Ship/Member: Wonwoo/Jeonghan, implied Wonwoo/Mingyu Major Tags: N/A Additional Tags: spies au, im not saying triangulations but am i, brief descriptions of violence and murder, richard fucking siken Permission to remix: Yes Remix 4/5
A/N: Honestly I wrote this trying to get myself out of a really bad slump so if it makes no sense it's because I was trying not to second guess myself and I didn't make any edits after writing.(sorry for the mess, lilli TT)
***
Jeon Wonwoo has pretty fingers with knuckles that jut outwards in a way that should be off-putting but only makes Jeonghan want to bring them to his lips.
He has a haunted face, stricken with the possibility of its own self even as it tries—always too hard—to not give anything away.
Jeonghan knows the type.
His type.
Being a part of the shadows means knowing that the light always touch darkness somewhere, means knowing that it isn’t the absence of light that makes darkness but the constant, active bending of light by someone who knows it’s truth: it’s corruptible.
Jeonghan’s been that someone in his own life for as long as he can remember. Though if ever asked he’d claim to flit between the glowing valleys where the living stake their claim because he had no choice, it’s only that by the time he found any sign of yearning to turn back on what he had chosen for himself, it was easier to quash the signs of any weak emotion than attempt to escape, unscathed. Freedom wasn’t a luxury affordable to any paid liar.
Jeon Wonwoo isn’t a novelty, the first time he runs into Jeonghan in his latest hideout in Daegu—Seokmin’s crooning only his third number of the night on stage while Jeonghan nurses iced water under the guise of vodka, eyes fixed on Kim Mingyu draping himself over the new face in the corner table like he hadn’t almost let a target get away just an hour before forcing Jeonghan to get his hands dirty.
The new face returns next day, traces of Kim Mingyu scattered all under his open collar, red peeking out of his uncuffed sleeves and last night’s coat hanging over his shoulders. Jeonghan knows if he draws him close enough for the perspiration on their glasses to touch, he’d be drowning in the scent of Mingyu’s cologne.
Jeonghan keeps his distance and allows himself to look.
It takes another month before Jeonghan is approached by him—Jeon Wonwoo, Jeonghan catches him share with Seokmin one early evening when Seokmin’s got his shimmery bodice artfully half-opened a hyung, could you please falling from his lips oh so demurely. Wonwoo scrambles to help him and it ticks Jeonghan off, a flare burning up under his skin and he knows he’s going to give Seokmin the cold shoulder for the night, just to let him suffer. Seokmin’s no saint but Jeonghan’s not going to tell Wonwoo, who should know how to tell the difference himself.
At least with Jeonghan, you can always plainly see everything that you’re about to get coming to you.
When Wonwoo finally approaches him, Jeonghan’s at the corner table where Mingyu had straddled Wonwoo four weeks ago—not that either of them are thinking about it; Jeonghan certainly isn’t.
“May I join you?” Wonwoo hesitates before drawing the chair on the opposite side and Jeonghan knows immediately he’d clocked him right. He’ll have to be careful to not mention this to Seokmin. He’d hate to hear Jeonghan hyung, you’ ve got a type drawled into the dip behind his ear.
It’s not really a type if everybody’s looking for a place inside of someone else, is it? All Jeonghan is doing is facilitating them, saying come in with doors wide open.
Maybe a second maybe ten whole minutes later, Jeonghan smiles with a slight tip of his head back before he nods.
Wonwoo takes the seat and flags a waiter with his left hand.
Up close, he looks younger, something so fresh about his pale cheeks and the nervous tapping of his fingers on the tabletop. And yet Jeonghan knows he’s old enough to have seen a death or a couple by the force of his own hands, knows that Jeonghan maybe held responsible for toying with his feelings but can never be pulled up for doing so with his life.
“So what’s your name?” Wonwoo finally asks and Jeonghan can’t help the laugh that rumbles out of him.
Over their heads, the lamp bursts with a pop and Jeonghan feels Wonwoo’s knees knock into his before he hears the sharp intake of breath.
“Wonwoo-ssi,” He starts to answer, “You should’ve stayed where the light is.”
“I killed someone.” Wonwoo splurts out, at the same time. Even in the darkness, Jeonghan can see him pretend to wipe off sweat from the bangs falling over his forehead. He’s received at least minimal training then, that should make this all the more fun, thinks Jeonghan.
When the lights are restores, Jeonghan pretends to be captivated by the bar while Wonwoo watches him, knees still pressing under the table.
In Jeonghan’s dreams that night, Wonwoo’s knuckles brush over his cheekbones, too tender to have ever done a hard day’s work; his palms cradle Jeonghan’s face and his fingertips are too soft to have ever held somebody’s thrashing body down until it succumbed to the inevitable. In Jeonghan’s dreams, they never pretend to sleep.
