The dorm was silent in the way only 3 am silence existed.
Lights off. Hallway dim. Everyone asleep.
The front door clicked open.
And then—
thud.
“—ow.”
Jun woke up instantly.
Not because of the noise - but because something in it felt wrong.
He sat up in bed, hair sticking up, eyes bleary as he shuffled out of his room. The hallway light cast a soft glow just as a familiar figure stumbled into view, shoes half-off, bag slipping off one shoulder.
“What…?” His words trailed off.
You took exactly one more step before gravity betrayed you.
Jun moved without thinking.
He caught you just as your knees gave out, arms wrapping securely around your waist and shoulders as your forehead tipped forward, missing the floor by inches.
“Whoa– hey– hey, hey,” he whispered urgently. “Easy.”
You blinked up at him, pupils unfocused, lips tugging into a lazy grin.
“Look, it’s Jun-ie!”
“Yeah,” he sighed, half-relieved, half-exasperated. “It’s me.”
You leaned fully into him, weight dead and warm, arms slipping around his middle like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Jun-ie, you smell…like laundry,” you slurred, thoughtfully.
Jun let out huffed a quiet laugh, adjusting his grip so you wouldn’t slip. “Thanks. That’s very flattering.”
You hummed, swaying.
Jun tightened his hold. “Okay. You’re drunk. Exactly how much did you drink to end up like this?”
“Nooo,” you protested, suddenly straightening up to poke his chest with a weak finger. “I’m not…just a teeny bit.”
“Right.”
You pushed him away lightly, moving to take another step into the hallway– only to promptly trip over your own shoe.
Jun felt his heart jump as he launched himself forward, catching you again. “Hey–!”
“Sorry,” you mumbled immediately, words jumbling together. “Didn’tmeantowakeyou.”
“You didn’t,” he lied, already guiding you down the hallway. “Come on. Let’s get you to bed.”
You dragged your feet the entire way, stopping every few steps to fidget with his collar, or point at nothing in particular.
“Jun-ah?”
Jun helped you sit on the edge of your bed, lips pursed as he watched you struggle to keep your balance sitting up.
“Yes?”
“You’re really handsome.”
He froze for half a second.
“…You’re drunk.”
You nodded proudly. “Which means I’m honest.”
He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.
“Stay,” he said gently. “Don’t move.”
You immediately tried to stand.
Jun sighed, pushing you back down with a bounce. “Okay. New plan.”
He moved into a crouch in front of you, carefully lifting a leg to tug your shoes off one by one. You wiggled your toes the second they were free.
“Ooo,” you giggled. “Feels illegal.”
“I don’t want to know,” Jun muttered, already setting them aside. When he stood up again, you were already leaning sideways, eyes fluttering.
“Hey,” he said softly, steadying you lightly. “I’ve got you.”
You looked up at him, suddenly very serious.
“I trust you.”
Something warm settled in his chest.
Jun helped you lie back, propping pillows just right before heading to the bathroom to grab a pack of makeup wipes and a glass of water. When he returned, you were already laying flat on the bed, fiddling with the hem of your shirt, mumbling to yourself.
“Okay,” he said quietly. “I’m going to clean your face, alright?”
You squinted. “Why?”
“So you don’t wake up looking like a raccoon.”
“…I like raccoons.”
“I know,” he smiled.
The mattress dipped where he leaned over to reach you; Jun wiped your makeup off slowly, carefully - gentle strokes, patient pauses whenever you squirmed.
You kept grabbing his wrist.
“Stop moving,” he whispered.
“I’m not moving,” you protested. “You’re moving me.”
He laughed under his breath. “You’re impossible.”
“You love me,” you said, eyes half-closed.
Jun’s hand stilled.
“…You’re drunk,” he said again, much softer this time.
You yawned, fingers still curled around his sleeve.
“Mhm. Night, Jun.”
He sighed, climbing off the bed to throw the stained wipe into a trash can - then moved back to tuck the blanket around your shoulders, brushing your hair away from your face one last time.
You shifted, fidgeted, then reached out again - blindly this time - catching his hand.
“Don’t go,” you mumbled.
Jun hesitated only a second.
“I’m right here,” he whispered, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Sleep.”
Your breathing evened out almost immediately.
Jun stayed a while longer, watching the way your face relaxed in sleep, the way your hand still clung loosely to his fingers.
Adorable.
Completely, unfairly adorable.
He gently freed his hand, stood up, and flicked off the lamp.
Before leaving, Jun paused - pulled the blanket up just a little higher around you, and murmured quietly to himself:
౨ৎ in order for junhui to afford his college tuition on his own, he needs to claim financial independence by getting married. luckily, he doesn’t have a girlfriend and can find a wife on social media.
contents friend!jun x f! reader smau (ik u guys sighed) romance comedy marriage of convenience friends to lovers mentions of pregnancy and divorce first time no more cliffhanger
from rianca, realised that i have the free will to turn written fics into smaus whenever i get writers block loololol (this is one of those fics). i watched this one tiktok and knew it had to turn into a fic so thanks to my sis for sending me this months ago 😛
part of the Puttin' On The Ritz collab hosted by @studiosvt!
pairing: Wen Junhui x f!reader
word count: 9k
synopsis: There are many things your father never told you when he left you his flower shop; the ever creaky door hinges, the delivery man who can never seem to tell the orchids from the gardenias, and the headquarters of the biggest mafia in New York operating in the employee break room.
Of course you're used to it now, the familiar faces passing in and out of the shop while you pretend nothing is amiss. Until a new face appears, disappearing into the backrooms without a word, bloodied knuckles and a poorly strapped revolver on his hips.
Suddenly, it's very hard to pretend.
contains: mafia!Jun, florist! reader, this is set exclusively in 1920s New York, gangs, violence, guns, explicit mention of blood and wounds, talk of difficult upbringings, prohibition period so talk of alcohol is altered, fluff, angst, suggestive (minors DNI)
[a/n]: only took me years but i finally wrote for jun!!! I loved this concept and I loved jun in this light, I'm so glad this is my debut jun fic and I hope the jun lovers in enjoy reading it!!!! plsplsplsplspls check out all the amazing fics posted by the other writers in this collab, the link to the masterlist is above and right here!! pls give them all da love 🫶
and thank you so much to my lovely lovely jessifer @starlightkyeom for beta reading for me.
masterlist
THE CLINK OF YOUR keys is loud against the lock, echoing throughout the empty hallway. Tensing shoulders and straining ears, you wait, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5…Mrs. Miller's Labrador seems to be deep asleep, sparing the building his incessant barks. Tiptoeing down the hall, you shuffle past the loud snores emanating from the Wilsons' apartment, down the steps and out the front door.
For five o'clock in the morning, the streets buzz with a quiet hum. Rickety sounds of wheels wheezing underneath the weight of a ton of firewood, pushed up on the sidewalk under a dripping veranda. Passerbys with erect posture and brisk footsteps step around the slower intrusion like parting water, and you're part of the fleet as you step airily onto the street from the sidewalk.
You can hear the racket of an engine, but with no headlights in sight, you only glance left and right before walking across. The police officers pays you little mind, but you call out, "Morning, Robert, Stan!"
"Morning!" they call back in unison.
Despite the minuscule bustle, the only lights you see on are from the bakers, Paul lugging crates into the establishment. The man had been up long before you, no doubt. It smells heavenly, but Paul is too busy arguing with the delivery man about a mis-order to take your compliment.
No matter, the crisp New York air, perfumed by baked goods and smoke, is overlayed by a cobbled scent you never quite learned to place. Your sister, far far away in Philadelphia, called it urban, said it like it was an insult. You were quick to remind her she grew up in the urban air all the same; it runs in her veins.
You miss the lamppost by a hair, gracefully staggering over your own two feet. It will never matter how many years you take the same turn, the lamppost coming up 28th street will always stand barricade. You deflect to the right side of the sidewalk, and are immediately flanked by a whirring engine in your ear, the obscene creaking and banging of a Ford harassing you as you veer a little too close to the street.
It's around this time during your commute that you have to start looking straight ahead instead of at your shoes or at the closed shops. Stepping over an abandoned string of pearls, you strut down the sidewalk with shoulders back and chin up, air of forced confidence engulfing you.
It was important that you did so, for 28th street at five o'clock in the morning was passageway to the last drunken staggers of haphazardly clothed people, fried and sodden from their whoopees and wingdings, desperate for a cracking excuse to stay out another hour. Two men with their wits hardly about them pass you by, both jelly legged yet deluded into believing they can hold one another up.
Broken glass crunched audibly under your feet, mixed with final drunken hurrahs in the distance, louder than necessary fits of laughter, the occasional brawl with slurred obscenities and muffled thumps and grunts.
It was easier to navigate than what appears, the point was to never look like a darty eyed squirrel in predator territory. They're like vultures, but instead of feasting, they look for meek individuals to inaugurate into the revelry. You ignore every slurred and intonated hellos and how you doings, stalking right up to the alley that would take you to your storefront.
The alley off your flower shop has been wet since your first memory of the place. Your father wasted years of his life in attempts to get it fixed, letters returned and long commutes to city hall in vain. The alley remained as it was to this day.
You step over a puddle and walk briskly out into the greying sky. Dawn was coming in, all while the streets evicted its night shift workers of pearls and dancing shoes into their cold beds, you take the turn towards the locked doors of your establishment.
Maeve's Flowers was named after the wife of the man who opened the place decades ago. Your father bought it when you were young enough to not remember it, a compensation to himself for not being drafted into war for the sake of his crippled left leg, but your memory was full of every conscious moment after that.
There's debris you're not keen to identify at the front door, but you merely step over it and pull the keys out of your bag. Unlocking, you hardly step inside the shop before closing the door and locking it once again. It wasn't unsafe, but it wasn't wise to leave the door open when the rowdiness was yet to dissipate.
You take a moment to look around the shop—just like how you left it last night. It's silent when you place your bag on the counter save for the noise of the mechanical fridges in the corner, still looking around as you take off your coat. The light switch remains turned off, but the minimal light is enough for you. Slowly, with your coat hung over your arm, you take a tentative step towards coming around the counter.
The door behind the counter, labelled with a conspicuous "BREAKROOM" is closed, but you're cautious anyway. You're next to the counter now, catching sight of the sliver of air the door leaves at the bottom.
The light is on.
Backtracking, you walk towards the front door again, making sure to make as little noise as possible. You grab your bag as you go, gripping the handle and pushing down. It's locked, doesn't open when you tug. But that isn't your goal.
