REALNESS - Tumblr Posts
"I didn't break this family. I just melted the glue so everyone could see how bad it was..."
Don't know where this came from, but it's here now
Now I don't think that I'm the one to write about this, but all the fics I've seen of Hobie meeting Miles' parents always feel so... light. It's either "Hobie calls Jefferson a pig to his face and Miles gets grounded" or "Hobie is surprisingly respectful and polite and Miles' parents love him"
Even when the former is done, none of the underlying issue is really addressed. It feels just like silly banter and classic "oooh, the parents don't like the new boyfriend" stuff. Guess what? There are reasons people don't like cops.
I can't stop thinking about Hobie who is polite to Miles' parents, but in an obviously stilted and forced way. Hobie who usually slinks all around a room, but lingers extra close to Miles when his dad is around. Who keeps an arm around him in a way that usually reads as affectionate, but between all the side glances he tosses Jeff it's hard not to see as protective. Who makes a point for Miles to know he's always welcome back in Hobie's dimension. Who doesn't say anything too confrontational, not while the cop in question is in a direct position of authority over someone he loves, but has one hand tensed and ready to shoot webs at a moments notice. Because Hobie is unapologetically loud about his beliefs, but knows how to stand back and be more subtle support when the consequences would spread to others (like when he was prodding Miles about the spider society)
And Jefferson wants to be pissed, he does, but more than that he wishes he didn't look at this young man and get it. That he doesn't look at the anger and protectiveness and see the fear underneath. But they'll never actually get along, because Jeff wants to help things from the inside and Hobie believes there are no good cogs in a broken system.
I've just been feeling a kind of way, seeing some cop shit happening at pride. This situation is too racially charged for me to properly in depth explore it myself, but it's something on my mind each time I read Hobie meeting the parents.
HER | part five.
✧✎ synopsis: wonwoo, a heartbroken and burnt out writer nearing the end of his math degree, wants nothing to do with the seemingly perfect, intimidating girl who has everyone under her thumb. you. unfortunately, his literary talent has got him shoved him between a rock and a hard place when you want to write a book and require his expertise. you two are the furthest from compatible. wonwoo can’t see this going well. at all.
pairing: wonwoo x fem!reader word count: 23.8k genres/tropes: writer!wonwoo, university!au, plug!vernon + boyfriend!mingyu as prominent side characters, SLOWBURN (i am not fucking around this is my slowest burn yet), relationship drama, soul searching, strong angst/hurt (i’m coming for the jugular), comfort, romance, smut, a smoothie of every emotion on earth.
(!) warnings: drug use (weed, cocaine, ecstasy), wonwoo has anxiety + anxiety attacks + fairly dark thoughts, prescribed medication, gambling, intense language, infidelity, throwing up.
✧✎ a/n: just some quick things i want to make apparent!
the fic is told from wonwoo’s pov, not the reader’s!
all major timeline events are organized through chronological dates
any smut or potentially triggering scenes are NOT MARKED bc the content is already quite mature, so just plz be aware of that!
bolded and italicized text implies the characters are conversing in korean, tho it doesn’t happen often!
the fic in its entirety is 140k, so it has been split into 6 parts.
posting a bit earlier tn since i've got work tmo morning! i can't believe there is only one part left after this one!! :o
last chapter was angst up to the eyeballs so hopefully this one mends some of that heartache <3 still, much has yet to happen! this chapter contains one of my fave scenes teehee.
⇢ part one | part two | part three | part four ⇢ soundtrack for those curious! ⇢ read at ur own pace! :)
—AUGUST 3RD.
The last time Wonwoo had been at your apartment to help you write, it was around the evening, into supper. He remembered the scent from the three-wick candles lit up in the kitchen—bonfire and vanilla—which you insisted was a necessity because it was the perfect way to relax your tense mind. Deciding not to cook, you had ordered Chinese takeout instead, and the entirety of the evening was spent sitting criss-cross on the comfortable rug splayed across the living room floor, indulging in warm food, writing, and letting the TV flick through a random season of your favourite drama show.
It was perfect.
Even now, as he sat on the bench across the street from your apartment complex, Wonwoo could still recall all the infinitesimal details—the fried crunch to every vegetable-filled spring roll, how the candles softly crackled when you blew them out at the end of the night, your small and very sleepy voice bidding him goodbye as you walked Wonwoo downstairs into the lobby—each memory sprung alive with such vividness. Wonwoo wished he could be poised outside your apartment knowing everything was the same; undamaged and intact. But that was an outcome too blissful for reality to maintain.
You had a specific nightly routine, particularly on Thursdays, after work: showering, followed by having a quickly thrown together dinner, applying a face mask, and then a movie before bed. He found himself memorizing a lot of your patterns over the months.
Wonwoo hadn’t texted you—he was doing this completely unprompted, without an inkling of his arrival. Maybe that was a terrible idea which should be discarded for something gentler and less likely to explode in his face, but that would only lead to more ruminating and more ruminating meant less doing.
The thing was, it was nearing eight o’clock. Wonwoo had been sitting on the bench for almost a half hour while the sun gradually sank, watching the occasional green leaf flutter down from the chestnut oaks adorning and shading the parkway behind him. The longer he waited, the further the shadows of the trees stretched, until he was completely engulfed and framed alone underneath their dark, cool silhouettes. Light still spilled across the street, igniting the space where everyone else was strolling, each person steadfast in their pace to be somewhere that wasn’t a sunset orange city street.
Breathing out slowly, Wonwoo glanced down at his hands.
It was like the first time he met you.
Just suck it up. Go do it.
He walked between the trimmed hedges that led to the complex door. The lobby area was exactly as he remembered it, though Wonwoo had come to learn those little complimentary desserts and cucumber waters set out the first day he visited you were no longer a thing, which you had vehemently complained to him about during a brief promenade through the park—another one of your palate cleansing ideas.
“Oh! Those pastries, by the way—they stopped doing them! I heard about it from my neighbour when I went down to get the mail. I was pissed, pissed, pissed! Apparently, there’s a lady who made them specifically for our complex because her grandson lived there. Well, he’s moved out now, so we all got fucked! If I don’t get my cute little lemon square with the raspberry on top and the powdered confectionary sugar all placed in a decorative doily, I will legit kill myself. Something has to be done… hey—can you bake, at all?”
Hence your immeasurable disappointment when Wonwoo revealed to you that he wasn’t notably talented at baking. Still, the incident provoked him to spend at least an hour a night researching different recipes for lemon squares that he could manage to pull off if given enough time and a handful of supplemental trial and error.
Wonwoo pushed the button to the elevator.
The heartbeat heavied in his chest while waiting for the doors to pull apart, the anticipation and nervousness coming down hard like thick snow flurries. A commercial ding at last echoed throughout the vacant lobby. Wonwoo immediately stepped into the small, confined space, feeling his breaths begin to drag, becoming almost audible in his desire for more oxygen.
Without a doubt, this was probably the hardest thing Wonwoo had ever done in his life. Even moving away from the comfortability and closeness of his family in Changwon—no matter their disagreements or quarrels—couldn’t compare to the emotion so palpably tugging within him akin to an ocean tide under a full moon.
He felt every twinge, but he was still doing well to maintain his composure, though Wonwoo couldn’t help himself from fearing that the control might leave him in the cold wind of seeing you again.
To look into your eyes could feel quite dissecting and Wonwoo didn’t know if he was yet strong enough to stomach the scrutinization despite how warranted it was. The best he could do was to expect nothing—this wasn’t about gaining closure, or basking in the liberation from righting a wrong—it was about the effort of accepting a profoundly hurtful problem he caused. You were hit front and centre by the shrapnel and you deserved to hear acknowledgement.
At the moment of reaching your floor, he didn't knock straight away.
Wonwoo stood outside the unit for a moment, removing his glasses and pulling at the sleeve to his large black hoodie, massaging away a smudge from the lens. After fitting the frames back to his face, he knocked. Each breath was fluttery. He tried so damn hard to soothe himself because life was unfortunately not a loop of constant aid and permanent reassurance and sometimes there was no other option but to be discomforted. At least he had his own company.
There was no movement from behind the door.
Swallowing very dryly, Wonwoo knocked again.
Nerves twisted in his stomach and turned his complexion pallid, though it was just on the edge of manageable and Wonwoo would have otherwise been quite proud if not for the lock suddenly clicking and the gentle, slow twisting of the doorknob. His fist clenched, the blunt nail on his index finger picking at his scarred cuticle.
Even when he saw you—Her—for the first time in over a month, accompanying the liminal doorway, staring back at him with an expression that he could use an entire pencil detailing, Wonwoo was able to sustain his control. Still, his heart was fucking racing.
Your eyes were wide, glassy, though somewhat veiled by the dip in your brows that began to gradually furl deeper in their recognition of his presence. He felt his stomach drop faster than lightspeed when a frown twitched into your lips, distorting the surprise in your face to anger, while the fingers at your leg curled into a rigid fist. There was a dewiness to your bare cheeks and a sweetened aroma from your skin that suggested you had gotten out from the shower not too long ago.
Wonwoo relaxed his hands.
“Hey.”
Expectantly, you said nothing.
There was a rolling, emotional sea unabashed to your face, continuously morphing between every shade of wrath within the sticky silence. Wonwoo worried you might slam the door shut.
He needed to say something fast.
“I know what you want to do—you want to close me out. I get that. I can see it all over your body. And, believe me, I understand.”
Your hand grabbed the edge of the door. That initial glassiness in your eyes only grew glimmerier; the frown tacked onto your mouth somehow threaded with even more fulgurant rage. He could see that you were going to snuff him into nothing, like grabbing onto a candle wick with your fingers despite the hot wax and flame.
But it couldn’t end so abruptly.
Wonwoo held up his hands, baring his palms in defense.
“Just—okay. Her, I hurt you. Hurt is even too weak of a word to use. I know that. I promise I do. I know what I did… and… and I know that I must have some fucking gal to come here unannounced after everything I said, but I've got an explanation. I swear.”
There was notable uplift in his chest, watching your grip loosen on the door, fall down to the handle, losing the hostility. Wonwoo paused to catch his breath, ensuring his eyes never wavered.
“And… if you decide to listen to me… and you still really don’t want me in your life… I-I can respect that. If all you want is for me to disappear and never bother you again… I can respect that…” he felt sick just voicing it, like he could faint at the prospect. “It might be such a stupid fucking thing for me to say, considering how I treated you, but I genuinely want to do whatever will make you happiest.”
Was it good enough? Feasible, even marginally?
Wonwoo didn’t know. He could only stand in place and study the metamorphosis of your face—from deep-seeded anger, to something pained and unintelligible, and now, contemplation. The inner monologue in your head was probably running on overdrive.
Your fingernails carved into the door.
He kept quiet, waiting, until you quickly wiped something from your cheek and swallowed the lump in your throat.
“… Fine,” you uttered in a raspy, weak tone.
Relief struck him like a breeze during a heatwave.
“Thank yo—”
“But if I say I want you to leave, then you will leave, and you will not say one word on your way out my door or spare me one glance, even if it’s from the corner of your fucking eye.”
Wonwoo was staring straight into your gaze, then shifting to the pointed finger sticking in his face. You were deadly serious.
He nodded.
Finally, however, you stepped aside to let him in.
Wonwoo didn’t know if he should sit or stand. If he should grab a stool at the marbled kitchen island or come to fit himself at the edge of the cream sofa. The interior was pretty much identical to his previous visit, though he realized that a few potted plants you once kept by the elegant floor-length windows were missing—he’d assumed they’d died—it was probably somehow his fault.
“Um, where should we—where do you want to—”
“Kitchen.”
With your arms folded stiff, you walked behind the island.
He stood on the opposite side, knowing it was likely not a coincidence that you opted to put a barrier between yourselves.
It was a foolish idea and he would certainly not extrapolate, but Wonwoo wanted to ask about you. He wanted to know how your work was going at the beauty salon, if you had any more obnoxious dinner parties with your parents—were you still writing? To even look at you from across the hard countertop, captured in the quiet dimness of your kitchen, with your soft and bare face and those cute silk pyjamas, was enough to stop his heart if he allowed it.
Wonwoo pushed up his glasses, sighing.
“Before I explain anything… I just want to say—”
“I don’t care about that,” you interrupted without hesitation, eyes scalding and sharp, “I know you’re sorry. It’s the least you could feel after everything you said to me. I don’t care.”
“R-Right…” he trailed off, sensing the heat from the overhead lights as though they were shining directly into his face. Wonwoo pulled at the sleeves of his hoodie, gulping, “I guess you want to know—"
“Why. I want to know why you did what you did.”
“Why?” He echoed dumbly.
“Yes, why. Pull out an entire script and apologize—I don’t want that. Acknowledge what you did—good for you. I’m glad you can see how fucked up it was, all while I had to cope with your analysis on why I’m such a god-awful person. People say sorry all the time. I know it can be genuine. I just don’t care. Sorry doesn’t help me understand. Sorry doesn’t take away the weeks I lost, tearing myself apart. Sorry doesn’t mean fucking anything to me if all you’re apologizing for is something I already lived and breathed.”
“No, that—yeah, it makes sense...”
His fingers suddenly gripped the edge of the island, knuckles ivory white. Your intensity was more disorienting than a drug, but Wonwoo knew he needed to stay calm. Breathe. Listen.
“Okay, so?” You shrugged. “Tell me, then.”
“Why I did what I did…” Wonwoo exhaled, staring at his reflection in the marble while his mind twitched into complete blankness. “Well... I-I guess I was feeling… there was a lot I was feeling and... fuck.”
At the last second, he scraped everything he was going to say.
Wonwoo then looked up at you, who was so cold and reluctant.
“You know, um… before I met you, I had a girlfriend. I know I've never mentioned it. But her name was Jeanie. I met her at the university, actually. She worked in the Morrison library—like, the big stone building that looks like a castle, almost. Anyway. I met her because I needed to sign out a textbook for this elective I was taking and she helped me find it… Jeanie. Yeah. I don’t know if you ever saw her or—she was really shy. But I felt like she listened well, no matter what you were saying, or what you were talking about. She would give you her full attention. And… I just remember thinking… I could tell you anything, Jeanie. I could tell you I fucking pushed someone in front of a bus and you would wait and listen and hear me out until the end. She would make you feel… normal… human.
But—the thing is—I’m sort of laughing because I’m saying all this now, but… at the time, even despite my love for her, and how much I trusted her… I just… I kept her out. I didn’t think it was a bad thing. She knew I had anxiety, but never knew how bad. I never told her I stopped taking my pills. I never told her my actual feelings about anything… like, despite having this perfect person in my life, I still couldn’t open up. I didn’t think there was much harm to it, either. It would cause tension. Things would get… uncomfortable… but as long as she was there, I was like—I can get away with this. I don’t need to really discuss anything. She will always be here.
And then… one day… she just… wasn’t… uh—ahem—sorry, just—something in my throat, b-but, uh… yeah. She was gone. All her clothes, all her belongings: toothbrush, makeup, clothes, stuffed toys, notebooks, mugs, house decorations. It was all gone. I remember coming home to an apartment that was stripped bare. Like a skeleton. She took every part of herself from it. And all I could do was dumbly stand there and look at the bones.
Her number was disconnected, too. There was no one I could get a hold of that would tell me anything until I got this weird, vague email from her mom. ‘My daughter won’t be seeing you anymore. She’s safe. No need to worry.’ Those words picked themselves into my brain. I would go to sleep seeing them. I would repeat them in my head all night, and wake up with them still chiming. And I thought to myself, with all the weight in my heart… how could she do this? How could she leave and take everything and erase me without a word? It had to be her and it had to be the world just proving my point: being vulnerable, trusting, expressive—it isn’t worth it.
I really, truly believed it. I mean, I held onto it. I always looked at her as the one with the issue, but—fuck—it was me. I was the fucking issue. I… I must have made her feel so unimportant. I probably confused her, destroyed our trust, fucked up her concept of love. Like… I made her feel so trapped… that she felt the best thing to do was disappear, because there was no other way out… I made her feel that way. Me. It was me the entire time. And… I never really processed that until you were six feet away, screaming at me, cursing me up and down in the same living room I came home to that day, all emptied out. I had it out with you, the way I never had with Jeanie…
And the truth is, Her… I kind of… I always sort of knew I had that problem. I lived without ever wanting to acknowledge it. But I never really… I-I basically… I didn’t care about fixing it until I met you.”
Wonwoo tilted his head and stared at your quivering bottom lip, the shininess to your razor-sharp eyes, the manner in which your fingernails were sinching indents upon the skin of your biceps.
He paused, chuckling.
“I know I already told you… but you used to terrify me. I didn’t think we would ever mesh. Whenever I looked at you, I saw someone who knew herself, and I was so severely the opposite. But miraculously, I guess, you ended up being the person I feel the most comfortable with… when I see someone strong like you unravel, it makes me want to unravel, too. The trust I had for you was infinite.”
From across the island, Wonwoo noted how your eyes momentarily drifted down. A lump was sitting square at the base of your throat and it took a very dense swallow for you to even speak.
“… Had?” You whispered with a sniffle, hugging yourself.
Rolling out his shoulders, Wonwoo frowned.
“It was the party, Her. If you remember us talking in the guest bedroom… I told you that story about my brother and I, about my decision to move from Changwon… you’d nearly grappled Bells down to the ground an hour before. You apologized to me because you thought it ruined my night, but I promised you that it was fine, that I would always be here for you. And then we split ways. And you… you were… well, there’s really no clean way to say it but—”
“I had sex with Mingyu.”
“Uh, well… yeah.”
You shook your head. “He’s my boyfriend, Wonwoo.”
“I know, I know. It makes it sound stupid but—”
“No—wait. You’re pissed at me because I chose to have sex with my boyfriend? Are you—are you hearing yourself?”
“Her, please, listen—”
“I went through all of your bullshit because of that!”
“Can I just—”
“Are you fucking kidding me?!”
“It was because I liked you!”
Wonwoo’s heart was thumping almost audibly against his chest while his veins soared with adrenaline. Your fists were sitting, balled, on the kitchen island, though they began to unfurl as the weight cupping his confession—which was a mild version of what he truly meant to say—hung in the air like the plumes from a wildfire.
“I liked you, a lot," he admitted, watching your eyes slim with confusion, "and I’m sorry if that ruins us even more… but it’s true.”
“Wha—what—no. What do you mean you liked me? You liked me as in what? You liked me in a crushy silly way that’s just for fun, o-or you liked me in a serious way, that’s like, you want to… you want…”
Your mouth hung open, shoulders hunching.
His teeth gritted. “I thought I could… I wanted to…”
“Please just spit it out.”
“I wanted to be with you. I wanted to be your boyfriend.”
Flares of heat melted slow across his face. Wonwoo could feel his temperature climatically rising. Still, it wasn’t the entire truth. His likeness wasn’t just that—it was a fully blossomed and unshakeable love. Though, he figured it might be too much, too suddenly.
“O-Oh…” you stuttered, “… and, you thought that…”
“Maybe you felt the way I did. Not that I’m going to ask if you did or didn’t. I mean, this was over a month ago. I’ve had lots of time to myself. I’ve been thinking plenty… the point is, I let those feelings affect my clarity and that’s why I felt so hurt. I felt like I was so open and candour just to kinda have it… thrown back in my face. But it just seems like every relationship I have, I sabotage it somehow… I didn’t go about us in the right way—not at all. It blew up into something terrible. I wish every day that I would have handled it differently. But I didn’t. I kept my mouth shut when I should have just talked to you.”
“Oh… god, Wonwoo.”
“I-I don’t know. It was late, and I was high—you were off a line of coke for fuck’s sake—I just—in that moment, didn’t it feel… like we were something? More than friends? Maybe you don’t remember everything. Some of it’s a blur, even to me. Like some fever dream.”
“No… I do remember some of it. I remember the spare bedroom. I remember how fucking comfortable that bed was. You were there… you were… helping me… and we... I know at some point we were lying down together but I don’t remember what I was thinking or everything I said… it’s just—it’s a lot… too much, almost.”
A groan reverberated from within your deepest cavity and he could only watch through the warm kitchen light as you leaned forward into your hands, your body slumped against the countertop and radiating with agony. Wonwoo didn’t know what to make of the spectacle, though he chose to let you swim in whatever sentiment was swallowing you whole, your head beginning to shake back and forth.
“Wonwoo… listen… I get that—I get what you’re saying, okay? I get that you have this fucking problem with vulnerability, and trust, and the—the, um—the self-sabotaging. I know. I have that, too. And I can understand that it was possible to misinterpret us…”
That word was like a decommissioning punch to his gut—misinterpret—as though it was merely wishful, ditzy thinking and it was him and him alone living inside the delusion despite the fact you were snuggling up against him. However, Wonwoo bit his tongue and simply listened. He didn’t need his bruised heart getting in the way.
“But that night was just—it was irresponsible, okay? On both our parts. I have a boyfriend who I very much l-like, and… and we’re just—you and I, I mean—we’re good at being friends. And you said it yourself that you’ve had time to think and get past it, so…”
“… Yeah.”
“Yeah.”
Wonwoo didn’t need his love to be reciprocated nor did he want to know if you actually harboured any feelings toward him back then. All he desired was for you to get what you had plainly wanted—the why. Perhaps it was unsatisfactory, lacklustre, or maybe it was beyond ridiculous and too inconceivable for words.
He was grateful that he’d even made it this far.
With a heavy, laboured sigh, you managed to push yourself from the marbled counter. A hand then propped onto your hip.
Your nails clicked once against the island.
“So… that’s it, huh?” There was a nasally tone to your voice.
Biting his lip, Wonwoo adjusted his glasses, nodding. “Mmhm.”
Your head tilted straight back, like you were attempting to stop a runny trail of tears from escaping down your cheeks. You suckled in a breath, pressed your lips together firmly.
And then, abruptly, you laughed, pinching at your nose while your eyes squeezed shut. It was an exhausted, humourless laugh.
“Fuck… fuck, fuck, fuck.”
He didn’t exactly know what it was you were cursing, whether it be the realization of what the fight actually meant, or a reaction to his timid, but expired, confession. It could be that the information was too daunting and you were left with no instinct of how to manage it. Wonwoo chewed down on his tongue, keeping silent.
When your eyes opened again, they fell toward the fridge.
“Um… wasn’t it your birthday? Back in July?” You asked with a wet sniffle, brushing a wrist underneath your nose.
“Yeah… July seventeenth.”
Not bothering to speak, you walked over to the fridge and pulled the door open, pale light emanating from inside as you rifled around, moving containers and cartons and fresh produce. It was then that you revealed a cardboard box. Returning to the counter, you set the box in the very centre, and with trembling hands, you began unsticking the corners in order to reveal the surprise inside—a decent sized cupcake, frosted high with thick, white icing.
You sniffed again, turning to grab something from a utensil drawer, and then another item or two out the cupboard.
“It’s from Terra Cotta—it’s just a red velvet cupcake with cream cheese icing—which I ordered as a dessert when I ate out with Princess the other night. But I was too full to eat it after stuffing my face with pasta, unfortunately. So, I got it packaged up. Stuck it in the fridge. Forgot about its existence until now.”
A butter knife fell onto the island, followed by a lighter and a single pink candle. You sighed, eyes turning waterier by the minute, and Wonwoo felt a twinge in his chest that ached like hell.
“Do you like red velvet cake?”
Wonwoo huffed, shrugging. “Um, I’m not sure. Never had it.”
You picked up the candle. “Want to?”
He smiled. “Sure.”
Rather than keeping the cupcake inside the box, you moved the dessert delicately onto a clean porcelain plate and proceeded to shut the lights off. The orange sunset that painted the streets had bled out all its lurid colour. Wonwoo was just beginning to realize how dark it was in the apartment. You propped the pink candle into the expertly piped cream cheese frosting and ignited the tiny wick. A shivering halo of fire reflected in the marble countertop as the flame wriggled and the wax burnt.
Honestly, he didn’t know what the moment signified—if it was a mere gesture of forgiveness, or just a simple means to release all the tension—Wonwoo had not a clue. He thought he should be looking at the cupcake but Wonwoo was looking at you and the lambent glow flickering across your very upset, still face.
Sniffling again, you picked up the butter knife.
“Okay… hurry up and make a wish, please.”
“Really?” Wonwoo chuckled. “You want me to make a wish?”
“Uh… yes. That’s what people do when it’s their birthday.”
“It’s not my birthday.”
“Well—fuck—the spirit of your birthday, then.”
“You're asking a lot of me, you know. All this pressure.”
“Oh my god—it's just one ditsy little wish. I'm not asking you to write out your will, or solve world hunger. It's one stupid, tiny wish. For the sake of the moment. Hurry up before the wax drips on the icing.”
“I think you can just peel the wax off once it hardens—”
“Fuck! I don’t care, Wonwoo! God! Just—” he watched with a satisfactory smirk as you leaned forward and impatiently blew out the candle for him, “—there! Now, you don’t even get the opportunity to make a wish. Hope it was worth it.”
“So, you made a wish in my place, right?”
“Shut up. I’m cutting you the smaller half.”
“You didn't answer my question, though.”
“You didn't answer my question, though.”
“Hey, I don’t sound like that.”
“No, I didn't make a wish in your place—here.”
“Thank you.”
“… How does it taste?”
“Uh, it’s good. A little firm. The icing is really rich, but I suppose that’s typical of cream cheese stuff. But overall, I like it.”
“I really love red velvet. Especially in cupcake form.”
“Hm. Didn’t know that.”
“I wonder if I could get a dozen ordered for my birthday...”
“We’re celebrating my birthday and you’re already thinking of your own? Can you at least wait until I’m out the fucking door?”
“You said it doesn’t matter!”
“Now, that’s not what I said.”
“Don't act like such a smart ass.”
Wonwoo knew he missed your quippy retorts, but he hadn’t realized he’d missed it this much. It was filling a pitted crater within his chest that had remained empty and stone cold ever since the argument.
As you turned the kitchen light back on, Wonwoo stuffed the rest of the frosted cupcake into his mouth and dusted his hands clean.
He didn’t know what was supposed to happen now.
Stubbornly, Wonwoo didn’t want to leave your apartment. It had been too long since he’d last seen your beautiful face, and half his summer was already wasted to lamenting the relationship he’d ungraciously snipped in half like a fresh garden rose. If you wanted him to leave, then he would oblige, because Wonwoo could never go back on his word to abide by the choices that might make you the happiest. That was what he cared about most, anyway.
From the opposite side of the island, you began to cross your arms again, fingers digging tight into your ribs. Wonwoo could see that the hues of grief and melancholy hadn’t really abandoned your face since his arrival, and the tears that had earlier welled up in your eyes were steadily returning, glinting along your bottom lashes as though they were dew droplets. Feeling his throat turn dry and sensing the air become dampened with your sadness, Wonwoo knew what you were going to ask—he braced himself quick.
“So… um…” you began pulling at the short sleeve of your silk-buttoned top, rolling the fabric between uneasy fingers, “it’s getting a little bit late and I just t-think you should go now, Wonwoo…”
He nodded, pushing at his glasses. “Yeah… of course.”
There was such an evident somberness about the way his feet dragged toward the door. You had walked him over, and now that the space between you was significantly less, Wonwoo had never battled so hard with his self-control to keep himself from touching you—even if it was just a slight, chaste brush of his fingers against yours—the simplicity and feel of your strawberry-scented skin would appease his constant aching. He glanced at you, saw that your arms were still crossed and your eyes trained to muse over the floorboards.
Wonwoo scraped against the cuticle of his thumb.
Does he just… leave?
It felt too abrupt.
He smiled at you, keeping it soft and mindful.
“Thank you for listening to me… I mean it… you didn’t have to but you did anyway and… uh, I don’t know. Just—thank you.”
“Mmhm…”
You were squeezing at your ribs even tighter now, pressing in your fingers so unnaturally deep. In fact, Wonwoo was beginning to feel worried, especially when he noticed the quivering in your frame and the hard bite you were sinking into your lower lip—how there were tears streaking one by one down the slope of your cheeks.
