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Bra Shopping

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It’s funny, how guys are obscenely interested in lingerie, but only when there’s a chance they’ll be able to take it off.

You hold your wardrobe’s latest casualty in your hands, glaring half-heartedly at the wire poking out of the fabric of your (late) favorite bra. Bras giving up was a fact of life, but that didn’t mean you had to enjoy it. You toss the offending piece of fabric into the trash with only a brief flash of guilt, then put on a different one before leaving your room in search of Seven. This would all be so much easier if you had your own car, but that had been totalled when you’d left it parked during your extended stay at Rika’s apartment, and the jerk had driven off without leaving his insurance information. Your own insurance refused to cover it, and - anyway, that was beside the point. The point is that you now need to use one of your boyfriend’s precious babies to get around, and while he generally trusted you to use them, he never let you go without some amount of groveling.

“Sev, could I use one of your cars?” you request softly, leaning against the doorframe that led to the dim room where the redhead was currently typing away. A brief pause in his typing informed you that he had heard, but the clicking resumes a second later so it was clear he was rather focused.

“Seeeven?” you try, resigning yourself to how difficult this process may turn out to be. The sound of typing pauses for a little longer this time, and the brief flash of white you see reflected off the computer monitor informs you that he’s grinning, but the only response he gives is a noncommittal hum before he resumes typing more furiously that before.

You smirk a little bit, moving on to the use of your not-so-secret weapon. “Saeyoung~?” you purr, taking a couple steps closer, and you finally get the reaction you were hoping for. He hits the enter key with a flourish and immediately spins his chair to face you, pushing his clunky orange headphones down around his neck as he does to. He’s smiling, so you know whatever hacking he’d just done had been successful, and his gold eyes are shining behind his glasses, so you can tell he’s not upset about being interrupted.

“And how can the Defender of Justice help you today?” he questions grandly, leaning back in his chair so he can look up at you more comfortably. You roll your eyes good-naturedly, repeating the request to use a car. The grin that lights up his face informs you that he won’t let it go that easily.

“Why?” He questions innocently, batting his eyelashes.

“I need to go shopping,” you reply simply.

“For what?” is his reply. Something in his eyes makes you suspect that he already knows, but surely he can’t, because he’s sworn to you that he has no cameras in your room here.

“Stuff.” You can feel your cheeks heating up, the barest hint of a blush forming, and you can only hope he doesn’t notice.

His smirk informs you that he has, in fact, noticed, because of course he has. “What sort of stuff?”

Your blush deepens, and you fidget under his scrutiny. This shouldn’t be this hard to admit, not to Seven, of all people, yet it is. “Need a new bra,” you finally admit, your voice little more than a whisper as your eyes flicker down to the ground.

There is silence for a moment, and your traitorous brain immediately jumps to the worst possible conclusions. He’s decided that the fact that you even dared to mention something as secret and taboo as a bra is disgusting, as your brothers thought. He thinks you should just handle this yourself and not involve him in the process, as your ex did. He’s angry that you’re ashamed to tell him, as if you don’t trust him with it. You can feel the hot prick of tears in your eyes accompanying the last thought, because you trust him, of course you do, but the world has told you that this is something to be ashamed of.

Your spiraling thoughts are cut off as you hear the shuffling noises of him rising from his chair, followed by the soft sound of his footsteps on the carpet. His ratty sneakers soon appear in your line of vision on the floor in front of you, obscured by the tears that you furiously blink away. You flinch slightly as he takes your hands, but his thumbs immediately begin to rub soothing circles on the backs of them, so you relax quickly.

“Love. Baby. Sweetheart. Sugarblossom. Light of my life. The Honey Buddha chips to my PhD Pepper,” he murmurs, the nicknames getting increasingly ridiculous until you finally look up at him, fighting a small smile. You see nothing but love on his face, that dorky smile directed only at you, and your worries disappear. You know he can see the shine of tears in your eyes, but he doesn’t mention it because he knows better than to think that would help at all. He waits until you’re calm, looking at him trustingly, before he speaks again.

“I have been crossdressing for years. I promise you that I’m not afraid of bras,” he informs you. His voice is solemn, but the grin on his face is not, and the words startle a laugh out of you when you finally process them. His grin turns triumphant, and he pecks your cheek before dropping one of your hands in order to more easily hold the other. He hums happily as he drags you off down the hallway, and you can’t hold back a giggle as you follow. You can’t quite remember why you were afraid to tell him; goodness knows this dork would never let you feel bad about anything.

The two of you get most of the way to the spacious garage - where you had assumed you were going - before Seven abruptly changes his mind. You squeak, startled, as he pulls you in the opposite direction, but you follow obediently. He leads you through his room without pausing, and you’re just a little confused until he throws open the door to his closet with a flourish. There you see, across from his everyday clothes, a rather impressive collection of dresses, wigs, shoes, and - as he opens a drawer - yes, bras as well.

“Don’t think any of these would fit you,” he muses with an incredibly unsubtle glance down at your chest. “But there is absolutely nothing to be afraid of. Bras are great and you’re great and so we need to go get you the best possible bra,” he declares. He pauses just long enough to look briefly into your eyes, making sure you’re truly okay, before giving you another sunny grin and unceremoniously shoving you out of the closet.

