing to talk to him.
But you agree and now you're both inside your cabin, standing facing each other.
“What do you want?”, your voice comes out strained as you clutch your stomach, supporting yourself against the table.
“Are you okay?”, Wonwoo asks, concerned, “You're sweating and–”
“What did you want to talk about?”, you cut him off, “It’s surprising because I thought we're done for this lifetime. You made it pretty clear that time.”
Wonwoo winces at your verbal jab.
“And if it's something trivial, if you're trying to apologize or bring up our past then don't. I have moved past everything and I'm quite content in my life now, Mr. Jeon.”, you try to speak, emphasizing each word but they come out in ragged breaths.
The more Wonwoo observes you, the more he gets worried, he picks up the water bottle from the table and uncaps it to hand it to you, urging you to sit down.
There's a sharp sting in your stomach and you crouch down. When your vision fades you manage to utter, “M-Mr. Jeon, Amaris Hospital...”
And that's what Wonwoo hears before he watches your body go limp as you collapse on the floor.
Wonwoo watches your unconscious figure laying on the hospital bed as he stands outside the VVIP ward. His mind races miles after the conversation he had with the doctor.
He gets to know that you've been suffering from severe gastroenteritis which you've acquired post pregnancy. He is baffled, his mind can't comprehend and in the heat of the moment he makes an unethical request to have your medical records, the request which he takes back immediately, apologizing.
Mr. Jung rushes to the hospital with the information Wonwoo has asked him to get.
“Y/N, has only one person registered as her family in the records.”, he informs, “It's her son. She has her friend as an emergency contact and I've called her. She should be here anytime.”
What comes as a greater shock to Wonwoo after sometime is seeing Jeonghan rushing towards the ward, holding hands with a little boy whom even though he has seen only ones but remembers vividly.
“How is Y/N, Wonu?”, Jeonghan asks as he pants.
Wonwoo is frozen, he's not present at the moment. There are gears running in his head, there's vigorous thumping in his heart.
“She's fine now. The doctor said she'd be discharged tomorrow. She'll wake up once the effects of sedation wears off.”, Mr. Jung answers.
“Thanks for admitting her. I'm Mina.”, your friend says.
Jeonghan picks up Wonjae in his arms, they both look at your sleeping form from outside the ward.
“Mama will be okay right uncle Jeonghan?”, Wonjae asks and Jeonghan and Mina assure him immediately.
“Wonjae… Jeon Wonjae….”
All heads turn as Wonwoo keeps on mumbling the name. Every dot connects. Wonjae carries his surname, he looks like him and he's seven years old. The last time he saw you, before he left you, was eight years ago.
He walks towards Wonjae as Jeonghan lets him down.
“He is mine, isn't he?”, Wonwoo asks Jeonghan before crouching down in front of him.
Jeonghan stays quiet, so does Mina when Wonwoo looks at her.
And when he finally locks his gaze on his son, he breaks down in tears. He sobs hugging him.
Wonjae, seeing his father, cries as well.
“Don't cry, Papa.”, he says as his tiny hands try to wipe the tears from his father's face. And the more Wonwoo sees him, hears him call him as father, the more his sobs turn into wails.
Your body feels heavy, your head feels weighed. There are some whispers that reach your ears but you can't quite make sense out of it. Slowly opening your eyes, you see the white ceilings, the monitor beeping and then Wonwoo.
And by the demeanor, you guess that he has figured out something.
“Mr. Jeon...”
Wonwoo perks up at your voice and when your gazes meet, you see a fresh bout of tear pooling in his eyes.
And all he says is, “We have a son, Y/N. Wonjae is mine, he's ours…”
You inhale shakily. Out of all the possible ways you imagined that he'd react when he finds out about Wonjae, this isn't the one you thought of. Why does the CEO of the most successful entertainment company seem in distraught? Definitely, he's unpredictable and you're scared of what's to come next.
You crane your neck to look at Wonwoo, “Mr. Jeon, I'd like to discuss some things with you, could you please make some time out of your schedule for me?”
Wonwoo feels the distance between you two. It twinges, it gnaws at him.
“Get rest first. I have sent Wonjae with Jeonghan, he'll be staying at his house. Mina is still here and we'll talk once you get better.”, Wonwoo assures you, “You can find me anytime.”
You close your eyes, mind pondering about what's to come.
Your fingers hover against the door. You could feel the weight of the documents clouding over the entire span of you've spent to raise your son.