Wonwoo’s hand had been lingering on the doorknob, though it slipped off absentmindedly. He wanted to reach for your shoulder and give it a comfortable, warm massage, but he was still too fearful.
“Her… are you alright?”
After a cautious step closer, Wonwoo paused, attempting to peer at your face despite its pointed direction toward the floor. The question was worthless, he realized. You were crying and choking up.
“Do you… should I go?”
God—what an even more stupid question to ask—the thing he wanted to do least was leave when you were this hurt. But Wonwoo needed to know if it was his presence that was disturbing you.
You shook your head, sniffled up all the wet, runny congestion in your nose. He watched the teeth free from your lip as you gasped.
“I-I don’t know… I’m really, really sad, Wonwoo.”
He thought he might panic in the midst of your crumbling, however, there was too much guilt and heartache inside him.
“I know…” he murmured.
Somehow, it felt so criminal to just stand there and watch you weep, hearing every desperate attempt for a breath as you could only clutch onto yourself harder and let the tears helplessly fall.
Wonwoo swallowed, feeling his throat burn.
“Can I comfort you for a bit?”
You hiccupped, and your face pinched up in complete misery, the response struggling to escape through the large sob you cried out.
“Please.”
Immediately, his hands braced against the edges of your very warm, wet face. The heat was radiating like a summer blacktop, and the tears were quick to pool against his fingers as he did his darndest to softly clean and wipe them from your skin—though, Wonwoo came to accept that it might be futile—and he opted to cup your cheeks for just a brief moment, staring into your damp lashes and puffy eyes.
“Still such a gorgeous girl, even when you’re crying.”
You huffed at him, grasping onto his shirt and tugging it.
“I need you closer, please.”
Waddling into his arms, your face smushed right against his shoulder. In the dim august dusk that meekly glowed through the windows of your downtown, sumptuous apartment, Wonwoo cradled you, coaxing a hand nice and gentle along your trembling head while his arm kept you secured firm into his body. As wonderful as it felt to hold you in the way he always dreamt of, Wonwoo knew that those tears wrinkling his t-shirt were mostly driven by him.
Your arms dug into his chest. It seemed like you wanted to burrow impossibly closer, into his ribs if you could, but the desire frustratingly couldn’t be fulfilled. To compensate, Wonwoo attempted to squeeze you even more, though he was somewhat afraid of cracking you in half. Maybe that’s what you were craving.
But he liked you very much alive.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered into your hair, still damp from the shower and rife with the scent of fragrant blossoms, “I know you don’t want me to apologize, but I have to. Everything I said to you… it was just stupid, pent-up rage from my own shortcomings… so much was building inside me and I made such a dumb fucking mistake—taking our situation and using it as a target—it was all bullshit..." inhaling a breath, Wonwoo sighed. "I shouldn’t have let you walk out that door… but I don’t think you would have wanted to listen, anyway... you probably would have just told me again to go fuck myself… you know, that was actually the first time I’ve ever been told that?”
Your cheek nuzzled against his shoulder. The breath you proceeded to cough out made it sound like you were terribly ill.
“T-That’s hard to believe…”
Wonwoo smiled, smoothing a hand down your back. “You think so?”
Threading your fingers deeper into his t-shirt, you nodded.
Stopping to contemplate, Wonwoo ended up agreeing, “hm… yeah... you’re right. There were probably a lot of times in my life where I deserved to hear that. But you’re the first, anyway.”
“Y-You… you deserve to hear it again… I mean, what were you thinking, Wonwoo?” Raising your head from his shoulder and sucking in a much-needed breath, you rubbed at the glisten iridescent to your face. “I didn’t know… I was just trying to t-tal-talk to you…”
Wonwoo unstuck some small, matted hairs from your forehead, guiding them away with the daintiest movements.
“I know you were...” he answered, keeping his voice quiet.
“And then, in the car… I-I just sat there and cried for so long that the sky got dark. I didn’t know what to do—like, I thought I might call Mingyu but he was at work a-and I had no idea what I would even say to him... and then, I called Princess. And she said I could come over and I legit couldn’t get one fucking word out to her.”
Meanwhile focusing on your choked, heavy sentiments, Wonwoo continued to clean the tears from your face. A warm hand had grabbed onto his wrist, not stopping him—just gently holding—as though you needed the contact to ground yourself, even a little bit.
“The shitty part was… even when I was at my angriest… I still couldn’t get myself to hate you. But I wanted it so bad, Wonwoo. I stayed up almost every night, trying to convince myself that you were the worst person I ever met, a-and that I would be better off without you—that you were a poison to me and everything about you is just a ruse to hurt people. No matter what I told myself, nothing would ever work… because I would—I-I don’t fucking know—I would think about how fucking good you make me feel inside. H-How happy I am when I’m with you. You listen to me, a-and you care about my thoughts and my interests and you’re just—you—you fucking live inside me somehow and I want you out so bad but there’s nothing I can do.”
Wonwoo had removed his hands from your face.
They slid down to your hips. He squeezed them tight, digging his thumbs into your flesh and bone over the silken shorts.
“You live inside me, too.”
Rubbing off your nose, you shook your head angrily.
“It can’t be like that.”
His throat twisted up.
“Why?”
“B-Because it—it can’t. You know I have Mingyu…”
“I only think about you. It’s always you. I don’t want it to change.” Wonwoo pleaded, hanging onto every word—trying to search for your eyes despite the adamant refusal to meet his gaze.
“But I just—I can’t do it.”
“Why?”
“Because!” You pushed at his broad chest, forcing him away as the anguished, grief-stricken shout reverberated between the high ceilings. Gripping at your head, you started to cry again. “I-I’m still so fucking angry at you, Wonwoo. I hate holding onto it and I hate that it’s been over a month and I’m still processing everything, but I can’t just move on from those feelings! I have to see it through. ”
The air was ice cold against him.
He just wanted your perfect body back in his arms.
“O-Okay… okay. I get it.”
“You do? Because I can’t keep reliving this. I just can’t.”
Wonwoo sighed, curling his fingers in and out.
“No, I—I hear you. I promise.”
You still needed time. You weren’t ready to forgive him. That was okay, and he wasn’t the least bit vexated by it. If he had to wait an entire year, then he would wait. Nothing would shake him from you.
Slapping a palm against your cheek, you shoved away the further tears which were seeming to become an annoyance. Wonwoo wanted desperately to be the one to wipe your pretty face and kiss away the salty taste of your sadness, but he knew not to push his luck.
Beyond the windowpanes, the sky was nearly pitch black, pinpricked by all the distant lights from the city buildings.
“I’ll go now, okay?” Wonwoo murmured.
Folding your arms, you sniffled a little, nodding.
“Okay...”
He wanted to say goodnight to you, but then he thought of that rule you had proclaimed during your late-night phone conversation many moons ago—you had to say it first as courtesy.
Except, you were silent.
Nonetheless, Wonwoo had liked to think it was sitting right on the tip of your tongue, just as it was sitting on his.
—SEPTEMBER 8TH.
When he thought back on his summer, Wonwoo couldn’t believe the quickness with which it had flown by, especially considering how nauseously slow some parts moved while he existed, trapped, inside them. Still, it was probably Wonwoo’s most eventful summer since his move from Korea, in more ways than one. Now, it was back to university for his final year as a maths student, and Wonwoo actually couldn’t be happier for the introduction of routine and the opportunity to test all the inner workings he’d accomplished.
Just last week, Vernon had thrown together a small party in the backyard of his friend’s rental home. He was housesitting, and though Wonwoo wasn’t sure why the friend in question would pick a promiscuous drug dealer for hospitality upkeep, the party was apparently approved and Wonwoo had made the effort to attend.
It gave him the chance to reunite with Seungcheol and Seokmin who he’d unintentionally given the cold shoulder. He was just thankful they were relaxed about everything. The night was spent swapping stories from their summer by the makeshift firepit, drinking cold beers, and watching the fireflies twinkle in the dry backyard brush. Vernon had spent all his time sweet-talking some new girl he’d invited from the club, and when they disappeared inside for about half an hour, Wonwoo prayed his bladder could hold out.
Wonwoo had also invited Sierra.
He figured she was just too warm and amicable and he knew she would get along seamlessly with everyone there.
Since they last spoke downstairs in the pottery shop during late July, Sierra had gotten herself a girlfriend—a patron of the Honeymoon who worked up the courage to ask Sierra out after admiring her bartending skills, as he’d heard it—and Wonwoo was more than happy to extend the invite. Seungcheol had predictably brought along Princess, though Wonwoo hadn’t been too worried. They seemed to be on good terms despite the chip in the relationship.
If you had been in town at the time, Wonwoo would have invited you, too. But you weren’t, instead accompanying your mother on a three-day venture outside the city for some publisher’s trip.
But he kept you in mind the entire night. He saw you in the wide, bright moon sitting squarely above the crackling fire, and he felt you in the colder breezes that whispered the beginnings of a soft, fresh autumn. You were everywhere inside him, just like his blood.
Wonwoo had liked to think he’d done it right. All those conversations he shared with you over the phone since the reunion at your apartment seemed promising—even when they flared and ached like a broken bone—Wonwoo had just wanted to hear your voice and know your heart. Though, the conclusion had dipped him in a strange, confusing predicament he still struggled to reason.
“I think we work best as friends… we’ll always be friends.”
The moment was followed by the most intense silence, and then Wonwoo had shifted the phone against his ear, spreading on an audible smile that couldn’t have looked any faker in person.
“Yeah… I see that, too.”
But he didn’t.
He was still in love with you.
And now Wonwoo didn’t know what to do.
You had come to an agreement that he should no longer help you with the book as it had been a point of contention since the start. Plus, you were now confident enough in your skills to finish it.
Surprisingly, Wonwoo was okay with that.
Nonetheless, he did offer his help if you ever needed it.
In fact, as Wonwoo sat in the small auditorium for his newest elective—the continuation to last year’s creative writing—he was scrolling through an old document you had sent him months ago, containing a litany of the same messily written paragraph, just rehashed as you attempted to find the best wording for it. Wonwoo couldn’t help but smile against the palm squishing at his chin.
Your mind always did seem to work in twelve different ways.
Since he’d shown up early to the lecture, Wonwoo was able to pick a good seat in the middle. He recognized a few faces from last year as more students began to trickle in. Wonwoo kept his bookbag on the chair to his right because he liked the extra space, though he began fearing he might have to move it when the lecture hall filled to a degree past his expectations. Since when did all these people take the class last year? Was it because of the new professor? He spun a pen between his fingers, observing everyone rather judgementally.
“Hey—are you saving a seat for your non-existent friend, or are you leaving your bag here to make sure no one else would sit beside you? Not that anyone would want to with the way you’re begrudgingly staring down every single person who walks in here.”
Wonwoo grinned, the pen stilling into his hand.
He knew your attitude like the ducks on his aunt’s shower curtain.
“If it’s such a big deal to you, you can move it.”
“Oh, can I? Do I get the pleasure of moving your bookbag, Wonwoo? Are you really that kind as to save such a life-changing, personal, and intimate experience, just for me?”
Smirking up at you, Wonwoo dropped his bag onto the floor.
He was promptly greeted by a very shiny smile.
“That’s what I thought,” you said matter-of-factly, setting your iconic cream purse onto your lap after sliding into the chair.
“So,” Wonwoo huffed, leaning back and casting you a curious glance, “you didn’t tell me you were going to take creative writing.”
Pulling out some chapstick, you laughed. “Uh—you didn’t tell me, either,” the comment was wry and muttered through the obstacle of moisturizing your lips.
Scratching his temple, Wonwoo chuckled, “fair.”
“Gosh, there’s so many people in here. Way more than I was expecting. I mean, who even are these goddamn people? I hardly recognize any of them—oh my gosh, do you think it’s because of the new professor? I looked her up, you know. She’s published three books—they’ve all got crazy good accolades—and one of them was even made into a movie! That has to be why. Should I try to get face time with her after class? No—actually, I won’t. Then I look totally desperate. I’ll play it cool. I’ll wait until, like, three classes from now.”
“Well, you’re never short of making an impression.”
“Meaning what?”
“Fuck,” Wonwoo laughed, “what the fuck do you think it means? It’s not like I’m talking in morse code. You make an impression.”
You smacked a hand down on his knee. “Well, how do I know if you mean good or bad! And don't curse at me like that.”
“Okay, okay. You're right. I'm sorry.”
“Are you?”
“Yes,” he replied, softening his voice, “I am very extremely sorry.”
That little smile you gave him was enchanting.
Wonwoo cleared his throat. “And I meant good, obviously.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. If you say anything to her, she’ll love you.”
“That’s a bit extreme.”
“She’ll keep you reasonably in her thoughts?”
“Hm. Yes. I like that better,” you agreed.
While you busied yourself with removing the laptop from your purse and taking an extra minute to inspect your face with a small, compact mirror, Wonwoo glanced around the room again. A few people standing by the professor’s podium at the front were looking at you, their mouths moving in conversation, though Wonwoo could hear none of it from the general chatter. He supposed you were used to getting those dissecting, curious, maybe even sometimes hurtful stares. There was always a light shining on you, wanted or not.
As Wonwoo pulled open the class syllabus on his laptop, he felt a tap against his shoulder. Slightly turning his head, he spotted someone shuffling by in the cramped row behind him, waving.
“Hey, Wonwoo,” the stranger said quickly in passing.
Squinting at him through his glasses, Wonwoo nodded. “Uh, hey.”
You quirked an eyebrow. “Who was that?”
He shrugged. “No idea. Someone from last year, I guess.”
“I see. Mr. Popular. Taking names and breaking hearts.”
Wonwoo laughed, shaking his head. “The opposite, actually.”
You giggled so lightly at his response, and for a very slow moment, Wonwoo saw and felt the heat of your eyes stilling in focus upon his face. He squirmed somewhat in his seat, fingers picking at the rough, dark blue material upholstered over the chair’s arm. But then you resumed staring back at yourself in the compact mirror while applying another layer of lip balm, and Wonwoo had to subtly breathe out all the butterflies that fluttered up from his stomach.
With a satisfying snap, you’d shut the mirror, stuffing it back into the purse that was sitting atop his bag on the floor. He wanted to ask you how the book was coming along, how much progress you had made since he last proofread anything, if you were still engaging in those messily long sentences or had you since learned to clean them up.
But it was hard for Wonwoo to ask.
He studied the nervous hands in his lap.
“So… are you free after class?”
You tilted your head in thought. “Uh, I think so? This is my only class today, actually. No more SSA. I’m beyond happy. No one else seemed to take it well but me. I don’t care, though.”
“No, you made the right choice.”
“So, why do you ask?” Angling your body toward him, you smiled, and Wonwoo felt this pool of warmth expand in his chest.
“Do you want to stop at the café on Sunnyside?”
“Maybe. Is it good? I’ve never actually ate there.”
“I think it’s good,” he said, bouncing his knee. “I used to sit in there all the time. I don’t as much anymore, but it’s a cute place to visit. About a ten-minute walk from here. Plus, it’s nice outside.”
You nodded. “I’ll think it over.”
Knowing that class was starting soon, Wonwoo moved the phone sitting on the edge of his tabletop into his back pocket.
“Actually, can I ask you something?”
He stiffened in his seat, hardly managing a nod. That always seemed to be a weighted question, especially in your hands, and the fact that you were biting the skin of your bottom lip only stirred forth more worry. Wonwoo folded his arms and nodded, feeling his heart beat.
“Well, it’s just—there’s no exact date yet, okay? But sometime in very late September my family is having another dinner party.”
Wonwoo’s fingers dug into his arms. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah…” you trailed off, continuing to bite your lip, “and, I basically—I-I’ve kind of been blabbing to my mom and stuff. You’ve definitely come up in some conversations. She made a comment that I could invite you and even though I disagree with her on, like, millions of things, I thought it might be a good idea…” your eyes flashed at him doubtfully. “So, like, I’m not gonna force you or anything. I’ve ranted to you about these dinner parties before so I’m sure you know how awful they can be. But… I don’t know… I mean, you don’t even have to stay the entire time. You could just pop by, o-or, or something like that. I just… I think seeing you before will help calm me down.”
Out of everything you could have asked, Wonwoo was least expecting the dinner party question. It seemed to have a very routine structure and Wonwoo couldn’t help but think that his presence there might throw everything off-kilter and the last—the very fucking last—thing he wanted was for your parents to absolutely loathe him. You always complained about them. Even with Mingyu and Seokmin there to accompany you, it seemed never to be enough. However, Wonwoo would hate to leave you hanging so dryly out in the open.
Even if he dreaded it, you mattered more to him than any awkward or nervous sentiments he harboured about the situation.
“Uh… okay. Yeah. I can go.”
You straightened up like a hair standing on end. “Really?!”
He nodded, pushing up his glasses. “Yeah.”
“Oh my gosh! You’re the best!”
Leaning over the chair rest, you bracketed your arms around Wonwoo’s neck, squeezing him into a quick hug that left his heart racing. Your sweet smell lingered in his nose as you slipped away.
“That’s such a relief… and—yes—for as much as I complain about it, I promise I’ll do my absolute best to keep everything on the rails. I’ll get you out of anything awkward or uncomfortable. And if you feel like it’s too much, I’ll be right there. I promise.”
Wonwoo smiled bashfully, shaking his head.
“Don’t put so much pressure on yourself. I can manage a few shit conversations and uncomfortable silences. I’ve got my own problematic parents. I appreciate the thought, though. Means a lot.”
It would be another matter to anxiously dwell over until it actually happened, but Wonwoo was okay with it knowing how receptive you had become to his mood. More than anything, he didn’t know how to deal with Mingyu. The party had been decent. There were multiple people to bounce off and uplift the weight, substances to mellow the tension and distract the mind. But this felt very different. This would be more intimate. Less room for error in the form of lasting, arduous glances and short but gentle touches.
All he hoped for is that it might end better than the party.
—SEPTEMBER 29TH.
“So, I’ll come pick you up, okay? Just gotta text me.”
“… Yeah, that works. Okay.”
“Take a breath, Glasses. If anyone’s got this, it’s you, alright? No negative Nina shit. You’re lookin’ gorgeous, even more than me.”
“It’s Nancy.”
“What?”
“It’s—never mind.”
“Who’s Nancy?”
“I said never mind.”
“Okay, okay. Jeez… make sure you drop the attitude when you get in there. It’s not very cute of you, yeah?”
Wonwoo felt Vernon’s hand grip onto his shoulder, bestowing him a confident shake that somehow only served to reveal how jellied and weak he’d become. But Wonwoo also knew he couldn’t sit inside the mint-scented interior of his friend’s vanilla Camry the entire night, waiting for some lightning bolt to strike him with the energy he blatantly needed. Consequently, his attitude had gotten a bit snappy.
Vernon was right, though. Wonwoo had to find it within himself to relax, take a breath, and realize the time would fly once he was past the initial haze. Besides, you were there. That was all he really cared about. It made the most impossible things possible.
Looking down at the sleek, unwrinkled material of his black suit jacket, Wonwoo gave it a final and deciding tug. He then reached for the gift bag sitting by his feet. Inhaling, his lungs filled deep with air and Wonwoo was clicking his fist against Vernon’s.
“You’ve got this, playboy.”
“See you on the other side, I guess.”
Exiting the vehicle, Wonwoo spared one last hopeful glance at his face-studded friend before slamming the door shut, now caught outside underneath the moon’s shimmer. Late nights in September always seemed to be somewhat dewy and cold, with golden, ruby, and amber leaves slicked against the streets like flowers pressed into paper. Wonwoo shivered, smelling the earthiness in the atmosphere.
After tightening his fingers around the straps of the gift bag, he began making his way up the smoothly paved driveway, toward the welcoming and aglow ambiance that beamed from your family house.
He grabbed the rung at the door, slamming it a few times.
The anxious breath slowly flowed from his mouth as Wonwoo’s mind raced with who would be the one to answer. Feeling his circled glasses slip, Wonwoo pushed them back up using his finger. At the same time, the front door swung open, and in the clarity, relief washed over him like the caress of that autumn wind.
“Fuck! You’re here!”
Before Wonwoo could get a word out, your arms were already thrown around his neck. The hug was fleeting. As quickly as your body was pressed flush against his, it was gone a second later.
“Uh, yeah. Just got dropped off.”
“Oh my gosh. Come in, come in,” you chirped like an excited bird, pulling at his elbow, “I’m legit so happy you’re here. Don’t worry about taking off your shoes. I know I’m barefoot at the moment but I’ve been so freaking scatterbrained that I haven’t even picked out a pair of heels yet. You look amazing. I’ve never seen you dressed up!”
His face began to burn at the compliment.
“I don’t attend many things that require fancy clothes.”
“Well, there’s a first for everything.”
Smiling, Wonwoo realized that he hadn’t really marvelled your dress, but there was something awfully familiar about it—the shiny olive-green colour, the elegant, revealing slit at the right thigh, the thin yet simple straps draped along the open, lowcut back—he then remembered it was the final dress you had tried on from that expensive boutique in the mall. Somehow, the material looked even more stunning on you now than it did before.
His face grew warmer, sizzling almost.
“That dress has always looked perfect on you.”
There was so much more he could spew in the moment, some cloying, sweet thoughts and some very impure ones, too. But Wonwoo wasn’t trying to cross boundaries and he had to respect your wishes of staying as friends, even if it tore him up inside beyond words.
Fiddling with your fingers, you gave him a soft smile. “I’m glad you recognized it.”
The hallway suddenly got very quiet. You were both just standing there, staring at each other, biting lips and scratching skin.
“So, um, I guess I can show you arou—”
“Oh, there they are! Honey, they’re out here!”
Wonwoo’s tender gaze had suddenly snapped toward a woman barging out from an illuminated doorway, a wine glass poised in her hand while the largest, most bedazzled necklace he had ever seen weighed down to her chest. Weathered heels beat the floorboards, echoing between the walls as she stalked toward him.
“You must be Wonwoo!”
Her hand was gripping onto his wrist and Wonwoo could only prompt a weak smile that was indicative of his racing, feeble heart.
“Yeah, correct. Pleased to finally meet you.”
“Oh, charmer. Pleasure’s all mine, sunshine. Okay, but—let me get a good look at you. Don’t feel like you have to stand by the doorway, all polite-like. Come a bit more into the light, over here.”
“Mom, don’t pull him,” you warned between clenched teeth.
“Ah, it’s alright, it’s alright. Don’t fret so much. Sheesh.”
Standing beneath the warm and yellow glow from the hallway chandelier, there was notable heaviness in Wonwoo’s chest as your mother’s dilated, intensive gaze wracked along his every feature, as though she were the reading the fine print to one of her catalogues.
“You’re certainly gorgeous,” she complimented, “and that voice! So soothing. How do you not have a lovely lady on your arm?”
Wonwoo’s eyes skipped to you in complete and utter panic.
Grabbing onto her shoulder, you gently guided her away.
“Mom, come on. You’re smothering him, alright? Remember the thing with Mingyu? I told you not to do that anymore. He just got here and I want him to actually enjoy himself. Don’t be so… pouncey.”
“Okay. I got it,” the mom said, lifting her hand and wine glass in submission, seeming serious for no less a few seconds. “The princess of the house, FYI. She always gets what she wants.”
You knocked her touch away as she wriggled your chin, very poorly veiling your annoyance through a grumble, “it’s not like that.”
“Didn’t I call in your father? What’s taking so long?”
“I don’t know. He’s probably hiding in his office.”
“Is that where he is? Really? When I asked him to set the table? Jeez. You spend all day cooking a meal, chopping and dicing and braising and frying, and the man just can’t be bothered to put out some knives and forks. This is why I opened the wine early, y’know.”
Your arms folded, and you appeared so much smaller.
“Seokmin set the table already.”
“Oh! What—he—he did? I didn't even notice!”
“Yes, like an hour ago.”
“Oh my gosh! That boy’s an angel. Raised so well, wasn’t he? You know Seokmin, right, Wonwoo? You’re all friends?”
Awkwardly shifting in his place, Wonwoo nodded. He couldn’t help but wonder where Seokmin or Mingyu were. There was dulled music echoing softly from a distant room in the house. Down the hallway corridor, it seemed to open up into a big living space.
Suddenly, your mom began to wiggle her finger at the bag he was holding limp in his hand, and for a moment, Wonwoo had even forgot it existed. She sipped from her gradually disappearing wine again, her words sounding muffled as they fogged up the glass.
“Is that a gift I spot in your hand, dear?”
“Oh, yeah,” he answered.
Flattening a palm over the intricate jewel necklace glittering down her chest, your mother fawned adoringly, and Wonwoo’s stomach immediately dropped knowing it wasn’t her gift at all.
“Gosh! You shouldn’t’ve!”
“Uh, a-actually, it’s not—it was—I got this for your daughter.”
His gut twisted, watching the excitement and gleam drain from your mother’s face, her smile wiped away like an eraser to a penciled drawing. At least you had brightened up, though it wasn’t without caution, and Wonwoo wasn’t entirely sure what to say.
Straightening her spine, a grin then twitched unnaturally to her mouth. She was directly back into the wine for another drink.
“Well, that’s certainly thoughtful.” Wiping off her lips, she unnervingly held Wonwoo’s gaze for a brief moment, her eyes harder than diamonds. She then turned toward you, proceeding to gesture in a swirling motion with her finger at your face. “Sweetheart, if you don’t mind, could you take a few minutes to just fix your makeup?”
Your expression faltered, shoulders sagging.
“My makeup? What’s wrong with it?”
“Well, the lashes are lifting a bit. It’s not too noticeable in this dusky hallway but out in the proper light, everyone will be able to tell. And I wouldn’t use that shade of lipstick. Remember the tip I gave you? When we take photos that colour is not going to show well.”
“I do remember, yes. But I thought it could match with—”
“No but’s. These dinners are important for us, alright? Go fix.”
Wonwoo held his breath. In all his time spent getting to know you—your likes and dislikes, your pet peeves and oddly specific rules about the way things should work—the one cardinal sin was to never interrupt you. Even when he was fighting tooth and nail against you in his apartment, aching with hurt and bitterness, he didn’t cut you off once to get his word over yours. He doubted Mingyu had ever done it, and he was positive Seokmin hadn’t, either. To actually witness it felt somewhat like a crime requiring swift punishment.
Though, for all that Wonwoo was expecting in response to the rage that had just rippled across your face, there was nothing.
Because you’d choked it down like foul cough syrup.
He watched the fist unclench at your side.
“Okay,” you stated in surprising simplicity, “I’ll go fix it,” still with a sprinkle of attitude that your mother opted to ignore as she announced her trip into the kitchen to check the food.
The second she was obscured from view, a noticeable glisten of tears and exhaustion glimmered in your eyes, though you sucked all the emotions back with a deep, deep breath.
“Do you want to come with me, upstairs for a second?” You asked in a tight, shaky voice. “Unless you want to find Seokmin.”
Wonwoo shook his head. “No, I’ll see him later. Of course I’ll come with you,” he answered, smiling at you with all his tenderness.
He proceeded to follow you up a dimly lit staircase draped in a chocolate brown rug. The house looked quite small from the outside, hidden almost, by the inky night, but as Wonwoo accompanied you at the robust, wooden dresser kept against the corridor wall, he realized just how long the house actually was.
Your lower back pressed against the dresser, hands gripping the edges and fingers scraping the underside of the chestnut.
Wonwoo left the gift bag sitting next to an amorphous, black metallic sculpture that he couldn’t even begin to understand, then dusting off his palms and watching you shake your head.
“I mean, you’ve only been here for five minutes, and I’m already breaking out my seams,” you laughed, dabbing at a tear travelling too far down your cheek. “I’m sorry. I didn’t intend for it to be like this so soon and I’m not gonna force you to stay.”
“Stop saying that,” Wonwoo urged, tucking his hands into his pockets, “I told you I would come. I’m not going to abandon you.”