You take the handle and give it a good shake, rattling the door against the frame with enough noise to make you cringe. Quickly, you grab your keys and jam them into the lock, unlocking it, only to lock it again.
As you're twisting the keys, you hear the sound of the door clicking open behind you. One last twist, you re-lock the door and turn around. Like you'd just walked in.
He stands there in a suit too put together for five o'clock in the morning, pocket watch dangling from his pocket. There's a bulge on his left hip that is usually concealed by coat. It's a nice thing, black and leather, hiding his gun.
"'Morning, Patrick," you say, feigning mild confusion. Before you can say anything else, he raises a hand.
"We'll be out of your hair in a few. Feel free to start setting up shop." And then door clicks shut once more.
Letting out a sigh, you let your shoulders sag, putting your bag right back on the counter and walking around it. You don't muffle your footsteps, in fact you make it a point to make noise, hanging your coat and bag, turning the lights on. It's bright, but you'll turn most of them off soon enough when the sun is awake and you've pulled the shutters up.
Slipping out the inventory book, you refresh on what needs to be expected from the delivery coming in today, trying your best to pay minimal attention to the sanded conversation happening beyond the door behind you.
Making your way around the counter, you move to the edges of the room to pull the potted plants out of hiding, bringing them to their usual spots where they're seen beyond the unfathomable hues of the flowers. The loud ruckus of the mechanical fridges are next, bringing out the last of the roses, lilies and orchids out of the tiny cold compartment. You set them in their usual spots, making room for the new ones to come in.
Turning the refrigerator off would be a challenge, considering the compressor and switchboard resides within the breakroom. You make a mental note the next time one of them comes out. Joe was clear when they'd bought you the fridges to remember to turn them off when they weren't in use, but you would rather strip Patrick's gun right off his belt and laugh in his face about it than step into the breakroom while it was occupied.
Opening one of the drawers, you pull out your father's old hardwood watch, checking the time. Your flower delivery would be here any minute, and you wonder if you should start feeling anxious about the men in the other room.
You note the crack in the clock face, yet to be mended. It was your own doing, the day you had to face the aftermath of being your father's daughter. At least, who you thought your father was.
It was a week after his death, you'd taken the same route to get to the shop, but this time without him leading you or waiting for you there. Joe was stood outside the door, a pack of Chesterfields being shoved in his pocket from where you could see him around the corner. You watched him light the cigarette, the dark fog of the April morning making quite a scenic view of the man in his dark coat and hat.
You walked right past him towards the door, not realising he was waiting for you. And he had been waiting for a full week.
Your natural reaction to an unfamiliar man telling you he owned a stake in your shop was nothing above baffling, but not more than the glinting metal strapped to his hip. You will never know if he flashed you his gun on purpose or not, but the effect was the same. This was not some ordinary man.
The name Carmine was not unheard of, in fact it was far from it. The puppet master of the largest mafia in the city was not one so easily concealed.
The man took a sledgehammer to the man you knew as your father, bludgeoning the familiar to a face you couldn't recognise. This wasn't the only front he owned, but it was the oldest, and he intended to keep it. Regardless of the line of inheritance.
He stood there, claiming to be a fair man, promising to pay you exactly what he paid your father, give you the protection when needed, in exchange for the small breakroom behind the flower shop counter, and your sworn secrecy.
Joe Carmine had turned your life inside out, because of course, it had already been turned upside down. And he'd done it all before snubbing out his first smoke of the day.
Of course, you've grown familiar to the men over the years. Joe is hardly in, Patrick seemingly taking the brunt of the work around this part of town. You've grown used to the constant in and out of men with withered looks and permanently strained jaws, ignoring them as they loiter around the shop pretending to be interested in the flowers, before stalking right into the breakroom as soon as the customer says their goodbyes.
You don't ask questions and they don't answer them. Perhaps for your own good.
There isn't much to complain about. Business is good, and the extra cash is more than just a tip, and Joe seems to take care of you in his own detached way. You don't know if he and your father were close, and you're not sure if you want to know. The world of Carmine is far from squeaky clean.
It's nearing six on the dot, and you're beginning to contemplate knocking on the door, when Patrick wrenches the door open. You whip around, watching him file out along with a couple more men you recognise but cannot name.
"Apologies, we'll be out now" he says, moving towards the door.
"Do I need to expect anyone during the day?" you call out before he can leave. He turns, his expression detached. He looks tired.
He motions for the men to file out before him, one already fishing his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. Once they're gone, he iterates, "None that I know of. But plans might change. You can leave after you close."
Patrick leaves, but not before reaching up to tug the door chime that's tucked away at the end of the day, closing the door with the sound of twinkling metal, marking the day shift.
Marcus has brought you the pink peonies, daffodils, orchids, gardenias and every other flower on your list, but very conveniently forgets the roses.
"Crops not good!" he argues.
"Is the crop not good or is Damson's store offering more for less," you say, checking the gardenias off the list. The guilt look on his face is enough, and you continue, "We've been giving you business before Damson could tell the difference between a daisy and a coneflower, is it impossible to expect a little more loyalty?"
"You'll have them tomorrow morning," he promises. And you're left walking inside with the last box, calling out behind you, "You're lucky I had the foresight!"
You're flipping the sign to open before 7 AM hits, still opening the last couple boxes when the first customer rolls in. It's the usual at this time, business meetings needing a flowery push, housewives wanting colour in their space, a wreath for a headstone, a rose for a disgruntled partner. You move like clockwork, wrapping flowers in ribbon and outdated newspaper, trying to avoid placing the latest statement from Coolidge somewhere noticeable.
It isn't until the afternoon strikes when the other crowd pours in. Most have only just risen from bed, wanting lavish bouquets that rival the ones down every street in New York, enormous arrangements that hardly fit through the door. They come with shaded glasses to hide their eyes, rouge to cover their tired cheeks, a hidden flask under most coats that require the occasional spot of attention.
Men and women come in asking for fabulous, unprecedented, better than whatever Nancy showed out with at the parlour. They could walk out with flowers you picked blind and remain none the wiser.
It's nearing eight o'clock when the rush subsides. It's a weekday, and there's less for you to do than usual. A customer walks in just as you're contemplating closing, a woman in a dark coat and hat, gloved hands folded over her torso, handbag tight against her hip.
"Evening!" you say and she smiles when you smile, albeit a strained one. She looks uncomfortable, but it seems to stem from the loud yelling outside.
"You wouldn't have any daisies left?" she asks.
"Enough for one more bouquet. Would you like an arrangement?"
"Just the last of your daisies, please," she says, wincing in irritation at the ruckus outside. 28th Street was on for the night shift. "Jesus Christ, how do you do it every day?"
"Learn to zone it out," you laugh, gathering the last of the daisies with the petals still intact.
"Oh, you can give me the defected ones too, it's alright," she waves you dismissively, opening her purse to fish out the cash. You gather the flowers together, placing them on the table to wrap them up.
You're busy wrestling a big enough assortment of newspaper when the door chime rings, someone stepping through the threshold into the shop.
Instinctively, you call out, "Evening!" Looking up from your assortment, you feel your breath catch in your throat. You think your heart might have stopped.
The man is tall enough to tower over you and everything else in the room, dark coat hung over his shoulders, a mop of ebony hair brushing over his eyes, down to his nape.
He's handsome. At least you think he is.
There's intrusions on his face in the form of smeared blood, tracks across his face like he made a crude attempt at wiping it off but failed. You catch sight of his hands, knuckles in the same state of bloodied, torn and bruised. He might be limping.
He only nods in response to your greeting, and moves over to inspect the floor covered in potted plants. The woman is still rummaging through her bag to notice you falter so visibly, willing yourself to steel, picking up a corner of the newspaper to start wrapping.
You pray he keeps his head turned away, needing this woman to pay and leave before she catches sight of him.
You might not be on first name basis with most of the Carmine clan that utilises this space, but you could spot them by face a mile away. Despite the nature of their business, they all appear to be prim, well groomed men, guns holstered and covered, bruises and cuts bandaged and hidden away.
The racing of your heart stems from a few things, namely that this man is the very opposite of prim and proper, in fact, he's walked in like he got into a brawl with a cement wall. And not to mention, you've never seen this man in your life.
Nothing is indicating you to treat him like a Carmine.
Panic is flooding your veins at the speed of light, an increasing amount of willpower channelling through to keep your hands from shaking. Your knees feel like they're moments away from buckling. You may be used to dealing with bad men, but you've never dealt with bad men.
Your customer is tapping her fingers against her own hand, looking around the shop like she was taking it in. It was significantly more sparse than this morning, but she stares like you were hosting her a garden in spring. You wish she'd stop.
The man is still observing your house plants like he's genuinely interested, brushing his fingers over the green of your golden pothos with his bruised hand, knuckles caked with dried blood.
He's waiting for her to leave. You know he is.
One of the drawers housing your ribbons catch onto the mechanism, taking a few minutes for you to pull the damn thing open. When you do, the force of your tugging makes an audible bang as wood slams against wood. The two other people in the room snap their heads towards you, and you make it a point to not look up. At least, not until you had your ribbon in your hands.
His gaze was on you and the table.
You ignore it as you continue to tighten the strings around the bouquet and pulling the ribbon into a nicer bow. You don't realise how sweaty your palms are till you wipe them on your skirts.
"Right," the woman beings, "How much do I owe you?"
"That'll be a dollar fifty."
The woman scrutinises the bouquet, "But these are more than a dozen."
"The defected are on the house, ma'am," you explain, noting how breathless you sound.
"Oh, that's awful nice of you!" she cracks a smile, slipping the money out of her coin purse and placing them on the table. You count an extra dollar on the table, and you're already opening your mouth to call for her.
But all you hear the distinct ringing of the bell at the door, and when you look up, she's gone.
Slowly, but deliberately, you exhale out of your nose, sliding the coins and bill towards you off the table. You drop them into the drawer, closing it shut.
Then you look over at the man that's now taking steps towards the counter, plastering a smile on your face like all the blood and grime coating his entire being are invisible to you. He's not smiling.
"What can I get you this evening?"
"Patrick said I could use the breakroom for the night." The first thing you note is his voice. It's coarse, but something tells you it's not always like that.
You hesitate for a beat too long, and you know it. "I'm sorry?"
He turns his head, shifting his weight. He exhales forcibly. "Cut the shit. Patrick said I could use the breakroom at Maeve's on the 28th. Is this Maeve's on 28th?"