On the opposite side, behind the closed doors, waiting for you, is the man you once loved. The father of the child you birthed seven years ago. The chief executive officer of the company you're currently working at.
Also the man, who had broken your heart, had left you alone to pick up the pieces on your own.
You knew that this day would come. You have spent years preparing to face him one day. Over the years you've seen this face everywhere, be it on magazines or billboards or be it glorified on media but why is your chest caving in as you stand on the threshold, a moment away to see him again?
Taking a deep breath, you pitch your face into the most neutral expression you could bear. You won't deter, you won't step back.
Your knuckles give two swift knocks on the door and the secretary opens it for you, letting you in and stepping out once you enter.
At the sound of the door closing, your gaze lifts.
Wonwoo walks towards you, in large but steady strides, just as you have remembered. He stands in front of you, at a distance. Your gazes meet and the time stops.
Because this time unlike all the previous encounters, you are not avoiding him. This time you take time to observe him.
Wonwoo hasn't changed much, his eyes hold the same depth. He, you assume, still likes his hair side parted with locks clipped so they don't fall on his face. The scent of the same perfume lingers in the air, the one which he had always claimed as his signature. The frame of his glasses aren't geometric anymore, he goes with pilot nowadays.
And before your mind could trace back on the memory lane deeper, you decide to slip back into the momentum.
“Mr. Jeon”, you bow to him, giving a small smile. Your heart beats erratically, as you continue to speak, “You must be busy so I won't take much of your time.”
The title you call him by is foreign to Wonwoo's ear. It has been bothering him a lot. It always used to be strings of sickly sweet nicknames.
He watches the changes time has brought upon you. You no longer seem like the carefree law major from back then. You no longer are the girl who'd cry over smallest things, speak the first thought that came to your mind.
While Wonwoo loses touch with the current predicament, you line up several documents on his desk in specific order.
It's exacting because you used to know him so well, maybe even know if he hasn't emerged entirely as a different person. You see the way his eyes are on you but the dilated pupils give away the fact that he's running miles in his head.
So you wait, wait for him to come back to the present, to this moment.
And he does, a few minutes later. You can tell it by the way his gaze locks into yours right away, his lips curling down in slightest.
“How have you been, Y/N?”
His voice strikes a chord in your heart, before it reaches your ear. The voice that you used to love so much, the voice that sung you to sleep on restless nights, the same voice which when called your name, it summoned your soul.
Years of preparation goes down in the trench as you're about to break down at the first set of words you hear from him today.
But you can't, you're not the same vulnerable Y/N, who used to strip bare in front of her lover.
“I think we have more important matters to discuss, Mr. Jeon.”, you speak through your gritted teeth.
“But you promised you'd answer all my questions.”, Wonwoo reminds you calmly.
“And this is what you want to know?”
“Out of all things, first and foremost, yes this is what I want to know.”
You find it ironic, trapped in by his words, you answer truthfully, “I just can't sum up everything but I have been holding it in, thanks to Wonjae.”
Wonwoo perks at the mention of your son's name, well his as well.
“The first document is about me as Wonjae’s legal guardian, consenting to you conducting a DNA test.”, your gaze is gentle as you point at the bunched papers, “I don't want any questions, any fingers raised at my son in future.”
“But I don't–”
“I request you to conduct one.”
Your sharp tone shuts up Wonwoo completely, though not willing, he nods.
His gaze sweeps across the rest of the document which promotes him to ask, “What are the rest of these documents for?"
Your eyes turn somber. You've studied law, practised it. You know all the nooks and crannies and you're a mother who is raising her son against all odds.
“The second document is a contract that states that if you don't want to be associated with Wonjae then the fact that he’s your son will be concealed and never brought up by me. If I ever do so”, you turn the pages and show him the space left blank, “You can fill up the breach statement and penalties in this section, I have left it blank.”
Wonwoo gapes at you in disbelief, “What do you think you're trying to pull here?”, he speaks in a low tone but you can hear the agitation ringing in it, “What do you think of me, Y/N?”
You don't deem it necessary to answer his questions and proceed further to explain the contents of the last document.
“If you have any concerns about me working in your company and see me as a threat or identify me as someone who has the potential of stirring up trouble then you can ask me to resign but under the conditions that I work here until I find another job.”, you attitude has shimmered down from being hyper to nonchalant, now that you have done your part.
Wonwoo observes you, in disbelief and at himself in distaste because he's the reason behind the version you are currently showcasing.