You paused, biting the swollen skin of your bottom lip.
“… Okay.” Looking down at the ground, you wiped your damp face again before hugging yourself. “She always does this… she always has something to point out. Nothing can ever be perfect for her. I’ve spent, like, all day, preparing myself, because that’s what she wants, and it’s still not enough. I don’t get it. I feel—” you sucked in a needy breath, pinching at your nose, “—I feel like I’m just some stupid doll she’s trying to perfect, but I never came perfect in the first place, so it’s all a big waste, and somehow, it’s my fault… I know I’m unloading and I’m sorry for that, too. This day has just been—I hate it. I hate these dinners. I fucking hate everything about them. I want to bang my head against the wall.”
Wonwoo smiled at you.
He untucked a hand from his pocket and reached for the clenched fist at your hip, spreading apart your fingers into his.
“Don’t worry about that. I’m listening, okay?”
Though your eyes were misty with tears and tiredness, you managed to return a frail little grin that was deeply sincere. Your hand tightened in his for a moment, and then you were stepping into him like he was a fresh blanket straight from the laundry. Fingers bunched up his suit jacket and your face was warm against his neck.
“I think it’ll be a little better tonight,” you whispered. “You’re the only one here who doesn’t make me feel like I’m going insane.”
Wonwoo passed up and down your bare back with his hand, admiring the softness to your pampered skin and the luscious scent of your hair, though he knew you had probably hated every moment trapped in the hot shower, exfoliating and shaving and scrubbing your body clean. He felt you squeeze onto him harder.
“Can I see what your gift is?”
“Oh, yeah…” he muttered, pulling apart from your heat, “it’s kind of a two-in-one thing. It’ll make sense once I explain.”
“That seems exciting,” you answered, returning to your lean against the chestnut dresser, folding your arms and smiling.
“So, um—if you remember the poker game—I owed you a pretty big lump of cash,” Wonwoo said, reaching inside the bag to grab a smooth, matte box, “and then there was the day at the museum, of course. Running home in the rain. You lost a shoe.”
“Oh my gosh, yeah…” you giggled fondly at the memory.
“I was at the mall—and, yes, I know. Why would I be at the mall when I hate the place? But I was getting my laptop fixed at that tech store on the third floor, and I also needed wires for my—okay. Never mind the rambling. Fuck, I’m turning into you now. Anyway, I walked past that one store you love and get pretty much all your clothes from. They had these heels in the window. The white ones, which you said to me are actually not white, but a very specific shade of ivory that I couldn’t see and still fail to see, to be honest. And they had that little bit of gold in the straps… but the point is—I got them for you.”
You glitched for a second, and it wasn’t until Wonwoo was basically pushing the box into your chest that you seemed to realize.
“Wait… you actually went to Rosette?”
He nodded matter-of-factly. “Yes.”
“Are you fucking serious?” Immediately, you flipped the box open and began flicking away the neatly trimmed cover of glittered tissue paper. “You got me the Gold Crystal Rope-Strapped and Ivory Ankle four-inch from Mirabella? Wonwoo! I-I was just talking when I saw them in the mall! I mean, you didn't have to actually get them!”
“I know,” Wonwoo answered, helping you pick the heels out from their imprints, “you’re always just talking, though.”
“Unnecessary.”
“To you.”
He was thankful you were too enraptured by the shoes to bother retaliating. Under regular circumstances, Wonwoo wouldn’t ever have been able to make such an expensive decision, but he still had some leftovers from winning the other poker matches at the party, in addition to a work bonus, and he knew that he still needed to repay you those favours even if they weren’t being held against him.
“They’re so freaking gorgeous,” you fawned, inspecting each heel like a jeweller would to their collection, “I can’t tell if I want to hit you or jump on you in happiness. I love them so much.”
“Well, I’m glad.”
“Oh my gosh, can you help me put them on? Pretty please?”
“Uh—yeah, ‘course.”
You gripped the edges of the dresser, slightly sitting on the surface as Wonwoo squatted down to your bare feet. He collected the first ivory heel and loosened the anklet buckle, proceeding to help slide the shoe on until it was fit perfectly. As he busied himself with loosening the buckle to the other heel, Wonwoo felt the ghost of your fingertips brush through his hair. In a spilt second, he froze, staring up at you, who was grinning back in utmost beauty.
“Just fixing your hair a little,” you stated innocently.
Wonwoo readjusted his glasses, nodding. “O-Okay.”
The action hadn’t felt that innocent, and as Wonwoo swallowed tight and continued sliding your ankle through the heel, he was overwhelmed with the most blaring, vivid, heart-hammering thoughts of smoothing his hands along each your soft thighs, pinning up the slippery silk to your olive-green dress, tugging aside your thin panties, burying his face and tongue so hot and heavy into your—
“Dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes!”
“Fuck,” you groaned, lolling your head back while Wonwoo finished settling the heel onto your foot, “just in case you didn’t connect the dots, that means we need to get downstairs.”
He returned to height, straightening out the sleeves to his suit jacket. For some reason, there was such an intense disappointment burning in his chest, as though his carnal thoughts were not just thoughts but an actual intent to pleasure you—which was completely ludacris given your friendship and the fact your boyfriend was probably downstairs—that had now been ripped away from him by the shrill pitch of your mother’s beckoning voice.
“Should I take the box—”
“It doesn’t matter.”
You grabbed onto his hand, tugging him toward the staircase.
“C’mon. Let’s get this shit over with.”
And Wonwoo followed, though he couldn’t help but note how you carefully dropped his hand upon rounding the corner into the kitchen, where Seokmin and Mingyu were standing about.
“Hey!” Seokmin exclaimed, pointing toward him. “Wonwoo!”
Expectantly, Seokmin looked like he belonged in a suit. That dark cherry red colour was rather fitting and only served to amplify the glow of his indestructible enthusiasm. Wonwoo awkwardly sauntered over to them, playing with the threads in his pockets.
Mingyu’s suit was more charcoal in tone, with his hair expertly gelled and combed. He mirrored a suave movie star as he leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping from his partly-filled wine glass.
“Uh, hey guys.”
You were hovering at the stove alongside your mother, talking in a hushed manner, while she stirred a large and bubbling pot of aromatic sauce, smelling like rosemary and perhaps cooked off vodka or some other alcohol. There was food everywhere—warm bread plates and fresh salad bowls and artistically painted casserole dishes covered by tinfoil. A window had been cracked open to help alleviate the heat swarming the kitchen, which Wonwoo could feel a little too uncomfortably in the air.
Seokmin grabbed at a couple crackers and cubed cheese organized onto a charcuterie board behind him.
“Don’t you clean up well?” He complimented with a big grin.
Wonwoo shook his head. “Not that well.”
“Hey—” Seokmin suddenly grabbed onto Wonwoo’s shoulder and pointed a finger at him, “—you’re here, alright? That’s an honour.”
Mingyu brushed the cracker crumbs off Seokmin’s suit.
“Don’t snack too much. She hates when you can’t eat.”
“Uh—I made this stupid board. I get to eat from it whenever I want. I’ll be fine, anyway. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”
Mingyu stopped tidying Seokmin’s suit, instead grabbing his wine glass off the countertop, sighing aloud, “that was a stupid idea…”
From the dreariness to his words and the slouch pulling down his shoulders, Mingyu didn’t seem to be all that excited or even half as chipper as Seokmin, though Wonwoo suspected that he knew the dinner parties to be a complete trainwreck. If Mingyu could hardly stomach a night with your parents despite all the stunning food and drink, then Wonwoo had no idea as to how he’d survive.
“So, um…” Seokmin lowered his voice, tipping his head close to Mingyu’s ear, “should we give him the rulebook?”
“Rulebook?” Wonwoo echoed.
“Uh,” Mingyu sipped quickly from his wine, “yeah, guess we can do that. Not in here, though. Let Her talk to her mom.”
“Easy peasy lemon squeezy.” Seokmin smiled, flashing a sly wink at Mingyu. “Hey, we’re gonna give Wonwoo a quick tour, alright!” He then called, his hand wrapping around the boy’s bicep, already beginning to tug him toward the hallway. “It won’t take too long; we’ll just show the bottom floor! Be back in a few!”
“Oh, uh, I guess that’s fine,” your mother replied while grabbing onto the pot handles with two tea towels, moving the sauce from the element, “but please do be quick! And, Seokmin—do you mind fetching the hubby from his office after you’re done?”
“I can do that, for sure,” he answered, smiling bright.
“Thank you, dear. I appreciate you so much.”
He was escorted out the muggy kitchen and down the corridor, flanked by Mingyu and Seokmin until they reached the living area where the piano music had been coming from.
Before he could issue even one question, Wonwoo was pressed down onto the red, very large-cushioned couch. Seokmin sat on the marble coffee table while Mingyu fixed himself onto the arm of a sturdy leather chair, crossing an ankle over his knee. Neither boy spoke for a moment and Wonwoo couldn’t help but feel a bit frightened as he listened to the elegant, soft piano tune fill the space.
“So… what’s the rulebook?”
“Well, it’s not an actual rulebook,” Seokmin corrected, “that was just for dramatics, allure, etcetera. But that’s what we call it.”
“We? You and Mingyu, you mean.”
Shifting in his place, Seokmin nodded, and his voice dropped an octave lower, "play the game long enough, you learn the rules.”
Mingyu’s chuckle dampened into the wine glass. “And there a lot of fuckin’ rules, that’s for damn sure,” he said with a scary smirk.
“But—we’ll just give you the crash course for now, as to lessen the overwhelmingness of what it takes to endure a dinner party.”
“Um, does Her know—”
“There are three principal rules; I’ll give them to you quick, so listen good,” Seokmin interrupted, leaning further into Wonwoo’s space, speaking quietly. “Rule one: do whatever the mom says, even if she doesn’t say it directly, or scarcely alludes to it. Makes everything ten times smoother, and gets her to like you, which is very important. Rule two: there is a guaranteed argument between Her’s mom and Her every fucking time—you stay out of it—never pick sides.
If you do get roped into whatever petty, passive-aggressive shame-fest they rake up, insert a compliment. Example: this steak is so tender and perfectly cooked! FYI—we’re not eating steak, so think of your own thing—and rule three: Her is like a freshly shaken can of carbonated soda and she can explode at any given moment. As her dear friends, and boyfriend, we have to make sure that doesn’t happen or else you’ll want to axe yourself.”
Wonwoo furrowed his brow heavily at Seokmin, noting a few crumbs left on his cherry suit from the cheese and crackers.
“How do we stop that?” He asked genuinely.
Mingyu proceeded to lower the nearly emptied wine glass against his knee, clearing his throat, “you don’t stop it.”
“But I thought—”
“It happens every time, without fail,” Seokmin answered, shaking his head, “but you can prolong it. You know, like cracking open the cap and letting out some air instead of the bottle fizzling into obliteration right away. The explosion’s not as big then. It’s easy. You just keep the conversation pushing. Don’t leave any space for bickering. Mingyu sometimes takes Her downstairs, or outside. To be fair, you don’t really have to worry about the last part.”
“Yeah,” Mingyu huffed, hardly amused, “lucky you, huh?”
“What happens if that fails?” Wonwoo asked.
Seokmin leaned back, tipping his head to the side. “Last year Her’s mom spent six hours braising these honey-garlic barbeque ribs with asparagus and stuffed potatoes. Guess where the food ended up by the end of the night? Because it wasn’t my starving mouth.”
“I don’t think I want to know,” Wonwoo sighed.
Bobbing his head approvingly, Seokmin smiled. “Exactly.”
“If these dinners are always such a mess, why do they keep happening? I mean, it doesn’t seem like anybody enjoys them.”
Fiddling with the thick folded cuff of his dress shirt, Seokmin shrugged. “I don’t know, to be honest. They used to a be a lot bigger in the past. Way more relatives and family friends. Just get-together's with a lot of food and drink and intoxicatedness. A way to maintain community and repore or something. But it’s shrunk down over the years. I still can’t tell if that makes it better or worse.”
Mingyu rubbed tiresomely down his neck, somewhat wincing as he massaged a sore spot. “It definitely makes it worse.”
“Yeah, I guess so,” Seokmin agreed, “it puts more pressure on the rest of us… anyway, I should grab ‘the hubby’ as per request.”
Snickering, Mingyu flashed his pointed canine teeth and raised the wine back to his lips. “Makes your skin crawl, doesn’t it?”
With an uneased laugh, Seokmin smirked. “Every time.”
As the boy disappeared down a dark hallway to the right of the large living area, Wonwoo assumed he and Mingyu might return to the kitchen as it was probably not the best idea—leaving you alone for too long with your nitpicking mother—but when Wonwoo began lifting himself from the plump couch cushions he was sunken into, Mingyu’s hand touched at his shoulder to stop him.
In an instant, trepidation surged throughout his body.
Wonwoo’s face had most certainly gone white, though the lighting in the living room was too warm and orangey to tell.
“I just wanna talk to you about something real quick,” Mingyu said, stretching forward to leave his empty glass on the marbled table.
“Oh—um, okay.”
When he thought about the past few months, Wonwoo realized he hadn’t even spoke to Mingyu since the blowout party back in June. So much had happened since then, good and bad. Wonwoo could only suspect that he was about to hear the worst talking-to in his life, though he attempted to feign the terror for casualness.
Mingyu swooped a hand behind his ear, brushing back his perfectly styled hair, and looked to Wonwoo almost… forgivingly?
“I know you and I haven’t seen each other since the party at Seungcheol’s. I know some shit went down between you and Her and that it really blew up and you guys weren’t talking for a bit. She said, like, it was something to do with the book she’s writing and you were having differences about the direction and it kinda exploded.”
Wonwoo prayed it was imperceptible, the gigantic breath of relief he fought to exhale without too much giveaway, knowing that you hadn’t told Mingyu the truth to the argument. He was happy about your work-around, though he didn’t know if it was… morally right… that you opted not to tell your boyfriend—the person you supposedly trusted most—one of your biggest miseries.
“Oh… yeah,” Wonwoo exhaled, “it got pretty ugly.”
Mingyu nodded. “I honestly don’t even know if she’s still working on it. She doesn’t tell me about it. I don’t get why it’s so fuckin’ important to her but… I digress. Anyway, like Seokmin said, you’re here now, so you two obviously hashed it out. She seems to really appreciate you as a friend. And—hey—it helps takes some of the weight off my shoulders, y’know? Girl’s a fuckin’ handful sometimes.”
Wonwoo swallowed, feeling increasingly uncomfortable with the conversation and the alcohol he was beginning to smell from the boy’s clothes. He understood the situation was stressful for Mingyu, that he might be teetering between things absentmindedly, yet he nonetheless questioned what Mingyu’s intentions even were with you.
“Well, uh… I really enjoy spending time with her, too,” he murmured as Mingyu reclaimed his emptied wine glass.
There was a strong grip on his shoulder, shaking it.
“You’re a good person, man. Seriously.”
Using Wonwoo as a support crutch, Mingyu heaved onto his feet, then proceeded to straighten out his charcoal suit jacket.
“M’kay, I’m going back to the kitchen. We’re probably gonna eat soon so don’t spend too long losing your head out here.”
“Yeah, got it.”
He watched Mingyu amble down the long and subtly aglow corridor, carrying his wine glass low at the hip until reaching the threshold to the kitchen. You had suddenly popped out, stumbling into him with a smile and some hushed words that were impossible to comprehend as Wonwoo sat alone, listening to the jazzy piano tunes from the record player. After nipping a quick kiss against your boyfriend’s lips, you entered the living room with a crooked head.
“What’chya doing out here?” You inquired, pressing a hand against the grand, wooden frame adorning the entry way.
Wonwoo grabbed at his knees while pulling himself up.
“Just a quick pep talk. And a fly-by of some rules.”
“Oh,” you chuckled, “Seokmin’s crash course, was it?”
“Yeah.”
“Sometimes I call him John Green just to piss him off.”
Wonwoo smiled, stepping around the marble coffee table. “I feel like that might serve to stroke Seokmin’s ego above all.”
“No, it starts to irritate him after a while. You should know at this point I can piss off just about anybody. Even Seokmin. It’s a talent. Though I don’t think it’s enough for me anymore. I want to start pushing people to rock bottom or I haven’t done enough.”
There was a teasing sparkle in your eye as Wonwoo approached you. He could smell all that deliciously cooked food from down the corridor and his stomach was certainly responding to it.
“I can get you there,” Wonwoo said. “Don’t stress.”
“Forgot to fix my makeup. Want to come with me?”
He agreed, and you began to guide him across the living room, swathed in all its expensive mahogany fabrics, obtuse looking vases, and jade-green lamp shades that reminded him of late-night study sessions at the campus library. You pulled him past a wide shelf that was organized with much smaller, glazed sculptures that caught his attention as they lowly glimmered in the mellow light.
“Woah,” he gripped at your wrist, stopping your swift walk, “someone in your family loves ceramics, I’m guessing?”
You ricocheted back into his side, then taking a few seconds to adjust some invisible flaws in your hair before responding.
“That’s just some pottery I did when I was younger.”
Wonwoo squinted at you. “Really?”
“Mmhm.”
“You took classes?”
Shrugging, you muttered a simple, “yeah.”
“Is that why you were so interested in that vase back at my apartment?” When you continued to stare at him blankly, Wonwoo cleared his throat and reiterated, “the red one? It was really round at the bottom, but the stem was tall and skinny. You really liked it.”
“Oh—yeah—sorry, it’s been a while since I’ve last been to your apartment. I don’t know if that’s why I liked it. Probably.”
He smiled at you inquisitively. “I’m surprised you never mentioned that to me, considering my landlord is a ceramics teacher. I mean, as you know.”
Your eyes seemed reminiscent and adrift, glancing from sculpture to sculpture—lopsided teapots, poorly shaped toadstools, crooked little spoons—there were a plethora of your small creations laid across the shelf, gathering dust and appearing untended to.
Wonwoo cleared his throat, hands buried in his pockets. “I just didn’t peg you as someone who liked getting their hands dirty. I suppose it’s different when you’re younger, though.”
Pursing your lip, you nodded. “Things are always different when you’re young. My mom used to use the spoons I made to scoop sugar into her coffees. But she doesn’t drink coffee anymore. Just wine.”
“Well, it’s nice she appreciated your effort.”
There was a beat of silence. Your expression twitched.
“I had to beg to take those classes, y’know?”
Wonwoo raised an eyebrow at you. “How come?”
Your arms folded, and you shrugged again. “My parents honestly saw it as a distraction. I mean, why let your daughter play with some clay when she can hardly pass her math tests. But there was this super artsy girl in our recreational class who always made the best teacups from the clay, and she would paint them so beautifully… I wanted to be able to do what she did. So I asked my parents again and again and again until they fucking gave up and found a pottery class to enroll me in. Although, I'm pretty sure they supposed I would drop it sooner or later. Like it was just an itch I had to scratch. It was in this little art shop that looked similar to your landlord's.”
He smiled at you. “Was your instructor a polish lady?”
“No, she was not polish,” your head shook as you swept some dust from the black shelf, rubbing your fingers together, “I remember that much, but I don’t remember her name. It was after a flower, though. Something too complicated for my eleven-year-old brain to retain.”
“Probably Chrysanthemum or some shit,” Wonwoo muttered.
You laughed at his comment, “probably.”
“… Well, you must have liked it. You made so much stuff.”
“Oh, I loved it. I mean, looking at some of this stuff now, it’s not that great. But I didn’t really care that much at the time.”
“Considering you were a child, it’s pretty damn good.”
Wonwoo felt your elbow dig shallowly into his ribs. “Don’t try to flatter eleven-year-old me,” you warned him. “If you would have seen the other girl’s creations, mine would turn from pretty damn good to: well, at least she tried something new!”
“No,” Wonwoo chuckled, “that’s dumb.”
“Honestly, there was so much stuff that I made. More than half of it’s not even on this shelf. There wouldn’t be enough space.”
“Shit. What happened to it?”
You pinched at the olive fabric of your dress, massaging the silk between your fingertips for a moment while examining each and every sculpture moulded and grooved by your tiny childhood hands.
“My favourite part was destroying it,” you answered.
Wonwoo narrowed his brow, “I don’t think I could do that to something I spent so much effort and time creating.”
“Yeah, and that’s all good and fine,” you reasoned, adjusting your shoulders, “but I just didn’t see it like that, I guess...”
Intrigued, Wonwoo smiled at you. “How did you see it, then?”
For a moment, you thought, staring off into space.
“Well, I just don’t understand why people are so afraid of things being ephemeral. When you’re an artist, or a writer, or a musician, I feel like you want to make something that will last forever, transcend eras, touch people for a lifetime, or, I don’t know—you want it to stay preserved, like when they embalm things. But I feel like there’s just as much worth and importance to the things that hardly last at all. I feel like there’s so much freedom and self-assurance in building something up and then crushing it down.
That’s what I loved about it. When the clay would explode from between my fingers and stick into the lines of my palms because I was squeezing it so hard—it just felt good. Like it was supposed to happen. Like I was letting go. It doesn’t have to mean I… failed. It doesn’t have to mean I’m good at it either… I guess I just want to enjoy things without the burden of having to prove I deserve to enjoy them. Why can't I just do it? Why can't it just be between me and myself, you know? Why can't I decide what to take from it?"
Wonwoo nodded at you.
Contrarily, that was the opposite to his own beliefs surrounding his art, and maybe even his life. Wonwoo could never let things go, nor was he sure when that quality had permanently wedged its way into his human nature. For some reason, Wonwoo saw the past memory where his older brother had scampered away into the bushes surrounding the public pool during that game of Lifeguard all those hot summers ago, leaving an adolescent Wonwoo to get dragged from the water and thrown onto the sun-scorched concrete as everyone watched.
He saw the fuzzy, white glow that beamed from his laptop left open in the darkness, sitting still with all those pages he wrote, and yet to be filled with the words that he could never string together.
Unlike you, Wonwoo had never figured out the mechanism to letting things go. Instead, he held everything—between his fingers, across his shoulders, on his tongue, under his skin, deep inside his chest. Hence, for a split second, he was incredibly jealous that it seemed you could live without weight. You were just a breeze.
And just like everyone else, you were still discovering yourself.
“Anyway. That’s my take on it."
"Why'd you stop? This seemed like such a big part of you."
You flicked your eyes around, shrugging. "Things got in the way."
Wonwoo wondered what things, though he didn't ask.
"But we should hurry. Dinner will be ready soon and my mom will flip if we’re not at the table in time. She interprets it as ‘we don’t care’ and that will open a can of worms nobody wants to see.”
You sighed, then grabbing onto Wonwoo’s arm to pull him down another mysterious, long corridor in your maze of a house.
“Oh, Mingyu, that’s brilliant! I’m so glad the interview went well! I had him slip in a good word for you, too. But I’m sure you put the nail in the coffin. Walking straight into a promotion, you know, that’s something so hard to come by. You’ll settle just perfectly.”
“Yeah, thanks. To you as well. That word went a long way.”
“Making the right connections is certainly key.”
“It is. But I’m just lucky, is all. Your daughter is the real key. She’s given me so much—you all have—I just wanna let you know how grateful I am. Seriously. You’re some of the kindest people.”
“Shush! Before I give you a lash from this towel. It’s been sitting under the potato tray so it’s nice and hot… I’m so excited for your future together. A real power-couple! That’s for sure.”
“Hm. Yeah.”
Wonwoo was pressed flush to the wall just outside the kitchen, simultaneously holding his breath while listening to the conversation between your mother and Mingyu as everyone was presumably sat around the dressed table. Your fingers were hurriedly ruffling out some wrinkles in his tie while you repeatedly cursed at both your tardiness, and he simply let you do what you pleased. After a half-second adjustment made to his collar, you wasted not an instant more—Wonwoo was suddenly thrust into the warm kitchen with you impatiently in tow.
As expected, everyone was sat and waiting. Even your father had been at last pulled from his study, and he was positioned at the head of the long dinner table while twiddling a fork around in his fingers.
Your mother had an elbow propped on Mingyu’s chair.
She was the only one standing.
“Quick,” you whispered into Wonwoo’s ear, practically shoving him down into the empty seat beside Seokmin, “sit there.”
Upon the nervous side-eye that his friend shot at Wonwoo, he suspected that he may have just wriggled his way into an unfortunate ticket straight to hell. You held up the flowy, billowing silk of your olive dress while making your way to the seat across from him and beside a very unenthused-looking Mingyu, who was evidently chewing on his inner cheek. Wonwoo caught Mingyu’s stare for no less than a second, and there was nearly enough electricity in the glance to make a crackle.
A few more dishes had been squeezed onto the table since he was last in the kitchen. Despite the fact there was only six people eating, nearly every corner and crevice of the table was occupied. Your mother had cooked enough to feed an entire party, unless she was planning on sending everyone home with tupperwares full of leftovers.
“Looks super delicious,” Seokmin complimented.
Mingyu nodded in agreement. “Smells even better.”
Wonwoo didn’t know if he was also supposed to throw out some off-the-tongue compliment and keep the train chugging. The atmosphere was just so heavy—everything felt like an extreme effort—he could hardly breathe without the sensation of his lungs itching, as though they were adorned in cobwebs. Unconsciously, he’d started picking at his thumb, his appetite disappearing by the second in place of dread.
“You boys are so lovely, thank you,” your mother commented, straightening out the orange tea towel in her hand while continuing to lean into the side of Mingyu’s chair. “This was all a labour of love.”
Seokmin flashed a picturesque smile that Wonwoo had seen many times before. “Well, I’m feeling the love. That’s for sure. Are we ready to dig in all?” Still, there was a bit of anxious haste in his actions.
“One moment, first,” your mother stated, pausing Seokmin in his reach for a large casserole spoon. Wonwoo clasped his hands together even tighter as she said, “we’re going to wait a few minutes more.”
You had pulled out your chair, but you didn’t sit.
“Mom, I was just fixing my makeup. That’s what you asked me to do. There’s no reason to make everyone keep waiting.” You removed the towel from her hand and laced it through the oven handlebar. “Just take a seat, okay? I’ll start making everyone’s plates if they pass them.”
She smiled at you. “Well, that’s a very sweet gesture. But it doesn’t take long to fix an unstuck lash or change a lipstick. You’ve got yourself a makeup chair. You should know better than anyone, my love.”
Wonwoo hated this—he hated the way your mother’s criticizing was buttered up nice with a practiced, insincere smile and a crooning voice. He hated the way Mingyu was pushing fingers against the knot in his stiff eyebrow like something horrible was about to happen. He hated the way your father was uncomfortably mute, sitting only with a pursed lip and folded arms in complete disinterest, like he’d rather be anywhere else. He hated that Seokmin was continuing to beam his signature-watt smile even though the air was dense enough to crush everyone flat.
You picked up Mingyu’s plate, presumably because it was the closest to you, and started slopping some hot casserole onto it. Every movement was autopilot, thoughtless, as the steam from the breached casserole rolled up into the air and shrouded you.
“I was only trying to make it perfect,” you muttered.
“Make it what?” Your mother questioned, staring you down.
“Perfe—”
“Stop mumbling, my love. I can’t hear you.”
Mingyu’s messy plate was collapsed back onto its placemat with a very loud thud, and you looked to your mother with utmost annoyance.
“I was trying to make it per-fect.”
She quirked her head. “And you needed Wonwoo to do that?”
Just as he ruminated—the universe had a fearsome penchant for whirlpooling him into the centre of everything and anything horrible, like his name was written in the water. Though, Wonwoo couldn’t say he was expecting to survive the dinner party unscathed. He tried to remember the quick spiel of rules Seokmin had relayed to him—was it better to get involved or just shut the fuck up? Wasn’t Mingyu supposed to do something? Wasn’t Seokmin supposed to keep the conversation pushing?