You giggle helplessly as you stumble away, going to sit on his bed as the closet door swings closed behind you. You need only wait for a couple moments, and then he emerges, fixing the way that the bright red wig of ‘Mary Vanderwood 3rd’ rests on top of his own unruly red curls. The red hair clashes rather horribly with the pink on the shirt he’s changed into, which is some sort of blouse in the familiar colors of the bisexual flag, but he pretty clearly doesn’t care. He does a little twirl for you, the black skirt he’s wearing flying up just a little too far to be decent, and you can’t help the laughter that bubbles out of you. His antics have erased any trace of your earlier embarrassment, and his triumphant grin shows that he knows just what he’s accomplished.

“Come along, love! Time to go find lovely new bras for you and me!” He cheers, and you don’t even bother trying to point out that you only really need one new bra and the plural is unnecessary. He struts out of the room, looking far more confident in the impractical heels he’s wearing than you ever could. You hurry to follow, a bright smile on your face.

This time he actually does lead you to the garage, and he walks among his ‘babes’ indecisively. You wait silently, knowing that for whatever reason, his cars are important to him and choosing one to drive isn’t a process that can really be rushed. He pauses by his favorite cherry red Corvette convertible for a somewhat uncomfortably long moment, before sighing something about his hair and moving along. The white Porsche is next, and he runs a hand over it before moving on to his personal favorite. He pauses at his obscenely expensive Jaguar-patterned Jaguar, and gives you a grin because he knows just how tacky you think it is. You shake your head abruptly and point to the car nearest you - a relatively reasonable cobalt blue Mercedes. He sticks his tongue out and calls you a spoilsport, but obligingly gets in the car you’ve indicated and waits for you before starting the engine, which comes to life with a satisfying purr.

He drives you into town way too fast to be considered ‘safe’ or ‘legal’, but the both of you have exhilarated grins on your faces as the road flies by underneath you. He parks outside of the mall and leads you directly into Victoria’s Secret, with you following along behind him because he doesn’t give you much of a choice. He grabs a pink basket and begins to dart around the store, stopping only once to inquire about your bra size before he’s off again.

Your eyes widen as the collection in the basket grows in size, but your hesitant protests fall on deaf ears. He sing-songs something about “only the best for my darling,” and only when the basket is alarmingly full does he tug you back to the fitting rooms. The attendant briefly fusses about the number of bras, but Seven blinks his long lashes at her, and she lets the two of you into a room.

Seven’s shirt comes off immediately, revealing a lacy bra that he’s stuffed with who-knows-what. He then hangs the new collection of bras on the hook on the wall, all while you stand there, dumbfounded. Only when he looks at you expectantly do you shyly take off your own shirt, a flush on your face despite yourself. It’s not as if it’s anything he hasn’t seen before, but you’re acutely aware that you’re in public, which is a very different setting than when your shirts normally come off. The twinkle in his eye is a playful one, though, rather than seductive, and the only move he makes is to toss you an entirely impractical pink bra covered in sequins. “Start trying stuff on, babe,” he suggests with a wink, reaching into the pile of bras to try on one he picked out for himself.

You set aside the sequin bra - because really, it’s cute, but sequins on a bra just sounds like a horrible accident waiting to happen. You somewhat hesitantly reach for what appears to be a plain white bra, like the one you need to replace, but it turns out to be plasticky and holographic and really, you’re not sure what Seven was thinking with this one.

As if his attention was caught by you thinking his name, Seven turns to you, a grin lighting up his face when he sees which bra you’re holding. “Oh, you found that one! Isn’t it wonderful? It looks like a spacesuit! For a very specialized part of your body! Remember when we said we’d get married in the space station? It’s so perfect, I love that bra. We’re getting it for you if it fits. And I’m getting one too,” he gushes. You stare at him for one heartbeat, then two, wondering if he’s serious, but his bright grin doesn’t dim.

You slowly shake your head in disbelief, but of course you try on the bra. It fits well, much to his clear delight, so you silently resign yourself to the fact that your wardrobe will soon gain a spacesuit bra. “Whatever you say, Sev,” you agree warily, dropping the bra into the basket of bras that he seems to be buying for himself.

The two of you continue trying on bras until you’ve gone through the stack, a process that includes a great deal of giggles and compliments. The poor fitting room attendant gives you a bit of a nasty look when you finally emerge, no doubt assuming that the loud giggles were a result of some sort of messing around, but Seven simply gives her a sunny smile until she looks away. Her coworker, working the register, has a very different reaction to the two of you, her face lighting up as your boyfriend dumps hundreds of dollars worth of bras on the counter in front of her. He refuses to let you pay for your own - now that he has you in his life, his ridiculous amounts of money go towards spoiling you rather than buying more babes to fill up his garage. He glances only briefly at the total before swiping his card as the salesperson carefully slides the bras into the signature pink bags, which she then hands to the two of you.

When you arrive home, you spread the new bras out on your bed and sigh at the ridiculousness of it all. You did manage to get the plain white bra you actually needed, but thanks to Seven’s amusing reactions, you also have a couple new lacy ones that he threatened a nosebleed over. You also have the ‘spacesuit’ bra that matches his, much to his delight. You run your fingers over the plasticky surface of the last one, before looking back to grin at your boyfriend. “Maybe if we buy Jaehee one of these, too, she’ll actually come to the wedding,” you remark with a giggle. His eyes light up, and he’s on the phone to order one as soon as you finish the sentence.


He is entirely too delighted by the angry voicemail he receives days later when the bra is delivered to her.