“Also, I have prepared the clauses for custody just in case you're willing to share responsibilities in future. I'll bring it to you if you decide to be a part of Wonjae's life.”
You say terms, speak things all in legal language and Wonwoo just listens.
“I would have suggested you to run these documents by your legal team to cite any negotiations or catch any flaws but unfortunately, it would mean that I'd be the person you'll need to work with.”, you smile sardonically, “So it would be better if you contact someone who's not affiliated to this company.”
He wonders if things would have been different if he stayed and in the midst of the storm that whirlwinds in his head, he asks, “Why didn't you tell me that you were pregnant?”
What a simple question to ask. Are all questions meant to have an answer?
“Would you have stayed?”
Silence falls upon.
You give him a knowing smile, “Just when you were leaving, I asked you something, do you remember?”
Yes, he remembers, all of it. The way you had chased him to the station, your face wet, eyes bloodshot from crying. The way you just stood in front of him, mumbling the last question you had as the train entered the platform.
“What if I have something important to tell you? Would it make you stay?”
“There’s nothing left to salvage. Nothing's gonna stop me from leaving. This is the end for us.”
It answers his previous question. It makes sense now, he didn't only leave you, he had abandoned his unborn child as well.
Some fences can't be mended, some bridges can't be cemented, just like this relationship, which once bloomed beautifully, is now wilted.
“Do you have anything else to ask, Mr. Jeon? If not I'll be taking my leave.”, you say arranging all the documents, “I'll leave the documents here with you. We can meet once you have gone through these and made a decision.”
Wonwoo observes you, he can't even fathom the hurt you've gone through. He knows he's the reason for your suffering, he's grateful that you've been raising his son with so much love.
“I'll get back to you, Y/N.”
That's all he says and expects you to leave but what you do next tears him apart.
You are kneeling down, in front of him. Your head hangs low as you plead, your voice quivering, “Mr. Jeon, you can have everything you want at your feet but Wonjae is the only one I have. You have the power, money and capability to do anything. So I beg you, please don't take my son away from me, he's the sole reason I'm living this life.”
Wonwoo fists his hands, he feels insulted. How low do you think of him? But again, is it your fault that you don't trust him, because if it was in the past you used to trust him more than yourself.
He bends and holds your shoulder firmly as he helps you get on your feet.
“I'd rather perish than to do something like that to you or our son.”, Wonwoo grabs your chin to make you look at him, “We made him with love, Y/N.”
A tear falls down your eye, “Did you ever love me?”
His hands leave you, he looks at you with dejection.
“Love is built on trust but you never trusted me. Not enough to let me know your actual identity. You hid the fact that you are an heir to the Jeon estate. I get it, you didn't slip initially but we dated for 4 years. You even knew about my cousin’s best friend but I didn't even know about your closest family.”
You let out a bitter chuckle, “It's all in the past now. Let's focus on Wonjae, if you want to be a part of his life.”
“I want to be a good father to him.”, Wonwoo says sincerely, “Help me, Y/N, please.”
You nod while wiping your tears, “Jae is just like you. It's like my genes didn't even try.”, you breathe out a smile, “He likes you, I can see the way he lights up when he sees you on the Tv or covers. Please don't disappoint him, please be there for him. If you're going to do it, please do it right.”
And Wonwoo is determined.
“I already got your number from Jeonghan, I'll call you later.”, you tell him, “And if you want to meet Jae, come over this weekend, I'll text you my address.”
“Thanks, Y/N.”
“You're welcome.”
It's going well, though Wonjae was hesitant initially, he is delighted to have his father in his life which makes you wonder if all these years you have been doing things right. You'd admit that you're jealous seeing the father-son duo because they blend in so well, it's like they've never been apart. But you're happy for Wonjae.
“Don't spoil him too much.”, comes your warning one day when you spot Wonwoo setting up the new gaming devices in your son’s room, which you recollect your son has been wanting for long.
“I'll keep it in check.”, Wonwoo answers, “But let me make up at least a little for the lost time.”
Your heart swells when you enter the room an hour later only to see your son perched on his father's lap, both of them equally invested in the game, same face, same expression and same mind.
“He goes to karate classes every friday.”, you say rummaging through the drawers one evening and Wonwoo adds it as a reminder in his calendar.
“He goes to painting class on Tuesdays and his music classes are on Wednesday and Saturday. He learns to swim on Mondays and he rests on Thursdays. Sundays are reserved for his weekly shenanigans, he suggests random activity and we do it throughout the day.”