You're entirely unequipped to handle the situation, especially considering Patrick told you to expect no one just this morning. But he also said plans might change.
You've been quiet for too long, except you have not a clue what to do. "I…I don't know who Patrick is."
He brings a hand to his forehead, rubbing his eyes. "Listen lady, clearly I've had a long day. I wouldn't know Carmine has quarters here if I wasn't told by someone on the inside."
But is he on the inside?
He continues. "Patrick's gonna be here any minute, and you oughtta let me in before he starts asking you questions."
"Patrick never—"
"So you do know him?"
Shit.
"I can't let you in the back," you state. Clear and simple.
Perhaps it wasn't at all intelligent to argue with a man who's clearly capable of getting himself this roughed up, not to mention one with a gun very conveniently within arms reach. But you aren't choosing to use an ounce of intelligence in the current moment, acting purely on instinct.
"Fine," he says. Moving away from the counter slowly. "I have two options, both of them involve waiting for Patrick to get here."
You don't have a response.
"I can either stay in here, or I can wait right outside. Of course, I look like someone's worst nightmare brought to life and I can't imagine a scenario where you're not losing out on your last couple customers."
"We're closing."
"Scenario number three. You say that, and I say I'm not going anywhere."
Your fists ball up at your sides. "I need you to understand that I can't just let you in. At least not until Patrick gets here."
"You want me to understand? I'm bleeding out on your dainty little flowers , for fucks' sake!" he yells, arms coming up in frustration. Loud enough to rattle you. Taking an instinctive step back, you let your eyes move past his waist, and are quick to note the dark bloodstains on his trousers, and then shockingly, the distinctly crimson shoe prints surrounding him on the floor.
"Why don't you understand that?" he asks.
"I—"
You don't get to finish, because the bell sounds the alarm of a customer at the door, and you're making a split second decision, pulling yourself to sprint around the counter and whispering a harsh "Get inside" to the intruder before you can step over the blood, reaching the customer at the door to block their view.
"Evening!" you yelp as the elderly man comes into view, and then proceeds to flinch at your overenthusiastic greeting.
"I–oh!"
"What can I get you sir?" you ask as he's barely through the threshold. You hear the door of the breakroom click shut, and that becomes one less problem to worry about. Now for the bloody footprints all over the floors.
You position yourself to cover as much of his field of vision as possible, walking backwards as he walks inside.
"I—I was looking for a bouquet for my wife—"
"What kind of flowers does she like?"
"Uh, daisies—"
"I'm so sorry sir, we just ran out of our daises."
"Roses perhaps!"
"We're out of those too, I'm very sorry."
"Well, uh–" The man is stuttering, and you feel a pang of guilt at the way you're spinning him. But you need him out, for the same reasons you pushed the man into the breakroom regardless of what preluded it.
"What do you have?"
"I have…house plants. And a few hydrangeas left."
The man stops and ponders for a moment. His silence is stretching too long, and you add in, "We were just about to close up shop, you see. Not a lot of stock at the end of the day."
"I see..."
"How about you come back in tomorrow morning, and I'll make you a bouquet right out of the garden of Eden. On the house, for your inconvenience."
"I can…I can come in tomorrow, yes."
"Perfect!" you exclaim, leading the man out the door as you talk. "I'll see you bright and early tomorrow morning, Mr…?"
"Cohen."
You let him down the steps of the front door and into the streetlights of New York, flashing the brightest smile you can muster. "I'll see you bright and early tomorrow morning, Mr Cohen."
And then he's gone, and you're slamming the door shut and pulling the deadlock shut, but not before flipping the open sign to closed, waiting to move the outside displays indoors. You have bigger problems than a few missing plants.
The floors haven't magically reverted back to spotless, which means the man is still in your breakroom.
There's a loud knock on the door, and it startles you enough to have you jumping up. The muffled voice on the other side, loud enough.
"It's Patrick."
You move to undo the deadlock, opening the door for him.
He stands in a fresh set of clothes, pushing his hat back to get a look at you inquisitively. There's a half smoked cigarette in his hands, the scent of tobacco making its way into the shop. "Why's the door locked?"
"I—I couldn't let anyone in."
"Whaddya mean?" his mouth his curled up in mild annoyance, flicking his cigarette butt to the ground, stepping on the lit embers. He steps inside, and you step away.
The blood on the floor catches his sight immediately, yet he does nothing to show the slightest hint of alarm.
"Jun made it then," he remarks, still looking at the bloody footprints. he closes the door for you.
"So you did send him," you confirm, mostly to yourself.
"I did. Why does it matter?"
"I just—"
He's walking towards the breakroom, "I don't have all night."
"He came in looking like hell, and you never told me he was coming. I didn't know what to do with him."
"What made you put him in anyway?"
"Customer came in."
"Well," he says, taking his hat off, "lady luck's on your side. Because if it was anyone else…"
He doesn't finish the thought, because you know. And he knows you know.
The door of the breakroom closes, and you're left alone with the sparse of your shop, and the mess you need to clean off the floor.
But the universe deems you a far cry from done for the night, because it's only been seconds before Patrick is re-opening the door, grim look on his face.
"I need water. And towels."
"What?"
"Hurry!"
Gathering stray towels and a pitcher of water doesn't take long, but as you enter the breakroom, Patrick is putting his coat and hat back on.
The breakroom is small, a couple couches and chairs pushed up against the walls, the remaining holding cabinets you never dared touch. It was mostly empty, sometimes cluttered with guns and unlabelled bottles and a million other things you could never catch from the small glances.
It's cleaner today, if you didn't count for the coat, shoes and other bits of clothing strewn about.
And the fact that Jun, is barely in his undershirt that you assume may have been white at one point. Because right now it shimmers crimson, soaked in blood. There's a particularly dark patch at his right side, concaving inwards.
"Oh…" You knew he was bloodied up, but for some reason you assumed it was mostly the other guy's.
Patrick is putting his coat on, grabbing his things. "Cut his shirt open and clean the wound as much as you can with water, I'll be right back."
"Where are you going?" you ask, petrified at being left alone with the scene.
"The speakeasy around the corner, the drug store's gonna ask too many questions."
Alcohol.
He seems to note the look your face, slowing down for a moment to reassure you. "It's a shallow wound. The worst thing that can happen is an infection. Just—just be gentle and use water and towels till I get back."
He waits for you to nod, before slipping out.
Jun's eyes are screwed shut, breathing heavy. There's a moment of bewilderment, how he managed to conduct himself outside without collapsing, you may never understand.
You put down the towels and pitcher of water, moving back outside to gather the shears you use to trim flowers, pans, bowls and tweezers.
He seems to not have noticed you come in and out, but you move closer anyhow. He's slumped low on the couch in an odd sitting position.
"Can you lay down flat? You're putting pressure on the cut."
Sure enough, there's an even larger pool of blood on the couch, dripping like an open faucet onto the floors. He does not seem to hear you for a few seconds, before he opens his eyes.
"Just," he starts, voice barely there. "Just give me a second."
His condition's seemed to have worsened exponentially from your row outside. He gulps, and the begins to shift. You shuffle one of the cushions under his head, not knowing how else to support him as he groans at the movement. Gathering his legs, you aid him in pushing them up onto the couch.
"I'm gonna cut open your shirt," you say, reaching for the shears on the table, kneeling in front of the gash. He barely nods.
The shirt is so saturated it difficult to figure where his shirt ends and his skin begins. You decide to start at the hem, lifting it at his waist, hoping it would help you find the torn edge. It's easier after that, taking a deep breath before bringing your shears to start cutting.
You cut down from his side to the hem, revealing skin that stands out like light amidst the deep red of his blood. Cutting as much you can, you pull the fabric away from the wound as far as possible, blood smeared over every inch of his abdomen, stomach and chest.
His breathing is growing staggered by the second, and you'd be lying if you say it didn't panic you. Passing a wet towel, you drag it over the larger area of the wound first, as gentle as possible.
And then inwards, slowly making your way towards the cut. It looks ghastly, dried blood clumped in places, fresh blood oozing from gaps you cannot make out. You realise it's about to hurt no matter how gentle you go.
"This is gonna hurt," you warn, but don't wait for a response as you bring the towel towards the wound, pressing down.
Immediately, he lets out a loud yelp, breathing louder, groaning intermittently. You push yourself to keep going, no matter the discouraging sounds. He gets reprieve when you stop to drain your soaked towels or bring a fresh pitcher of water. You find a sponge, and use it to squeeze water over the area, anything to get rid of the excess blood and clear the area.
You're losing hope with all the oozing blood when finally, you hear the distinct sound of the door chimes outside, Patrick entering the breakroom that officially resembles a war zone.
"I saw less blood in Belleau Wood, Jun," Patrick grunts as he puts down an armful of supplies on the table, before digging into his weighed coat, pulling out a few corked, unlabelled bottles.
He urges you aside, and you comply as he uncorks one of the bottles, "Premium bathtub gin for the good man. Get him something to bite down on, this is gonna hurt like a motherfucker."
You've exhausted every last towel and rag on the premises, stalling for a moment before, bringing your fingers to undo your cardigan, slipping it off your shoulders and bunching it up. Patrick gives you an odd look, but you'd argue this was the least odd instance that's occurred tonight.
You have to force the fabric into Jun's mouth at this point, his resolve visibly crumbling. "Bite down on this. Hard as you can."
Patrick is less cautious, because he takes a swig of the liquid into his mouth, wincing, "Hint of Palmolive, you're in luck boy."
And then he dumps the entire bottled straight onto the wound.
Jun can barely keep still, muffled yells scratching out his throat into a siren. You're wincing at the sight yourself, the stream of reddish liquid mixed with alcohol pouring out onto the floor.
"Hold him steady," Patrick calls out for you, and you have to brace yourself before placing both palms on his shoulders, pushing him down against the couch with your entire weight. He's still squirming, and Patrick is doing nothing but opening the second bottle and pouring straight out once again.
The agony doesn't seem to end, until Patrick decides he's clean enough and relents. Sure enough, the cut is cleaner than you could ever get it with just water.
It takes another hour or so for Patrick to clean him off and patch him up, forcing a few pills down his throat that knock him out almost immediately.
"Wash up and go home, I'll clean up," he finally says, throwing Jun's shoes across the room to let the man sleep his injury off with ease. "We can't move him for a couple days, I'll stay here so you conduct business as usual."
