thank you so much for requesting!! i wasn't sure if you wanted this to be a drabble, but i hope you enjoy it nonetheless c:
pairing: park junhee x fem!reader
genre: domestic, fluff
summary: crying babies make loving husbands, and you wouldn’t trade one for the other.
word count: 595
i’m open for requests!
The first thing you notice is the wailing. Then it’s the arms that tighten around your waist. For a moment, you think it’s a dream. But the crying doesn’t stop and the grip gets tighter.
You open your eyes, bleary, to stare at Junhee. “Do you know what time it is?”
“Let me check...” Leaning over to look at the bedside clock, he says, “It’s two thirty.”
You groan. Then you chuckle weakly. “I guess three hours of sleep is better than nothing.” Shuffling about, you try to wiggle out of his grasp. But he holds you in place and presses a light kiss on your temple.
“I’ll do it,” he tells you. “You can get more rest.”
“What if he wants his mother?”
“Who wouldn’t?” He kisses you again before his limbs untangle from yours. “Stay,” he says, and it’s in that tone that makes you melt and whole all at once. “It’s warmer under the blankets.”
When he leaves, you settle back and close your eyes. The cries soon turn to whimpers. Then there’s silence. You smile, silently admiring how quick he calmed down your son. But seconds turn into minutes, sleep turns to agitation, and soon, the silence unnerves you. Was something wrong? Did something happen? Why didn’t Junhee come back?
Slipping your feet onto the ground, you wrap the blanket around you as you make your way to the nursery. In the hallway, you hear it: a soft familiar melody. It’s the one he used to sing when the two of you stayed up at night, thinking of baby names and feeling the kicks through your stomach.
You hide behind the door frame, watching him rock the baby. His humming is sweet and gentle; you almost miss his words.
“Your lungs are tough, aren’t they?” With a hand under his son’s neck, the other pats his back. “Papa’s glad. Papa wants you to grow up strong and healthy. Can you do that for Papa?”
As if understanding the question, he gurgles.
Junhee presses his lips on his forehead. “Papa wants you to be happy, Papa wants you to be safe. But most of all, Papa loves you very, very much.” He leans in with a conspiratorial whisper. “Papa also loves Mama. And Papa feels special that Mama chose to love him back.”
Your hands clutch the ends of the blanket, heart warming.
“You love Mama too, don’t you? She’s a bit tired so she has to sleep. Can you let her sleep? Hm? She’ll dream of you and me and how happy we are together...”
It must be the hormones that make your eyes tear up. Putting your back against the wall, you listen to your husband continue his ministrations until you hear light snoring. Something shuffles, then creaks. His footsteps are getting closer.
When he sees you, he frowns. But you speak up before he can.
“I feel special that you chose me too,” you tell him.
He studies you, features soft, before wrapping an arm to hold you close. He’s handsome, you think, as he leads you back to your room. Gentle, as he tucks the two of you under the covers. Perfect, as you smile into the crook of his neck.
“I love you,” you say. “And I love how good you are with our son.”
He breathes in your hair, chest rumbling with comfort, and you couldn’t ask for more. “I love how good you are with me.”
a/n: i’ve only ever watched one wgm couple--eric nam x solar, if anyone is interested; and there’s definitely some inspiration that comes from it--but this prompt was super cute! i hoped i channeled the right amount of romance c:
(sidenote: i’m screaming?? i’ve also thought about having junhee on wgm, and i’m so glad someone thinks the same!)
(sidenote2: this isn’t all fluff, i’m so sorry. but i can assure you it’s 100% a happy ending)
hope you enjoy!
pairing: park junhee x fem!idol!reader
genre: drama, fluff
summary: it starts off with a simple “thank you.”
word count: 3292
i’m open for requests!
Your wedding happens in a park.
It’s a small event, with the PDs, your group members, and his. Your wedding dress isn’t even a gown; it’s a simple sundress that barely goes past your knees. At least it’s a spring wedding. The weather is perfect, the food is great, and you’re not as uncomfortable as you thought it’d be.
Maybe it’s because Park Junhee is a gentleman. When he takes your hand, he walks in your speed. When he’s introducing you to his friends or when the media’s taking pictures, he gives you enough space. When he smiles, it’s sincere--if not a bit clumsy.
You think you could get used to this.
“Call me Jun,” he tells you later, when the two of you drive away in the wedding car.
He’s kind.
That’s all you’d ask from a fake husband.