“Mom, please, just—I was showing him around, okay? He’s the guest. He’s never been over before. Wonwoo has nothing to do with us being a few minutes late to dinner. So just leave him be.” You removed the tinfoil from another bowl. Grabbing a wooden spoon, you started slapping creamy mashed potatoes onto Mingyu’s plate. “Trying to make something out of nothing… why can’t we just eat for once?”
“Honey, we could be eating, but you’re choosing to sulk.”
“I’m not sulking! I’m trying to help!”
“No, no, no. Mingyu’s plate looks like an animal that got squashed by a car. If you can’t even properly fix your future husband a nice-looking plate of food without pooling all your anger into it, then there’s an issue, there.” She shook her head. “A very big issue.”
Wonwoo could see your eyes burning.
Mingyu had then sighed, removing the wooden spoon that was clenched up in your hand like a weapon and slipping it back into the mashed potato bowl. The boy tugged a few times at your wrist, keeping his tired voice as soft as possible while imploring you to sit down.
“It’s alright, everything’s fine,” he said, probably to soothe himself more than anything, “all the food goes straight into my mouth, anyway. Same goes for all of us. Sit down, Her, alright? Please?”
“No,” you snapped your wrist free, “I don’t want to sit.”
In a desperate hope to experience some sort of consolidation amongst the tension, Wonwoo angled a glance toward Seokmin. When his friend wouldn’t look back and merely opted to keep biting his blistering lip, Wonwoo quite literally felt a meteor sink into his stomach.
Slicking a hand along his shiny hair, Mingyu sighed even deeper. “Please just sit. You know what’ll happen. Please.”
Again stepping away from Mingyu’s attempted touch, you began to shout, and Wonwoo’s breath froze as your voice echoed around the kitchen in a hauntingly similar manner to the quarrel at his apartment.
“I already said no!”
From the head of the table, your father pushed out his chair. His voice was oddly gruff when he spoke, like he hadn’t said a word all day and his throat was hoarse by consequence.
“Don’t shout,” was all he warned.
Your mother shook her head. “She will raise her voice when she doesn’t get what she wants.”
Wonwoo couldn’t help but feel the cut from her disappointed eyes even though she wasn’t even looking at him.
“I’m raising my voice because you’re not listening! You haven’t listened to me all fucking day! Oh my god! It’s eating me alive!”
In an instant, Mingyu was to his feet, almost trying to court you into the corner by the open window with his hands that you battered away. Wonwoo gripped onto his knees. He couldn’t choke out a damn word and Seokmin seemed to have become stiller than stone.
“Calm down,” Mingyu urged, “take some breaths.”
“You still won’t listen!”
“I’ll listen later, I promise.”
“Mingyu, do you even hear yourself?!”
“Just—you’re blowing this out of proportion again.”
“Stop trying to control me!”
“Calm down and—hey!”
With a frustrated groan, you squirmed away from Mingyu and rushed back to the dinner table where your mother continued to stare at you with such conflict in her expression, as though it was mentally taxing her to compute how such a seemingly perfect, established daughter could simultaneously appear so unraveled and incomplete before her. For a second, Wonwoo thought you might take the mashed potatoes or casserole and just completely drench the wall in their remnants.
But you didn’t do anything. Instead, you looked across the organized table—the vibrant food, sparkling drinking glasses, and expensive, unpopped bottles of alcohol—at Wonwoo, who had admittedly felt pretty useless and paralyzed throughout the ordeal. You looked straight into his eyes and he could see that you were almost physically begging him for an out. And, if he could see himself as an outsider, it was probably the same damn look he was giving you.
Wonwoo hadn’t even noticed the silence in the room.
Your father coughed, retrieving his utensils, ready to sweep the argument and very obvious hostility under the rug—put a small little bandage on a gigantic wound that had been festering for years.
“Same dance every time. Come sit, Mingyu. Let’s just eat.”
That would be nice, if Wonwoo had any appetite.
That would be nice if he wasn’t pushing out his chair, getting up from the table, keeping his gaze level and connected with yours, watching you swallow hard, hold back your tears, anxiously flex your fingers in a momentary contemplation and then—unprompted—run. Just run.
Wonwoo fled into the corridor with you right behind him, your hands kneading against his lower back as he threw open the door to the quiet, dimly lit front porch where that damp and black September night was ready to breathe him in and whisk you two away. He heard the very confused shouting from the kitchen, but there wasn’t any time to waste.
Wonwoo flew down the wood steps and splashed through a shallow puddle reflecting the moonlight, running toward the long street drifted in thinly strewn mist. He continued to run, only stopping for a brief moment to turn around and observe you quickly fling off your heels before scooping them up while everyone crowded onto the porch, yelling.
In your bare feet and a smile so pearlescent, you sprinted straight into Wonwoo’s outstretched arms, giggling aloud while he gripped your body firm and spun you in a circle that saw your dress twirl like a ribbon and your legs brush through the alive air.
Mingyu began stalking down the driveway, visibly angry, his face twisted into a snarl that might see Wonwoo getting split in his nose.
“Fuck, fuck!” You cursed, squeezing your fingers into his. He was suddenly being tugged down the empty, dark street, as though there was some invisible curtain for you to magically disappear behind. “Let’s go!”
Wonwoo didn’t mind one bit. Indefinitely, he would let you tug him over a cliff if it meant you two could fall together. The street was long and wet but the air was so fresh. Every breath he took was pure.
He didn’t know where you were going.
But he didn’t need to.
“Be careful. I don’t want you to step on something sharp.”
“I think I already did.”
Wonwoo pulled tight on your warm hand, stopping you.
“Seriously? Let me look.”
You made a slight huffing noise while sitting down on a large boulder, not caring that the surface was sandy and damp, forming a dark imprint against your olive dress. Wonwoo squatted down, looking at the dirty underside to one bare foot, and then the other, realizing there weren’t any cuts. He then used the cuff to his suit jacket, brushing off the small pieces of grit stuck into the skin in case he missed anything.
In all honesty, Wonwoo had no idea where you two were. After running far down the fancy Hillcrest Street until your family house was completely obscured into mist and memory, you led Wonwoo off onto a separate footpath by the treeline. Your fingers were slotted into each other’s. This was the first time Wonwoo had let go of your hand since running away, and the chilled air felt like prickles on his palm.
Removing the phone from his pocket to shine a light, he wasn’t at all surprised to see the missed calls and texts that had collected minute by minute from Seokmin earlier. You didn’t even have your phone. The only thing you carried was the ivory heels that Wonwoo gifted you at the start of the evening, which were still clutched in your hand.
“No blood. No lacerations. Just dirt,” Wonwoo said. “If you did cut yourself, you might not even feel it with all that adrenaline.”
You smiled at him. “Your phone a graveyard of Seokmin texts?”
He smirked, flicking through them all. “Precisely, yeah.”
Leaning backward on the boulder, you at last let go of the heels and stretched your arms out behind you, staring up at the moonlight patterning between the forest trees, their branches more barren as the autumn leaves came loose in the breeze. They fell down one by one, rustling softly whenever they hit the ground. He heard you sigh.
“Everyone there can go fuck themselves.”
Putting his phone away, Wonwoo smiled. “Yeah?”
“Yes.”
“That line’s a classic, coming from you.”
He attempted to sit beside you on the boulder, ignoring how uneven and rough it felt under his butt. Wherever you were along the footpath, it was perfectly hushed, almost felt hidden. The tree branches above him had framed the moon akin to a picture—except, he felt like he was the one painted, and that it was the moon who was watching him.
“I’m sorry.”
Wonwoo began to look at you rather than the night sky.
“Don’t apologize.”
You stared at him deeply, licking your lips and shaking your head. His eyes were now well adjusted to the scarce light. Just the silver through the trees was enough to read and inspect your pretty face.
“It went off the rails.”
He shrugged, staring back. “It seemed like it needed to.”
“I made you part of it.”
“I made myself part of it.”
“But, I mean—just—if you… if you never…”
Wonwoo raised his eyebrow. “If I never what? Met you?”
Puffing out a long breath, you looked down, picking at something on the boulder with a manicured nail. “… Yeah.”
“No,” Wonwoo was firm to correct, continuing to stare at you intensely even if you couldn’t face him in the turmoil of processing all the emotion and chaos, “you’re the best thing to ever happen to me.”
You lolled out your tongue, smiling and sheepish. “Blah.”
He laughed, “I mean it.”
Sighing again, you glanced back at Wonwoo, your eyes flickering along his every detail in the dewy night. Your hand reached out to his collar, making another brief, probably unnecessary adjustment to it before sliding the gentle fingers down his chest. Wonwoo’s mouth ran disgustingly dry in that moment, to the point that he was relieved when you removed your hand because you might have felt how fast his heart was beating and thought him to be quite pathetic.
Tightly swallowing, he brushed an itch off his nose and opened his mouth with a question, his gaze catching yours. Although, at the last second, he weened himself from speaking when the doubt found and froze him. A breeze tickled through his hair and Wonwoo shivered.
Your brow furrowed.
“What?” You urged him.
Wonwoo chuckled. “Fuck. Nothing.”
“Not nothing. Please. What is it?”
You were leaning closer into him, enthralling him with those earnest, gleaming eyes. He swore the nighttime wind was pushing your sweet, blossomy scent against him—was pushing you against him—because now your thigh was squished right beside his and your shoulders were warm together. Wonwoo adjusted his glasses, cleared his throat.
“Who are you?” He paused, but didn’t falter. “Actually?”
Your forehead wrinkled. “What do you mean?”
Wonwoo examined every aspect of your face that he had come to know so well over the months—the face he gradually couldn’t stop thinking about, to the point you would appear in his dreams. The face he was once completely disinterested in, because you were not someone that should have any reason to be in his life, just as he had no reason to be in yours. He felt his body move closer into your inviting warmth.
In fact, you two were so close that if he moved even an inch or few forward, then his lips might find themselves pressing to yours and his hand might settle and smooth up along your thigh to your cheek. Then, it would be impossible to leave the footpath without digging into you right then and there, kissing and tasting from you everywhere.
“What’s your name?”
It sounded like an obvious, warranted question that just about anyone would ask given the opportunity. But Wonwoo had never found himself wondering it. The things he wondered about you were much different and more character-driven, yet Wonwoo had come to realize that your name was just as important and precious and intact with your identity as everything else. He almost felt like it was the very last piece of you that he hadn’t shifted into place—his last chapter in a very long, complicated, topsy-turvy, seemingly-never-ending book.
Wonwoo thought you might laugh at him.
Tell him, “Wouldn’t you like to know?” in that very smug tone of voice he’d hear from time to time while smiling hot with your secret.
Instead, however, you just stayed silent.
His hand touched with fragile softness at the edge of your face, a thumb then stroking along the space before your ear as you swallowed.
“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” he whispered, hearing the leaves rustle above him, “it’s fine either—”
“No, one second.”
Wonwoo bit his tongue, opting to watch you lean back while digging fingers into the cleavage of your dress. From somewhere—he could only surmise—you had pulled out a thin tube with a cherry lid.
“Was that the lip stuff you put on?” He snorted.
“Lip liner. With a sticky patch on it right here. Figured I should keep it close. You know, in case a crumb managed to remove a single spec of it. Can't have my mother passing out from shame.”
“Clever thinking.”
“Give me your hand.”
Stretching out his fingers, he let his hand sit in your lap while you pulled the lid off with your teeth, then gripping his wrist and halfway leaning down to push the tip of the lip applicator against his palm. The sensation was cool and smooth. He felt each letter you traced, though he refused to let himself guess until you were done.
Under the moonlight, Wonwoo raised the calligraphed hand to his face, pushing up his glasses as he realized—at last—the complete gist of who you were. And with your name came the understanding of what you were, in fact, doing in his very meaningless life.
Wonwoo kept staring fondly at his hand. But, as he was staring, you suddenly reached forth and smeared your thumb across the neat letters until they were lost. A memory made, and then covered.
Only between you.
When Wonwoo looked to you again, he saw everything about you so clearly that it was almost shining. Every decision you made, every word you said, the way you walked and dressed and flourished so openly before crashing so hard—Wonwoo could snap all those pieces into place.
“Can I ask you something?” You said.
He blinked at you absentmindedly, too caught up in his daze.
“Wonwoo?”
“Sorry—yeah?”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
Pressing your knees together, the wind fluttered the fabric of your silky olive dress, and he could tell you were getting cold.
“When you were at my apartment, apologizing to me about our fight, that was the first and only time I ever heard you mention your ex-girlfriend.” Clicking your nervous feet, you looked over his shadowy face and the moonlight dancing in his glasses, “was she your first love?”
Crushing his hands tight into each other, Wonwoo bit his lip. “Yeah.”
Keeping your eyeline steady, you nodded. “Was she… like… what did you love about her?”
He almost couldn’t breathe. “Everything.”
You frowned. “Even the bad stuff?”
“Yeah…” he mumbled, “even the bad stuff.”
It was very quiet for a moment, with you simply sitting in reflection and staring into the dark silhouettes of the trees. He was sure you already knew the answer to your initial question, although he understood that hearing him say it was different than infinitely assuming about a past that wasn’t yours. Wonwoo had been in love before, and then heartbroken down into little fragments of himself that he spent months soullessly dusting around. And somehow, he was in love again—a new love that felt so much different but still fit him so right.
“Hm…” you hummed.
Wonwoo placed his hand on your bare back, beginning to sweep his fingers up and down, sensing your skin quiver in response.
“It’s late,” he whispered, nudging his knee into yours and warming your ear with his breath, “I know you don’t want to go home, and that’s alright. I get it. But we should figure something out before my phone battery dies, yeah?” He proceeded to grab your hand and squeeze it. “I don’t wanna leave a pretty girl like you out in the cold and wet.”
When you looked at him, you were pouting, exhaustion shining on your face like the dew in the moonlit leaves. “I don’t want to go anywhere without you.” Your fingers gripped his impossibly tighter.
“Do you want to stay the night at my place?”
You snuggled your head into the crook between his jaw and shoulder, wrapping your arms around his elbow to hold him close. “Yes.”
“Well, I’ve got one call,” Wonwoo sighed, fishing out his phone and squinting against its lurid light, “better hope he fucking answers.”
Vernon was confused to say the least, beckoned down a random street at near midnight when he could be in bed with the girl he was happily feeling up just half an hour ago, until a certain phone call ruined it. Wonwoo could tell from the manner in which his friend’s heavily furrowed brow remained creased when he opened the vanilla Camry’s back door, allowing you to slide in first with your heels in hand while Wonwoo followed. Tugging the door shut, Wonwoo could then only smile at poor, disgruntled, face-studded Vernon who was continuing to inquisitively stare him down through the rear-view mirror as though there was something smeared across his cheek or stuck in his hair.
Perhaps it was the patches of dampness and dirt on Wonwoo’s suit and your once very elegant dress, but it didn’t matter anymore.
“So… uh… dinner went well, then?” Vernon asked in a big huff after no one offered to break the silence, slightly turning his head to analyze the backseat using his busted, buzzing ceiling light.
Wonwoo and you were pressed together. Both unreceptive.
“Woah. Stop talking over each other, guys,” he joked dryly.
“Couldn’t have gone better,” Wonwoo decided to say.
“… M’kay…” Vernon replied, still perplexed but probably sensing it was best to save all the questions for later. “Music?”
Wonwoo nodded and turned off the ceiling light. “Sure.”
That was the beginning and end of the conversation.
Vernon pulled out from Hillcrest, keeping his elbow against the half-opened window during the drive, meanwhile you were allowing your heavy eyes to at last flutter shut. Leaning your head against Wonwoo’s broad shoulder, he noticed that your fingers were playing with his—you had gently grabbed his thumb and started rubbing his pigmented scar in absent circles, massaging into all the weathered years spent scratching himself until his anxiety would peddle away. The lip liner was still smudged against his palm in a cherry-tinted blur that he never wanted to wash off.
Smiling, Wonwoo let his cheek sit atop your hair, sensing the delightful breeze from Vernon's window flow into the backseat.
He was glad he went to the dinner party.
“Here are the keys. This copper one here is for the shop. This blue one is my apartment key. Go inside and get warmed up. I’ll join you in a few, alright? Promise… be careful on the steps,” Wonwoo instructed after opening the car door, proceeding to wrap his keychain in your fingers once you had emerged into the wind and sodden air.
With the white heels strung through your arm, you nodded at him sleepily and walked up the three little stairs to the pottery shop.
After you disappeared inside, Wonwoo turned around and opened the passenger seat door, climbing back into his friend’s Camry kept stalled but running at the curb. At first, there was silence between them. They both gazed down through the illumination of the headlights washing out the empty street. Vernon then slid his hand off the steering wheel, letting it cascade through his messy black hair instead.
“Do I even wanna know what fuckin’ happened?” His friend asked, his head clunking back against the upholstered seat.
Wonwoo blinked down at his lap. He started to smile, feeling it creep along his mouth even though he knew how suspect it looked.
Then, Wonwoo chuckled.
“We ran out.”
He finally looked to Vernon, who was staring back with highly quirked eyebrows and a dropped jaw. After exchanging an incredulous glance with each other, the two boys were laughing and ripping apart the silence. Vernon crossed his arms, sunk further down in his seat.
“Never would I picture you doin’ that…” he said through a lazy grin, “runnin’ out with another dude’s girl is insane, can’t lie.”
Wonwoo rubbed a palm along his cheek, still fucking smiling. “Think he’s gonna beat my ass?”
Vernon stared at him, deadpanned in his expression. “Is that even a question, Glasses? I’d beat your ass. I don’t even have a girl.”
“I don’t care.”
“If he beats your ass?”
“Yeah.”
Suddenly, a hand was pushing against Wonwoo’s shoulder. Vernon was smirking at him hard, teething over his bottom lip.
“Damn. She’s got you by the scruff, huh?”
Wonwoo shrugged, beginning to shake his head. “You should see the way he treats her… there’s some weird ties between him and her family. I think he’s playing the long game… getting what we can while he can and then parading her around as a trophy or something. But she's miserable with him.” Running a thumb along his knuckles, Wonwoo grinned. “He can beat my ass if he wants to.”
Vernon clicked his tongue. “Well, just to float the idea, I’m s—”
“No,” quickly laughing away his friend’s questionable response, Wonwoo merely rubbed under his glasses and refused. “I’m not trying to get locked away for first degree murder. And neither are you.”
“I’m just tryin’ to say I’ve got you is all,” Vernon said with his usual nonchalance, as laid back as an ironing board, “but—you’re right. Save that for when I’m an actual drug lord. He’s not gettin’ anything from me. Not even a Flintstone gummy.”
“Well, I appreciate the favour. Sorry to interrupt.”
“Nah, I could tell it was somethin’ important,” Vernon excused, giving Wonwoo a comfortable smile, “s’not like I can’t ever get brain again. Your situation seemed like a once-in-a-lifetime thing.”
Looking back at the pottery shop and the single light within keeping everything aglow, Wonwoo wondered if you made it into his apartment okay. He was worried about leaving you on your own for too long, especially when taking into consideration the extremities of the dinner party (that hadn’t really been a dinner or a party when he thought about it). Rolling out his shoulders, he turned to Vernon again.
“She needs to eat something. I’ll order food. You want any?”
Vernon scrunched his face. “What—you’re askin’ me to come inside with you two? I’m not on real good terms with her, y’know that, right? Just ‘cause she’s fuckin’ with you doesn’t mean that for me."
“It won’t be like that.”
“How do y’know? You guys gossip about me?”
Wonwoo smiled, pushing up his glasses. “I just know.”
Vernon paused to think for a moment, his hand returned back to the steering wheel while sharp teeth pulled at the skin along his bottom lip. With just the edge to his face streaked in yellow light from the outside street lamp, it was difficult to interpret his mindset, although Wonwoo knew it was a done deal when Vernon removed the glittering keys from the ignition and the rumbling car at last went silent along the empty midnight street.
Besides, Wonwoo would pay for it all, anyway.
Vernon quietly trailed behind Wonwoo into the apartment, the front door left unlocked and the living area bathed by the warm-coloured light fixture but absent of your presence. His friend placed the car keys onto the coffee table with an uncharacteristic softness, and Wonwoo figured that Vernon was probably still feeling uncertain about spending time with you—which made sense—the last time Vernon had spoken to you (spoken probably wasn’t an accurate word) was the confrontation at the gas station where he feared you might light his hair on fire.
Though, when Wonwoo poked open his ajar bedroom door, he found you standing near his desk, peering across the walled corkboard and all its pinned photos from his life back in South Korea.
He flicked on the light, pulling out the deep blue darkness from the air, and smiled at you.
“Everything alright?”
With your arms folded, you seemed smaller than usual. “Yeah—sorry that I came in here without permission.”
He was quick to shake his head. “No big deal—you don’t need permission.”
You were silent for a few seconds, grinning to yourself, and then gestured to one of the glossy developed photos stuck to the cork.
“That’s Bohyuk?”
Wonwoo nodded, “yeah.”
He realized you hadn’t spent much time in his room over the months that you’d known each other. For the most part, Wonwoo would always be at your apartment, or some unique location necessary to your story-telling when he was still helping with the book. At one point it would have perturbed him to see you gazing along the finer details of his room so curiously. Now, however, he welcomed it.
Stuffing hands into his pockets, Wonwoo let you observe the corkboard, watching you with a very amorous, kind smile that he hadn’t even processed until his cheeks started flaring with a heated ache.
“Wonwoo?”
“Yeah?”
“… I’m hungry.”
Unable to flatten out his smile, Wonwoo walked over to you and smoothed his hand along the side of your face, then caressing his thumb underneath your twinkling eye and against your cheekbone.
“I know,” he murmured, “I’ll order food.”
“Chinese?”
“If that’s what you want, then I’ll make it happen.”
Delighted to see your expression brighten, Wonwoo at last removed his hand from your skin. He knew he shouldn’t touch you or look so fucking pathetically in-love into your eyes, but he didn’t care.
“Do you think I can shower? I want to take all this makeup off.”
“Yeah, of course. Go for—”
Suddenly, from the living room, there was a loud bang that distinctly sounded like Vernon plowing straight into something heavy.
“What was that?” You asked, covering your mouth.
Wonwoo chuckled, “Vernon. Hey—you alright?!”
“All good!!” His friend shouted back. “Just—how ‘bout don’t keep your fuckin’ weights right beside the couch, yeah? Almost broke my fuckin’ foot!”
“Oops.” Wonwoo shrugged very unapologetically, staring into your amused eyes and giggling together. “He’s gonna eat with us… he did a big favour coming down to get us and everything, you know?”
“That’s okay,” you answered, “I just want to shower.”
“Yeah, that’s fine. I’ll give you the room. Wear whatever you want. I’ll just take the keys so I can lock up downstairs.” He was nearly on his way out, but stopped abruptly. “Should we… uh… should I at least text Seokmin and tell him you’re safe? I mean, just in case—”
“Sure,” the response was quick and muttered with little care, “I’m sure they can surmise where I am, but you can do that, too.”
“Yeah, okay… well, I’ll leave you be. Food will probably be here by the time you’re out and dried off. I’ll make sure it doesn’t get cold.”
Finally, Wonwoo clicked his bedroom door shut. Keys in hand, he re-entered the living room to find Vernon plumped down on the couch with a pillow in his lap, all spread out like he owned the damn place, texting away on his phone. Wonwoo laughed as he walked by.
“Writing out your apology letter?”
“Somethin’ like that…” his friend mumbled, clearly more focused on his pixeled screen, “I might not be gettin’ that head after all.”
“Life’s all about sacrifices,” Wonwoo sighed while opening the front door, pausing briefly to mention, “we’re getting Chinese food by the way. She didn’t care that you’re staying. Anything you want?”
Vernon smiled while keeping his eyes trained to the phone. “No way. That’s a relief… n’yeah—I like the chicken balls with the sweet and sour sauce. Pork-fried rice is good, too. I’m not picky.”
“Noted.”
“So—wait—I have to ask, and you can tell me to fuck off if you want, but how did you become a drug dealer? Like, at what point did you even realize that was your… I don’t know… calling?”
Sitting cross-legged on the carpet with a carton of noodles in hand and a napkin splayed upon your bare lap, pointed chopsticks were being angled at Vernon from across the coffee table. He took a sip from his can of bright red soda, placing it back onto the coaster with a thud.
“Uh, fuck,” Vernon coughed, smiling subtly while beginning to pick through his own personal container of pork-fried rice, “well, I can answer it, I guess… do I get to ask a question in return?”
You grabbed the napkin, wiping off the sauce from your mouth.
“I’ll allow it.”
“Fair enough,” his friend answered.
Wonwoo had heard the story only once before during a smoke session on the apartment rooftop, though he doubted Vernon would trudge through all the details. Despite seeming like an open book who couldn't care less, there really were some sweet spots he didn’t like having prodded. Nonetheless, Wonwoo thought it was a good, earnest opening between the two of you, so he opted to stay silent while pulling the meat off his ribs with his teeth.
“Uh, I was a stubborn kid, let’s say that. Tried my hand at school but I could never get the hang of it. Could never keep a job long. My parents caught me usin’ once, weed and ecstasy, and they said if it happened again, I’m out.” Vernon fed himself another forkful of rice, taking a moment to swallow while you listened intently. “I thought I could keep it straight, but no luck. Yeah. They had no tolerance for it. I was out the next day. My mom was the most pissed, but she tries to reach out every now and then. I dunno... I feel done with ‘em, if I'm bein' honest. I’ve got somethin’ that works so I just run with it. The money speaks for itself so I can’t complain.”
As Wonwoo expected, it was the heavily watered-down version of everything that happened between Vernon and his family, however, it was enough to paint the picture. Taking a moment to slurp up some spicy noodles, you soon set the carton down and patted along your gradually swelling lips. The crumpled napkin was placed on the table.
“Yeah, I bet the money speaks for itself. You’ve got a bunch of stupidly rich university students on your roster. They go through just about everything they can get their hands on. It’s fucking insane.”
Vernon propped his elbows onto his knees, gathering more rice onto the plastic white fork while smirking at you knowingly.
“You’ve got that coke sniff, y’know?”
Wonwoo widened his eyes at Vernon, suspecting a wildfire.
But you merely shrugged, quite honest in your response.
“I know. I did it once with Mingyu, some friends, and I thought never again…” with a sigh, you massaged at your shoulder, staring off into a random spot that Wonwoo couldn’t pinpoint. “Mingyu was getting it for me at almost every party we went to. I don’t know. I thought, since he paid for it, since it’s right here, I might as well do it.”
Slipping the fork out from his mouth, Vernon grinned. “Coked-up sex is crazy. Especially when you've got the right cut. It hits.”
“Vernon,” Wonwoo immediately chirped at him while setting down his emptied container of food, his voice sounding particularly stern, like he was scolding a child for making an ignorant comment.
“What?” His friend laughed, raking a tattooed hand through his loose and shiny black hair. “It is. Feels like you’re on another planet.”
“Yeah, whatever. Just think a little before you speak, please.”
Again, Wonwoo was surprised to see your nonchalance.
“It’s okay. I know what you’re saying. I think… like… Mingyu only wanted me to have it for that reason—I’m making it sound like some non-consensual, pressured shit—it’s not,” you muttered, waving around your hand in dismissal, “I just… the thing is I don’t like how I feel afterward. But it was never enough for me to say that I didn’t want it. I liked that it would take me out of my head for a bit. My mind would stop running on overdrive.” Then, you pulled your knees up to your chest, wrapping your arms around them. “The last time I did anything like that was the party at Seungcheol’s, though.”
Whenever the party was mentioned, Wonwoo would always bite down on his lip and tightly curl his fingers. He had discussed it with you in the past, beyond the summer evening spent at your apartment with a red velvet cupcake in between you and a painful, aching hug he could still feel all the warmth and regret to.
There were long, long phone conversations. And somewhere, stuffed in his mind, was the memory of you and Mingyu behind the door as he listened to every little sound—skin hitting skin, the desperation in your voice, wood smacking the wall.
“Yeah, is what it is,” Vernon replied. He pulled a toothpick out from his pocket and stuck it in his mouth. “Do I get my question now?”
