Ship/Member: Wonwoo/Chan Major Tags: N/A Additional Tags: Age Difference, Infidelity, blink-and-you-miss-it crime au Permission to remix: Please ask Title from “Ghost in the Machine” by SZA ft. Phoebe Bridgers
***
The prodigal son returns from Seoul to muted fanfare and furtive rumors, the whispers and cigarette smoke drifting to Wonwoo’s office from the lounge, where the men have nothing better to do than gossip as they wait for the hyungnim’s next orders. They discuss in hushed tones how Seoul had chewed him up and spit him out like so many other starry-eyed hopefuls— why was he cavorting around Seoul anyways when he was old enough to inherit the family business— evidently, prancing around on stage in tights was more important to him than listening to his old man. The men chortle at the last statement, braying with laughter until Wonwoo opens his office door and lobs a stapler at the center table.
“Settle down,” he commands, and the men grumble but they do quiet down. No use in upsetting the hyungnim’s accountant.
Wonwoo doesn’t see him until later, when the novelty of being gawked at has worn off and Chan’s waved off the reunions and curious onlookers. Chan announces his presence by slamming the door to Wonwoo’s office open, rattling the frames on the wall and toppling files from Wonwoo’s desk. Sheets of paper flutter to the floor while the newly gutted folders lie limp on the ground. Chan stands in the door frame in his tailored black coat like a reaper ready to collect, the corner of his lips tilting upwards as he notices the destruction.
“Son of a bitch,” Wonwoo hisses, reaching a hand out to try to salvage a stack of paper before it topples over. Chan crosses the room, paper gracelessly crinkling beneath his soles, and swings himself up to sit on the desk in one fluid motion. The stack of paper falls.
“You’re working hard, seonsaengnim,” he says as Wonwoo halfheartedly swats at his legs, attempting to shoo him off his desk.
“You menace,” Wonwoo says, resigning himself to not getting any work done while Chan’s here. Chan’s grin just grows larger, a manic delight in his expression.
“How’s work?” Chan asks. “My dad not keeping you too busy, I hope?”
Wonwoo tries to stifle his laughter, but to no avail. Chan’s eyes sharpen at the sound. “It was better before you came in and messed up my files,” he says, gesturing to the mess of paperwork on his desk.
Chan pouts, his lower lip jutting out. “I’m so sorry,” he croons, picking up a loose sheet of paper and glancing over it. “I didn’t know that inventory statements were more exciting than me.”
Wonwoo shrugs and stays silent. Unlike his father’s puffed-up fits of bravado, Chan prefers to be economical with his displeasure; men don’t know he’s angry until there’s a bullet between their eyes. Despite the quiet danger, Chan doesn’t scare him, not really. Part of him will always be the ornery kid nursing a split lip who’d followed Wonwoo around like a bedraggled duckling as Wonwoo had prepared for college entrance exams.
Accepting the silence as an answer, Chan reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. He flicks open the lid and takes one out before offering the box to Wonwoo.
“Why do you have those?” Wonwoo asks. “They ruin your lungs. I thought you needed good stamina to be a dancer.” He thinks he sees Chan’s eyes darken at the mention of dancing, but he blinks and Chan’s expression is unchanged.
Chan snorts. “Like you know anything about stamina,” he says, leering at Wonwoo, his sharp eyes sliding over Wonwoo’s ill-fitting suit, too boxy on his frame. “Lighten up, ahjussi.” He lights the cigarette and takes a drag, smoke curling out of his mouth.
“How’s Chungha?” he asks, tipping his head back and breathing out smoke. “How’s the kid?” Chan’s never had the patience for pleasantries, always preferring to cut straight to the bone.
“Hyeju’s fine,” Wonwoo says quickly.
“It’s a shame she’s not a boy.” Chan’s gaze slides over to Wonwoo. When they make eye contact, Chan grins, baring his white teeth. “Then again, maybe it’s easier that she was born with no expectations. You don’t have to waste time trying to mold her in your image if you know she’ll leave.”
Wonwoo scoffs. “You’ve been listening to your father again.”
Chan shrugs. “Maybe I’m just in a melancholy mood,” he says. “There’s only so many times you can be told you’re a fuck up before you start to wonder.”
He turns his head to give Wonwoo his full attention, his coy gaze failing to hide the intensity in his eyes. The singular focus pins Wonwoo in place, unable to look away. “Care to take my mind off it?”
Wonwoo pointedly ignores how tactless the proposition is and instead leans in, letting Chan pull him in by his tie. His lips taste like nicotine and Wonwoo’s already thinking about how to wash the scent of cigarettes out of his clothes because he knows Chungha doesn’t like the smell and he had promised to quit when Hyeju was born—
Chan bites down on his lower lip, drawing blood, and then there are no thoughts.