So you smile. “Then please, call me [Y/N].”
There’s something endearing about Jun, you learn over the next few days. For one, he likes to talk. If you get him started on a topic, he’ll keep going and going. It makes things easier because you don’t know what to say.
But today, the topic is you.
“Are you a singer in your group, [Y/N]?” He’s watching you cook. The glare of the camera makes you more uncomfortable than Jun’s stare.
You’re the lead singer. But there were other members than sang better than you. “I’m more of a dancer,” you mutter.
“Ah.” He’s silent as he thinks. “Then won’t you show me one of your dances?”
Taken aback, you put the knife down to face him. “Now? But I’m cooking.” That’s what the script says, anyway: cook your husband a meal and eat together.
He simply smiles and opens his mouth. But he doesn’t speak--he sings. And you recognize the song--it’s the first single your group released. Coincidentally, it’s a song where you sing a lot of the lines.
Your eyes widen. “What? Oh no. No no no. You can’t make me.”
He doesn’t stop singing, drawing nearer as his grin goes wide. He’s a good singer, you notice. You like his voice.
“I’m…I’m armed!” you say, motioning to the knife on the chopping board. It’s not a serious threat, and you know he knows it isn’t. By the time you can think of another excuse, he has your hands and he’s dragging you to the living room.
“Jun! No! Stop!” But you’re laughing. “Wait, wait. I can’t dance like this. I’m in an apron and I’m wearing slippers--”
He interrupts his singing to quickly say, “And now for the killer move.”
It’s in the chorus, the iconic sidestep and toe drag lead up. You muffle your giggles because you know what’s going to happen next. What you can’t believe is that he starts to do it. Sidestep, toe drag--
You cover your eyes before you can see any further. “Oh my god. Spare me! Don’t besmirch the honour of my girls.”
“Then show me?” he says, and he doesn’t have to ask twice.
“Here, you do it like this.” You dance slowly, explaining the movements as you go along. “Lift your arm at ta. Then step ta-ta-ra-ta while keeping your arms steady. Push your hips out--” You demonstrate. “--and run your hands up to your thigh.” You demonstrate again.
“That looks difficult.”
You grin. “Thank you for not underestimating girl groups.”
He smiles back. It’s fond, you notice, but you don’t understand why. You’re not sure you even want to know.
“You’re a good teacher,” he says.
“Thank you.” The words are softer this time. You decide you like his eyes. They’re pretty, like his voice.
Then you notice the camera over his shoulder. You shake your head. “Right, um. Where were we? Cooking. Right! Right. I was cooking.”
Carefully, you avoid his gaze as you march back to the kitchen.
Your skin is hot.
You wave it off as embarrassment.
During one of your outdoor dates, you realize what he’s trying to do.
You’re by a pond, tossing bread crumbs at the ducks. They’re cute, rather simple. Watching them swim around is entertainment in itself.
Jun has crackers. Sometimes, he breaks one in half and offers it to you. You take them out of obligation. But no matter how slow you nibble on them, he keeps giving you more.
“Do you want me to throw these to the ducks?” you ask.
He shrugs. “Or you can eat them.”
Mock hurt, you gasp. “Are you saying I’m a duck?”
“What?” His eyes widen. “No, that’s not what I meant.”
Biting back a smile, you watch as a cracker sinks into the water. “Relax. I was kidding.” You throw another. “I know I’m not a duck.”
“Maybe,” he says, “the duck is me. Quack.”
He cringes. But he schools his expression and looks at you.
You raise your brow. “‘Quack’? Here then.” You hand back one of the halves. “Eat up.”
When he puts it in his mouth, you can’t stifle your giggles. “You did it? Seriously? I didn’t know your name was Park Duck.”
“I guess it is now.”
You laugh even harder, feeling your stomach hurt in amusement. That’s when you see it, that fond smile of his. He does it a lot when you’re laughing.
You steel your face. His smile drops as he faces the ducks.
“What are you trying to do?” you mutter. This, like this--straight-laced and serious--you’re hyperaware of the cameras.
“It’s a nice day out,” he replies. Your brows furrow. But he continues, “And look, we’re all alone. Doesn’t it feel good to laugh with no one watching?”
You study him (and wow, you think, even his nose is beautiful). Then it clicks. “Are you--”
He shoves a cracker in your mouth. Jun smiles, discreetly putting a finger on his lips, and takes a slice of bread from your lap.
“The ducks are hungry.” And that’s all he says.