Wonwoo is half amused, half concerned and you see it on his face vividly.
“And no he doesn't get tired, it's not too much for him. It's his idea to explore all the fields and go ahead with the ones he finds interesting. The list of curricular activities was way long, we have trimmed it down to these and it may shorten further.”, you explain in a breath and hand him the timetable you finally found after almost turning the room upside down.
“He may look like me but he's just like you, Y/N.”, Wonwoo smiles looking at the paper in his hand, “You used to be like this.”
Used to be, not anymore, you think. The past you were totally a different person, she wouldn't even recognise the present you, you're so different now.
Wonwoo lays the paper flat on the table as he meticulously inputs each activity in his calendar. You watch him in silence, watch the man you had once wanted to spend your entire life with.
“Are you planning to let everyone know about Wonjae?”, you ask Wonwoo, later that night anxiously after he puts your son to sleep.
It had been gnawing at you relentlessly. Wonwoo notices the nervousness, he walks into the kitchen and makes you a cup of coffee.
“You’re the favourite celebrity of the nation, a long line of influential people are waiting to get their daughter married to you and if you suddenly declare that you have a child…”, you look at him with glassy eyes, “I'm afraid that people will target Jae. I don't care if I am subjected to any kind of ridicule or threat–”
“Y/N, calm down.”, he says calmly, “For now I have decided it to be not known. I have tightened the security and been careful but”, he assures you, “if it gets known I'll protect you both.”
“You don't have to protect me, Mr. Jeon.”, your voice drops an octave, a sign of your defensiveness, “Just take care of Jae.”
“I'm sorry, Y/N.”, he just says it, for the present, for the past, “I had a reason to leave though it wouldn't justify what I did. I'm really sorry.”
“Jae has fallen asleep, I think you should leave now.”, you get up from where you're sitting, “You're my employer and let's try to stick to the dynamics.”
Wonwoo watches quietly as you retreat back to your room. You have changed, a lot, thanks to him.
“Won! You won't believe what happened.”, you jump onto his lap as soon as you spot him sitting on the sofa.
Wonwoo smiles, ruffling your hair as he secures his arms around your waist, “What happened, love?”
You press a quick kiss to his lips, smiling, “While returning back from the University I saw an old man selling some stuff at a very cheap price. And I was shocked when I saw the limited edition cassettes, you know the ones I've been collecting recently. I bought all of them! My collection is complete!”
“Woah, I'm so proud of you.”, Wonwoo kisses the side of your head.
“I got you a metal pick, because you keep losing them. Also, I got us matching rings!”
Wonwoo looks at you in awe as you put the ring on his pinky.
He puts his hand over the suit pocket and feels the ring as he presses over it through the layers of fabrics. A look at the closed door and he's out the next moment.
“I am guessing the matters are resolved now.”, Yoongi says one day during lunchtime, “Mr. Ceo is not seen as much around the office nowadays.”
“Yes, it is resolved.”, you say monotonously.
Yoongi hums, “Good then. Let me know if you need my help for anything.”
You squint your eyes, smiling, “You don't know shit about law, Yoongi.”
“Oh but I do know about a thing or two outside law, Y/N.”
“You have a misconception about yourself, I see.”, you chuckle when Yoongi glares at you.
And that glare turns into a fond smile while you eat off his ears about a character of the show you don't like.
Wonwoo, who happens to pass by the area, doesn't quite like the way whoever the guy sitting beside you is looking at you. That afternoon, he didn't have lunch, apparently due to loss of appetite.
He has been trying to make space for himself in your life but you're rigid. He shudders at the thought of your angry face whenever he subtly tries to bounce off the wall you've built around yourself. You only pay him mind when you discuss about Wonjae with him, otherwise he's just sidelined.
He has zero interest in work today, his mind keeps playing the incidents from the previous night.
He was supposed to drop by your apartment as usual to spend some time with Jae and you.
He punches the passcode and is met by a startled you.
“Jae would be staying at Mina’s tonight, I had already sent you a text regarding this.”, you say and wait. Wait for him to leave.
“Oh sorry, I didn't get a chance to check my phone.”
Lies. Wonwoo is at your place today with just one motive, to talk to you.
There's a moment of silence and you're just about to show him the way out, he asks, “Can we talk?”