“Uh… sure.”
Wonwoo had almost missed you staring at him. There was a concernedness to it, but when he smiled back you seemed to breathe.
“Still think I’m a gigantic fuckin’ tool?”
Immediately, you started laughing. Wonwoo followed suit, on the brink of embarrassingly blowing out the soda he just sipped from in a big spray. He was actually quite relived that Vernon had picked a more light-hearted question rather than something intimate. His friend swirled the toothpick around with his tongue, continuing to smirk in confidence.
“Giggle away. I’m curious, is all.”
Kissing your teeth, you held Vernon’s coppery, honey eyes. “You are a tool, one-hundred percent… but, I think you know that about yourself. And, um, you’re a good friend to Wonwoo. So… I guess my opinions about you have shifted. Appearances are deceiving.”
Pleased with your candour, Vernon grabbed his drink, leaned against the recliner behind him, and nodded his head approvingly.
“That tickles my fancy well enough.”
"Don't you think you'll want to settle down eventually?" You asked.
Vernon scrunched his eyebrow. "What?"
"Like, what if you find a girl. A really nice girl who could change your perspective. Do you think you'd want to settle down?"
With a quick laugh, Vernon shook his head. "Nice girls don't use half their last pay check to buy drugs. It's business at the end of the day."
Seeming skeptical, your eyes narrowed. "Right..."
"Vernon has his mind set on very specific things," Wonwoo smiled.
Straightening out the large shirt that draped around your frame—another garment belonging to Wonwoo that you had pulled from his dresser—you glanced between each boy and smiled.
“So... now I'm curious. How did this unlikely pairing meet?”
As Vernon was busy with navigating his toothpick, Wonwoo decided to tell the story, prompting him to sit up straight and alleviate his spine from being crooked against the hard bottom of the couch.
“I was convinced into attending a little New Year’s Eve party thing by these guys I don’t talk to anymore. Spent about half an hour wandering the halls, doing aimless laps, hating every second of it, debating if I should just take off. Not like anyone would notice. Then I bump into this guy—” Wonwoo nodded at Vernon, “—who was all tattooed and pierced up with this girl all over him. She was on the kitchen counter, one hand gripping his bicep while she was laying hickies to his fucking neck from behind.”
You snorted, rolling your eyes. “Who was that?”
Wonwoo shrugged. “Fuck if I know. Vernon?”
“Uh—I don’t know if I remember, honestly. She used to buy poppers off me like every damn week so I called her Poppy. That’s not her real name, though. She’s long gone. Moved cities months ago.”
“Yeah, well, he told me I looked like a lost ghost. Asked if I wanted a swisher. I agreed for some reason, and we went out back.”
Brushing a hand down your neck, you giggled. “A lost ghost?”
Vernon nodded, folding his arms.
“Yeah. Glasses always used to have that look to him. Dead man walkin’ kinda thing. Just wanderin’ around with no purpose.”
Wonwoo hoarsely chuckled at his friend, “jeez—thanks.”
“You can’t deny it.”
“I know. But to be fair, I was fucking going through something.”
“Mmhm, that’s why I took you under my wing,” Vernon sang, his eyes swimming with their usual gold-tinted mischief, “I could just tell you needed some guidance. Gave him the swisher of eternal friendship.”
“Is that what you call it?” Wonwoo huffed sarcastically.
“I call it many different things.”
You smiled sweetly at Wonwoo while your fingers played with the long cuff on the borrowed t-shirt. “Whatever it was, I guess it turned into something pretty good... and, Vernon, I am sorry for how I acted at the gas station. There was just a lot going through my mind.”
True to his casual, untroubled nature, Vernon swung his head dismissively while letting an arm collapse across his knee, the toothpick now in his hand and being spun between his ringed fingers. “No, you’re good. Don't worry 'bout it. It was just ‘cause you care n' shit. I get that.” Quirking his expression in an endearing manner, he proceeded to flash you a solid grin. “You didn’t singe my hair off so, I’ve got no grudge.”
You laughed, “I wouldn’t have actually done anything to you.”
“Eh, it’s hard to tell, isn’t it?” Vernon answered in a smirk.
Reaching for your drink, you sipped from it and then snuggled the can between your criss-crossed legs. Wonwoo examined that very intriguing smile opening its way across your mouth like a spring blossom, wanting to know the exact moment that sparked it.
A quiet pause passed, and then you were sighing with bliss behind it—that relaxed kind of sigh when everything seemed to click.
“It’s nice hanging out with you guys…” you murmured, staring across the coffee table scattered with ripped-open sauce packets, empty cardboard containers, wood chopsticks, and unfurling napkins. “It just feels lighter… I don’t know… making friends has always been so tough for me. The right friends, I mean. Friends that actually feel like friends.”
Wonwoo pinched his lip in his teeth.
“It can take a while before you hit the right people.”
Vernon shrugged, concealing a burp that had him rubbing down his broad chest. “If we’re all friends, then we’ve gotta be the weirdest fuckin’ collaboration of people I’ve ever seen.”
You snickered into your hands while Wonwoo lounged an elbow onto the couch to help prop up his head, rolling his eyes toward Vernon.
Though, Wonwoo could easily understand what Vernon was getting at. You, a popular and high-fashion campus honorary who at first glance seemed to have very little patience for anyone but yourself, followed by the guttural and unbothered drug dealer without a care in the world, beside an anxiety-ridden hermit just trying to exist and somehow not turn to a puddle in the process. Vernon was right—it was a strange grouping of people suckled together despite their completely different paths and choices. Somewhere, somehow, though, there was a connection.
Like a fated string weaving everything into a knot.
Since Wonwoo had already ordered the Chinese food fairly late, it was quite difficult to find an ice cream place in the area that was open past midnight. Vernon and his sudden craving for cookie dough had offered the idea, and you easily caved, which led Wonwoo on a spiral of searching through his phone. Unfortunately, the only ice cream they could order was vanilla soft-serve cones from a twenty-four-hour fast-food chain which arrived to his apartment dripping. But no one really cared, and Wonwoo threw on the television for some background noise.
The conversations lasted until about two in the morning.
Vernon had not so gracefully taken up the entire couch, his face shoved into the embroidered pillow, an arm left dangling limp over the edge, and a smear of soft-serve dried to his cheek. You and Wonwoo were sitting side by side on the floor, a blanket spread around your shoulders with your knee spilled onto his lap, attempting to finish up the random movie that he couldn’t even remember playing. When the credits began rolling, it took him a moment to process that the drama flick was even over. Your head was tucked against his shoulder, eyes shut but still twitching against the dull, meek light flooding from the screen.
He placed his hand on your bare thigh, fingers stretching eager over the warm and soft skin to carefully grip it and give you a squeeze.
Then, with his lips feathering at your forehead, he mumbled your name to get you awake. Wonwoo did feel somewhat guilty about stirring you, but he’d rather you have a comfortable sleep on his bed than the living room floor. He continued to rub your thigh nice and slow, watching your eyelids flicker open and squint at him through the dark room. There was a shallow grin that you gave him, full of contentment.
“You’re all fuzzy…” you yawned, proceeding to rub at your eye.
“It’s late,” he answered quietly, almost whispering, “I think I should get you to bed. You’ll be much comfier in my room.”
“Is Vernon asleep?”
“Mmhm.”
Turning back to glance at the couch, you yawned again.
“… Oh… so, we’re going to your room?”
“Yeah… c’mon, I’ll help you up.”
Wonwoo didn’t turn on the light in his bedroom since there was already a small separation in the curtains, allowing just the right amount of moonlight through to outline everything around him in bluish-silver.
You sat down on his bed, letting your fingers travel along the sheets to feel all the slight rumples and divots, only to look up at Wonwoo with a tired smile and sincere, blinking, gorgeous eyes that felt akin to a gut punch. As much as he wanted it—needed it—Wonwoo knew that he couldn’t sleep next to you. He couldn’t trust himself. He couldn’t fathom having you so fucking close in the intimate, cocooning darkness and not being able to squeeze his cold hands along every perfect part of you.
But you weren’t making it easy.
In fact, you were making it excruciatingly hard.
“Are you not going to lie down with me?”
Wonwoo felt the twig snap in his chest. You wouldn’t stop staring up at him through those wispy eyelashes and nibbling on your lip.
“I’ve got the recliner in the living room…” he could hardly choke it out. There was so much heat in his body that he could melt.
“Why sleep there? The bed is big enough.”
His deep voice twisted into a laugh he couldn’t avoid. “Yeah, the bed’s not the issue… uh, it’s fine, though. The recliner’s nice.”
He took a step back, but then you had grabbed his wrist.
“Wonwoo,” you said his name in a tender, breathy, desperate sort of way that sent his heart shattering to his feet, your eyes glistening through the sparse light like two comets, “I don’t want to sleep alone.”
Fuck—it was all he could think—fuck, fuck, fuck.
With your fingers still wrapped to his wrist, Wonwoo pushed his hand gently against the side of your face. He was closer to you now, applying a soft pressure to angle your head up at him. You were breathing thick per every second that passed, holding his eye contact without one fracture, smiling arch. Wonwoo wanted to drink you.
Leaning into his palm, you swallowed and squeaked, “please?”
His thumb was on your chin. Right under your bottom lip.
“Fuck, you can't look at me like that…” Wonwoo rasped in a low, hushed voice that was struggling not to crack.
Truly, he meant it.
Your hand slid further along his wrist, almost tickling him.
“Ple—”
Immediately, Wonwoo pressed his thumb past your bottom lip and onto the ridge of your lower teeth, stifling that dangerous little word before it could hit his ear the wrong way and render him spineless.
“No more, okay?” He murmured, slowly sliding the digit from your warm, damp mouth, feigning obliviousness to your thighs clamping together and the manner in which your fingernails dug at his skin.
There was another moment of intense, humid silence while he wiped the wetness against the edge of your jaw.
“Seriously,” Wonwoo firmed up his voice, “no more.”
When you at last seemed compliant, nodding, Wonwoo let his hand drift from your heated-up face. You stayed in place, quiet as ever, on the edge of his bed, watching him disappear through the doorway.
As he collapsed onto the recliner and pulled the blanket once pooled on the floor over his body, Wonwoo didn’t even bother shutting his eyes or removing his glasses. Instead, he stared up at the popcorn ceiling, letting his heart thump, thump, thump and his mind wander until he naturally couldn’t fight the imminent feeling of sleep.
It certainly didn’t help that you had wandered into his dreams—dreams that he should probably keep to himself, warped fully by desire and longing.
—END OF PART FIVE.
bullfight of love
ੈ✩ choso x reader
ੈ✩ tags: flirting, masturbation, porn watching, vaginal sex, riding, soft sub!choso, 2000s au, coworkers, workplace relationship, film bro stuff
ੈ✩ wc: 4.7k
ੈ✩ a/n: i wanted to write choso being a weirdofreak pervert boy that's all. this is part of my fics for gaza <3 there will be a part two for this. do not ask me about a part two because it's already being made
Maki could kill you for being late again. Five missed texts, the final exaggerated with periods and exclamation points – and she never used proper spelling, let alone punctuation. It wasn't serious the way she made it out to be.
Toji never cared about your track record. The bastard was never in the shop anyway, probably high off his ass in whatever shed of a place he lived in. Maki already hated her cousin enough for the rest of the crew, running that stupid video store like it was a real family business. It was a summer job to you and nothing else.
She sighs when she sees you walk through the door, handing you your name tag without a word before fucking off to the storage room to look at the new shipments.
“Don’t give me the silent treatment!” you yell after her. In response, you only get a middle finger, chipped black nail polish with half a skeleton decal hanging on.
It’s always slow on Mondays. Considering the new cinema that opened across the street, it's slow every day. You should’ve taken a job there, scooping buckets of buttered popcorn instead of telling off porn-stached men who continually mistook the shop as the old adult video store.
You mindlessly watch Reservoir Dogs on the CRTV, shaken by the sudden flood of middle school students paving their way to the used video game section. Fumbling with the remote, you meet a hard-faced Maki once again.
“You can’t put on Tarantino, dude. Kids are in here.”
“It was already on,” you shrug.
Maki rolls her eyes and points to a small stack by the register – some John Hughes VHS tapes. Sixteen Candles. The Breakfast Club. Most shit that both of you hated.
“Gotcha.”
“Can you deal with the new kid, today? Toji didn’t scan all the new shit in like he was supposed to last week.”
“New kid?”
“Uh, yeah. Goth-ish. Like he got spit out of a Hot Topic or something,” she snorts. “No hazing.”
“I should be saying that to you.”
She scoffs at you before rushing back. You’d had a crush on her when you started working there, back when she still had an eyebrow piercing before she let it get infected. She had that Silent Hill look about her for lack of better words. Resting bitch face with a raspy pout.
Your head swims a little, pounding from dehydration. The morning joint didn’t help, either, nor did the fact that you had to train a newbie today.
It’s quiet after the kids leave, snatching up some forbidden R-rated movie that’ll traumatize them during a basement sleepover. You nearly doze off once the clock hits three, but loud footsteps bring you back to life.
A boy that couldn’t be much older than you stares into you, narrowed eyes boring into your soul. You see the dark birthmark across his nose first, as if someone had slashed him with a blade in one straight swoop. He smells like cigarettes and his eyes are decorated with some reddish eyeshadow. Either that or he had the complexion of a sickly Victorian child.
“Hey,” you deadpan. “Can I help you?”
“I’m the new hire,” he says. His voice is low. He reminds you of the goths that would hit on you at high school parties. He's prettier, though.
You give him a once-over quickly – he’s taller than you expect, for some reason, and you notice the blooming swirls of abstract tattoos peeking from beneath his sleeves.
“You don’t sound so sure about that,” you smirk.
He rolls his eyes and introduces himself. Choso. You repeat his name, tasting it on your tongue. He has half a mind to shake your hand but pulls away awkwardly. You take note of the silver rings adorning his fingers.
You tilt your head. “I like your, uh, space buns…”
“Uh, thanks,” he narrows his eyes.
“Okay, so… have you ever used a cash register?”
“Yes.”
“Great. That’s basically half the job.”
You show him the ropes – how to make sales and deal with teens. Cash drops and tracking inventory. You ask him what attracted him to the idea of working at a run-down video store and he says he likes movies and easy money. His brother liked the place, too.
“You got the Human Earthworm series, boss?” he drones, bored.
“Yeah, think so. You like romance-horror or just terrible practical effects?”
He snorts. “My little brother likes it. Wants to have a marathon with me.”
“Cute.”
Hours pass and he’s gotten the hang of it. If anything, there are more customers than usual today, because you suppose that Choso is conspicuous in appearance and the teenage girls that hang around at the food court need something new to play with.
It stirs something uneasy in your gut, the waft of saccharine perfume in the air. Girls with tongue piercings, lollipops staining their lips as they bend over the counter to talk to Choso. Ripe girls.
They probably thought he could buy them alcohol, take them for a joyride. He’d only offer them an aloof, blank stare in return. It makes you almost giddy. By the time night comes around, you tell them to fuck off like flies.
“Closing time.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Choso mock-salutes, an amused smirk on his lips. Half-lidded eyes like a cat, maybe a stoner, though he didn’t smell like it. You saw him on his break anyway, sipping down an Asahi Super Dry in the back as if you weren’t looking.
He already knew his place, knew that you wouldn’t rat him out. It was the way something flickered in his eyes when you caught him. A taunt, a quiet challenge.
You watch him count cash. Chipped black fingernails looked odd on his veiny hands like they were painted in a rush by a child. You notice scrawled pen on his pale skin. Smudged phone numbers.
“Getting hit on already?”
He glances at you and shrugs, hiding a smile. “Half were just from bored teenagers. Other half bored single mothers.”
“Any takers?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
You narrow your eyes.
“Ha. Don’t be jealous.”
“I’m not,” you snort. “As long as we get customers I guess.”
“Oof. You’re cold. You don’t care how I get these people to buy these movies as long as they buy ‘em, huh?”
“You’re not whoring yourself out by being a cashier. Relax.”
He shrugs on his jacket. Crumpled leather, the kind that held the smell of smoke over generations. It made him look like Takuya Kimura in that way, maybe if his hair was down.
He grins when he finds you staring.
“We done for the night, then, boss?”
You roll your eyes at the nickname. “Uh-huh. Night, newbie.”
He smiles sardonically, looking out and noticing the rain. He curses inwardly, knowing that skating home would be a bitch, and the next bus to his side of town wasn’t for another half hour. He clears his throat.
“Leaving already?”
“Yeah. What, don’t have a ride home, kiddo?”
“Fuck off. I’m not a damn kid. I’m just not someone with a car,” Choso mutters dryly. “I work at a movie rental place for a living. I take the bus everywhere.”
“Sucks to suck then,” you smirk, saluting him goodbye. You throw him the keys. “I trust you to lock up then, yeah? See ya.”
He lets out a frustrated scoff but doesn’t bother to convince you, opting to watch you go. Once you’re out of reach, he sighs and turns, shoving his hands into his pockets and looking around the dim store.
Yuuji was probably out with that sea urchin–haired punk again. He had to remind himself to save up for a car instead of constantly having to share their parents’ beat-up Toyota.
He could take advantage of the shitty TV in the office, maybe. Watch a stupid re-run while he waits, because he sure as hell isn’t going to wait out in the rain. He walks in and settles on the black leather couch straight out of an amateur porno. He snorts and looks through a fat stack of DVDs in the corner.
His mouth twists when he picks up something with a racy title. His eyes widen when he realizes it’s an adult film.
“Holy shit,” he mutters, scoffing. He lets out a low whistle, glancing around the office as if someone’s out there, ready to jump him. It’s eerily quiet. He can’t even hear the pitter-patter of rain from in here.
He skims the back cover. It looks crude, but Choso has never really been one to turn down something raunchy. He liked stupid movies, gory ones, art films with weird unsimulated sex. He’d gotten off to In the Realm of the Senses when he was thirteen. Skimming through something this cheap shouldn’t hurt. It wouldn’t arouse him — it would be as entertaining and silly as watching a sitcom for him.
He inserts the disc into the DVD player and waits for it to load. There are no cameras in the office, he notices. Figures. The way you talked about the owner made it seem like the place was barely being held together if not for you.
And then, he thinks of you. He immediately thought you were pretty, not that he’d ever let you know that. Plainer than his usual type, but something was alluring about the curve of your mouth, the way you spoke. He liked that you didn’t take shit most of all. It was probably the hottest thing about you.
He knew better than to fuck around with a coworker, however. It never ended well and resulted in petty drama. He was too old for that shit, wasn’t in high school anymore — he was a man.
When the intro to the film finally loads, a woman in a skimpy, barely-there dress appears on the screen. It’s something vintage, for sure, given the grain. She’s in a love hotel.
Choso fast-forwards through blurs of messy kissing, colored lights illuminating a heart-shaped tub. He pauses on a frame of the girl riding, her mouth wide open in ecstasy. He presses play.
After about ten minutes, he finds himself in a trance watching with rapt attention at the way the actress moves. His cock twitches when he realizes that she looks a little too much like you.
She moans particularly loudly and his mouth parts. Something snaps inside of him.
He has to pause it again. Jesus.
Choso feels like a pervert. No, he’s a man with urges, needs. It’s a pure coincidence that the actress in the porno looks like you of all people. It’s not like he sought her out himself. A movie like this shouldn’t even be in here.
He grits his teeth, hands clenching around the couch leather until his knuckles are white. He takes a breath before pressing play again and his eyes widen when the girl gets even louder.
Ah, fuck it.
He mutters under his breath, shifting on the couch. Glances at the blowjob lips on the screen, soft and plush. He thinks of you and swallows. He bites his cheek, conflicted.
Maybe he shouldn’t.
Then again, no one has to know.
He lets out a shaky exhale, trying to resist the pressure building inside him. It feels like trying to contain a geyser with a cup, and he hasn’t even touched himself yet.
After contemplating for a beat, he sighs and unbuttons the fly of his jeans, using his other hand to press play again. A gasp escapes his lips as he watches the girl on the screen. The curve of her back, the bounce of her tits. She looks soft. He wonders if you’d be as —
No. No. He’s not doing that.
He spits in his hand and strokes himself, his breathing starting to come out in short, uneven pants. There’s a rush of heat in his gut as he watches. His head tilts back slightly, eyes roaming the ceiling before closing them as he attempts to calm himself down. It’s no use.
His breath hitches, eyes glued to the screen. He’s memorized by the slick flowing out of her. Fuck, he hasn’t gotten laid in a long time. It’s killing him.
It’d be okay if he pretended it was you. It’s not like you would find out. He could imagine fucking your face the way the guy was doing right now in the video, making the bitch gag and moan. Whimpering at being called a good girl.
“Oh, god–” he mutters, his voice a strangled gasp. She really did look like you. Disturbingly so. When he’s done, he’ll have to wash his hands for five minutes straight from the shame.
He pants, his grip on himself firm as he squeezes his shaft. Precum smears over his tip and he groans at the sound of the woman’s whimpers getting louder and louder. It makes his lungs seize. He’s getting close.
He doesn’t even register the jingling of the doorknob.
Choso’s head jerks up, his eyes widening in shock as his head turns to see you in the doorway blinking at him.
“Oh.”
His throat’s dry. What a cruel fucking joke from the universe. There’s no coming back from this. Not when the video’s still going and he’s still half dressed, hand on his fly in mortification.
You tilt your head, smirking. “Nice cock.”
Choso’s at a loss for words, staring at you with embarrassment and utter daze. What the fuck?
“I, uh…” he chokes out, his voice rough and more high-pitched than usual. Face burning.
He’s going to get fired. No – he has to quit before you even get another word in, save the little dignity he has, maybe convince Yuuji to move to another shitty town with him so he never has to see you again —
“Forgot my wallet,” you say, snapping him out of his thoughts.
You walk into the room, peering at him. Your eyes fall on the TV, which is still going. The moans feel cheap and tacky now that he’s back in reality.
Choso scrambles to press the stop button on the remote, his other hand moving to put a pillow on top of his leaking dick. His eyes flicker wildly between your face and the screen.
“You find that in here?”
“Uh… yeah… I, um—”
You snort. “Forgot to tell you that this used to be an adult video store.”
“That explains the selection,” he mutters sheepishly.
You eye him carefully. He blushes. “Didn’t finish?” you taunt.
He feels too fucking humiliated to say anything, so he mutely nods instead. He fumbles with the zipper of his jeans underneath the pillow.
“Need some help?”
He gapes at you for a moment before looking away. You look amused as you scan his face. Was he hearing you correctly? Was he dreaming?
“Are you— are you offering?” he gasps out, dumbfounded.
“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve done something like that in here.”
Choso’s jaw drops.
He stares at you for a moment at a loss for words. Curiosity begins to win out over embarrassment.
“With… who?”
“None of your business,” you chuckle.
He doesn’t like that answer. His jaw clenches, knowing that it’s stupid that it hurts his ego a bit for no reason at all. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t press the issue as his gears turn back to your previous offer.
“Then you… uh… want to…? With me?”
“You want to, right?”
He swallows nervously, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. He looks at your body shamelessly for a bit. He’s still so fucking hard. Finally, he nods shyly.
“Okay. Take your clothes off, then.”
For a moment, he wants to protest. This is the last thing he expects from you. Maybe it was a blackmail situation — if he doesn’t let you fuck him, would you fire him?
He realizes that he doesn’t care either way if he gets to fuck you.
He pushes his jeans down with his boxer briefs, shoves the pillow in his lap away with a blush. Slowly, he strips off his t-shirt, leaving him completely exposed. He can feel your gaze on him, raking his chest and arms, the tattoos on his skin. He looks up at you again almost desperately.
“I meant it,” you drawl. “You do have a nice cock.”
“Th-thanks…” he croaks.
“Why so nervous?” you tease. “You were flirting with me all day.”
“Yeah, but–” he mutters, huffing defensively. “I didn’t think you’d actually—”
“Wanna fuck you?” you finish for him.
You say it so bluntly that it catches him off guard. He hadn’t really given it too much thought. You were somewhat receptive to his advances if he could call it that. It was mostly him being himself. His sarcasm was meant to be flirting, but none of it was that serious. He found you hot and interesting. He liked that you could keep up with him.
When he started touching himself with you in mind, everything was thrown out the window. He wanted you, and would probably dream about you when he got home, but the guilt and shame of doing something so depraved in his place of work made him embarrassed. He wouldn’t have been able to face you on his next shift, and then you decided to barge in and ruin everything.
And now, you’re offering yourself to him on a silver platter. It was absurd.
He narrows his eyes. “What’s in it for you?”
“I think you’re hot. Isn’t that enough?”
“You… you actually wanna… uh–”
“Yeah, Choso,” you roll your eyes. “I wanna fuck you.”
He shifts on the couch, eyes roaming hungrily over your body as his breaths grow labored. He swallows a lump in his throat.
“Then… do it,” he mumbles.
You grin, moving to straddle his lap. His hands flex and he has to remember to not appear so eager. This is just a casual hookup with a coworker. One born out of bizarre circumstances, sure, but he needs to play it cool. He grips the edge of the couch.
“Don’t wanna touch me?”
He feels even more meek, if that was possible. He hesitates, throat bobbing as he swallows. He’d had girls in his lap before. Bouncing them on his cock until they cried. For some reason, he feels like the submissive one here just because you’re on top of him.
“Uh,” he stammers. His voice is quiet, nervous. You think it’s cute. “I didn’t know if I was, uh, allowed to—”
“Go ahead.”
He holds back from kissing you. Instead, he smoothes his large hands over your hips, the curve of your waist. He lifts his hands to the edge of your shirt and hooks his fingers into the hem, slowly tugging it upwards. The reveal of skin is tantalizing, makes his mouth water like a man stranded in a desert.
Sparks jolt the length of his spine as his fingers brush over the bare skin of your stomach. Fuck, you’re soft. He knew you would be. He pulls the shirt over your head and ogles stupidly at your chest.
“Someone’s worked up,” you tease, playing with his hair. You undo his buns, leaving his hair down.
“Of course I am,” he mutters, his voice strained. “You’re sitting on my lap, looking like that—”
“Can I kiss you?”
His eyes widen.
“Please,” he breathes. It almost comes out like a desperate whine. “I mean— yeah—”
You raise a brow, laughing. It makes his face heat up down to his neck.
“Begging already? Thought you’d be more of a dominant type.”
You’ve thought about me?
“I— I am,” he grumbles.
“Uh-huh. I’ll let you prove it later.” You lean in.
“Promise?” He looks at you with something eager in his gaze and your eyes soften.
“Mhm.”
Finally, he captures your lips with his. You sigh into it and it makes his cock throb underneath you. He takes that as an invitation, his tongue immediately pushing past the plush of your lips. He reaches up to grab the back of your head and tangles his fingers in your hair as if he’s done it all before. It makes you moan a little in his mouth.
He moans back, pulling you flush against the hard planes of his chest. You pull back slightly, leaving him to chase your lips for a moment as he lets out a small huff of protest. When you look at him, his eyes are half-lidded, lips slightly parted and shiny with spit.
“You’re pretty,” you say without thinking. “Real pretty.”
He flushes, unable to form words. His expression immediately floods with disappointment when you get off his lap to stand.
“Where are you going?” His voice would be whiny if it wasn’t so gruff from desire.
“Relax, idiot.” You unbutton your pants, sliding them down slowly. He assumes you’re teasing him, which he doesn’t particularly mind. You’re a sight to behold. His cock twitches as his eyes look at your smooth thighs.
“Get over here,” he huffs. You laugh, moving to straddle him.
He doesn’t have time to react before you lean in to immediately nip at his neck. He lets out a moan, hips bucking involuntarily. You can feel his pulse quickening, the vibration of his moans underneath your lips.
“Fuck,” he gasps. His fingernails dig into the meat of your waist.
He can’t stay still. It takes him everything in him to not rock his hips up into you. It doesn’t help that he can already feel your wet heat hovering over his cock. His brain nearly short-circuits. He preens under you, grabbing at you like you’re going to fly away.