There’s a warmth in your heart that you try to suppress because he’s sweet but he won’t have any of it. So instead, you inch a bit closer, pinkies touching and knees just shy. “You’re right, by the way. You’re absolutely right.”
When he doesn’t move, neither do you.
After that, your conversations are quieter, hushed. Soon after, he admits he was embarrassing himself to make you relax. You squeeze his cheeks and grin as he pouts.
The silences aren’t awkward, though to be fair, they never were. And Jun still talks a lot, meandering about this and that as long as his breath allows him.
He’s ticklish, you’ve learned. He also gets scared easily. When he’s embarrassed and shy, he’ll hide his face behind his hands. He buys you souvenirs from his mini-tours. He likes to play with your fingers. He laughs a lot, he holds your hand, he treats you to ice cream whenever he dyes his hair.
He makes you forget about the cameras.
You think you’re falling in love.
But sometimes, you remember them--the cameras, that is. You have to remind yourself to act proper. If you can notice your own behaviour, then the others definitely will.
Your leader does.
And you’re terrified.
“[Y/N]?” she says one day, after you’ve come back from a walk on the beach. There’s sand between your toes but you don’t want to wash them away. The sound of Jun’s voice still echoes between your ears.
You’re aware of the stupid grin on your face but you don’t bother to smother it. “Yes, unnie?”
She pauses, as if not knowing what to say. “That show,” she begins slowly, “the one with you and Park Junhee.”
Your heart quickens. “Yes?” you say, and you wish you wouldn’t sound so eager. “What about it?”
She sighs. “Are you--Don’t you think you’re getting a bit too attached?”
“...What do you mean?”
“I watched some of the clips,” she says, “some of the recent ones, and your eyes, they--” Again, she stops.
“They what, unnie?”
“They look at him,” she whispers, “like he’s the only thing that matters.”
Blood rushes up to your neck. You take a step back. “No they don’t,” you whisper back.
She doesn’t say anything, just shakes her head. “The producers are starting to say things.” She sounds a bit sly, but her face is impassive. “Mr. CEO isn’t happy to hear them. He’s grumbling,” she adds, before you could open your mouth, “but he thinks it’s fine.”
You gulp. “But--but I don’t. I don’t--not like that. I don’t like him.”
“[Y/N], just who are you trying to fool?”
The system, you think. Him. You.
Shoulders slumping, you bury your face in your hands. “Unnie,” you say meekly, “are they going to stop me from seeing him again?”
“No, nothing like that.” You feel her touch your shoulder. “But you know the show’s ending soon, don’t you? You have until his birthday.”
His birthday is in a week. One week. That’s all you have left. Does time really pass by so quickly? The last few months feel almost like days.
Preoccupied with your thoughts, you don’t notice him waving the ice cream cone in front of you. “[Y/N]? Are you there?”
“Hm? Oh, yeah. Thanks.” He seems concerned. You look the other way. “Just, you know, wondering.”
He sits down beside you. Your fingers twitch but you put them on your lap. “About what?”
“Why you joined the show in the first place.”
He knows about the birthday deal. Everyone does. It’s part of the schedule, predetermined by script. The channel announced it just recently too: their last episode would be on the second of June.
Maybe he’ll think you’re being sentimental.
He tilts his head. “To be honest, promotional purposes.”
You figured as much. “Same for me.”
“But I’m glad I met you,” he says. You want to tell him to stop. “You’ve made this whole situation enjoyable.”
“Same.” And that’s an understatement. “You’re fun to be around.”
Stretching his legs in front of him, he eats a bit of his ice cream. Yours is beginning to melt. “To think I wouldn’t have met you otherwise. Both of our schedules are pretty busy, aren’t they? It’s nice to know you like this.”
At that, your heart aches. “Yeah,” you mutter. “You’re right. What are you going to do after?”
“After this?” You nod. “Something,” he says vaguely. “But I’m hoping for the best.”
“That’s reasonable.” And you hate that it is.
“And you?” he asks. “What are you going to do?”
When he stares at you and your breath gets caught in your throat, you give him a weak smile and say, “Something.”
His birthday comes quicker than you expect it to. Staring up at his company’s building, you almost don’t want to go in.
But you do, because in true contradictory fashion, you want and don’t want to see him. Want, because you’ve grown used to being around him. Want, because he gives you butterflies. Want, because you feel like you’re going to explode.
Don’t want, because this might be the last time you’ll see him face-to-face, like this--husband and wife.