“We don't have anything to talk about, Mr. Jeon–”
“Stop calling me that!”, he hisses and closes the distance between the two of you, “Call me Wonu, Won, Woni anything, please.”
You look at him incredulously, “But that's not what I should be calling my employer, isn't it?”
“I'm not just your employer.”, his voice drops an octave, “I was your lover, I am the father of your child.”
“What are you doing?”, you ask wearily when he grabs your arm and pulls you closer, wrapping his arms around you.
He rests his forehead against you, closing his eyes, “Please, let me hold you for a moment.”
You are confused, you don't want yourself anywhere near him but your body betrays you, it seeks comfort into the embrace of your past lover, it's just like returning to an old habit.
“I never stopped loving you, Y/N.”, he confesses, opening his eyes to see your wide ones, “I did leave you at my own will but it wasn't because I fell out of love.”
“It doesn't matter anymore.”, you say trying to push him away but his grip is too strong, “All I wanted was a closure when you left but you didn't even consider me worthy of that. I didn't know who you actually were, didn't get the reason behind your abrupt decision of breaking up and now you decide you wanna do the truth drop just because we have a son.”, you shake your head, “That's not how it works. I know I'm just a baggage that comes with Jae, I know my place, you had made it clear then, so you don't have to do all of this.”
He frees you, his eyes holding depths of oceans before retreating to stand by the window, facing away from you.
“I am the youngest within the Jeon household. I was loved, always getting what I wanted and never put on the pedestal because I have an older brother. I was always used to getting away with whatever, while he was dumped with all the expectations, afterall he was supposed to take over the Jeon empire.”
There's a pause before he continues, “He looked like he belonged to the limelight while I was the opposite, always preferred to be in the shadows. It was a blessing, to have a big brother like him, to have such loving parents who never tried to load their expectations on me. I expressed my desire to get enrolled into the University under the plain disguise and pursue a degree I wanted.”
He turns to look at you, “That's when I met you and we fell in love. I was so happy, happiest I'd say because you saw me for me, I was grateful that you made me a part of your life but it kept bugging me that I was hiding my identity.”, his voice cracks, “I was afraid, what if after learning everything, you make a decision to leave me? But that's when the incident happened.”
“My brother finally snapped. He couldn't take the pressure, couldn't bear the heaviness of the expectations anymore so he tried to step down. But my parents wouldn't let him, for them their pride mattered the most. They couldn't just let people think that they raised a failure in the Jeon household.”
You listen silently.
“My brother left. He disappeared without any trace, no goodbyes, nothing. I was heartbroken, my parents were inconsolable. Until a few months passed and they recovered. And that's the first time I got to witness the true nature of my parents. They only saw me as a replacement to my brother. It was so evident, I was thrusted into grooming sessions to be the acting director. It was so sudden, it felt nauseous because I have always seen myself out of those scenes, to me they were for my brother. No one cared, the expectations were projected onto me and that's when I started missing the classes and I got to see you less. My mind started to shift, it was messed up and after pondering for weeks, I chose to be an obedient child to my parents and leave behind everything I was associated with, including you.”, he looks at you apologetically, “I'm sorry.”
“I can't forgive you.”, comes your immediate and stern reply, “I hope you realise that out of all the things you could have done, you decided to abandon me.”
Wonwoo freezes at your words, the truth hits him in the gut.
“You didn't even seek for me for all these years.”, your voice cracks with the hurt, “You know about Jae because I decided it to be known. So don't you dare come here pretending like a good person as the world believes you to be. I know who you are, what you are.”
“You're right.”, Wonwoo says, more to himself, “I am really an awful person.”
And then he leaves and doesn't come back for days until your son calls him just because he misses his father.
The weekend follows and the doorbell rings. Before you could reach, you see your son jumping towards the door, his smile widening when he sees his father on the monitor.
It's a mundane Saturday, except you're building a fort in the living room with your son and Wonwoo. It's simple actually, you've built it for Wonjae many times but today something is hindering it and you figure out that the reason is Wonwoo.
He's absolutely clueless, he's not helping, he rather needs help.
“Papa, you are so bad at it.”, Wonjae calls him out and you bite your lips to suppress the laugh bubbling in your throat.
Wonwoo with a very childish frown on his face, refutes the claim, “I am just giving you both a chance to showcase your skills.”
You roll your eyes, focusing on assembling the fort while the two guys bicker on the backdrop.
“Mama, save me!”