"Do you need anything? Blankets, a mattress—"
"We'll manage, "he waves you off, grunting as he seats himself on the chair. "Need'a keep watch anyway."
You make the conscious choice to ask no more questions, taking one last look at the couch where he's been crudely wiped down, bloody towels and pools of liquid all around him. He sleeps as though nothing is amiss.
You walk out, and close the door of the breakroom behind you.
TWO DAYS. YOU DON'T enter the breakroom for two days.
You get in in the mornings, checking for the sliver of light under the doors, only to find them turned off. Suppliers drop your stock, customers come and go from your unassuming shop.
It's like that night never happend, nor Patrick or Jun to be seen for days, the bloody footprints cleaned off the main floor when you had walked in the next day.
It wasn't entirely odd. Patrick would disappear for weeks at times, so would other members of the clan. Except you'd argue the situation is entirely different considering the pandemonium that preceded the quiet.
It's a whole week after the day that you find the lights of the breakroom illuminating from under the door. A jolt goes through your spine, stepping back instictively. You gather yourself quickly, resuming business as usual as you open up shop.
You're in the middle of checking your order slip when the front door is unlocked from the outside. The chimes are tucked away on the ledge, so there's no sound besides Jun's footsteps as he passes into the threshold.
Instantly, you freeze.
He notices you at the counter, and freezes all the same. There's a moment where you're both opening your mouth and closing it like fish out of water. He closes the door behind him, even locking it like usual.
He's in a different ensemble from the last time you saw him, and you almost don't recognise him. His long black coat, the bloodstained clothes on the floor, the dried grime and blood on his skin. It's all replaced by a crisp suit in a deep gray, pocket watch chained to his waistcoat, a tie at his throat and two toned shoes at his feet. His hair is combed back in a neat manner, a clean homburg hat resting on top. His leather gloved hands grip the handle of the door.
"Morning," you break the ice first.
Clearning his throat, he responds, "Morning."
Silence again.
"Are you…feeling better?"
"Oh yes," he says, but does not move. "I—thank you. For what you did."
"Oh no, Patrick asked and I couldn't just…it's alright! You oughtta stay from those knives, huh?" you chuckle dryly, uncomfortable with yourself. You don't want to ponder on the fact that you attempted urge a clan member to ward off a weapon.
He might be trying to keep your pride, so he responds, "I suppose so."
The door to the breakroom clicks open and its akin to a gust of wind on a hot summer day, Patrick walking out like a buffer sent from Christ himself.
"Great!" he exclaims, and then turns to you. "Remember that face. Try not to let him bleed out on your peonies next time."
Heat surges to your cheeks, and you immediately start sputtering. He brushes you off, like he was only half joking. "This one's addicted to death, we've got a headstone in storage ready for him. Nothing new."
"Are you done?" Jun asks, sighing.
"Wait for me outside, I just need to grab something."
Jun nods, undoing the lock and stepping outside, closing the door behind him. You take the opportunity to turn towards Patrick, who's moving back into the breakroom.
"You said he'd be okay?" you say.
"Hm?" he calls out from inside.
"You said the wound wasn't fatal."
"It wasn't," he reemerges from the room, strapping something onto his belt. "Know that now."
"Now?"
He sighs, "I lied. I didn't know if it was fatal or not."
He sees the look on your face, and interrupts before you can say anything.
"I don't know what was on that blade, and nor does he. He's been out in Harlem for years in this line of work, that place makes New York City look like a playground."
You've never left the city, and you certainly have no desire to. New York has been your everything, and you don't intend to change that. No matter how rough around the edges.
"Don't turn yourself over, doll. Occupational hazard. He knows whats at stake."
You can only nod, letting him walk past you and out the door. "I'm gonna be out of town in the next week," he calls out before clicking it shut and leaving you there.
YOUR FATHER HAD MADE sure Maeve's Flowers would live beyond him, and beyond you. There was little left to learn by the time you inherited the shop, his lessons over the years ingrained into your memory. It was easy, it was natural.
Of course, one of his teachings included the very fickle nature of the stakeholder. Marcus had been indespensible to your father for many years, but there were also the occassional days when he just has to be an absolute pain in your father's behind, and now, in yours.
The telegram came in right as you closed up, sending the last customer away before you turned the sign from open to closed. Marcus has caught himself a cold. And he has no one else to send the supplies through.
You grip the piece of paper in your hands and feel a striking pain pulse in your temple. Looking around, there is no way you could do another day's business without stock, the only thing remaining a few crushed petals and your potted plants. It's nearly eight, and you have to stop and contemplate the possibility of remaining closed tomorrow.
Tomorrow is a Saturday, your busiest day of the week.
There's nothing you can do but stare at the piece of paper and at your sparse plants. It was the end of the day, the last thing you want to do is solve an impending problem. You're left sitting in your chair at the counter, head in hands and trying not to scream instead of packing up and going home.
You don't know how long you've been sitting there when the door of the shop rattles and clicks with someone attempting to unlock it from the outside. When you look up, Jun is standing in the threshold.
His attire is similar to the one you found him in the first time you met, dark clothing that blends in. Except for the unceremonious lack of blood coating his skin, he might as well have worn the same clothes. Even his hair is mussed up, slight curled under his hat.
"I thought you'd closed up already," he says, glancing at the door sign.
"I have," you say, your voice comes out raspy. "I was just leaving."
He only nods, watching as you shuck your coat off the rack, pulling it on as you grab your bag and attempt to head out the door. "There's no need to keep the fridges running, they're empty. And tell Patrick shop's closed tomorrow." He once again, only nods in understanding, and lets you leave.
By the time you get home, you come to terms with losing out on business, and perhaps even grow excited to have a day off tomorrow. You try not to think of what your father would say as you dispense you shoes, coat and bag, walking into your tiny, barren home. He'd closed up shop only twice in his life; one day when your sister was born, and another when he'd fallen so ill he could not sit himself up.
His crippled leg was never an excuse. You close your eyes as you lean back on your bed; you can still see his limp as he walked in front of you towards the shop. He never bought himself a cane.
The feeling surmounting in your chest is suddenly too much, pulling yourself upright in bed to avoid drowning in it whole. It puts your vision to your quarters, and the sight is suddenly equally unbearable.
Working yourself to the bone meant nothing but neglecting every other part of your life. Drained colour of everything you set your eyes upon. A bedspace to sleep and eat and wash yourself, a landing zone for the less productive things in life.
There's a loud knock on your front door, and your gaze darts to your windows. It was past nine o'clock, and fire escape forever mortified you. The curtains show no shadows, so you tiptoe towards the front door, making no sound as oyu prepare to pretend like no one's home.
Unconvering the peephole, you have to bite down a yelp.
Jun stands there in the same clothes as you saw merely an hour ago in, shuffling impatiently. He reaches his fist once more and raps at the door again. Between wondering how on earth he found you and the fear of awakening the wrath of Mrs. Miller's dog, you make the decision to unlock the deadbolt.
Jun does not look startled to see you, confirming he knew where he wanted to be.
"Why are you here?" you ask immediately.
"I—"
"How do you know where I live?"
He raises his brows at that, like the answer was obvious. "It's not entirely difficult to find out. And no, I need not tail you."
Of course. He's a Carmine.
"Why are you here?" you ask again, gripping the door handle tightly.
Jun presses his lips together, shifting his weight. "You don't have to worry about the shipment tomorrow. I handled it, you just need to be there at the usual time to recieve it."
"What?" Perhaps you were a tad too loud, overcome by the confusion, because you suddenly hear the very distinct sound of a growling beast down the hall. Mrs. Miller's dog begins barking through the muffle of doors and hallway.
"What's with all the commotion!" her voice pierces through the walls with reedy accuracy, and you have to think fast.
Lurching forward, Jun is staring down the hall to where the noise is coming from, blissfully unaware as you take a full grasp of the front of his shirt and coat, postively yanking him inside your apartment. You don't wait to think before slamming the door closed and locking it shut.
You also don't look back to assess Jun, because you're on your tiptoes staring out the peephole, sending out a quick prayer that she does not come knocking on your door. When you're sure she's picked a different innocent victim you drop to your heels and relax.
When you look back, Jun is staring at you in even fiercer confusion. "What in Christ's name was that?"
"Mrs. Miller," you reply glumly. "Or her idiotic labrador. Gets set off by anything."
"Right," he clears his throat. "Anyway, I just wanted to let you know in case you were going to try anything else for tomorrow. It's been dealt with."
You furrow your brows. "But I never told you about tomorrow's delivery."
"You left the telegram on the counter. Patrick told me to figure it out for you," he explains.
"I see." You did leave it on the counter in your haste. "Thank you for doing that, and I'll thank Patrick too when I see him—"
"There's no need. You know how he gets," he interrupts. You aren't quite sure, since Patrick's made it a habit to wave off any sliver of gratitude you try to give him for whatever reason. He's not very inclined to Thank Yous.
You only nod, half smiling.
"I'll get going now," he says. "If the coast is clear."
"Ah," you turn around to look into the peephole, staring at nothing but empty hallway for a few seconds. It gives you the opportunity to think, hands curling up against the door as you think about the space in your apartment, the ticking clock that is your life.
Swiftly, you turn around to look into his expecting face. "Would you like to stay for a coffee?"
"Sorry?"
"I'm not brave enough to keep alcohol around the house, I have tea as well if that's what you like."
"You'd like me to stay for a coffee?" he confirms slowly. He's pointing at himself like there are other people in the room you could be talking to.
"Yes. If you would like to, and if you have the time. I just thought since you're here—"
"I'd like that."
Oh.
"Oh." You stare at him, in a little but of disbelief. "Good. I'll put the kettle on. Will that be a tea or…?"
"Whatever you're having."
In a few minutes, you've set your practically unused living room table with two steaming mugs, both of which you had to double, triple check for crawlers and bugs before rinsing and drying. Jun sits on your couch, and you have a brief flashback to the last time you saw him in this position.
"How's your wound healing?" you ask.
"Better than I hoped," he responds. "Scabbed over without pain, I think that's a good sign."
"It is," you confirm. "I'd ask you how you got it but that would be fruitless," you laugh at yourself.
"It was a kid."
That has you looking up from your mug. "A…A kid?"
"I'd been assigned way down in Harlem for the past few years. It's a rough place. Hard to get out if you're in. I was on an assignment when this kid with a knife decided I was up to no good, came up to me in the middle of the street and got me right below the ribs. It was too easy for him, I knew it wasn't his first time."