“Be patient. Wanna play with you first,” you mumble.
Choso’s eyes flutter closed as you speak. You sound so fucking sexy right now, he can’t stand it. It’s better than the stupid filler plot he scrubbed through in that damn porno. Miles better.
“Play with me,” he grits. “Fuck — later.”
“Oh, yeah. Forgot you were pregaming this before I walked in.”
He glares at you. It’s entertaining watching the expression melt off his face when you lift your hips and immediately slam down on him. The moan he lets out is guttural. His hands immediately find your hips.
“Hah – fuck,” you breathe. “You’re bigger than you look.”
Choso lets out a strangled chuckle, head falling back on the couch. It makes him look even hotter, the way his tattoos flex with his collarbone.
“Told you I wasn’t a kid.”
Your laugh tapers off into a moan when he gives a small, tentative roll of his hips. Testing the waters. You’re so fucking tight that it’s making it hard for him to even think. When he hears you gasp at being filled by him completely, his eyes widen.
“Shit,” he gasps. “Wanna make you do that again—”
“H-Huh?”
His eyes lock on your face as he grins, grinding into you slowly.
“That noise–” he groans, his throat taut and dry. “You made this little gasp—”
“Ah–”
“There it is,” he snickers. His eyes gleam. “Just like that.”
Your eyes roll back, mirroring the roll of his cock inside you. Your cunt clenches around him and it feels like fucking heaven. He can feel all your wetness drool into his lap. He had the urge to push you into the leather, cant his hips up like something rabid.
It feels like his brain was going to fall out of his nose, the head rush in tandem with the blood pumping into his cock. Impossible tightness. Snug cunt, petals closing into a bud.
When you wrap your arms around him, it almost feels romantic. It’s dangerous.
He kisses you, then. Quivers when he feels you getting lost in it, tasting nicotine in your swapped spit. He whimpers as you start to move your hips with more intention. You smile wryly at his reaction, pulling away, eyes fixed on where your bodies meet.
You’re a fucking wet dream while you’re riding him. The way your hair brushes messily over your jawline, the way your mouth parts with a gasp every time he feels you pulsate on his cock. Choso grabs your ass greedily and kneads it, mesmerized at the softness of your flesh.
“God, you look so fucking good right now—”
His eyes flash as he watches you move. He tries to match your tempo, rutting up into you with frenzied effort. His cheeks are flushed as he nearly unravels himself for you, his expression raw and hungry. He leans in to suck on your tongue, descending his wet mouth down to your jaw, your tits. Oral fixation.
You can feel him deep in your stomach, buried in you. It’s as if he could pierce you through the throat. You’re sure that you’ll ache everywhere by the time you get home. You’d never taken a cock quite this big, never been this wet, your insides swirling around like a washing machine. Your guts all muddled with something that felt too warm for just lust.
“So fucking hot,” he mumbles, hands pressing into your bare thighs.
All his preoccupations with you had disappeared. He didn’t care if you thought he was a pervert, since you were one too, in a way. Letting him fuck you like this when he barely knew you at all, yet a repressed part of his brain made his heart flutter at the thought of you. It didn’t help that he could practically feel your heartbeat with his cock.
It isn’t romance — it has to be the sex. He can’t think about it too much right now. Not when he’s in a state of delirium inside your cunt.
“Choso, I’m close,” you whine.
“Yeah?” he rasps. “Fuck, me too.”
His hair is tousled and sticky. Eyes glazed, chest rising and falling rapidly.
He grabs at your hips, guiding them to grind on him faster. Your wetness makes it all so smooth — all buttery, no resistance. You feel full.
He feels like he’s being squeezed to death, to heaven. It sends him over the edge at the same time he feels your pussy clench around him. You tremble in waves as you gasp out a moan. It’s more like a choked breath. He can’t stop watching you as you come, the way your eyes roll back.
A whine escapes his throat as he cums. Everything that seeps out is slick, feels like something new and primordial at once. Seraphic, he’d say, if he happened to be drunk. He certainly feels drunk.
Choso doesn’t expect you to kiss him so sweetly after such a vulgar affair. He lets out a long exhale into your mouth with eyes closed, letting his head fall back a little while your hands cup his cheeks. His body is all melted limbs, languid sex.
“Jesus,” he mutters.
“Hey.”
He opens his eyes and gazes at you through sleepy lids. He lifts a hand lazily, brushing the hair away from your face.
“Yeah?”
“Did you pick an actress that looked like me on purpose?”
He freezes. His hands tighten around your waist as he looks away.
“No,” he scoffs. “Just thought she was hot—”
You chuckle.
“I didn’t pick it, I found it,” he gruffs. “I’ll admit that… she looks like you… I guess.”
“Was I as good?”
He scoffs again, his eyes flashing with a mix of playfulness and irritation. You were as much of a little shit as he was.
“You’re better,” he rolls his eyes. “I already told you what I think, dumbass. Real pretty.”
“Oh, did you?”
There’s a hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. “I’d be pretty pissed if you weren’t better than some stupid video—”
“Idiot. Those girls are probably like, Olympians at fucking. Porn isn’t like real sex anyway.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he grins. He pauses for a moment, suddenly looking timid. “It’s just… a decent placeholder for when I… y’know.”
“Just call me next time.”
Choso’s eyes widen slightly, unable to hide his surprise. He sputters for a second.
“What? I’m, uh— not gonna call you every time I—” he groans, “That’ll be way too many times.”
You raise a brow.
“Wait, no— that came out wrong. I’m not some horny freak or something—”
“I mean, given how I found you…”
“That’s—” he stammers, unable to complete a sentence without his brain completely blacking out every millisecond. “That was a one-time thing.”
“Hope so. I don’t wanna fire you, newbie,” you grin.
His pulse quickens at your smile.
“Like hell, you will. You’re too understaffed to fire me.”
triple seven
ੈ✩ megumi fushiguro x reader
ੈ✩ synopsis: megumi thought it was for the best when he ended things with you. boy, was he wrong.
ੈ✩ tags: fwb, pining, teasing, mentions of virginity loss, sub!megumi, bratty and dom!reader, masturbation, vaginal sex, riding
ੈ✩ wc: 3.8k
ੈ✩ a/n: this started out as something completely different and then i lost the plot bc i wanted to see megumi squirm. unedited. oopsie
“Megumi.”
He winces when you wave your hand in front of his face, snapping his attention back to earth. He was staring at your legs and zoned out. Again.
“What’s with you?”
“Sleep-deprived,” he mumbles. He’s not wrong.
Megumi has been having trouble sleeping lately and it’s only partially your fault. Most of it is pent-up energy. Sometimes his usual malaise would wax and wane, other times it would linger and grow into a different beast entirely. He felt like he was constantly on a short fuse lately, and it didn’t help that Gojo was teasing him more and more about you.
Not to mention that the thought of you alone would keep him up. The two of you hadn’t fucked in a month — the last time (to Megumi’s chagrin) he had sex at all. He liked you enough to kiss you and considered you a closer friend than most. Months ago, he wanted to get the whole losing your virginity thing over with, so you volunteered. And it was good.
Fuck, it was great. He couldn’t get you out of his head and he hated it.
He knows it’s something more. He refuses to admit it. After his first time, he’d meditated for days over it — did you pity him? Were you just easy? Did you like him? He wasn’t sure if you had any previous relationships. Something small and shriveled inside of him wanted to disappear, hoping that he was special for getting your attention. You were the first person to take him apart wholly, the first to make him come undone. Willingly.
And you kept coming back. Two months and he was full of you, a parasite that he couldn’t get out of his system.
His gaze fixates on the curve of your bare shoulder. Your collarbone. You’re wearing a tank top and sweatpants and he wants to curse you for it. He feels like he’s fucking sixteen.
“You should get some sleep, then,” you say with concern. “You don’t have to stay, y’know.”
“No!” he says a bit too quickly. “I’m– I’m fine. Just… distracted. Sorry.”
You narrow your eyes, sizing him up. It makes his heart skip.
“Something’s bothering you. What is it?” you tilt your head.
He could spill his feelings into word vomit. He could. But he refuses to. He wouldn’t be able to deal with the consequences. The humiliation. You only slept with him for so long to throw him a bone — it wasn’t like you were into him. He has to keep telling himself this, to talk down the slow-cooking heat in his gut that taunts him. It made him break things off in the first place. He couldn’t take it, was averse to this odd softness that fluttered in his chest every time you smiled at him.
After a particularly intimate night, one that ended with the both of you cuddling — he wasn’t someone who cuddled, for Christ’s sake — he panicked and made a dumb, boyish excuse to break things off. I don’t want anything serious. I don’t want to lead you on. You, being an angel, were very agreeable while Megumi’s heart felt like a fucking dumpster fire. Devastatingly so.
You’re usually sincere. Blunt to a fault, but he likes that about you. He admires the fire in your eyes when you say exactly what you mean, not caring about what others think. He likes how your eyes light up when you argue about anything, even something trivial, because you know you’ll win with your wit alone. He likes —
Fuck. He likes you.
Megumi swallows a lump in his throat and it feels like an oversized pill. One for a reality check. His heart is pounding and his palms are sweating and you’re looking at him very expectantly, waiting. He doesn’t have an answer for you.
Unbeknownst to him, you already have an idea.
“Megs,” you chuckle, punching him lightly on the shoulder.
“Don’t call me that,” he scowls.
He can’t help the uncontrollable blush rising on his face. He’s always hated his paleness for this reason. There are light bruises where there shouldn’t be because he doesn’t usually lose fights, but he was so distracted during his sparring match with you this afternoon that he’d humiliated himself. You pinned him down like it was nothing and he was hard as a rock all the way to the locker rooms.
“What? Megs?”
He feels his irritation rise.
“Yes. It’s annoying.”
You scoff.
“You always do that,” he says, narrowing his eyes.
“Do what?”
“Scoff like that. Like you don’t take anything I say seriously.”
You frown and it makes him feel guilty.
“I never said that. Why are you so moody all of a sudden?”
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. What’s wrong? Are you mad I beat you in training today?”
“No!” he grits. “And that wasn’t – you just caught me off guard!”
“Ha. Okay, asshole.”
Megumi glares at you, left eye twitching. He would always get into petty arguments like this, especially when the two of you were still fucking. It would end with him restraining you — you let him, often taunted him until he did it, because you knew he was a control freak. He hated that he could feel his pants tighten at the memories conjuring in his mind while you sat there, brow raised and challenging him. He wanted to pin you down.
He blinks, deciding to glare at the floor instead. He shouldn’t be thinking about sex while he’s fighting with you. Was he even fighting with you? He was annoyed. Annoyed and frustrated and ready to strangle you if you pushed him further, which he sensed you were about to do just because you could.
“Seriously, what’s up with you?” you pout. “You won’t even look at me.”
“God. Shut up.”
“Thought you liked my mouth wide open,” you taunt.
That one pisses Megumi off. You were always so carefree, so crass, not bothering to care about anything that came out of your mouth whether you meant it or not. Megumi didn’t hate it, exactly, but he found it ironic that it bothered him when he’d grown up so abrasive. All jagged edges, the middle school bully. And yet, he was always quiet and stoic and calculated now. He wouldn’t dare say something so… vulgar.
He clenches his jaw and refuses to look at you. Again, his gaze falls on your bare skin. He wants to mark it up, sink his teeth in you to show you a lesson, but he knows you’d probably like that, the brat you are. Maybe you’d let him just once – you’re goading him anyway, right?
“Are you trying to push my buttons on purpose?” he scoffs. “I’ve had a shitty day and you’re not helping.”
“Then just talk about it.”
“It’s fine,” he huffs. “Doesn’t matter anyway.”
You roll your eyes.
“What?”
“What?” you repeat innocently. He was seeing red and you knew it. It was secretly refreshing to Megumi that you never backed down from him, didn’t care that he would be mean. You could always be meaner.
“Don’t mock me.”
“Jesus. I thought we were studying. Now you’re acting like Nobara when she’s on her period.”
“I just feel… frustrated, okay?” he says. “I don’t know.”
He braces himself for what you’ll say next. Probably roll your eyes again, call him bitch boy.
“Haven’t found anyone else to suck your dick yet?” you mutter.
“Excuse me?”
You stare at him, your gaze descending slowly. It’s only then that Megumi realizes he’s hard.
“Fuck you,” he replies. He doesn’t know what else to say.
“Bet you wanna.”
“No. We’re not. We’re not doing that anymore, remember?” he says bitterly. His body is humming with need, suddenly desperate now that you’ve clocked his arousal, but he won’t let you know.
“Yeah, but you want it,” you snort, rubbing his thigh with your hand. He shivers at the contact and curses under his breath that maybe Itadori or Gojo will demand his presence for no reason so he can get out of your room without trying.
He stares at your fingers drumming a pattern on his pant leg. Long fingers, manicured nicely from your girl trips with Kugisaki. There’s a ring on your middle finger that he won you a month ago from a claw machine. Silver-plated plastic, if he had to guess, but the signet is still shiny. Triple sevens engraved for good luck.
“You still wear that?”
You look down at your hand. “Oh, this? Yeah. It’s probably the only ring I own.”
Megumi takes your hand and examines the way the plastic glistens when the lamp on your bedside table hits it right. He hums, almost satisfied.
“Why?” he blurts out.
You blink at him. “Uh, I don’t know. One of the few gifts I’ve gotten that I can wear, I guess. It’s cute.”
He exhales and nods slowly. He curls your fingers into a fist and sets your hand down.
You cough awkwardly, eyeing his crotch. “You’re, uh—”
“Shut up,” he mumbles.
“I can help. It doesn’t have to mean anything.”
Megumi doesn’t realize how close he’s leaning in. He could bump noses with you if he leans in just a few inches. He could taste your breath if he wanted. He clears his throat, not protesting when your hand grazes his thigh again and moves upward.
“Fine,” he mumbles.
“Really?”
“Yeah,” he breathes.
You scan his face, looking for a sign of hesitation. When you don’t find one, you kneel on the floor, your body in between his legs as you pull down the zipper of his pants. You palm him gently and watch his reaction.
“F-Fuck,” Megumi gasps.
“Sensitive,” you mumble, moving your head to hover against his thick length. He nearly chokes when you descend with your tongue swirling at his tip.
He blinks down at you, eyes wide at the revelation that you’re on your knees for him. He takes a fistful of your hair and tugs gently.
“Wait, wait–”
You pause. “What?”
“Um.”
“You don’t want it?”
“Of course I want it. I just don’t — I don’t wanna use you like this,” he mumbles.
“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. You don’t — you don’t have to. Really. I can deal with it myself.”
You narrow your eyes, pumping him slowly. “Yeah?”
He gasps sharply, his entire body tensing up at the sensation.
“Fuck, don’t — I can take care of it. I’ll just — I can go,” he mutters, his voice strangled. “I don’t need – nngh –”
You let go of him. “Okay.”
He whines as you let him go, his hips suddenly bucking up in an aborted attempt to get you to touch him again.
“No – wait,” he gasps, closing his eyes as he gets himself back under control. “Don’t… don’t do that.”
“You want to take care of it yourself, don’t you?”
He lets out a frustrated huff, the expression on his face almost pained.
“I can’t,” he murmurs, meeting your eyes. He’s desperate, you notice. His green eyes are pleading. He’s never been like this before. “I won’t be able to do it. I’ll just end up thinking about you.”
Your eyes widen. “You still think about me?”
Megumi’s face is struck with panic, realizing his confession. He can’t take it back now, not when his cock is hard and leaking and you’re right in front of him. He gives you a withering look and grips the sheets beneath him.
“Say it.”
He lets out a frustrated sigh and nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I think about you.”
“How often?” you breathe, rubbing his thigh.
“All the time,” he strains, his eyes glued to your face. “Even when I ended things, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I felt fucking crazy. I still do.”
You swallow, leaning back onto your pillows. “I’m here now. You can look at me.”
“I don’t want to just look at you,” he grumbles. “I want — ugh.”
“You want what?”
He grits his teeth, too prideful to beg for your touch, though he knows he’s already too far gone with how much he’s given away. He needs you, aches for your fingers wrapped around his cock, for your mouth. He feels stupid for denying it and he doesn’t know how to convince you to help him without sounding like a desperate idiot.
He mumbles unintelligibly, leaning forward to reach for you, but you take his wrist and gently press it down to the mattress in rejection. His eyes flicker with worry.
“What are you doing?” he exasperates.
“Focus on yourself.”
Megumi blushes. Pink permeates his pale flesh like diluted blood. He must sound so needy, so pathetic when he hasn’t even gauged what you want. You’d offered to take care of him, but he’s still panicking about whether you meant it.
You were always more comfortable about sex, and it’s not like you had a crush on him. You just had more experience. It was why you bothered sleeping with him in the first place, he reminds himself.
“I–”
“Don’t be embarrassed,” you coo, smiling softly. “I can see you’re aching. Keep going. I wanna see you.”
He almost whines as his shoulders tense up at your words. Megumi is walking on a thin tightrope and he isn’t sure if you’re there to reassure him or ready to push him off the edge. Either way, he is aching for it. For anything, for you.
“You’re enjoying this. You’re taunting me.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
He looks at you, huffing out an exasperated breath as he contemplates what to do. He needs to relieve himself, but he wants you to do it. He doesn’t want to give in and start stroking himself despite your encouragement — it makes him feel like a stupid little doll.
“I– I want to touch you,” he mutters.
“Touch yourself first.”
He lets out a noise between a groan and a scoff. His hand wraps around his shaft, but he doesn’t move. He gasps lightly when you grab a fistful of his shirt and pull him, leaving him to pull off the fabric until he’s completely bare.
“You’re just — going to watch?” he chokes out.
“Yeah.”
“You’re crazy.”
“And yet you’re still this fucking hard,” you scoff.
He groans at your words. Your attitude had always turned him on, despite how annoying he found it. He liked you defiant, bratty. This side of you is a completely different realm entirely.
“Stop… staring at me,” he rasps as he slowly strokes himself. “It’s weird.”
“What, is my face distracting you?”
“Yes.”
You roll your eyes and begin to strip. “Fine. Don’t look at my face then.”
His breath catches as your bare skin is revealed with each pull of fabric until you’re completely nude. He’s seen you naked so many times before — he doesn’t know why it feels like the first time right now. He can’t help but watch you intently, mesmerized.
When you smirk, he huffs and averts his eyes. “You’re the fucking worst, you know that?”
He gasps when you lean over his lap and spit on his cock. The drool coming from your lips is such a filthy sight that he could probably come just from seeing it. He shuts his eyes tightly for a second.
“Go on, baby,” you coo.
Megumi lets out a frustrated breath, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he pumps himself.
“Why are you just watching?”
“I wanna see what you look like when you miss me.”
The grin on your face is so fucking sinister that it almost makes him nervous. Mostly it turns him on. He doesn’t even know why he’s complying – it’s not like you’ve fucking tied him up. He could stop this sick little game right now and pin you to the bed and overpower you. Maybe fuck you until you’re red all over and panting. But he can’t find it in himself to do anything other than what you want.
He’s aching and desperate. Why are you punishing him, anyway? Sure, he could be a bit of an asshole, but it’s not like he broke your heart any more than you broke his by fucking existing and looking like that —
Your hand rubs his bare thigh gently and he moans. He moans from the contact like a bitch and you laugh.
“Damn,” you chuckle. “Someone missed me.”
“Shut up,” he mutters. “You know I – fuck – you know I missed you. I wanna touch you instead, fuck –”
“I know, baby,” you coo. Your hand is so close to where he wants it and his brain short-circuits.
“You don’t have to just watch,” he pleads without trying to sound completely pathetic, but it’s hard when he’s rigorously stroking himself, affected by your mere presence. He feels like he’s going to explode.
Your hand slowly inches towards his cock and he involuntarily bucks his hips up. He lets out a strangled groan when he realizes that he’s so, so close. Your touch feels so far away. He feels like he might start crying.
“You’re doing so well, sweetheart,” you praise him.
He bite backs a moan and grits his teeth. His knuckles are bone-white as he squeezes his cock. “I’m not your — ugh — sweetheart —”
“Yeah, you are,” you tease. “You’re my baby, aren’t you?”
He whines as his hand moves even faster on himself. His other hand clenches around the sheets of the bed, grasping at nothing.
“Yeah,” he admits, breathless. “I’m yours – fuck – I’ll be anything you want if you just… let me touch you. Please –”
“You’re doing so well on your own, baby.”
“Fuck, stop talking,” Megumi groans. “I need you. I’m gonna lose my mind if I don’t feel you —”
“I’ll let you kiss me, how about that? But you can’t touch me.”
He whines again hysterically, though he knows there’s no room to argue with you. He leans in. You laugh before you step forward and tower over him. You grab his chin roughly to kiss him. He makes a low, strangled sound as he leans in, aching to touch you but mentally berating himself. He knows you’d swat him away and stop kissing him if he tried anything.
You break away from the kiss but keep a hand around his throat. He whimpers at the loss of your mouth, easing into a gasp when he feels the squeeze of your fingers around his neck. His gaze is longing as he looks up, mouth parted.
“Keep going, baby. You’re close, aren’t you?” you whisper.
“Please,” he gasps, hips bucking up as if expecting friction from anything other than his own hand. He’s never needed anything as much as he’s needed you at this moment. It burns hot in his gut and up to his head, making him lightheaded. “Please let me touch you… wanna feel you…”
“Shh,” you coo, kissing his cheek. “You can come, can’t you? You’re almost there.”
He nods and closes his eyes. “I need–”
“You need me? You want me, yeah? Show me.”
“Fuck, I need you,” Megumi pants. “Want you so bad. I love you. Please, please –”
Your eyes widen at his admission. Megumi is so delirious with want that you almost don’t recognize him – you know that he would usually blush at a confession like that, especially one he didn’t mean. But he still looks at you with dark eyes, silently begging.
You kiss him deeply and he moans. His other hand holds you firmly, snakes into your hair to get a good grasp of you so you can’t move away from his mouth. The hand on his cock moves at a brutal pace, his breaths coming out in ragged grunts. Fuck, he needs you so badly it hurts.
“Don’t cry, baby.”
“I can’t help it,” he says, voice breaking. You’ve never seen him so vulnerable before. His breath is trembling as his body shakes. “I need you, I need you, please…”
You grab his wrists forcefully and sink down onto him. His eyes widen at the feeling of your cunt around him. It’s too good. It feels like a fucking dream, how warm and wet you are, and he knows he’s had you so many times before, but it still feels like the first time. He’s been denying himself this pleasure and now you’ve given him heaven.
“Fuck, fucking love you, love how you feel,” he rambles, barely intelligible for you to understand clearly. You’re clinging to him, bouncing on his cock until his eyes roll back. He doesn’t even realize the tears pricking the corners of his eyes.
“Fuck, I’m gonna come,” you gasp.
“Me too,” Megumi grunts, his hands gripping your hips tightly as he moves you back and forth on his cock. He’s struggling to make coherent sentences, coherent thoughts. He can feel your approaching orgasm and groans when you finally tighten around him.
The sounds you make when you come push him over the edge. He spills inside of you, his head pounding blood from his ears from the dizzying rush that comes. It’s all too much. He lets out a strangled gasp as he digs his fingertips into the skin of your waist as if he’s afraid you’ll fly away.
You slump into his chest, arms around his neck tightly. The air is filled with your mutual heavy breaths, air warm with carnal tension. He doesn’t have the guts to look at your face, but he doesn’t have it in him to let you go.
Megumi lifts his head and exhales into your mouth. You’re so close to him, noses touching, and he has to resist the urge to kiss you. He buries his face into your neck instead, craving the smell of your sweat, of dryer sheet sweetness. Even after such an intense release, he wants more. Wants to trap you in his arms so that you can never leave him again, tape your mouth shut so you don’t argue with him. He doesn’t want to explain himself.
You hum, cheek grazing the outline of his jaw in a cat-like embrace. Megumi closes his eyes.
“You said you loved me.”
He says nothing. His body stills.
“It’s okay if you didn’t mean it,” you whisper.
“What if I did?”
You lift your head to look at him head-on. Your expression is unfathomable. A familiar face that he wants to grasp in his mind, keep forever, though he isn’t sure if you’re about to slip away.
“Then the feeling is mutual,” you mutter.
“Then... then I do mean it.”
Your mouth quirks up, almost into a smile, in between a sneer. “If you’re lying, I’ll kill you.”
“I’m not lying,” Megumi gruffs. “And if I was such a coward that I said otherwise, I’d let you kill me.”
You laugh, then. It’s like flowers blooming, like his heart growing too big for his chest.
“I’ll hold you to that, baby.”
warnings: coarse language, violence, broken bones, fire. superhero au. wc: 1.8k
love triangle au requests
[trio and error] You climb up the arm and past the shoulder of the elemental, then use that momentum to throw a sharp punch into its stone jaw. Under nanotech gloves, your hand smarts with a sharp, pulsing ache — even with the glove’s reinforced knuckles. “Ow, fuck,” you curse, shaking your hand out like that’ll make the pain go away. “I’m thinking ramen.”
Junhui’s mic input crackles in your in-ear. “You’re always thinking ramen. Watch your head—”
You duck out of the way just as the monster swings its giant arm over you. “Look, I’m also open to sushi.” It throws another punch. “Or katsudon.” The huge fist you dodged lodges into the shattered concrete, and you use the moment it’s stuck to jump up to the monster's head again. “Or katsu-curry don.” Looping yourself around the elemental’s neck, you try to topple it to the ground with no such luck. “Or oyakodon— shit.” It flings you off. You hit the ground and skid across the concrete enough for your nanotech suit to start to burn hot. “Ough. Or soba.”
“Are you okay?” Junhui asks, unconvinced by your nonchalance. You’re sure his eyes are on every one of his monitors, from the ones showing the fight through drone cameras to the one displaying your vitals via your supersuit.
“Peachy,” you grunt at him as you stand up and glare down the monster. You hate the tough, stubborn ones. “How do you feel about gyoza?”
“You’re literally only naming Japanese food.”
“Well I don’t hear you coming up with anything.”
Junhui scoffs. “Because I know we’re just gonna get what you want anyway.”
“The hell is that supposed to mean?”
“I’m just saying we— left, left!”
You whip your head around, and your eyes widen as a giant stone fist hurtles your way. “Oh, shit.”
A flash of orange fire, three claws of it, fills your vision as your partner pounces on the monster’s arm in a burst of flame. He knocks its attack off course just enough for you to tumble out of the way. Luckily for you, Junhui designed your suit to be just as fireproof as your partner’s, considering how often you’re scary close to Tigerstar’s attacks. It’s still hot as hell, though.
“Nice save,” you tell him, out of breath.
Soonyoung launches himself at the monster again, swiping a fiery claw at its face. It hardly reacts. “Have you guys forgotten we’re fighting a level four terra right now? Stop flirting over comms.”
You try to kick the terra’s chest to knock it backward, but it barely stumbles. “We are not flirti—”
Junhui’s voice overlaps with yours. “As if I’d flirt with them.”
“Wait.” You hold your hand over your in-ear so you can hear him clearly. “What’s that supposed to mean.”
“Nothing, nothing.”
“I’ll have you know that plenty of fans would kill to flirt with me.”
“Good thing I’m not one of your fans.”
You gasp. “Wen Junhui!”
“Guys,” Soonyoung scolds you through the comm. He leaps backward to dodge another punch from the terra. “I’m absolutely begging you to focus. If I had the time to get on my knees, I would.”
You roll your eyes. Neither of your partners can see it, but you know they can hear the indignant drawl in your voice. “It’s not like we’re gonna kill this thing.” In fact, both your powers and Soonyoung’s are practically useless against a stone terra. You’re supernaturally strong, but you’re not punching through entire boulders strong, and Soonyoung’s flaming claws aren’t nearly hot enough to melt rock. Both of you are way more adept at taking down fleshies. “We’re just holding it off until team Zamboni gets here. Speaking of—”
“Where the hell are those guys?” Soonyoung asks as he catches the terra’s attention so it doesn’t head toward the more populous area of the city.