You turn back to see Wonjae tackled on the ground as Wonwoo tickles him. A laugh bubbles out of your throat, you feel good in the moment. After all, this was something you've always wanted, to get married and start a family with the man you once loved so much.
“Woni, let's get married.”, you declare, out of nowhere, “I want to marry you immediately.”
Wonwoo laughs, “You speak out the very first thought that comes to your mind.”, he caresses your cheeks fondly, “Let’s get married once we settle in our careers.”
“You don't have to work, I'll take care of you.”, you say sincerely, “Just be mine, please.”
“That's not what you said last time, as far as I can recollect.”, Wonwoo squints his eyes at you, “You said that you don't want to work, you just want to be my wife, the mother to my kids.”
“And I meant it!”, you cross your heart.
“Which one did you mean? Because both are pretty contradictory to me.”
“I’ll be whatever you want me to be.”, you admit, a soft smile spreading on your lips.
And in the moment, Wonwoo falls in love with you all over again. He leans in, eyes never leaving yours as he closes the gap between you two.
The phone rings and you both groan.
“It's my dad, let me take this one.”, you say, pulling back as you check the caller Id.
He nods but does exactly the opposite by pulling you by your neck and planting his lips on yours for a kiss that takes your breath away.
The ringing of the phone eventually stops but Wonwoo doesn't.
A soft sigh escapes from within you and your mood shifts. There's no point in dwelling in the past now.
Yoongi paces nervously as he awaits you. A sudden click and he sees you entering through the door and from behind you, emerges Jihoon.
Yoongi pulls you aside and whispers, “What's the HR guy doing here, Y/N?”
“He's trustable.”, you assure him and introduce them to each other.
Yoongi exhales sharply, he sweeps a glance at the two of you and speaks, “I think there may be some fund embezzlement going on and for long.”, he takes out his phone and shows some the snaps he has taken, “While I was accessing some documents for the recent staffing activities, I came across this.”
“How did you get access to this? Shouldn't this be requiring credentials of Senior Managers?”, Jihoon asks, eyeing Yoongi suspiciously.
Yoongi scoffs and looks at you, “Look at your trustable guy, he's doubting me.”
You glare at Jihoon and then look back at Yoongi, “Don't mind him, Yoongi, tell us the entire thing.”
He nods, “So the exchange receipts you're seeing, on the surface they're all going to different accounts but when I traced back the companies turned out to be paper companies. Someone has to be in the directorial position to pull this without getting noticed. I had even dropped an anonymous tip to the auditor's office but surprisingly or not, no action was taken.”
“This is concerning.”, Jihoon ponders over, “Does anyone else know about this?”
“I'm not aware.”, Yoongi answers truthfully, “This shouldn't be of my concern but I can't get it out of my head and I think if I try to poke again they'll be on my tail.”
“We definitely need someone from the Audit team on our side, someone who's trustworthy and holds power.”, you say, “But it doesn't seem plausible.”
“I'll see what I can do.”, you assure both of them, “Yoongi, please send those evidences and Jihoon, could you check if you could link any of these account owners to anyone from the company?”
While you walk out of the room with a lot on your mind, you get a call from your son and he has some requests.
Wonwoo punches the code hurriedly as his heart races after getting a sketchy text from his son. He manages to enter your apartment only to find it pitch black and eerily silent.
“Y/N? Jae?”, he calls out through the passage and he keeps calling as he makes his way to the hallway.
Suddenly the light goes on, the whistles blow and confetti flies.
Wonwoo stands wide eyed, as he sees the banner reading a ‘Happy Father's Day!’ and looks at Jae holding a cake smiling while you, Jeonghan and Mina stand behind him each wearing a party hat and funny accessories.
You observe quietly, the way your son is beaming in happiness when his father appreciates and voices out all the praises on receiving the gifts.
You're proud of your son, he's empathetic, he's kind and he's all you could ever want. When he called you at work, which was rare, with a hesitant voice and a wish to celebrate the day because he recently learnt that his father's birthday had already passed, you agreed immediately, because he loves to celebrate special days.
You're setting the table, faint sounds of laughter reaching your ears.
“Thanks, Y/N.”
You look up to see Wonwoo looming over your frame.
“It was all Jae’s idea, you should be thanking your son.”, you say light heartedly, “I didn't even remember.”
Wonwoo looks at you surprised, “You forgot? Didn't uncle always nag when you don't wish him? You should give him a call–”
He halts when he sees you go stiff.