"But you were covered in everything that night," you recall the grime, the blooming knuckles and smeared blood all over him.
He laughs, taking a sip of his drink before setting the warm cup in his other palm. "People thought I was jumping the kid, that was an episode and then…I still had to go do my job."
"And then you came all the way to 28th? From Harlem?"
"Took the subway, got a couple look but that wasn't the worst of it."
You don't need to ask what the worst of it was, because you know.
Closing your eyes, you cringe to yourself, "And I made you stand there for who know how long."
He chuckles, and you have the realisation that you…quite like his smile. It stretches across his face, lighting him up in a way you didn't realise his face could. It makes him look boyish, like the life he's chosen was meant for someone far, far removed from him.
"I wouldn't normally be as worked up, there's not much else you could've done in that situation. But you stood your ground. That's good."
Your chest flourishes at being told a job well done. "Are you…Are you back from Harlem for good?"
It was a careful question, laced with something you aren't sure you want to admit.
"I might be." Jun is dragging his fingernails across the bottom edge of his cup, contemplating. "I've been given a choice. I might end up taking it as a way out."
"Way out?"
"From Harlem, anyway. It's either Carmine or dead for us."
The weight of what he says settles on you like a blanket. Carmine or dead. You wonder where you stand in this equation, neither sworn in nor an outsider. Are you a Carmine? And are you allowed a way out, ever?
You think of tomorrow, when you'll wake up in the morning as you always do, dress and leave for the same route you could walk in your sleep. Set up shop and do a days worth of trade, all while hiding some of the most dangerous people in the city in your backrooms.
One of them sits on the same couch cushions as you right now, under your roof, drinking from your cup.
The thought should unsettle you. But it doesn't.
And then it hits you.
You sit up straighter, face changing as you turn to face him. "You said Patrick sent you?"
Jun nods.
"Patrick told he was going to be out of town for a week."
Jun's face is blank, blinking at you with a poker face gamblers would envy. And then he breaks.
"He is out of town."
"So you—"
"I saw the telegram on the counter and took matters into my own hands," he admits, but he's as nonchalant as ever, sipping the last dregs from his mug and setting it on the table. "It's getting late, I'll get going now. Thank you for inviting me in."
Inviting was a daring word considering you shanghaied him into your apartment by brute force, but you take it anyway. Other than that, you're not quite sure what to say with this new revelation. You watch him as he stands up, adjusting his coat and trousers as he begins to walk himself to the door.
Catching up to him, you stop when he stops a couple feet from the entryway. He turns to look at you, and you can predict his goodbye.
"Why did you do that?" you have to ask.
For the first time, Jun looks unsure as for what to say. "I know that shop is important to you."
Why do you care?
Your lips press into a line, both your damp hands clasped in front of you. "Was it so we're even?"
Jun is staring at you an intensity you've never experience, an unmatched energy. "We were even the second you got on your knees to help me after I yelled at you."
"Then what's this for?" you press.
Jun takes a step towards you, and you have the distinct feeling he might frustrated. Not with you, but perhaps with himself. "I…I don't know."
"That's not very Carmine of you," you whisper, suddenly realising just how close you've gotten. His gaze is unrelenting, and you feel the familiar rise in your chest that makes it a chore to breathe.
Jun's getting closer, leaning over you like a towering stallion. His breath hits your face, warm and cascading.
"I know."
And then his mouth is on yours, and you're melting like this was the answer all along. His palm and fingers cup the back of your head in a secure motion, pulling you towards him. Your arms fly to grip his body, finding reprieve in the opening of his coat, hands splayed on his fabric covered chest.
He's a demanding kisser, taking what you give in motions that have your knees going weak. You fingers scrunch against his shirt to grip him tighter, the warmth of his skin under his shirt seeping.
You forget where you stand as his other arm holds you up and against him, you hands snaking up to wrap around his neck. His mouth moves against your own like he's already mapped out every hill, dip and crevice, the distinct wet of his tongue on your bottom lip as he sucks.
The feeling is all consuming, one you cannot name. It's tingly, from the top of your head to the tips of fingers and toes. His scent encases you with remnants of coffee and sweet pea. It has you pushing into him closer, chest to chest, pelvis to pelvis.
Your lungs are about to give in when you finally pull away, gasping loudly for air as you do nothing to move from your position. Your chest heaves, and so does his, in tandem as you throw your head back to reign yourself in. Jun's eyes never leave you.
You cannot help but smile, one that stretches even more so when you see him crack one too.
"Patrick isn't here—" you start, but do not need to finish.
"I think I heard Mrs. Miller outside."
"Not very safe, Carmine or not," you jest.
"Perhaps another coffee will do," he adds as you laugh. "Or a tea this time?"
He does not let you answer, because he dips his head towards you once more.
All night, two cold mugs remain lone on the table.
★ | member — junhui x fem reader
★ | genre — smut, strangers to lovers (first date au)
★ | word count — 3k
★ | synopsis — your first date with jun has been good, but all you've been able to think about all night is how to get him alone.
★ | warnings — unprotected sex, creampie, big dick!jun, car sex, fingering, jun is a boobs guy, lowercase intended, title is a baekhyun song and you should listen to it
★ | notes — i'm still on hiatus, sorry i know it's been a while - my personal life has been really busy as i'm graduating college in a little over a month! anyway as a treat here's an old draft. remember to reblog if you like this :) ily huihuis
as far as first dates go, junhui would say this one has been pretty good. sometimes you really click with someone right away, and he can’t speak for you but he definitely felt it tonight. you’d spent so long talking together, that the waiter had had to ask you to leave so they could close the restaurant.
"can we park somewhere?" you ask suddenly, to his curiosity. he nods and pulls into the exit lane to get off the freeway, but the next words that come out of your mouth he wouldn’t have guessed in a million years.
"i've been really wet since dinner, and… i wanna ride you. if that's cool, i mean."
his cheeks have never turned that many shades of red so quickly before, but he's not one to complain when an opportunity presents itself. he can't lie and say he hasn't been stealing glances at your beautiful tits all night long and hoping that sooner or later he'll get to see them bouncing in his face.
it doesn't take long before he's found a secluded spot at the back of an empty parking lot; it's past midnight, after all, and most places are closed by now. as soon as the ignition's shut off you're scrambling to unbuckle your seatbelt and climbing over the center console to plant yourself in his lap, and god, you can already feel how hard he is beneath you.
his hands find your waist immediately, starting to slide up your sides as you fumble with your pants. you can't remember the last time you were this greedy, this impatient, and especially on a first date. but the way his hair falls in his face, the way he’d grinned mischievously at you every time you’d make a joke, and the way he's been staring at you all fucking night like he wants to devour you — you can't help but want him.
you can feel your panties sticking to you as you push them away and slide them down your legs. the crampedness of his car and the way your body is angled makes it awkward to pull off gracefully, but neither of you seem to care. his hands are still gripping your sides with his thumbs beneath your breasts, resting there almost like he's forgotten what he's doing. his eyes are fixed on your face, enamored with the little frustrated scrunch of your nose as you struggle to fling your clothes off.
he finally seems to snap back into action when you've successfully stripped your lower half and begin focusing your attention on his jeans. he squeezes your sides a little rougher, just enough to get you to stop, and your eyes flick back up to his.
"can— can i see these?" he asks, his voice a little more gruff as his fingers slide closer to your breasts.
the wicked grin you give him in return makes the both of you start to move a little faster. his dick is painfully hard by now, and all he wants to do is press his nose between your tits until he suffocates in them.
you take your hands off his zipper and move up to your tank top, pulling it down to sit beneath your breasts. you start to reach behind you to unclip your bra, but he's too quick; within seconds you feel the pressure in your back release, the straps slipping down your shoulders as his fingers expertly undo the clasp. he does it too easily, too practiced, and it only makes you want those fingers inside you all the more.
he doesn't hesitate to remove the loose fabric and toss it into the backseat, leaving your breasts bare on display in front of him. his hands resume their position at your chest, and he's so fixated on them that you don't even think he fully notices when you go back to working on his zipper.
but his attention refocuses when he feels the pressure from his pants loosen, and he lets out a groan when he looks down and sees your hand palming his bulge. he's no stranger to one night stands and he's had more than his fair share of hookups, but god, this might actually be the best night of his life. he manages to bring one hand away from your boobs long enough to swipe it between your legs, and he nearly hisses at the feeling. you weren't lying earlier—you're fucking soaked. so much so that when he pulls his hand away to look, three of his fingers glisten under the dim streetlight, connected by thin strings of your arousal.
he needs you on his cock, now, and judging by the slick on his hand you're probably wet enough to take him without any prep. but his last shred of sense is screaming at him to sink his fingers deep into your pussy first until you're shaking on his lap, and he's obliged to listen.
he's never been this desperate to fuck someone before, and if he had any coherent thoughts still running through his brain he might be embarrassed about that. but you're so equally enthusiastic that he honestly can't bring himself to care. it's not every day that a date goes this well, so you might as well enjoy it.
junhui traces your entrance with his fingertips, making wide circles around the area without touching where you really want him. he's teasing, he can't help it, but he's also waiting for you to let him continue. he glances up at your face again, and he smirks in satisfaction when he sees that cute little frustrated scrunch of your nose again, your mouth hanging slightly open and your shoulders braced in concentration.
"you want my fingers?" he asks. he's trying unbelievably hard not to push his hips upward to get the feeling of your wetness brushing against his bulge. it's probably even more restraint than it's taking you to not start grinding down on his leg and work yourself to completion that way. but the voice of reason in the back of your head is telling you that that won't be nearly as satisfying as cumming on his cock or his fingers will be, and so you resist.