“Yeah.” You eye the monster’s leg, assessing if you could topple it over somehow. “What’s the hold up?”
Junhui doesn’t answer right away, but you can hear the clacking — sorry, thocking — of his fancy keyboard. “Traffic.”
“Traffic?” you and Soonyoung echo in sync. A sputtering scoff escapes your lips. “Since when do supers get tripped up by traffic?”
Chuckling, Junhui says, “I mean, it’s the Zambonis we're talking about here. When have they ever been on time for anything?”
You make eye contact with Soonyoung by your side and nod towards the gap between the terra’s legs, indicating your plan without the need for words. There’s a reason you and him have been partners for however many years despite the lack of commonality between your superpowers. It just works with the two of you. And with Junhui as your man in the van— you’re a great team. Unnecessary conversations over comms aside.
“Seungkwan was a little early for my birthday thing last year,” you say in team Zamboni’s defense as you rush towards the terra and it charges at you.
“Yeah.” Junhui scoffs. “Because he had a big fat crush on you back then.”
Synchronized again, even in incredulity, you and Soonyoung both go, “He did?!”
The news doesn’t stop you in your trajectory, but Soonyoung falters, and where he was supposed to distract the monster while you went for its leg to knock it off balance, he just stands there. You wrap your arms around one of the terra’s legs. It starts to lean forward, about to fall on its face, but without Soonyoung to steal its attention, the monster swivels its stone torso 180 degrees. Now looking right at you with glowing, yellow, soulless eyes, it launches both stone hands at you.
“Fuck!” You try to break out of the terra’s grip as it lifts you above its head, but your arms are pinned to your sides.
Junhui yells your name through the comms. You think you hear Soonyoung screaming, too.
Around four things crunch at once, and yeah, passing out doesn’t seem so bad right about now.
—
When you come to, you see the same familiar ceiling you always do when shit goes south. There’s an Uncle Sam wants YOU poster taped to the otherwise bare white surface, except the rest of the words are painted over with, to stop being an idiot super. Jeonghan put that up after he warned you about coming in with one more “stupidity-induced injury”.
You’ve woken up to that poster more than a few times since he taped it up there.
Groggily, you turn your head to your left, and like clockwork, Jeonghan grins down at you over the edge of his tablet.
“I get it,” you groan, squinting because of the fluorescent medbay lights.
Jeonghan lets out a breath of a laugh and speaks quietly. “I haven’t even said anything yet.”
“Still.” Your head lolls to the other side, and you see the top of Junhui’s head resting next to your leg. He’s asleep in a chair, bent over your raised cot with one arm pillowing his head, and his opposite hand under your right one. Though his fingers have fallen slack in his unconscious state, you can tell he was cradling your hand gently. You lift your sore arm and pat Junhui’s head, rubbing your thumb back and forth. He hasn’t washed his hair in at least a day, you think with a quite laugh. “I get it,” you mumble, turning back to Jeonghan without removing your hand from Junhui’s head.
“I’m sure you do,” Jeonghan says. He barely acknowledges Junhui’s presence, used to him being in the medbay whenever you come in hurt. “You broke almost fifteen percent of your bones.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad.”
“Because half of your bones are in your hands and feet, super, and you just happened to be lucky in those areas.” Jeonghan types something into his tablet, then looks up at you again. “Just because you heal faster than the average human doesn’t mean thirty bones is something to sneeze at.”
“Of course, doc.” You smile at him. “I’ll be sure to let the next killer monster know you said that. Maybe they’ll go easy on me.”
He just grins right back. “Tell them I want a vacation, too. Preferably in May.”
You laugh together, both of you keeping it low so you don’t wake Junhui.
“Where’s Soonyoung?” you ask later, while Jeonghan checks your IV drip.
“He’s in I&R.”
“Info and research?” Confused, you frown. “Why?”
Jeonghan shakes his head, almost like he can’t believe the reason himself. “You should see the videos, super. Soonyoung went ballistic when the terra dropped you — you looked dead, by the way. I’m serious when I say you need to be more careful.”
“I mean.” You shrug. “I felt dead.”
Jeonghan frowns at you for once, and even though you can always tell, it does feel nice to see plainly that he cares if you make it out of these fights dead or alive. “That’s not funny,” he says.
You roll your eyes. “Anyway, you said Soonyoung went ballistic? What does that have to do with the I&R team?”
“His fire turned blue,” Jeonghan answers, a glint of excitement in his eye. Even though he’s (mostly) a normal doctor, he’s always been fascinated by superpowers.
Your eyes widen. “Blue?”
“Yeah. So they’re running a ton of tests on him since that’s never happened before. Right?” He waits for you to nod before he continues. “Mingyu thinks it has to do with his power’s connection to rage, and Wonwoo was saying something about heart rate. They don’t really know, though. Whatever it is, I’m sure all Soonyoung wants to do is get out of there.”
You tilt your head. “Why? That sounds so cool.”
“Well, he hasn’t been able to check on you yet.”
“Oh.” You try not to read into it — any of it — as you keep absentmindedly caressing the top of Junhui’s head.
As if on cue, though, you hear frantic footsteps coming down the hallway. Soonyoung barges through the medbay doors with about as much decorum as an angry grizzly bear. Panting, he turns toward your bed and jogs toward you.
Jeonghan slides out of his way with practised ease just before Soonyoung barrels into you.
“Oof,” you say when he wraps both his arms around you. “Easy, tiger. I’m trying to heal fifteen percent of my bones.”
Stirred from his sleep, Junhui sits up and rubs his eyes with one hand while shoving Soonyoung with the other. “Get off them, hothead.”
Soonyoung stands up straight, but he takes your hand and pouts at you. “Junhui’s being mean to me.”
You don’t know when it happened, but Junhui’s holding your other hand. He’s not looking at you when he says to Soonyoung, “Your partner’s on a hospital bed.”
“That’s not my fault!”
“I never said—”
“Guys,” you interrupt, squeezing both of their hands to grab their attention. They both turn to face you, and you can’t help but smile. “How do you feel about ramen?”
minted: two (explicit) | myg
title: minted: two (explicit) pairing: street king!yoongi x street vendor!reader series: one | masterlist rating/genre: m (18+) ; angst , action ; haegeum au , gang au summary: after a whirlwind of a detour, you have second and third thoughts about the guy you saved. who even is this man? and what the hell is in that bag? note: holy shit, y’all. thank you so much for the love on this series already! it’s been a minute since we started a new series here, so nerves were firing on all cylinders. but you all showed out and gave me enormous relief and motivation to keep going, so thank you! note 2: as always, this is dedicated to hali @sailoryooons for ur belated bday, nary @joonary for being a cutie pie and letting me adopt the tangerine cart girl idea in general, and luce @minttangerines for ur url and for being a wonderful friend. love you all! warnings: language, violence, weapons (guns), blood/wounds mentions, drugs, alcohol, trauma/pstd, poor reader :(((, but also YES READER???, tension to the max, inner turmoil, mint!yoongi, haegeum!yoongi, tatted!yoongi, his eyebrow is pierced, yoongi visuals in this one areeee… a ha ha, did i mention tension?, tense situations, crass af yoongi lol, reader is also a baddie but who is shocked, slow burnnnn drop date: september 30th, 2024, 9:03pm est word count: 9.8k help me @ god
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There’s something to be said about the human gut.
Not for being the source of multiple health aspects, nor the way it’s connected to the brain.
But, other than when violence tears it to shreds, it can be quite the defense mechanism. Just like yours churns and churns with each mechanical click of the elevator shaft.
Who is this person next to you?
Who exactly did you decide to follow upstairs hours ago, killing your daily life to save and join on the run?
You don’t know if you release your hand or if Yoongi lets it fall, but you take this unlinking to create space. As you slide your gaze toward your companion, he merely shifts his weight and finds interest in increasing, beeping numbers.
How can someone’s profile be so troublingly handsome? You’d be able to think more clearly if he wasn’t both attractive and dangerous. Or if you simply weren’t on the verge of collapse.
Frankly, if you didn’t just murder a man you’d pass out as soon as you took too long to blink.
To keep yourself alert—and to hopefully gather some much needed intel—you suddenly question aloud, “Where are we?”
No answer.
Alright.
“That driver called you Agust,” you recap on a second go. “What was that about?”
All Yoongi does is stare at his reflection in opulent, dim mirrored walls. Or whatever else he’s doing besides talking.
Okay. Well.
You can face forward, too.
“Those guys after us,” you try a third time, because who are you to give up now even if he radiates annoyance. “They didn’t look like Crane.”
“Doesn’t mean they weren’t.”
Your neck almost snaps when you turn. “Are you kidding me?”
As you watch Yoongi scorn the ceiling again, you can’t believe he doesn’t agree.
Mm. Does he?
From the flex of his jaw, you have to assume you’re right to some degree. Because it looks like he’s very, very bothered by the people that chased you down.
If those weren’t any of the high-powers but had equal resources and numbers…
What the hell were they? Where did they even come from?
Geez, it’s freezing. Is a drop in temperature the best barrier to you making sense of things? You can’t even appreciate the way Yoongi’s veins protrude with every adjustment he makes to that mysterious duffle bag.
Lies. You absolutely can. But there’s no way in hell you’re ever complimenting that. Or anything about him anymore because he clearly doesn’t want anything to do with you!
Why did he even hold your hand? Was that just a ploy, too?
But that taxi drive…
Yoongi looks down before lightly scuffing his shoe, and both of you fall silent as you finally give up with a huff.
Massively dehydrated. Sore. Still covered in a myriad of unmentionables and now being ignored by the guy you saved.
All you wanna do is go home, and you don’t even know where that is.
How far did you travel? What district is this? You’ve never heard of a grey zone, but they seem fairly peaceful even at night. Neutral enough for you to consider relocating even if it meant sleeping on the street.
That brings up another question. “If we’re in a grey zone, how did you know—”
A ding interrupts your last thought, and you look to see where you ended up.
But the elevator doesn’t say a number. Only letters? What kinda floor did you stop on?
One thing’s for sure, though. Whatever room you end up getting, if there’s only one bed you’re hogging it or taking the…
Floor…
There are many things that have shocked you in your lifetime. Many things just from today that had your head positively and forever reeling.
But when the elevator doors slide open, you can’t even fathom what the fuck you’re dealing with.
And in this second, more than ever, you understand how ludicrously out of your element you really are.
“Holy shit,” you blurt, barely hearing the huff at your side.
Don’t elevators usually open up to hallways? Why are you walking into an entire living space? Is this a real place people choose to sleep in for a night? A whole floor?
Forget a whole floor, it’s a whole other place.
You slowly survey everything, wondering how much this has to be because you have never seen a living space so big. Or pretty. Or anything like this.
The ceilings vault and the furniture looks nothing like you’ve ever seen. Everything looks pristine. Clean. Is that a whole kitchen?
How are there living arrangements this big? This one place is bigger than your entire apartment level back home.
And here you are: speechless, virtually homeless, and dragging your filth onto white marble floors.
Perfect.
“What.”
You turn at the scrape of Yoongi’s voice, wondering why now is when he finally chooses to acknowledge you. Head pounding, you ask outright, “Who… Who even are you? What is this place?”
He levels your stare before walking towards a long couch, dumping the duffle and raking his hair back in minted waves. “There’s a shower in every bedroom. Take your pick.”
…Is that really his only response?
“That’s not what I asked,” you fire back, wondering what the hell his problem is so you can add more out of spite.
“But it’s what you need.”
“Say what now?”
The fucking nerve? Even though you obviously, desperately need one, hearing him mention it makes you wanna re-use the chopsticks in your pocket.
But Yoongi simply waves you off, grabbing a remote and flicking on a television so wide you would struggle to reach both ends.
This is all too much.
“You know what I need? To go home,” you huff out, leaving fire in your determined trek to the elevator. “Have a nice life, Yoongi. Or Agust. Whoever the fuck you are.”
You get to the door and run into a dirt-slicked forearm. “The fuck are you doing?”
“Shouldn’t be that hard to figure out.”
“You serious?”
“Yes, I am. So move.”
Yoongi pauses, jaw working overtime before he steps aside—wait he’s gonna let you go that easily?
…Oh.
That was certainly not what you expected, but what else would you even think? This isn’t one of those stories that ends perfectly after trials and tribulations. Yoongi has proven more than once—in mere hours—that he’s no regular civilian.
But despite that, you blink before freezing at a terrible realization.
No matter how you slice it, you’re much better off with him right now than you are by yourself. Even if he is a secretive criminal with a smoking gun.
He did keep you alive that whole chase.
But there’s the smallest, tiniest chance that you aren’t quite safe with him, either. You don’t even know who this man is anymore—maybe you never did.
So in a quick decision, you skim his side to slap the elevator button, chucking daggers at his brows until he leaves you to wait alone.
Good. You don’t need this. You can find your way back to your city block somehow and live the life you’ve chosen to lead again.
Yes. You can do all of that by yourself. The chase is done.
And so is your story with the man that will never buy your tangerines again.
Grabbing your sleeve, a second fact stings your fingers. A jacket woven in Dragon teal.
Shit. You need to ditch this, too. Either right now, or before you get the hell out of this grey zone because if you don’t, this is the biggest target you could ever have on your back.
No good. No good no good you didn’t plan any of this well at all. Fucking pride blinding you to everything else logical. Is this how your story ends? Because of regret and resistance?
You wait for the sliding doors, about to leave the biggest room you’ll ever see to occupy a box. How poetic.
Your heart pounds as you close your eyes. Yoongi just cut you loose; it’s obvious he doesn’t care so why should you? No going back now. You’ll figure it out. The doors are finally opening.
And someone’s inside?
Wait.
Your brain both whirrs and skids to a halt at the sight of the staff member occupying the elevator. When they give you a look, you find your hand drifting towards your back pocket.
Fucking hell, relax. You should be safe with a staff member, right? They wouldn’t be out to kill you. This is just your adrenaline on its haunches.
However, one foot in the elevator and your senses go haywire.
Because you can’t do this alone. You aren’t nearly as prepared to brave this foreign space as you need to be. With red in your hands and Dragon on your back? Absolutely not.
You bow to the hotel staff before you face forward into the expanse.
And as the doors start to close, you see Yoongi’s stare over his shoulder, storming with emotions you can’t name.
Yeah, you fucked up.
Fuck.
Fuck you actually made a big mistake go back don’t let the elevator close shit—
As you lunge for the door, you get your arm through to block it from closing, turning to the employee inside and seeing their expression change.
What was that about?
“Sorry,” you blurt to their pressed and polished grey uniform. “I forgot something inside.”
“I can wait, Miss,” they immediately offer, to which you politely and cautiously decline.
“No need.” When you step out of the elevator, something happens that you think about hours and hours later. “I’ll come down when I’m ready, thank you.”
You can suddenly breathe again. Why was it so stuffy in there?
The worker bows stiff. “As you wish.”
Without pause, you nod, waiting until the doors close to face someone turned away.
Ugh. It’s like Yoongi knew you weren’t gonna leave. Either that, or he really didn’t give a crap about what you did at all.
Either way, fuck this guy and fuck your indecisive ass!
In full aggravation, you march through the entrance before grating out, “You’re lucky I—”
“Shower.”
“What?”
“The blood,” he calmly breathes. “If you’re gonna hit the streets, wash it out.”
“It isn’t mine.”
“I know.”
Your mouth snaps shut.
Fuck. Yoongi’s right.
“Okay. Well,” you scoff, “Good point but how can I trust you to not do anything.”
When he tilts his head with a bored, unamused, borderline ticked off expression, you almost scoff before he drawls,
“Not interested.”
Oh. He’s…
Oh.
But the taxi and the hand-holding and the the the kiss what the hell? Was your liplock not up to this Dragon’s standards? Why are you questioning something so trivial?
The nerve. You plunge your shoulders in exasperation, hating how you chose to put yourself in another situation with this pain in the ass and he isn’t even… “I swear to—You know what? Good. Not interested, either.”
A lie.
Scrambling, your stomach speaks the next sentence for you, “But there better be food when I come out cus you robbed me of lunch today. So do something about that.”
Fucking hell you do not need his lips to quirk up so deliciously. That one look completely offsets what he just said and annoyingly tickles your core.
Stop. Focus. You cannot entertain any of those thoughts so ignore him and find a bedroom.
Opening the first door you can see, you continue your tirade, “And no more stealing my chopsticks.”
“Closet.”
Of course it’s a closet! Shutting it with force, you let out a high curse. “Who needs a closet here? Whatever, just—figure it out, I’m starving.”
“Yes, princess.”
You flick Yoongi off as you blaze down the hall, not even knowing nor caring if he sees or not.
The next door works, and you shut him out before falling back onto its weight, so fraught with emotion that you can’t even register the appearance of the room.
Today has aged you multiple years. So much has transpired ever since this afternoon that you can’t even think in straight nor curved lines. As soon as you remember something, another thought juts between. Why are you simultaneously thinking about dingy, stained floors while agonizing over Yoongi’s lips? Is there a place other than hell or heaven you can settle on?
As soon as you’re physically and mentally patched, you are out of here.
The plan is simple. Shower, eat, give this man a piece of your manic mind, then go home.
Although… It would be nice to at least know what’s in that duffle. If it’s something worth taking you could finesse a piece of the loot.
Swallowing dry, you push yourself off the door and finally notice a flood of ambient light.
At your side, you come across an expansive bathroom, eyeing the wall-to-wall entrance before taking in the center shower with disdain and awe.
The whole setup is lavish.
Does the water just fall straight from the ceiling and into that large square tub? This looks nothing like your cramped, chipped one back home. There’s even lush plants lining the area and towels already folded nearby for use.
Maybe you did get killed on the run and you’re in some type of dreamworld.
Too bad you aren’t alone.
As you drag tired feet onto heated tile, you search for the shower knobs, realizing you have a whole panel to work with instead.
Uhh.
What.
You quickly find that one button blows water like a hose straight from the top, scaring you so bad you jump. When you hastily try another, something whirrs in the floor that has your brows kissing—
“You good?”
Fuck!
You flinch and hit the wall, groaning when you see Yoongi lazily resting against one side of the bathroom entrance. Both of your voices echo in the extravagant interior.
“You ever knock?”
“No.”
“Shocker.”
He walks up the tiny steps, and you’re more than relieved you’re still wearing his jacket. When he gets closer, you turn and face the panel, “I can figure it out.”
“Move.”
You get slightly displaced as he gets close, resting a hand on the wall while bending to operate the buttons. As you inhale his musk, you respond to his second question instead of his first. “What?”
“Is this fine,” he repeats, checking the settings before turning to the shower area.
Oh. Wow. It’s a lot more than fine.
A circle of rain falls into a beautifully lighted tub, steam wafting through the glow and coating your skin.
You’re so entranced that you are quite literally left speechless. Skirting around your present company, you gaze up, down, silently observing the plants sway with the shower air.
Strangely, this whole bathroom makes everything you’ve seen today believable because of the sheer wonder of it all. It’s almost enough to make you forget what you’ve done.
Almost.
When you pause, you see Yoongi watching your face from beyond the rainfall. And he looks so handsome, even now, not doing a thing.
Is it because he’s clearly roughed up but still so poised? Very unlike you in your banged up, dirty state?
Huffing, you fold your arms a little too harshly—out of jealousy or whatever else, who is to say. “I’m good now,” you proclaim, keeping your walls high. “I can do the rest myself.”
Again with that little slant.
Ignore him ignore him. If Yoongi keeps doing that, you’re really gonna have to brave the outside world instead of dying by smirk. A tub has never been so interesting in your life.
“Suit yourself.”
You look up again.
But he’s already left you alone.
Solely to undress and contemplate what the hell he implied by that.
Why did you walk left today instead of right?
Under scorching rain in the middle of luxury, this is the question you repeat in your head. Watching all the burnt streams of your decision swirl, and swirl, and swirl.
The blood will never wash out.
Does the price of saving a life have to be this high? It must be somewhat divine, being that in order to save, you took. If only there was another way to achieve that end goal. Though there’s no way to do it all over again to be sure.
Staring at four chopsticks on the ground, you try to assure yourself. You need to.
Because at least you succeeded.
But will your price be more damning because of the one you saved?
Rushing water mutes your hearing as it pours onto sore limbs. When you reach for the scrub for a third time, you make sure to really dig, scraping at every. Single. Inch. In a last attempt to cleanse yourself completely.
Knowing that even after the water runs clear, you still see nothing but red.
You chose left today.
If you had chosen right…
Doesn’t matter.
Your palm tingles.
Blood never really washes out.
Holy fuck, you don’t have clothes to change into.
Wrapping yourself in plush material, you hastily pad around freezing floors as you think of a plan.
You can’t just ask for them. How would Yoongi even have any for you? The jacket was more than enough borrowing for today and you’re in a hotel room, not his place.
Thank the universe.
But the matter is pretty urgent. Because you’d rather burn your belongings before putting them on again. Which leaves zero clothing and a thousand issues. Fuck.
Dragging feet to the massive sliding doors, you steel your resolve. Hoist your shields back upright.
Because there’s no choice. You’re just gonna have to dread another conversation with this man. An embarrassing, awkward, unprecedented shit why is he in the bedroom!
You flinch backward as you slam the door closed. Peeking out, you gawk, “What the hell are you—?”
Did Yoongi just pocket a phone?
The duffle rests at his feet.
Wait. Did he stay in here while you showered? Thank god you had the foresight to slide all the doors shut because you definitely spent a lot of your time scrubbing like mad or standing completely still.
No. Yoongi’s hair is wet, so he did shower at some point. And he’s donning a robe, which is precisely what made you slam the door shut.
How can he look like royalty wearing that? The material is quite lush and silken, but still plain. It makes no fucking sense and you wanna rip it right off—
Gathering yourself, you rush out, “Why are you in here?”
“You took too long.”
“So? That doesn’t—”
“In my shower.”
Wait. What? “Oh.”
You slide the door open a little more to check his claim. And now that you finally see the room, you can tell it’s clearly been used already, clothes and bottles scattered about. “You said pick one.”
“I did.” Yoongi turns to drop something onto a dark comforter. “Figured you picked it on purpose.”
“No, I… I didn’t notice the room.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he says after a brief look your way. “Not sharing the bed, though.”
“No need,” you snip. “I’m leaving soon.”
Motherfucker. Yoongi only regards his sheets with a smile that triggers your fight response. And you almost—almost—drop the towel.
Speaking of. How are you even standing in his vicinity with only a single piece of cloth? Are you seriously that exhausted you didn’t even think twice about it?
Suddenly very, very aware of yourself, you squeak, “Umm.” He waits. “I don’t have any clothes.”
“That’s what you get for kicking me out so quick.”
Your jaw hits the floor. “So what, I’m walking around with a towel? Are you out of your mind? If you think I’m some—”
“Fuck, relax,” he slowly groans to the ceiling. “I was gonna say there’s robes in the closet.”
You snap your mouth closed so hard it jangles. “Then just say that!” And you slam the partition closed before fast walking to find them.
Missing the way Yoongi huffs before staring hard at his bedroom door.
On your second arrival into his room, your steps and demeanor are a lot calmer.
Is it because he’s a lot calmer, too? Maybe. Is it also because you smell food, realizing he did exactly what you wanted? Maybe more so.
Noticing a table situated near balcony doors, you blink before regarding Yoongi’s sitting form on one of the chairs outside.
A man lounging while smoking in a robe should not be this alluring. And yet, that’s the only word you can think of to describe him.
Throat drying and aching, you slowly walk over and take a seat, already ravenous enough to dive into broth head first. But you eye Yoongi while retrieving new chopsticks, scowling when all he does is flash teeth through the glass.
Do not engage do not engage do not engage.
Pretending not to care and severely failing, you focus on your—
“You’re really mad about that, huh.”
You snap your head up to see him leaning on the doorway. “I was hungry.”
“There was a cup of them on your table.”
“So why didn’t you grab those instead!”
Yoongi ticks his brows before peering into the night. And he stays like that for awhile, letting a breeze lift his damp locks. “Didn’t expect to see you there,” he admits. “Gotta say you threw me off.”
Nu uh. No more heart skips for today. “I didn’t expect to see you, either,” you too choose to be honest. “Thought I’d never see you again.”
“You were going to.”
As curious brows furrow, you break your utensils apart. “Figured something happened.” Guess you’re being honest about a lot of things. “Or you found another tangerine girl.”
Yoongi holds his look before taking a drag, smoke spiraling around his words, “Why were you even over there? You’re a bit far from Crane.”
You blink at his deflection.
What was that about? What is that look for?
Holding his gaze because you aren’t done challenging him, you calmly answer, “I was shopping.”
“Shopping.”
“Mmhmm.”
Falling silent, he observes a little longer before flicking ash off his cigarette.
And just like that, the conversation dies.
It’s for the best anyways. If Yoongi kept prying, he was gonna get closer to the truth. And you wanna slip around that as much as possible.
But he keeps standing in the doorway, inked arm bending as he breathes in smoke. Donned in a dark robe and topped in teal, he suits Dragon perfectly. Way too perfectly.
Pretending not to care and severely failing, you focus on your noodles instead.
Your noodles.
Your noodles.
You’re not hungry anymore.
Something horrid jams up your throat, and you run through your day in flashes. The restaurant. The food. Dragons. The chopsticks. The kill. The chase. Yoongi. The kill the kill the kill.
Dirt and shouts and lifeless lips clog your hearing, and your grip loosens completely as your vision shakes and shakes why couldn’t Yoongi have gotten anything else why does it have to be—
A hand.
A robed arm.
Your new utensils come back into view.
But when you face reality, you don’t see them put them back into your hand. You don’t even see them dug in your noodles and left there.
Instead, you watch as Yoongi plants one palm on the table, slowly lifting strands from the bowl and staring right into your eyes,
“Eat.”
Words. Get them out. Something something communication. Key is communication. What the fuck is happening to your brain?
“I can’t,” you finally croak out. “I’m not.. I’m not hungry.”
“You are.”
“Not anymore.”
Nose scrunching, Yoongi suddenly drops the food and dumps himself on the chair nearest, stretching his leg and revealing a littering of scars. “Didn’t know you were fine with wasting food.”
The icy descent of his tone freezes your bones.
“Thought you of all people would hate that.”
“I—I’m not—It’s not that—”
“Then eat.”
“I literally can’t—”
“Water. Food. If you’re gonna waste all my shit, then leave.”
“What?”
Is he serious? You’re in the midst of post-traumatic shock and he can’t take the hint? You’re so appalled by this man that you can’t even think straight.
“You heard me. Stop acting like you didn’t.”
“Oh, I heard you,” you snap. “Just double-checking what the fuck you said.”
“So you gonna leave or just sit there? If you’re staying I’ll just walk out the roo—”
“Don’t.”
Both of you still at your words.
And you have to force your palms to unfurl on your quivering thighs. One knuckle. Another. Nails leave half-moons in your skin.
Breath haphazard, you finally break. “Just,” you swallow, hard. “I’m not wasting it just give me a sec.”
You don’t want to tell Yoongi why you want him to stay. Despite him being the most infuriating person you’ve ever met, it beats the alternative. And you don’t want the alternative. Truthfully, that’s another reason why you left the elevator earlier.
Yoongi looks pissed as hell.
But he hasn’t moved.
And that’s enough to get you to pick up your chopsticks and try again.
You stare. Stare. Stare. Mustering courage and inhaling all the aromas you indulged in just earlier today.
Fuck, you wanna hurl.
“You’re gonna have to get used to this.”
Your gaze snaps to his, brows and thoughts knitted in disbelief. “What?”
“This feeling.” Yoongi looks out the glass doors, hands resting on the arms of his chair. “The faster you do, the better.”
There’s no way he’s serious. Get used to it? What reason would you ever have for doing that? Caustic, you scoff, “Why, so I don’t waste more of your food?”