[REMIX]: from the dead: a sense of scale
Major Tags: N/A
Additional Tags: spies au, im not saying triangulations but am i, brief descriptions of violence and murder, richard fucking siken
Permission to remix: Yes
Remix 4/5
A/N: Honestly I wrote this trying to get myself out of a really bad slump so if it makes no sense it's because I was trying not to second guess myself and I didn't make any edits after writing.(sorry for the mess, lilli TT)
***
Jeon Wonwoo has pretty fingers with knuckles that jut outwards in a way that should be off-putting but only makes Jeonghan want to bring them to his lips.
He has a haunted face, stricken with the possibility of its own self even as it tries—always too hard—to not give anything away.
Jeonghan knows the type.
His type.
Being a part of the shadows means knowing that the light always touch darkness somewhere, means knowing that it isn’t the absence of light that makes darkness but the constant, active bending of light by someone who knows it’s truth: it’s corruptible.
Jeonghan’s been that someone in his own life for as long as he can remember.
Though if ever asked he’d claim to flit between the glowing valleys where the living stake their claim because he had no choice, it’s only that by the time he found any sign of yearning to turn back on what he had chosen for himself, it was easier to quash the signs of any weak emotion than attempt to escape, unscathed. Freedom wasn’t a luxury affordable to any paid liar.
Jeon Wonwoo isn’t a novelty, the first time he runs into Jeonghan in his latest hideout in Daegu—Seokmin’s crooning only his third number of the night on stage while Jeonghan nurses iced water under the guise of vodka, eyes fixed on Kim Mingyu draping himself over the new face in the corner table like he hadn’t almost let a target get away just an hour before forcing Jeonghan to get his hands dirty.
The new face returns next day, traces of Kim Mingyu scattered all under his open collar, red peeking out of his uncuffed sleeves and last night’s coat hanging over his shoulders. Jeonghan knows if he draws him close enough for the perspiration on their glasses to touch, he’d be drowning in the scent of Mingyu’s cologne.
Jeonghan keeps his distance and allows himself to look.
It takes another month before Jeonghan is approached by him—Jeon Wonwoo, Jeonghan catches him share with Seokmin one early evening when Seokmin’s got his shimmery bodice artfully half-opened a hyung, could you please falling from his lips oh so demurely. Wonwoo scrambles to help him and it ticks Jeonghan off, a flare burning up under his skin and he knows he’s going to give Seokmin the cold shoulder for the night, just to let him suffer. Seokmin’s no saint but Jeonghan’s not going to tell Wonwoo, who should know how to tell the difference himself.
At least with Jeonghan, you can always plainly see everything that you’re about to get coming to you.
When Wonwoo finally approaches him, Jeonghan’s at the corner table where Mingyu had straddled Wonwoo four weeks ago—not that either of them are thinking about it; Jeonghan certainly isn’t.
“May I join you?” Wonwoo hesitates before drawing the chair on the opposite side and Jeonghan knows immediately he’d clocked him right. He’ll have to be careful to not mention this to Seokmin. He’d hate to hear Jeonghan hyung, you’ ve got a type drawled into the dip behind his ear.
It’s not really a type if everybody’s looking for a place inside of someone else, is it? All Jeonghan is doing is facilitating them, saying come in with doors wide open.
Maybe a second maybe ten whole minutes later, Jeonghan smiles with a slight tip of his head back before he nods.
Wonwoo takes the seat and flags a waiter with his left hand.
Up close, he looks younger, something so fresh about his pale cheeks and the nervous tapping of his fingers on the tabletop. And yet Jeonghan knows he’s old enough to have seen a death or a couple by the force of his own hands, knows that Jeonghan maybe held responsible for toying with his feelings but can never be pulled up for doing so with his life.
“So what’s your name?” Wonwoo finally asks and Jeonghan can’t help the laugh that rumbles out of him.
Over their heads, the lamp bursts with a pop and Jeonghan feels Wonwoo’s knees knock into his before he hears the sharp intake of breath.
“Wonwoo-ssi,” He starts to answer, “You should’ve stayed where the light is.”
“I killed someone.” Wonwoo splurts out, at the same time. Even in the darkness, Jeonghan can see him pretend to wipe off sweat from the bangs falling over his forehead. He’s received at least minimal training then, that should make this all the more fun, thinks Jeonghan.
When the lights are restores, Jeonghan pretends to be captivated by the bar while Wonwoo watches him, knees still pressing under the table.
In Jeonghan’s dreams that night, Wonwoo’s knuckles brush over his cheekbones, too tender to have ever done a hard day’s work; his palms cradle Jeonghan’s face and his fingertips are too soft to have ever held somebody’s thrashing body down until it succumbed to the inevitable. In Jeonghan’s dreams, they never pretend to sleep.