"please," you choke out, your hips writhing in the air from the lack of stimulation.
he finally complies, teasingly tracing around your lips one last time before pushing into you. you can feel his fingers getting wetter and wetter each time he plunges them into you, curling them at just the right angle that makes your knees weak on either side of his hips. your whole body is alight from his touch, every nerve on fire, and you already know it's not going to take much more for you to fall apart.
his other arm is wrapped tightly around your waist, keeping you firmly planted against him despite how hard your body instinctively tries to buck away from the pleasure. your hands fall to his shoulders as you struggle to hold on, and you're sure he can feel your nails digging into his skin, but he doesn't say anything. he just continues to fuck you with his fingers, silently watching your face as the car fills with wet, messy noises. no one in your life has ever gotten you this close so quickly.
suddenly he pulls his fingers out, and you shudder in frustration as you feel your orgasm ebbing away. he holds his dripping fingers in front of your face, and without him even needing to ask, you open your mouth and welcome them. his fingers are hot against your lips, the bitter taste of your own arousal coating the inside of your mouth as you swirl your tongue around them. somehow he doesn't seem shocked at your immediate reaction; he seems pleased, even. yeah, this is the man you've been waiting for all your life.
your eyelashes flutter as you suck, unable to control the choked whimpers and whines that slip past your lips. your self control is waning, and without thinking your hips start to grind against him, desperate to keep the stimulation going.
you're quick to speak after he pulls his fingers from between your lips, satisfied with the way you've cleaned them for him. "wanna cum on your cock, junnie," you whimper. the nickname slips out without thinking, and you’re still unconsciously rubbing yourself against his clothed bulge. your eyes are blown wide when he looks at you, and while the rational part of his mind knows it's because it's dark outside, he can't help the surge of pride that rushes through him seeing you so fucked out already. if this is what you look like, just from riding his fingers? he can't wait to see what you look like taking more.
"you want my cock, baby?" he groans, testing out a nickname of his own and watching how you bloom from the praise.
you lift your hips enough for him to pull his dick out of his pants and finally get a good look at what's going to be rearranging your guts tonight.
"you're so— thick," you choke out, trying not to stumble over your words, but your mouth is watering at the sight of him and all the previously reasonable thoughts in your brain have instantly been replaced with pure want. he's so much bigger than you expected.
"can you take it?" he says, confidence faltering a little when he sees how enraptured you're staring. he's used to hearing the shock and excitement in people’s voices when they see him, but he knows from experience that having a big dick isn't always what it's cracked up to be.
you're silent for another second, blinking as you try to collect your thoughts, and then you lift your head and kiss him hard. but you pull away just as quickly, barely giving him time to register everything as you nod.
"yeah. i can. want you to make it fit," you breathe out, a whisper against his lips, and all he can do is groan and kiss you again. he pulls you tighter against him as your mouths crash together, the heat between you building more and more with each passing second. he's still not even inside you yet, but you're both moving your hips in tandem as if he was, chasing the friction that isn't there yet.
junhui finally pulls back again, creating barely enough room to slip his hand between your bodies and fist his cock. his free hand squeezes your hips roughly to get you to stop moving long enough to line himself up with your pussy.
you finally sink down onto his length, and both your loud groans fill the compact space. he hisses at the tight feeling around his cock as you whimper, eyes squeezed shut again in concentration. he can feel your walls throbbing against him as he struggles to keep himself still, knowing you're still adjusting. fuck, he wants nothing more than to pound into you like there's no tomorrow, but he has to wait. he's way too close to the edge already, so he starts counting the seconds in his head to try and distract himself until you're ready. you can feel every inch of him stretching you open, buried so deep in you that it makes your head spin.
your legs are already starting to burn from sitting in this position but after another minute once your muscles start to relax, you manage to lift yourself up and push your hips back down. it's an agonizingly slow rhythm as his cock forces itself into the tight space, but you still haven't quite caught your breath. you keep moving at this pace, up down, up down, in out, in out, until he grips your hips and pulls you down to stop your motion with him fully buried inside you.
"want me to take over?" he whines, and it catches you off guard to hear his voice a little higher and a little more broken than before.
the noise that leaves your mouth can only be described as inhuman, and he nods in acknowledgement as you give up control. there's a few seconds of pause, as if giving you a chance to change your mind, before he snaps his hips upward and you immediately let out a squeak, a heavy breath of pleasure mixed with relief. his arms settle around your lower back for leverage, which forces you to arch your spine and push your chest into his face. but that only seems to spur him on even more as he buries himself in your breasts, pressing against his cheeks.
when jun groans you can practically feel the reverberations in your ribcage, and you wrap your arms around his head to keep him in place. the new pace he's set isn't much faster than before, but it's a thousand times more intense as he fucks into you, filling every part of you to the brim with each thrust.
it only takes a few more rough snaps of his hips before the coil inside you breaks, and you have to hold back a scream as your body contorts in ways you didn't even know were possible. your voice is nearly hoarse as you cry out his name over and over again, begging him not to stop, not to change anything, to please just keep fucking you. and he listens, doing his best to keep you upright despite the way you writhe in his grip. with your breasts in his face he can feel your heartbeat in his ears as if it's his own, and it takes so much concentration to make sure he doesn't immediately follow you over the edge right after. when your shaking starts to subside a little and he's positive he can't hold back any longer, he tips his head back to speak.
"where can i—"
you interrupt before he can get all the words out. "inside. i'm on the pill. please."
he whines and buries his face in your breasts again, leaving sloppy kisses all over your skin between curses muttered under his breath. with a few more rough thrusts he's done, holding you even tighter against him as he spills into you and groaning louder when you clench your muscles around him.
"fuckin' milking my cock," he hisses into your chest with eyes shut, his voice rough from how hard he's focused.
your hip bones ache, both from the position and from the sheer size of him that you aren’t accustomed to, and you slump into the passenger seat with your legs still across his lap. his hand immediately slides between your thighs, his large palm cupping your pussy to collect his cum that's beginning to leak out of you. it takes him a second before he's able to form words, but he rubs your thigh soothingly as nods at you.
"napkins in the glove box," he manages, and you're jolted back to reality as you remember you're still laid out in his car and he probably doesn't want to get cum all over his seats.
with his free hand he reaches for your panties, which somehow ended up on the dashboard, and he passes them over to you as he starts to clean you up. you lean your head back against the window and let out a shaky breath, forcing yourself to come back down. the cold glass sends a chill through you as you feel the warmth beginning to drain out of you, bare skin prickling with goosebumps.
after a few minutes and a few crumpled napkins tossed on the floor, he clears his throat, and you manage to refocus your eyes enough to meet his gaze.
"your place, or mine?"
"huh?"
your ears are still ringing from the intensity of your orgasm, and you're not sure what he just said. it kinda sounded like he wants to sleep over with you, but there's no way a guy as hot as him wants more than just a quick fuck.
"would you rather go home or come back to my place?" he repeats. "i'm not leaving you alone after that. you need a shower, and probably some tylenol." he winces a little and looks down at his lap, and it's almost strange to see him so shy after he just fucked you into another dimension. "i probably should've given you more warning. car sex isn't that easy on a first date, but fuck, you took it so well, and—"
"you can come over to mine," you interrupt him, still laying halfway in the passenger seat and trying not to be completely useless even though you feel like a melted puddle. "best first date i've ever had."
you can tell the exact moment that your words register in his brain, because the relief that spreads across his face is plain as day. as soon as you can muster all the strength you have left, you sit up and pull your legs back over into your seat, pushing yourself into a comfortable position.
"next time i want to fuck your tits," he exhales shakily as he puts his seatbelt back on, though his voice comes out more like a squeak.
"next time?" you ask, making your best attempt to playfully raise an eyebrow at him. he may be bringing you home and taking care of you, but that doesn't guarantee there's going to be a next time. well, maybe it does. you're really looking forward to there being a next time.
he scoffs, only fumbling a little bit to shove his keys into the ignition. "don't play dumb. i know you enjoyed that. don't act like you don't wanna see yourself covered in my cum after i'm done with you."
the shiver that runs down your spine and the way you instinctively press your thighs together is all the confirmation he needs.
i hope you enjoyed this!! if you did please reblog with your thoughts, or leave a comment or send an ask! it shows me that people are interested in my writing, and knowing people liked this makes me want to write more! i put a lot of time, love, and effort into my writing, so feedback is really appreciated and motivates me to keep posting :) thanks for reading!!
Summary: What is the best thing in the world? The three colored cat!
“Baba, that’s a cat.”
Anya’s tiny arms were looped tightly around Jun’s neck as he carried her from daycare toward the car. Her finger — small, chubby, and still sticky from afternoon snacks — pointed at a kitten crouched beside the rear tire, its tail flicking lazily under the warm after-school light.
“Mm, yes, that’s a cat,” Jun replied, amusement softening his voice. He slowed his steps so she could get a better look, pressing a gentle kiss to her temple. Anya leaned forward, squinting with the seriousness only four-year-olds could muster.
“Ugly color!” she declared with complete confidence.
Jun sniffed back a laugh, his shoulders shaking.
“Nooo,” he drawled dramatically, pretending to be offended. “It’s a three-colored cat. There’s no such thing as an ugly-color cat.”
Anya tilted her head — her usual thinking pose — lips pursed, eyes narrowed. Then she released a long, exaggerated sigh. “Alright. What color cat?”
“Three-colored cat,” Jun repeated, smiling as he shifted her higher on his hip.
“Oh!” Anya perked up instantly, kicking her legs in excitement. “It has orange! And black! And lots of white! Cute!”
Her joy burst out of her like sunlight — warm, bright, and impossible to contain. She wriggled in his arms as if ready to launch straight toward the kitten, and Jun tightened his hold with a soft grin, laughter slipping out before he could stop it.
“Can we bring it home, please?” she pleaded. “I’ll take care of it. Promise.” Her eyes grew round and glossy — the exact weapon she used whenever she wanted something. A tiny pout trembled at the corners of her mouth, just enough to make Jun’s heart clench in the helpless way only fathers understood.
“We need Mama’s permission for that,” he said gently, brushing a stray curl from her cheek. His tone carried that soft responsibility — the kind meant to cushion disappointment without crushing hope.
Anya froze. Her pout deepened. “But Baba…”
“That’s the rule,” he reminded her, tapping the tip of her nose. “Big decisions need Mama’s yes.”
She slumped against his shoulder with dramatic defeat, letting out a sigh far too heavy for a four-year-old.
“Mama always says no…”
Jun smiled — quiet, helpless — because she wasn’t entirely wrong. “Well,” he murmured, lowering his head to kiss her hair, “maybe she’ll say yes this time.”
Anya peeked up, hope flickering back into her eyes like a small spark relighting. “If I say ‘please’?”
“If you say please,” Jun whispered, “and… maybe if the kitty likes you back.”
As if summoned, the tricolor kitten let out a soft meow and turned its head toward them, its eyes curious and unafraid.
Anya’s mouth fell open in wonder. “Baba,” she whispered urgently, tugging at his shirt, “I think it likes me.”
She hesitated — a tiny, worried crease forming between her brows. “But what if Mama still says no?”
Jun shifted her closer, lowering his voice to something tender and steady. “I’ll find a way, baby,” he promised. “Anything for you.”