[FILL] You reflect all the godlike
Major Tags: N/A
Additional Tags: Age Difference, Infidelity, blink-and-you-miss-it crime au
Permission to remix: Please ask
Title from “Ghost in the Machine” by SZA ft. Phoebe Bridgers
***
The prodigal son returns from Seoul to muted fanfare and furtive rumors, the whispers and cigarette smoke drifting to Wonwoo’s office from the lounge, where the men have nothing better to do than gossip as they wait for the hyungnim’s next orders. They discuss in hushed tones how Seoul had chewed him up and spit him out like so many other starry-eyed hopefuls— why was he cavorting around Seoul anyways when he was old enough to inherit the family business— evidently, prancing around on stage in tights was more important to him than listening to his old man. The men chortle at the last statement, braying with laughter until Wonwoo opens his office door and lobs a stapler at the center table.
“Settle down,” he commands, and the men grumble but they do quiet down. No use in upsetting the hyungnim’s accountant.
Wonwoo doesn’t see him until later, when the novelty of being gawked at has worn off and Chan’s waved off the reunions and curious onlookers. Chan announces his presence by slamming the door to Wonwoo’s office open, rattling the frames on the wall and toppling files from Wonwoo’s desk. Sheets of paper flutter to the floor while the newly gutted folders lie limp on the ground. Chan stands in the door frame in his tailored black coat like a reaper ready to collect, the corner of his lips tilting upwards as he notices the destruction.
“Son of a bitch,” Wonwoo hisses, reaching a hand out to try to salvage a stack of paper before it topples over. Chan crosses the room, paper gracelessly crinkling beneath his soles, and swings himself up to sit on the desk in one fluid motion. The stack of paper falls.
“You’re working hard, seonsaengnim,” he says as Wonwoo halfheartedly swats at his legs, attempting to shoo him off his desk.
“You menace,” Wonwoo says, resigning himself to not getting any work done while Chan’s here. Chan’s grin just grows larger, a manic delight in his expression.
“How’s work?” Chan asks. “My dad not keeping you too busy, I hope?”
Wonwoo tries to stifle his laughter, but to no avail. Chan’s eyes sharpen at the sound. “It was better before you came in and messed up my files,” he says, gesturing to the mess of paperwork on his desk.
Chan pouts, his lower lip jutting out. “I’m so sorry,” he croons, picking up a loose sheet of paper and glancing over it. “I didn’t know that inventory statements were more exciting than me.”
Wonwoo shrugs and stays silent. Unlike his father’s puffed-up fits of bravado, Chan prefers to be economical with his displeasure; men don’t know he’s angry until there’s a bullet between their eyes. Despite the quiet danger, Chan doesn’t scare him, not really. Part of him will always be the ornery kid nursing a split lip who’d followed Wonwoo around like a bedraggled duckling as Wonwoo had prepared for college entrance exams.
Accepting the silence as an answer, Chan reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. He flicks open the lid and takes one out before offering the box to Wonwoo.
“Why do you have those?” Wonwoo asks. “They ruin your lungs. I thought you needed good stamina to be a dancer.” He thinks he sees Chan’s eyes darken at the mention of dancing, but he blinks and Chan’s expression is unchanged.
Chan snorts. “Like you know anything about stamina,” he says, leering at Wonwoo, his sharp eyes sliding over Wonwoo’s ill-fitting suit, too boxy on his frame. “Lighten up, ahjussi.” He lights the cigarette and takes a drag, smoke curling out of his mouth.
“How’s Chungha?” he asks, tipping his head back and breathing out smoke. “How’s the kid?” Chan’s never had the patience for pleasantries, always preferring to cut straight to the bone.
“Hyeju’s fine,” Wonwoo says quickly.
“It’s a shame she’s not a boy.” Chan’s gaze slides over to Wonwoo. When they make eye contact, Chan grins, baring his white teeth. “Then again, maybe it’s easier that she was born with no expectations. You don’t have to waste time trying to mold her in your image if you know she’ll leave.”
Wonwoo scoffs. “You’ve been listening to your father again.”
Chan shrugs. “Maybe I’m just in a melancholy mood,” he says. “There’s only so many times you can be told you’re a fuck up before you start to wonder.”
He turns his head to give Wonwoo his full attention, his coy gaze failing to hide the intensity in his eyes. The singular focus pins Wonwoo in place, unable to look away. “Care to take my mind off it?”
Wonwoo pointedly ignores how tactless the proposition is and instead leans in, letting Chan pull him in by his tie. His lips taste like nicotine and Wonwoo’s already thinking about how to wash the scent of cigarettes out of his clothes because he knows Chungha doesn’t like the smell and he had promised to quit when Hyeju was born—
Chan bites down on his lower lip, drawing blood, and then there are no thoughts.