(It’s fake, you remind yourself. But the titles sound just right.)
One of his group members--Byeongkwan, you think--meets you by the entrance. “Sister-in-law!” he greets. “Thanks for coming.”
Mouth dry, you could only nod.
“Are you looking for Jun hyung?” Another nod. “He’s in the dance studio, helping set up the cameras.” With a shrug, he adds, “You can go down. Nobody minds, unless you get in their way.”
You nod one last time before heading downstairs, fiddling with the strap of the gift bag. You wonder if you’re about to make the right choice. You want to say you are. But when you reach the studio, you take a moment to stare and think.
Before you can make a decision, you jump back to avoid the door.
There, on the other side, is Jun. He looks good--he always does--and you’re undoubtedly unprepared. Mind racing, you stretch out your gift. “H-happy birthday.”
“[Y/N].” He blinks at the bag. “You didn’t have to.”
“Please. I insist.”
Studying your determination, he chuckles as he takes it. Your fingers brush and you smile. “If you say so. Come in,” he says, widening the door. “Feel free to take a seat. I just have to grab something really quick.”
“Take your time,” you tell him. But you make no indication of stepping aside. “No rush.”
“I’ll come back soon.” Then he shakes his head, serious. It’s a look you’re not used to, but it makes your head spin all the same. “[Y/N], I have something important to tell you later.”
Does that mean anything? Could you get your hopes up? Your eyes squeeze shut. “Jun, I have something important to tell you too.”
“Okay,” he whispers.
And it’s decidedly genuine, decidedly kind, decidedly him with a patient smile and adoring gaze.
Here, right here, all you can see is him.
(“They look at him like he’s the only thing that matters.”)
You’re decidedly resolute. “I love you.”
It’s barely a whisper. He stills.
“Sorry?” You can barely hear him too.
Behind him, you hear someone speak. You can make out the words--a question of why Jun’s standing about. Behind you, you hear laughter--Byeongkwan, maybe. But it doesn’t register in your head.
“I love you,” you say. Then stronger, “I love you.”
Silence stretches out far longer than you’re comfortable with. “I just came here to say that,” you choke, and you don’t know if it’s your heart that stings or your eyes. “Because it’s true, I love you. And I didn’t want the cameras to see.”
You can’t make out his expression. So you look away. “Well, that’s it,” you say lamely. “Happy birthday again.”
“Do you want to leave?” he asks.
Does he want you to? You set your jaw, nodding.
“Then I’m coming with you.” His fingers curl over yours, tender, warm, right.
Next thing you know, you’re stumbling after him as he tugs you up the stairs. There’s a yelp--and it’s Byeongkwan; that’s definitely Byeongkwan--as you rush past them but all you can think about is Jun, and his hand, and how you’re gripping it like it’s a lifeline you can’t let go.
He leads you outside, streets empty and sky almost dark. It’s kind of cold, with a light breeze in the air, but with your hand in his and skin all flushed, you don’t notice a difference.
“You meant that,” he says. It’s a statement, not a question.
You nod.
“Explain?” he asks.
“It’s just--this--” You lift up your hands. “--I want to do this more often. I want to celebrate more birthdays. I want to talk with you, I want to see you, I want to hold you. I want you.”
“I wanted to tell you first.”
Your heart stops.
He tucks your hair behind your ear. “That the first time you laughed, I thought you were pretty.” He knocks his forehead on yours. “And how I want to see you laugh for the rest of my life.”
“I love you,” you breathe out.
His eyes crinkle. “You’re rather bold when no one’s watching.” He leans in even closer. Close enough that you can feel his breath. “But that’s okay, because I am too.”
Then there’s pressure on your lips, chaste and light and over before you know it. You stare at him, eyes wide, before you break out into a smile.
This is absurd, you think, falling in love with your husband. But somehow, it just makes sense. “Can I call myself your girlfriend?” you ask, and you want him to kiss you again.
So he does. “I’d rather call you my wife.”
Bonus:
As the two of you run out the door, leaving everyone behind in the studio, there’s absolute silence--
--for a second.
Then they all cheer.
Putting their equipment aside, the cameramen share high fives. The two CEOs exchange handshakes (though one is more curt than the other). Chan hugs everyone he can see.
On the stairs, Byeongkwan leans in to his other group mates. “So who’s going to spill the beans that we were all waiting for them to do that?”
“I am.” Donghun smiles. “But let’s give them a moment to themselves first.”