*
“No…”
You stared at the bathroom light switch like it personally betrayed you. One click. Nothing. Another click. Still darkness.
You let out a long, dramatic sigh and facepalmed. Of course. Of course he did. There was only one man in this house capable of creating chaos with the confidence of a movie villain, your husband, Jun.
First, the jar incident. Every lid tightened to the strength level of “Olympic gold medalist.” You’d nearly dislocated your shoulder trying to open the salt. And of course you had to call him over for help. Which was extra annoying because you two had just argued about the tricolor kitten Anya begged to adopt.
Second, the water spontaneously giving up on life while you were washing dishes. You’d been mid-scrubbing a plate when the faucet sputtered.
Cue you yelling, “Jun, the sink is having a breakdown.”
He “fixed” it and, very conveniently, took over dish duty with suspicious cheerfulness.
And now? The bathroom light. Sabotaged. You flicked the switch again — aggressively this time — just to make sure he heard.
Right on cue, Jun appeared in the doorway of the master bedroom like he’d been waiting backstage for his entrance.
“What’s wrong, babe?” he asked, voice all soft innocence.
You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, giving him your best “I am onto you” stare.
“Why? What happened?” he said, mirroring your posture — leaning back on the wall, arms crossed, smile growing way too fast for someone who was supposedly concerned.
“Stop it,” you said flatly. “You know I don’t like cats anymore.”
Jun lifted his eyebrows as if you just accused him of murder.
“We’re done talking about the cat, babe,” he declared, hand on his chest like a man reciting wedding vows. “You said it was final. No cats. And I respect that.”
He said it so sweetly you almost believed him. Almost. Except for the tiny smug curl at the corner of his mouth.
You exhaled sharply and ran your fingers through your hair. “Then explain this,” you gestured wildly. “The jars. The water. And now—”
You flicked the switch again like you were summoning a ghost. “The light won’t even turn on.”
Jun walked toward you, humming thoughtfully, inspecting the light with all the seriousness of a man checking a potato.
“I’ll fix it, babe,” he said, patting your shoulder. “No need to get all worked up.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Oh, I am worked up. I’m fully worked. I’m premium worked.”
Jun bit back a laugh — badly. “Why would I sabotage the house?” he asked, as if the answer wasn’t four years old, chubby-cheeked, and currently plotting with crayons in the living room.
You crossed your arms tighter. “Because you and your daughter want a cat.”
Jun pressed his lips together. “Allegedly,” he corrected.
You threw your hands up. “Oh my God.”
He leaned closer, smiling like you just declared war. “Babe,” he whispered dramatically, “this is all a coincidence.” You stared at him. Another flick. Dark.
He stared back. “…Coincidence?” you repeated.
Jun nodded, eyes sparkling. “A very adorable coincidence.”
Jun tightened the last screw on the light fixture, stepped back with a flourish, and flicked the switch. The bathroom lit up instantly. He turned to you with both hands raised like he’d just completed a magic trick.
“Done. You may do your thing here, your majesty.”
You stared at him. Long. Hard. The kind of stare that usually came right before you chose patience over prison time.
Then you sighed. A deep, soul-drained sigh. “I don’t want to act childish,” you said slowly, “but you’re definitely doing one, Wen Junhui.”
Jun clutched his chest dramatically. “I didn’t do anything, babe…”
“Yes,” you muttered, brushing past him, “and I’m the Queen of England.”
You stepped into the shower, letting the water drown out your irritation. But the whole time, you could practically feel Jun smirking from outside — smug, confident, absolutely certain he’d win.
And annoyingly, he would.
By the time you stepped out, skin warm and hair damp, Jun was sprawled on the bed like he owned every inch of it. One arm behind his head, shirt riding up just enough to show the faint lines of his stomach — he always looked like this right after mischief, relaxed and very, very pleased with himself.
You grabbed your towel tighter. “Jun,” you called.
He hummed, eyes on you instantly.
You exhaled, defeated but strangely lighter. “Bring that cat,” you said. A pause. “Tomorrow.”
*
Anya had been talking nonstop since the moment Jun buckled her into her car seat.
The kitten — tiny, fluffy, and extremely confused — sat in the small carrier Jun had oh-so-mysteriously “already prepared,” right beside her. Every few seconds, a tiny paw poked through the bars, batting at the air.
“Mama, it likes fruit names,” Anya declared with the confidence of a CEO presenting a business proposal.
Jun tried — truly tried — to keep his eyes on the road, but his smile kept growing each time Anya babbled another name.
“Kiwi,” she repeated, leaning forward to stick her face against the carrier. “Do you like Kiwi? Blink if yes.”
The kitten blinked. Anya gasped dramatically. “Baba! It said yes!”
Jun laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “That’s not how blinking works, baby.”
“Yes it is,” she insisted, crossing her arms with a tiny huff. “Cats blink when they like you.”
You turned a little in your seat, raising a brow. “She’s not wrong,” you muttered, more to yourself than anyone else.
Jun shot you a look — that soft, ridiculously fond look — the one that appeared any time you defended his daughter’s logic.
Anya wasn’t done. “Or Banana!” she chirped, tapping the cage lightly. “Banana is yellow. This cat has orange. Orange is ALMOST yellow. So Banana!”
The kitten meowed once, confused but cooperative.
Jun let out another quiet laugh, the kind that rumbled warmly through the car. “She’s really committed,” he said, glancing at you with a grin. “Kiwi or Banana, huh?”
You rolled your eyes, but the corners of your lips betrayed you, curving up despite yourself.
“But… isn’t Kiwi Banana gonna be scared to go to the doctor?”
Anya’s voice was small but grave, the kind of seriousness only a four-year-old could summon over a tiny creature sitting in a pet carrier.
They were on the way to the vet, and the kitten — newly christened Kiwi Banana, thanks to Anya’s triumphant declaration of “Three colors, two names, one kitten!” — let out a soft mewl from inside the cage.
Jun glanced at her through the rearview mirror. “You think so, baby?”
“Yes,” she said immediately, clutching her stuffed bunny tighter. “Doctor means needles. And needles means… ouchie.”
She made a little face, scrunching her nose in sympathy toward the kitten.
You turned slightly in your seat. “Anya, the vet is a nice doctor. They help animals feel better so they can grow strong and healthy.”
Anya didn’t look convinced.
“But Baba, what if Kiwi Banana thinks we’re betraying it? We just met! What if it runs away from home and never forgives us and becomes—”
She paused dramatically.
“—a wild forest cat?”
Jun’s laugh slipped out before he could catch it. “A wild forest cat?” he echoed.
“Yes!” she said, pointing one finger into the air like she was explaining a legal clause. “Because if you feel betrayed… you go to forest.”
You pressed your lips together, holding back a laugh.
“Is that how it works?”
“Yes,” she said again, with absolute finality.
Jun shook his head with a smile. “Baby, Kiwi Banana won’t get scared. You know why?”
Anya leaned forward a little. “Why?”
“Because you’re going with it,” Jun said gently. “And Kiwi Banana already likes you.”
The kitten meowed right on cue, as if agreeing.
Anya gasped softly, eyes going wide.
“Baba… it said yes again.”
Jun shot you a look — proud, soft, slightly smug — and your heart dipped, warm, despite your earlier resistance.
You turned back to Anya. “And you can hold its paw while the doctor checks it, okay? That’ll make it feel safe.”
“Mama,” Anya said suddenly, her tone shifting into that quiet, suspicious softness children use right before exposing adult secrets.
“You seem to know a lot about cats.”
“I thought you don’t like cats,” she added, squinting at you like a tiny investigator.
You cleared your throat. “I don’t dislike cats,” you said carefully. “I just… don’t prefer them.”
Anya tilted her head. “But you said vet is nice doctor. And you held Kiwi Banana like he’s a fragile egg. And you said he needs warm towel and quiet place and also you wiped his eye—”
“Okay, okay, detective,” you cut in, holding up a hand. “I know basic things.”
Jun turned his head for a second, the movement small, almost hesitant—like he’d just said something he wasn’t sure he was supposed to.
“Mama used to have… ten cats,” he said quietly.
The words hung there, softer than before, slipping into the air the way old memories tend to resurface—uninvited, but gentle.
You didn’t respond right away.
Your gaze had drifted somewhere past the kitten, past the parking lot, past the afternoon light—somewhere Jun couldn’t follow. Not yet.
Anya, oblivious, perked up. “Ten? Mama, really?”
But Jun wasn’t looking at her anymore. He was looking at you. The way your fingers tightened slightly on the strap of your bag. The way your breath paused—just a moment.
The way your eyes stayed distant, even though your face tried to arrange itself into something casual. He’d heard the story before—briefly, vaguely. Ten cats. A busy little house. You, smiling in every memory.
You finally blinked, shaking yourself back. “That was… a long time ago,” you murmured, giving a small smile that didn’t sit the way your real smiles usually do.
Jun watched you for another second—really watched—before turning back to Anya.
“Yeah,” he said, gentle. “A long time ago.”
The tone settled over the three of you like a soft breeze—warm, but carrying something else in it. Something unspoken. But for now, he didn’t press.
For now, he just understood.
*
“We’re doing it together…”
“Don’t leave me!”
“Please…”
“Don’t—!”
You shot up with a broken gasp, air clawing its way into your lungs. Your chest heaved, fingers trembling against the sheets as the last echo of the nightmare clung to you like something alive.
Jun stirred immediately. He blinked awake, already reaching for you before he was fully conscious.
“Love?” His voice was soft, rough from sleep. “What’s wrong?”
You couldn’t answer—your breaths came short and sharp, sweat cooling along your temples. He pushed himself upright beside you, worry settling into his features the moment he saw your expression.
“Hey… hey.” Jun cupped the back of your head gently, guiding your forehead to his shoulder. “It’s okay. You’re okay. It’s just a dream.”
Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, as if needing proof that he was real—that he was here.
Jun wrapped an arm around you, firm and grounding, the kind of embrace that held you without trapping you.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered against your hair. “I’m right here.”
The room was dark and still, the only sound was your uneven breathing—slowly, slowly softening as his thumb traced steady circles on your arm, coaxing you back into the present.
“Is it the fire again?” Jun asked quietly, once your breathing began to steady.
You hesitated—then gave a small nod.
Jun didn’t press. He simply reached over to the nightstand, fingers closing around the glass of water he always left there for you before bed. Just in case.
“Here,” he murmured.