“Is everything alright, Y/N?”, Wonwoo asks, now alarmed, “Are your parents fine?”
“They should be.”, you answer vaguely, before busying yourself back on plating the food, “You should go back, Jae must be looking for you.”
The dinner is going well with Wonwoo mostly talking with Jae and Jeonghan while Mina chimes in only when she feels like it.
Your mood has dampened ever since Wonwoo has brought up your father so you're just present, not involved in whatever is being discussed.
When Jae hops off to take a washroom break, Jeonghan takes the chance to ask you, “Are you seeing someone, Y/N.”
You shake your head, “There's a lot on my plate already and I'm content with Jae in my life.”
Though it is an open secret, Wonwoo feels relief flood in his chest.
“Didn't even seek?”, Jeonghan probes further.
You sigh, “Actively no. But I did go on a couple of dates, even the blind dates Mina set me up for, but”, your gaze drops, “All of them backed out as soon as they learnt about Jae. Guess, no one wants a woman like me. So I have given up on it.”
There are words on the tip of Wonwoo's tongue, he wants to say that you're everything one could ever want, then why did he leave you in the first place?
Your mind lingers back to that phase where your self esteem had hit rock bottom because of some failed dates with men you didn't even know. Might sound funny but the canon balls life had thrown at you combined with ‘nothing has ever gone right’ made you falter.
Jae comes back and the topic is dropped off the table, it's all laugh and chatters until Jeonghan decides to tease you for fun, with the help of his beloved nephew. He loves teasing the heck out of people whom he dear and has engulfed the little boy into this as well. He murmurs something into Jae’s ear without you noticing.
Jeonghan gives a sly grin as he sweeps a gaze round the table and asks Jae, “Jae, tell us who you love more, Mama or Papa?”
A classic trick question to which people tend to avoid answering.
But Jae is giggling as he answers almost immediately, “Papa!”
It is supposed to be a stick to tease you but your heart drops. There's a sudden shift in your demeanor and it's noticeable.
There's a screeching sound as you stand up abruptly and walk into your room, closing the door behind.
“Everything is not made to be a joke about.”, Mina hisses, glaring at Jeonghan.
“Did I hurt, Mama?”, Jae asks, tears already pooling in his eyes.
“Yes, you did. This is not something I expected from you.”, Mina answers him, trying to tone down her anger, “Go to your room, we'll talk tomorrow about it.”
Wonjae follows obediently.
“I'm sorry, I was just trying to–”
“You should leave if you're done.”
It hits a nerve and Jeonghan tries to defend himself which leads to a heated exchange between both.
“Aren't you being too much here, Mina?”, Jeonghan raises his voice with accusations.
“Oh maybe I am because you and him”, she sweeps a glance at Wonwoo, “weren't there during her pregnancy phase. Neither of you are aware of what she had to go through, that her parents disowned her, that she almost lost her life while giving birth to Jae due to excessive bleeding and all other complications.”
Both the men freeze and Mina heaves out a breath.
“You might think, Y/N is getting sensitive over a joke but you guys need to understand that she has her entire life built around Jae, she has always tried to be the best parent to him so if he suddenly says he loves his found father more over her even as a joke, she would begin questioning whatever she has ever done for Jae and whether she went wrong somewhere.”
“Can I go and talk to her?”, Wonwoo asks, his voice shaky holding the pleading tone.
“Do whatever you want, just don't hurt her anymore.”, she says, grabbing her belongings and exiting the apartment.
“Go talk to her.”, Jeonghan adds, “I'm leaving, call me if you need me.”
You sit quietly at the corner of your bed, your mind empty. Your fingers fidget among themselves and all you are trying to remember is why you left the table. Why did it sting so much? Wonjae has always longed for his father ever since he knew about him so it was given and there's nothing to be upset about it.
But maybe you're easy to be left behind, maybe not choosing you is easier than staying. You feel tears streaming down your face, you feel your heart constricting in pain.
Wonwoo enters the room crouches in front of you.
“I'm sorry”, you say, as soon as you feel his presence, avoiding his gaze, “I overreacted over a small matter–”
And you halt when you hear a choked sob.
“No I'm so so sorry.”, he hiccups through every word he tries to speak, “I– You had to suffer so much and I wasn't even by your side. I can't even turn back time, I can't take away your pain.”
You wipe his tears and he leans against your palm.
“I left when you needed me the most. You had to make a lot of sacrifices, while I was just– I'm sorry, Y/N.”