You’ve never seen someone laugh in a negative way. But he does before sliding his eyes over. “So when you have to do it again, you don’t lock the fuck up hours later.”
You shoot up from your chair, hellbent on oh fuck you stood up too fast. “You—”
Yoongi just watches as you grab the table for balance, wincing from the pangs in your head. Words grind through your teeth, unable to fully form beyond the light assaulting your brain.
“Like I said.”
Palms press against your forehead before you slump back into your chair.
“It’s better in the long run.”
Technically, he’s right. It’s better in the long run if you get used to this.
But there’s no way you can do it again. Who does he think you are? Yoongi’s got to know that you aren’t planning on making this a daily habit. This isn’t you. You only killed to protect somebody. Killed to save the person telling you to basically get over it.
Fucking hell, this sucks.
Frustration and exhaustion sting the corners of your eyes.
Eat. Build your strength and get the hell out of here. Deal with it deal with it deal with it.
As you regrettably pick up your chopsticks, you don’t care if your tears season your noodles. And quite frankly, you don’t give a shit if Yoongi watches them fall, too.
Because they’re liquid anger. Hot trails blazing down your face, hardening into sticky paths and dried rivers.
“What were you looking for.”
Your eyes slide up to regard him, his arms folded and brows low. Because of course he doesn’t care about your state, either. Of course he’d rather entertain his curiosity. “Nothing you need to know,” you mutter, banning him from knowing another truth.
“Did you find it.”
You swipe at both your eyes.
As spice coats your tongue, Yoongi keeps prying, “Something you needed to go all the way there for?”
“Fuck off,” you dismiss, slurping and swallowing with ease. “I don’t have to answer you.”
“You already are,” he responds, confident. “Now tell me. Is there one in particular you need?”
Wait. You barely gave anything away, so how is Yoongi asking the right questions? There’s no way he actually knows what you were looking for. No way in hell.
This man is more dangerous than you thought.
“Why do you even care,” is all you choose to say, more focused on your food now because above everything else, it’s quite fantastic. It somewhat reminds you of a past home, and you can’t help but escape to those distinct walls. “It’s irrelevant to you.”
“But I have what you want.”
You take another bite before stilling, looking up to see Yoongi propping his head with roughed knuckles. “You’re lying,” you drawl to his smugness, trying to act as if he didn’t just figure you all the way out. Because he didn’t. There’s no way. “And I’m still leaving.”
“If you stay, I’ll show you.”
When you leer over your soup, he simply stares back with no hint of emotion.
And you’re so curious about what he means that you finish your whole bowl.
When you push it forward, you understand exactly what Yoongi did. It worked perfectly, and you have to hand it to him even though he mangled your character minutes beforehand. “Thank you,” you offer some manners. “This was goo—”
The scrape of a chair cuts you off, and your sentence dies in midair as you watch your runaway partner vacate his seat.
Good riddance.
He knows how to stay on your bad side, that’s for damn sure.
But Yoongi simply heads back out to the balcony for another light. So you chalk up his swift exit to vices and not wanting to breathe your air. Or maybe he’s done with his fun and is already writing you off before you head out.
Clearing your bowl from the table, you walk out of the bedroom and bring it to the large kitchen, noting with a scowl that it’s obnoxiously bigger than half your floorplan back home.
Yearning pierces right through your chest.
The elevator is right over there.
You showered, you ate. You can leave as soon as you clean your dish.
Are you way too curious about what Yoongi’s gonna show you? Yes. But is that gonna stop you from getting out of here? No.
Well. This robe is hugging your figure perfectly and feels way too comfortable to just use for an hour or so… Plus, if you ditched it now, Mister Morals will scorn you for wasting that away, too.
How rude of him to assume that about you. Of course you aren’t wasteful. The only times you let things go are when you absolutely have to, like you should have back in that noodle shop instead of braving the back staircase.
Scoffing to no one, you scrub your bowl in the sink, grunting explicatives and stabbing Yoongi with curses until you hear a distinct beep.
Was that the elevator?
You cut the water off with a twist.
Cautiously, you make your way across the kitchen, peeking around the corner to appease your curiosity and spike your anxiety.
A bellhop? Another grey uniform looking to and fro to survey the area. It’s the same person that sent a look of panic your way before you went up to the room.
And your defense mechanism blares.
But before you can hide behind the partition, their eyes lock onto yours. Arm outstretched, the staff is motioning for you to… join them? Why?
You’re the one bunking with a gangster. Why does this person make you even more uncomfortable? This feeling is just like the one you had when you called the elevator the first time. Was your gut warning you then, too?
Maybe it’s because you don’t like the staff thinking they can come in unannounced. Grey zone etiquette or not, you can’t see how this is ever appropriate. In fact, it poses so many safety concerns. How is this okay?
Walking into the foyer, you rest a hand on a robed hip. “Can I help you?”
“I’m the one trying to help you,” they whisper, harsh and with another swipe of their hand. “You have to get out while you can.”
Wait. What do they mean while you can? “And why’s that?”
Sputtering, the bellhop sticks one foot out the elevator while pleading and, for some reason, that pisses you all the way off. “There’s no time to—”
“Get. Your foot. Off my floor.”
Is that fear in their eyes or surprise? “Oh, apologies. I didn’t realize you were… I thought—”
“Thought what?” Your arms fold, weight shifting to your other tired foot. “Speak up.”
Frankly, you don’t know where this newfound energy is coming from. All you know is that there are certain things you still despise and this person is ticking all the boxes.
“I thought you were taken, Miss. I’m here to save you.”
Pausing, you grip your arms, feeling silk gather under your palms.
There’s a lot you tolerate. Many things that a lot of people can’t. But someone assuming you’re the weak one that needs saving? There is no quicker way to lose your interest.
Stepping towards the elevator, you unfurl your arms, robe swaying and billowing around your freshly showered legs.
“Yes, that’s right. Come on, we can take you away.”
Hand on the entrance, you lean forward. “You’re not taking me anywhere,” you command, finger pressing the button at your side. “And you aren’t coming back up here until I say so.”
Slowly, the doors slide shut, your reflection two halves in the metal shine.
Well.
So much for leaving.
You may spend more time here than you thought.
With more thoughts swirling, you spin, heading back into the kitchen to pick up the same bowl you were washing. Hoping you and your gut made the right call.
Yoongi’s a criminal and a madman. But he’s not… the worst. At least, not horrible enough to warrant someone coming up to steal you away.
Besides. Is Yoongi aware that staff can come and go as they please? He seems like the type of guy that would hate that.
Staying vigilant seems to be a little more important now.
It’s soon after, when you’re placing the dish somewhere to dry, that you hear noise in the living room beyond the countertop. Looking up, you see someone much more familiar enter the space.
Hmm. Whatever’s in that duffle must be worth millions for Yoongi to lug it around everywhere.
As he dumps it next to the couch again, you don’t choose to ask about it just yet. Only because you want to ease into it later when you’re both not at each other’s throats. And while you’re not reeling from another strange encounter at the elevator.
So you go with a safer question instead, choosing not mention what just happened. “Is this whole floor… your place?”
Yoongi looks up. “Only when I need it to be.”
Interesting. “Does anyone else know about it—”
“Do you always ask this many questions?”
You blink. “I mean. I don’t get by selling fruit cus I’m quiet.”
“You’re quiet with me.”
“And even then I get you to talk.”
Yoongi frowns slightly before moving away, more towards the sliding door leading out to another outdoor area.
God, this place is obnoxiously huge. There’s still a whole other half you haven’t seen yet.
When you peer out, you watch as he leans against the railing, seeming to look both up at the building and down at the streets below.
Well. If you aren’t leaving anytime soon, may as well offer some sort of peace offering. Maybe the two of you just need to chill the fuck out.
Rummaging through the kitchen, you manage to find some high quality beer in the fridge. On your walk to the sliding glass, you’re reminded of the time you gave him one before when he helped fix your cart.
That was so long ago.
You’re so lost in thought that you barely register Yoongi whipping a hand to his waist when you walk outside. But you catch the metal just in time.
“It’s me!” you quickly alert before regressing back to annoyance, “Really…”
You’ve had way too much to deal with today. You don’t need a bullet in your chest to be another problem.
Especially since his little maneuver showed a bit more skin than you meant to see.
Yoongi eyes you before his shoulders rest, and you stride forward to offer up the cold can in your palm.
But you decide to hesitate while he goes to grab it, and you instead open it to have some.
Ugh. High quality, your ass. This one is way too bitter.
Your companion snorts as you make up an excuse, “I’ve had better.”
“Do you even drink?”
“Well, yeah,” you pout. Needing to prove it, you decide to keep the can. “Lemme try again.”
Somehow, this leads to you sharing the beer with him, tasting the mix of alcohol and smoke even after he tosses another cigarette off the ledge.
It’s not quite enough to forget, but it’s certainly helping. Observing the clouds so close and the city so far beneath your toes is extremely calming. It’s almost like you’re flying.
“It’s different here,” you mention out of the blue.
“This sector?”
“This high up.” Breathing in altitude, you sigh. “I’ve never been higher than my fourth story. It’s nice.”
“It’s usually silent, too.”
Your eyes slightly stab. “Whatever. You like having me around and just won’t admit it.” At this, Yoongi avoids direct contact. “Mmhmm. Don’t even try to hide it.”
“You’re useful to me.” You freeze. “That’s why you’re here.”
You shake your head. For someone deeming you useful, Yoongi’s pretty nonchalant about you dipping. Taking a tangy sip, you clarify, “But you don’t care if I leave? If someone comes to take me?”
He takes the offered can. “Mm.”
That answers that.
You should probably still tell him about what happened, though. His reaction could give more away than his words.
Instead, you drink in the night with your eyes. Knowing that you should know better about the company present.
The more you converse with Yoongi, the more you pick up. And one of those sad facts is that he doesn’t give a shit about anything you do or don’t do. Because all he really cares about is what he needs.
You can’t do anything to change him. Fix him. Whatever exists in fairytales. So you decide to take the night in stride. Not give a shit about him, either, per se.
Your curiosity gets the better of you now. Not just about what he’s gonna show you, but about that duffle. You quite literally don’t have anything to lose anymore, so may as well go for the question you’ve been wanting to ask all day.
“I was gonna ask for a cut of that,” you divulge with a head-tilt to the bag. “But figured you won’t even show me.”
“Why not?”
“Uhh.” You didn’t expect this. “You don’t like questions? You’re always secretive?”
“Never talk to the streets, princess. They’ll snitch on everything you say.”
“That’s deep,” you admit, taking a once full beer in your palm. “But I’m no snitch.”
“I know.”
Your look carries a slight pang.
“Come here.” Both of you walk inside as he plays with his lighter. When you round the couch, Yoongi dumps the bag right onto the cushions. “If you wanna see what’s in here, do it.”
You stare before slowly walking forward and kneeling to unzip the bag. As your slide reveals the contents, you’re nervous about what you’ll see.
But when it’s open, you freeze.
It’s all…chil-don? Tons of money wrapped in sleek stacks with edges so… Crisp. New.
Wait.
These patterns.
These are il-don?
Holy fucking shit there’s no way these are real. This is currency seven generations old. The first ever of the established system. Worth more than anything in current circulation, especially in their pristine state. Forget being worth millions, these are next to priceless.
You’ve never seen them like this.
“They’re some of the last in mint condition.”
The shock value is so high you forgot you were alone. Slowly turning, your breath catches as you ask, “How did you know where to find these?”
“Like I said,” he drones. “Streets talk.”
You look at the bills before glancing back up. “Can I…?”
Yoongi cocks a brow before angling his mouth. “Touch them? Do what you want, doll.”
You blink at the name this time. Because him saying that with a fresh cig in his lips is making your stomach flutter.
Picking up a fresh stack, you inspect the ancient pattern inlay with eyes wide, admiring how paper so old can have such detailed engravings. “These can’t be real.”
“They are.” He shifts. “And most people never see one in their lifetime.”
You put the money back on the pile inside. Yes, these have got to be worth a fortune. But there’s nothing else in the bag? No drugs, no lethal substances, anything? “Wait, so. This is it?”
Yoongi fully laughs before flicking his lighter again. “You want something else?”
“No, I—” You back away. “There’s really nothing else in there?”
Coolly, he lights up before taking the initial drag. “Nah.”
Smoke spirals around you. “I dunno what I expected but it wasn’t that.”
Yoongi lets a wisp leave his mouth. You know it’s getting in your robe, but caring about the little things has now jumped out the window. “Whatever’s in that bag can feed half the city.”
“What?” As you look, he walks over to what looks like a small section of a bar. “Is that why you stole it?”
“Stole it?” Yoongi grins and shakes his head. “Sure. That’s why we stole it.”
“We? Leave me out of this.”
“Too late.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
You step forward in anger, but you only get a sound out before Yoongi straightens, aura blazing,
“I—”
“Say I do leave you out of it. Nothing happened tonight, according to me.” He discards his fresh light in an ashtray, watching it die before sliding his gaze your way. “Doesn’t mean whoever we just fought will suddenly leave you alone.”
Shit. He has a point. You ran for so long and fought plenty of those guys.
Is this what he meant? Getting used to that feeling? Maybe your consequence is joining the cycle of the damned, forced to kill in order to protect. Both others and now yourself.
“But I’m… Just a nobody. A civilian, I…”
Yoongi walks until he’s in front of you, hand cupping your chin and voice whispering mortifying allegations in your ear,
“You took a body for a Dragon, love. You’re not a civilian anymore.”
Your arms shove him backward without pause, face distraught as you watch his smirk bounce with his shoulders. His cackle echoes mad through the room, pinging the floors and piercing through your robe.
Truthfully, it doesn’t even feel like you’re wearing one. So naked and exposed in the open for this man to see. “You’re despicable.”
“That right?” His mouth sets as his lids lower. “And what about the one that killed and kept running?”
What.
“There was a police car at the restaurant,” Yoongi continues, a reminder so sharp it slices clean. “Yet you didn’t turn yourself in.”
Your feet sink into the rug beneath. “That’s not…”
With measured steps, he stalks forward, a harbinger of horrific realizations that you don’t want to hear, “You didn’t have to keep running. Didn’t have to get in that taxi.”
Stepping back, you find the room so stuffy it’s hard to move. “You—”
“Could’ve taken another train.”
“Stop.”
“Could’ve stayed in that elevator.”
What the fuck is happening right now?
Yoongi’s close. Very much too close, and the energy he radiates sets your instincts ablaze.
This is the man you’ve been pining over this whole time? If you ever get back home, you have got to remind yourself to avoid him at all costs. There’s nothing good for you if you stay. Danger surrounds every inch of him, and there’s no telling when you’ll take collateral damage.
“But you didn’t,” he delivers the final blow. “And you’re still here.”
Lifting your chin, Yoongi grins slow when you yank away.
“I should’ve never saved you.” Gaze finally locked, you growl from within, letting a monster loose,
“I should’ve left you for dead.”
Wait.
Stop.
This isn’t you. This isn’t who you are. You’re a helper. A healer. Those words came out so strange that you’re questioning how they left your mouth so freely.
Did you really mean that? Or was this some feeble attempt to hurt him?
Yoongi doesn’t seem phased. But you clearly don’t know him so it’s not like—
Something heavy and dark as fuck is placed in your hand, and you snap your eyes to his in utmost disbelief.
“Go ahead then.”
Oh, this man is psychotic.
“Be my guest.”
No fucking way you’re gonna do it. “Stop—”
“If you regret it, why waste time—”
“Seriously, I’m not gonna—”
Yoongi forces your fingers flush against metal as he holds the gun to his forehead, both eyes piercing right into yours with no hesitation whatsoever.
And it is frightening.
All anger from before flees as fear and intensity rush into its place. Your brain fizzles and cracks as you try to wrestle out of his grip, and you feel burning at the corners of your eyes. “Stop!”
“Why.”
“I’m not gonna shoot you, the fuck!”
“You sure?”
“Yes!”
Mercifully, he lets go, pistol thrown as you’re tugged forward with a—
“What’s stopping you,” he grounds out, formidable presence all-consuming. “Tell me.”
You’re breathing so hard it hurts. “You”—a shaky heave—“You are out of your fucking mind.”
When you struggle from his grip, Yoongi pulls you even closer. Reacting in a rush, you propel your knee up to wrap around his side and twist.
But he proves just as quick, gripping the bare skin of your leg as you shove him down against the sofa. Grunting, you both curve with the furniture, Yoongi locked onto your knitted, conflicted brows.
“You regret saving my life,” he simply repeats to your frustration. “I gave you the chance to fix that.”
“Shut up—”
“But your will is weak.”
“I swear to—”
“Guess I was wrong.”
Who the hell does he think he is? This guy—Yoongi, Agust, whoever the fuck—has no right to play with you so casually.
But something else is swirling inside your ribs. Because through his cutthroat words and actions, this man is somehow stirring the deepest waters of your soul. Ripples rumble and stretch into waves, tugging your toes in undercurrents of obsidian. Dark. Primal. Hazardous. All you.
Is it from being subjected to such a heavy dose of his power?
Or is it because—even if just for a moment—he’s handing all that power to you?
Quite literally, you’re the one on top.
And Yoongi holds your gaze, unfazed by the way your robe completely spread open during your tumble. Or the fact that you have nothing beneath that silk.
He could easily take over. From the feel of his build beneath your hands and between your legs, you know he can.
But he’s not. There’s no hesitation. He’s legitimately giving you the choice and reveals no ounce of remorse.
This revelation courses through your veins, pumping a new kind of life into your palms. You have a shot at a criminal with a bag of il-don waiting to be snatched. And you know you won’t take it.
And that alone alters the chemistry of your brain.
With more fear of yourself than anything else, you shake out, “If I’m killing you, it’s gonna be entirely my choice.”
He’s laughing? You’re instigating a threat and he’s enjoying it? God, you are teetering on the brink of madness and another emotion that won’t dare be acknowledged.
Tugging Yoongi up a notch, you proclaim to the glint of his eyes,
“And when I do, you’ll die exactly how I want.”
Yoongi’s lips slowly, dreadfully spread, teeth shining in the dim lamp lights that sharpen half his features. When he speaks, you shiver. Because it’s a mix of pride and fear, sprinkled with a hint of alarm,
“That’s my girl.”
The room quiets, your bodies locked in a way that you’ll remember years from now. Breaths. Your bare chest hovering inches above his. If there were bystanders, they would no doubt get the wrong idea. Because if things were different, and if this man underneath you wasn’t who he was, you’d entertain another type of ferality and not stop until morning.
To be fair. That same dark part of you would still do it.
But this is about the righteous part of who you are. The one that abides by the rules. The one that fights to keep days boring, uneventful, the same.
So you quell that monster pacing in your core.
One more exhale leaves your lips before you let him drop, sliding off his silken, tone form to quietly readjust your robe. Turning away, you focus on the night skies, wondering if the people back home are sound asleep as you should be.
“My will may seem weak. But I don’t care what you think of me.”
Sound is crisp again as Yoongi rises to his feet. Around you, the air starts to lighten, cold slipping delicately into your skin.
Slowly tying the wrap at your waist, your words float to the ground, “Because I know who I am. And no one can take that from me, not even you.”
His presence fills the space at your back. But it’s muted. Less intimidating. Or maybe you’re just at your limit because you admit a little more than you intend,
“This world has already tried enough.”
Both of you come to another standstill, two black robes staining a room full of white. Even time itself gives you space, slowing and circling until you’re ready for it to flow straight again.
As a cloud shadows the light of the moon, you feel knuckles caress your neck. And Yoongi’s never sounded so calm as he starts, “They’ll come after you.”
You slightly turn.
“You still want to go back?”
A pause. A nod.
His knuckles continue to glide along your neck, slipping down your back before traveling the swoop of your shoulder. Everything in your body thrums, silently quaking because you have no idea where this is coming from and you can’t say you hate it.
Quite the opposite. And that scares you more.
“If you do, you’re dead to me.”
Of course. You’ve seen and know too much. There’s no reason for him to show up to your street now, especially if tangerines are all he’s looking for. He can always find them anywhere else.
But, for some reason, this still stings. In a way that irks even your reasonable side. Is it because of his touch? No. That’s only making you nervous from the fact that you probably aren’t… as experienced as he is. The uneasiness is wholly from your own limitations.
“I’ll survive without you,” you whisper resolute, chest squeezing when he replies,
“I know.”
The same fingers get bolder, tracing down your arm before sliding along the wrap at your hip.
And you freeze.
Because the tension is palpable. The power is intoxicating. It’s a new type of anticipation and you are fighting yourself to not give in. Don’t let everything get to your head. Don’t let anyone in again. Don’t stray onto a path you can’t quite navigate.
But fuck, you kinda want to.
Rocks slide against exposed skin when he decides to speak again. And it makes you wish the two of you were extraordinarily normal. Or that you at least knew what the fuck to do here because the attraction you feel is not as one-sided as you presumed.
“What made you stay.”
A breath you didn’t know you were holding huffs out, and you swallow with difficulty. “I just…”
Get it together. Keep up your guard. It’s proving so hard, especially when his touches spark fires along your limbs. But you have to.
And therein comes another lie. “I wanted to know what you stole.” Gulping down the truth, you harden your resolve. “That’s it.”
With more restraint that you want, Yoongi bunches silk at your pelvis, hitching your robe and your breath all at once. When his other hand slowly holds your neck in place, you can’t help but flinch, and his low hum pours lava straight down your chest,
“What a shame.”
Oh. Is this how it ends? Did your gut get it all wrong?
He could end your life with a flick of his wrist. You know far too much. You’re not useful anymore.
“Someone will take you back tomorrow,” Yoongi murmurs, proving every single theory wrong. “After that, you’re on your own.”
And just like that, he releases you to stand alone.
Oh. You’re going home.
Good.
This is good, right?
Your heart beats overtime, almost drowning out your entire thought process. The thumps and pulses seem to cut every string of consciousness short.
What was that? What was any of that?
Never mind. Nothing happened and you can keep it that way, for the better. Yoongi is risk draped in beauty, and once you’re back home you can cut ties with anyone like him for good. You saved him; he spared you. It’s over.
…But do you want it to be?
Yes.
Of course you do.
Clouds let moonlight shine again.
When you arrive at an answer, you turn to find that Yoongi’s already gone, duffle and all shut inside his room with a muted click.
A flip switches as you let exhaustion take over completely, falling onto cushions that still hold his scent. Inhaling, you drift into darkness, wondering how your final decision will affect the rest of your days.
Whether awake or asleep, nightmares are real.
Only this time, you aren’t quite sure if the blood and guts you’re seeing are yours or someone else’s. Can’t discern the limb on the ground from the limb on your torso. Screams echo and ping from all directions, a cacophony of death that has you scratching at mania to stay sane.
Murderer. Murderer. A murderer that regrets who she saved. No, wait, that’s not true. You’d still do it again.
And you watch the same swing over and over. The same arc of finality. Those lifeless eyes. Closer. Closer. Sharper. Judging.
You were wrong. Were you wrong? Running does nothing and doesn’t provide an answer. The ground under your toes gives out.
How far are you straying? How low are you sinking? If you told your neighbors who you killed for, would they be upset or betrayed?
They’d hate you. Their fingers aim straight. Their tongues fire bullets.
They’ll hate you. Hate you. Hate you hate you hate you—
A room bursts into view as you jolt awake. Sounds snap silent, the hum of the air all you can hear as you rub your eyes.
So much for sleeping. There’s no way you’ll be able to now.
Focus on something else. Anything else. The past cannot be undone, so live with the choices you made and deal with the faces that haunt your dreams.
Staring into the dark, shapes and sharp edges slowly form, your vision sharpening with every passing second. Tiny pops and creaks tickle your eardrums, and Yoongi’s scent still lingers with your own.
You don’t want to focus on him, but it’s better than what forced you awake.
A lot happened tonight. But also, nothing at all. Something is keeping you both together, tightening and squeezing the strings in your chest. But you don’t know if that’s from the adrenaline of today’s events, or from the pure shock of your unexpected reunion.
There’s something else you haven’t considered until now. Despite his unorthodox and hellish methods, Yoongi did keep your head on straight. You showered. You ate. You drank. You inhaled fresh air.
Your compass righted itself when you didn’t blow his brains out.
The nothingness was all to your advantage. Was that all calculated, too?
One part of you—the bright side of you—knows that it doesn’t matter. No matter how helpful he was tonight, distance is crucial. Stay away from people like him. They’re all too cunning to be kept close.
But if leaping that crevasse allows you to keep your mind off everything else? If you need to stop the bleeding, why not reach for a cure?
Your exhale shakes as your shoulders fall forward, self-deprecation destroying your brain because what the fuck are you thinking? This is nonsense. Madness.
Maybe you’ve just been insane from the very start.
Your breath quickens at the possibilities. The potential outcomes of what you’re about to do.
This is the most solid decision you’ve made all night.
As your toes travel across plush, trek over marble, and arrive at their destination, the rest of your body quietly, nervously follows.
Raising your hand, you listen for movement. When you find none, you softly knock and wait for what seems like an eternity.
For nothing.
All that worry for naught. Yoongi’s most likely fast asleep and not dreaming at all.
Good. This is your sign to let it go completely. In the morning, you’re going back home. The nightmares will consume you and you’ll wake up everyday to brave the streets. Assassins will be on the hunt for revenge. You won’t be saved by the boy in teal.
What a shame, indeed.
As you step to leave, you hear the door slowly swing.
And Yoongi emerges from behind, minted hair mussed over lowered lids and robe slipping down a tatted shoulder.
Fuck everything.
“I don’t regret what I did and I’d do it all again,” you admit with finality. To him, to yourself, to the ones you’ll disappoint back home. “And I refuse to get used to this feeling because it reminds me I’m still a good person.”
Yoongi’s eyes don’t change as he stares.
“But,” you exhale with a shake. “Just for tonight…”
This is it.
The brink of no return.
Your soul dips into the dark.
“Please make me fucking forget.”
—
—
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a/n: once again, i cannot thank y'all enough for being patient and understanding as i go through life while working on this and all the other writing projects we have going on! it means the world, and even though there were some not-so-fun asks to get, the supporting and wonderful ones are what i will continue to focus on! so if you've ever left something sweet, thought provoking, encouraging, etc - thank you from the bottom of my heart! you're what keeps this writer going. a/n 2: if there's something you liked about this or a line/scene/whatever thing you enjoyed, feel free to let me know! feedback is never expected, but always appreciated. if the interest level is high, that adds motivation like no other. thank you all for reading! ++ feedback box: ⇥ of course, any reblogs/comments/messages are appreciated! ⇥ for the ones that are too shy to reblog with a review, comment on this, or send a message, i went ahead and made another anonymous form where you can send in what you think! ⇥ no emails collected, no need to put in a username. it’s literally just a comment dropbox :D feedback can be as short/sweet or as long as you’d like! ⇥ here! ++ more links: ⇥ masterlist ⇥ minted masterlist
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So Rupaul's Drag Race season 5 premiers this Mondays at 9/8c on Logo! I'm pretty excited to see how this season turns it out. I made these fun glitzy Illustrations to usher in the new season!
If you aren’t watching @poseonfx what else are you doing with your life? One of my new favorite shows is @poseonfx and how amazing is it that it aired during Pride month!? This show is absolutely everything and I’m so in love with Blanca @mjrodriguez7 💕! Please support this show , it’s important for us to support shows that cast LGBTQ people in LGBTQ roles 🌈! @poseonfx airs every Sunday night on @fxnetworks . Seriously watch it you will LIVE! Illustration of Blanca Rodriguez mother of the House of Evangelista by me . #pose #posefx #supportlgbtartists #lgbtqiapride #lgbtqactors #lgbtqactresses #mjrodriguez #supportlgbtpoc #ballculture #parisisburning #lgbtart #queerart #pride #pride2018 #houseofevangelista #vogue #mopped #housemother #queerartist #supportqueerartists #newyork1987 #realness #shade