You took it with slightly trembling hands and brought it to your lips, sipping slowly. The cool water helped—grounding you, pulling you away from the lingering heat of the flames in your dream. Jun watched you with gentle eyes, his hand resting lightly against your back, steady and present.
When you lowered the glass, he brushed a strand of hair from your face.
“You’re safe, love.”
The dream always came the same way— a fire swallowing your childhood home, flames crawling up the walls faster than your legs could run. And your cats— all ten of them— were trapped inside.
In the dream, you always tried. You always screamed for them. You always reached for the door even when the heat blistered your skin. And just like every time, you always failed.
Only one of them had survived in real life. It had escaped the fire by a miracle— bolting out through the back window just in time. You found it the next day, shaking so hard its small body rattled against your arms.
Life after losing the house was no kinder. You moved from place to place, your one surviving cat clutched to your chest, its terrified eyes mirroring your own. The only difference was that you’d become good at pretending you weren’t scared.
“We’re doing this together,” you used to whisper to it at night.
But even together wasn’t enough. It left you, too— not by choice, but by life’s cruelty. And the wound it carved into you never really healed.
You remembered crying over the tiny grave, hands shaking as you pressed the soil down. “I should’ve given you a home.”
That guilt settled in your bones. And from then on, you weren’t the same. You distanced yourself from cats— from the memories, from the attachment, from the possibility of losing something you loved that deeply again. Any cat was too close to the past. Too close to the fire. Too close to the pain you never let yourself revisit.
You ended up on the living room couch that night, legs curled beneath a blanket, the shadows quiet around you. Sleep wouldn’t come—not after the nightmare, not with your heart still unsteady.
Jun was already fast asleep in the bedroom, worn out from the day. And you— you didn’t want to show him this side of you again. Not tonight.
A tiny meow broke the silence.
You blinked, surprised. Kiwi Banana—somehow—was already padding across the floor, wobbling a little as it hurried toward you. You hadn’t even noticed Anya’s door was open a crack.
Before you could react, the kitten hopped onto the couch and plopped onto your lap, immediately purring. Its tiny paws kneaded at the blanket as it made itself comfortable, then finally rested its head on your thigh with a soft sigh.
A small smile tugged at your lips. The ache in your chest loosened. “You’re just like her,” you whispered. Your old tricolor cat. “Same color… same personality.”
Kiwi Banana answered with a muted little meow— whether in agreement or mild complaint, you couldn’t tell. You let out a tiny chuckle anyway. The fear you’d been carrying—of loving a cat again, of remembering—faded just a little.
“Tell me she’s okay…” you murmured, hand brushing gently over its tiny back. Kiwi Banana cracked one eye open, stared at you, meowed once— and then, in true cat fashion, turned around to present its butt to you before settling down again.
You snorted softly. “Rude,” you whispered, still smiling.
You leaned slowly against the couch’s armrest, your hand resting lightly on the kitten’s side. Kiwi Banana’s breathing grew slow, steady—warm against your leg.
And before you realized it, lulled by the soft purring and the quiet comfort, your eyes drifted shut. Sleep came easier this time.
*
You woke to the soft sound of someone whispering nearby—light, excited, and terribly close to your ear.
“Mama… Mamaaa, look…”
Your eyelids fluttered open, slow and heavy. Morning sunlight was already spilling through the curtains, warm and gold against your skin. The blanket had slipped halfway off, and curled right on top of your stomach was Kiwi Banana, purring like an engine.
Then you saw Anya. She was kneeling beside the couch in her pajama shorts, hair sticking in every direction, eyes wide with pure wonder.
“Mama, you’re soooo cute…” she whispered dramatically, as if she’d stumbled upon a rare forest creature. “Sleeping with Kiwi Banana… like best friends…”
You groaned softly, rubbing your face. Kiwi Banana stretched, tiny paws pressing into your shirt before settling again. “Anya… why are you awake this early?”
Though judging from the light, it wasn’t that early—just earlier than your usual waking time.
She puffed her cheeks. “I woke up and kitty wasn’t in my room! So I followed it. And then—” she pointed at you with all the intensity of a detective revealing a culprit— “I found this.”
You glanced down at the kitten sprawled on you like a warm, furry badge.
“Mama likes Kiwi Banana now?” Anya asked, hope sparkling in her eyes.
The kitten yawned—as if answering for you.
You exhaled, resigned. “…Maybe a little.”
Anya clapped both hands over her mouth to keep from screaming. It didn’t work. “BABA!!” she shrieked towards the hallway, “MAMA LOVES KIWI BANANA!!”
From the bedroom came Jun’s sleepy, confused voice, “What—already? It’s morning…”
You covered your face again. Too late. L The whole house already knew.
Kiwi Banana didn’t stay that tiny for long. Months passed, and somehow the kitten who once fit perfectly on your stomach grew into a round, spoiled ball of fur—with a belly that jiggled when it trotted and a face that had perfected the art of guilt-tripping you into extra treats.
Jun swore it wasn’t his fault. You swore it wasn’t yours. Anya didn’t swear anything—she openly blamed both of you.
“Mama, you love Kiwi Banana too much,” she complained one afternoon as the cat waddled proudly across the living room like a royal parade float.
You scooped the chunky creature into your arms anyway. “And what’s wrong with that?”
Kiwi Banana purred, melting into your embrace with the confidence of a cat who knew it was adored.
The fear you once held—the ache of old memories, the guilt, the trauma—had softened over time, replaced by something gentler. Something healing.
Jun wrapped an arm around your shoulders from behind, resting his chin lightly on your head as he watched the cat kneading your shirt with chubby paws.
“Told you,” he murmured with a smile, “you were always a cat person.”
You shot him a look. He kissed your cheek anyway. Kiwi Banana flopped dramatically in your arms, exposing its belly in complete trust.
And for the first time in a long, long while, loving a cat didn’t hurt. It felt like coming home. The home you built now—warm, noisy, messy, full of laughter. Full of Jun, full of Anya.
And full of one very fat, very loved Kiwi Banana.
End.
Footnote:
Grief lingers, but love does, too.
Two years ago, the fire took my home… and all the little lives I loved within it. The guilt clung to me like smoke, staining everything I touched. But my tricolor Simi — my brave girl — survived long enough to show me that even in ruin, love doesn’t burn out so easily.
Fly high, my baby.
I carry you in every quiet morning, every soft memory, every warm place my heart still knows how to hold.
• you and seungkwan have beef cause no way in hell you’re coming for his title of biggest huihui.
• you’re one of the most important people in his life and he always lets you know that.
• jun pays SOOOOO much attention to you, sometimes you think he knows you better than you know yourself.
• he’s the cook of the relationship, always making you a bunch of dishes from his hometown.
• you’re his biggest supporter when it comes to his acting career.
• you definitely help pull him out of his comfort zone.
• dating him is like having a new unpredictable adventure every single day.
• he’s very good when it comes to taking care of you — always making sure you’re taking your medicine when you’re sick and not overworking yourself when life gets too hectic.
• you’re always constantly checking in on him and making sure he feels heard and seen.
• he would drop anything and everything for you (even if it’s glass.)
• jun is actually really slick when it comes to flirting, but with that being said, he also gets flustered easily whenever you reciprocate.
• sometimes he struggles with explaining things or getting his point across, but overtime you’ve become a master at decoding his words.
• he’s the first person to call whenever you want to do something stupid — he would never say no to you.
• he’s always on a mission to make you smile and laugh.
• he freaks you out with the way he sleeps, but there’s nothing buying him a sleeping mask won’t fix 😃
• would teach you inappropriate phrases in his first language, but wouldn’t tell you what it means.
• laughing at minghao when you go tell him the phrases and he stands there shocked cause wtf did you just call him ????
• late night walks are a common thing in your relationship.
• he’s always trying to convince you to get a cat.
• you being starstruck when he just randomly brings a kitten home out of nowhere.
• keeping the kitten anyways and referring to it as “your child.”
• he claims it’s practice to prepare yall for an actual kid.
• he’s always kissing your forehead.
• the type of boyfriend who would love for you to put lipstick on and pepper his face with kisses.
• shamelessly posts the selfies of him with your lipstick marks all over social media.
• you constantly get side-eyed by seungkwan cause he still holds a grudge against you for “stealing” jun from him.
• being bad at ball sports together.
• y’all are a hundred percent the type of couple to make a pillow and blanket fort in the living room.
• y’all grocery shop together always, but end up getting junk food instead of what yall originally came for.
• his energy always peaks whenever he sees you.
• jun never really complains about his worries, but you have a talent for coaxing it out of him.
Being actor Junhui’s partner is finding bruises on his skin after he comes home from a tiring day on the set.
It's welcoming home with a warm smile, running your fingers through his hair as you press a kiss to his cheek while the fingertips of your other hand stumble across a graze he didn’t even know was there. It’s him gasping out of the sudden sting, pulling back to look at his hand, and there it is — blood already dried on the skin of his hand from where he’s bruised it doing god knows what.
Being actor Junhui’s partner is quietly scolding him as you pull him towards the bathroom, worry clouding your mind and evident in the words falling out of your lips. It’s pushing him to sit on the counter while you pull out the first aid kit. It’s him watching with tired but fond eyes as you fret over his hand, washing it under the tap, carefully drying it and applying an ointment with shaky hands that are scared of hurting him any more. It’s you shushing him when he gasps out at the sudden sting, pressing an apology to his fingertips. It’s you carefully wrapping a clean bandage with your touch as light as a feather, still afraid of hurting him even further.
It's you scanning Junhui's entire body, checking for any other bruises that might have gone unnoticed by you. It's Junhui whining as you skim over every patch of skin on his body, trying to pretend like his heart isn't doing laps of somersaults at the thought of you so worried about him. It's you finally releasing him from the full body check up to go freshen up with a slight frown, still unsettled by the sheer amount of injuries you've found on his body throughout the entire shooting period.
Being actor Junhui's partner is waiting with open arms when he returns each night with a new story about his costars and a new scrape on his skin — a symbol of his hard work, Jun likes to say. 'You need to be more careful', you'll probably reply with.
Being actor Junhui's partner is diligently listening as he talks about how cool his senior costars are, how awesome he feels to work with them, all while delicately wrapping him up with the care of someone close to his heart.
Being actor Junhui's partner is silently scolding him as you get ready for bed, making him pinky promise that he'll look after himself throughout shooting.
Being actor Junhui's partner is pulling him close to your chest at the end of the night as the pride in your chest swells and swells until there's nothing but love for your boy left inside.