Wonwoo's crying and you watch in shock as he goes into hyperventilation. He grasps at your arm as he tries to breathe but it doesn't work. You hurriedly take off his glasses, loosen his tie and unbutton the first few buttons of his shirt.
“Wonwoo, calm down”, you say, grabbing his face, “Look at me and try breathing. Inhale through your nose and exhale slowly through pursed lips as if blowing out a candle.”
“I-I can't–”, he manages to speak between the ragged breaths.
Then you do what your mind prompts you to, you press your hands near to his mouth which makes his lips pucker and you plant yours on them.
You kiss him tenderly, caress his arms gently with the motive of calming the neurotransmitters in his brain and it works, you feel Wonwoo taking slow breaths as his mind distracts and body eases in the moment.
You pull away, searching for his eyes, “Better now?”
He nods, breathing heavily. You don't let him leave in the middle of the night, offering him to sleep in your bedroom. Once you both kiss your son’s sleeping form goodnight, the two of you settle in an awkward stance.
“Jae doesn't like sharing his bed, so you take my bed and I'll take the couch.”
But somehow you end up in your bed with Wonwoo as he invades your personal space and holds you in his arms like he always used to do.
There's intimacy in the moment which makes you spill your heart out, you tell him how your orthodox parents cut ties with you when you told them about your pregnancy. They never reached out to you after that. You tell him how haunting it was for you to go through it alone. How tiring it was to support yourself by working multiple part time jobs while preparing for interviews and managing the pregnancy and that you believe that Mina is godsend because she's the nurse at the hospital you were brought to when you had fainted at work once and since then she stayed and looked over you like a godmother.
“Aren't you uncomfortable in those clothes?”, you ask, eyes droopy.
“With you in my arms, these clothes are the least of my concern.”, he smiles stroking your hair, “I could do this all my life.”
“I missed you, Won.”, the nickname slips out of you naturally, “When it was unbearable, when I had something to share but no one was there to listen, when while giving birth I thought I wouldn't be able to live through.”, you hide your face in his chest, trying to blink away the tears, “I wished you were there when I held Jae in my arms for the first time, when he grew up to be so much like you.”
Your words turn into sleepy mumbles until they stop.
And once you fall asleep, his floodgates open again, Wonwoo cries the more he looks at you, apologizing a thousand times. He promises to keep you and Jae safe and now all he wants is to take the weight off your shoulders.
Morning comes with the rays of sun peeking through the curtains. You turn within the sheets, having the best sleep in a while as you hug the side pillow, throwing a leg over it. Ten more minutes you promise to yourself as you snuggle closer, a familiar Cologne hitting your nose. You frown, running your hands over the pillow only to find it moving as well.
Your eyes fly open and reality comes crashing down, the pillow you're grabbing is a certain Jeon Wonwoo, who is currently staring down at you with fond eyes and a soft smile.
“Good morning.”, he greets and all you try to do is get away from the proximity. But your baby daddy has other plans.
With a swift swig, he pulls you closer by your middle and pecks your forehead. You go stiff as he eyes your lips and leans in but you don't stop him.
“I think Jae is calling me.”, you say, getting your senses back and wriggling out of his grip, running out of the room.
Wonwoo sits disappointed but his heart is eased.
“Are you sure, you don't wanna inform Mr. Jeon yet?”, Jihoon asks as his eyes almost pierces through the documents, “I got hold of Jimin from the Auditor’s team and he's digging up the history it seems.”
“We can't go up to him just with these documents. We need concrete proof because seemingly we are up against a bunch of influential people. Let Jimin come back with something.”
As you fish out your phone to call Yoongi, the said man appears looking very distraught.
“Guys, it's not only embezzlement, they're planning to upsurge the ownership of this company.”, he informs, leaving the rest of you shocked, “They are on move to convince the shareholders about transferring the shares but given our CEO’s clean image, it won't be easy, what could they be upto?”
“How do you know so much?”, Jihoon asks Yoongi and the latter rolls his eyes.
“Put your mind to come up with something useful.”, comes Yoongi’s snarky remark.
And while the two snide at each other, you ponder on whether to inform Wonwoo about the matter or wait a bit more.
But time doesn't wait and so doesn't the conspirators because a few days later all you see is yours and Jae’s face on every article, all the news bulletins linking the two of you with Wonwoo.
And your heart drops when you realize they're going to use you to tarnish Wonwoo's image.
