#so i’m basically posting about them for documentation

[frothingatthemaw]

before i started smoking i asked 🪽⚫️ if it were okay for me to start and it just pulled me closer from behind, scooted me closer to him, kissed my neck with a smile, and said “yeah, as long as you don’t over do it like your mum said.” and it just sat and watched me, is still watching me. i’m.

[falesten-iw]

To Those Who Still Hold Onto a Shred of Morality and Humanity - Stand with Us and Don’t Forget Us.

Over 40,000 lives have been lost, with 70% of them being children and women. Among these numbers are my own family members—many of whom I’ve already lost.

My family, my cousin, aunt, their children, and grandchildren were all directly targeted by Israeli airstrikes. I’m sharing a video of my aunt and cousin to reveal the harsh reality we are facing in Gaza. In this video, my aunt bravely shares her story about how the Israeli army airstruck them along with their children and grandchildren. Even if you don’t understand Arabic, just watching her speak will help you grasp the immense suffering we are enduring in Gaza. You can see the vedeo in this post.

The few family members who remain are in grave danger, and I’m terrified of losing them too. We have a chance to make a real difference and give my 24 surviving family members a chance to live.

In Gaza, jobs are non-existent, and nonprofit organizations like the UN have drastically reduced their work on the ground. Basic necessities such as milk, food, and medicine are almost as expensive as gold. My family is struggling to afford even the essentials, and my mother urgently needs medication that we simply cannot afford.

I’m also sharing another video that shows the daily struggle people face just to get clean water. The suffering here extends far beyond my family; it’s a genocide affecting every aspect of life in Gaza.

Thanks to the generosity of those who have already donated, we’ve raised $535 toward our goal of $190,363- august 17th. I’m deeply grateful to each of you, but we still have a long way to go, and I need your help more than ever. Imagine if it were your family—how would you feel if they were in this situation?

For those who have created special posts or reblogged to amplify my voice, thank you from the bottom of my heart. Your support means everything to me and to my family. If you haven’t yet shared our story, please take just one minute to do so. Your voice could be the lifeline my family desperately needs.

You cannot continue to treat human lives as mere numbers. This is a genocide that demands immediate action. How many more should be killed before you all wake up? Will 40,000 lives be enough to stir us to action? 50,000? 100,000? 150,000?

Asking for donations and charity is something we never imagined having to do in Gaza before the war, and it’s heartbreaking that it has come to this. But if everyone who saw my last post donated just $10 or $20, we could reach our goal in no time. If you’re looking for a way to contribute, consider giving up your coffee, tea, or other “cup” for one day, one week, one month, or anything in between. Then, donate what you would have spent to help me. Please help us and donate now!

This is about more than just donations—it’s about preserving human lives and upholding our shared moral values. Your contribution can make a world of difference in our survival and ensure I don’t lose more of the people I love.

Demanding an end to this suffering is a matter of basic humanity. You cannot remain neutral in the face of such genocide. Please, let’s stand together. Enough is enough.

Every donation, no matter how small, brings us closer to hope and healing. Thank you again for your kindness and support. I will never forget it.

Vetted and shared by @90-ghost: Link.

Verified and shared by @el-shab-hussein: Link

Listed even as number 282 in "The Vetted Gaza Evacuation Fundraiser Spreadsheet" compiled by @el-shab-hussein and @nabulsi : Link

Additionally, Al Jazeera News has documented apart of my family's case: Link

Important note: ** 105 Swedish kr is just 10$ ** 1050 Swedish kr is just 100$ ** 10500 Swedish kr is just 1000$

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[hannie-dul-set]

fire and brimstone (and you’re a moth made of gasoline) — FIVE.

SYNOPSIS. having fought tooth and nail out of high school, university, and law school, only to end up working for a law firm that basically serves as a clean up dog after the biggest organized crime group in the district, you thought you couldn’t get any lower than this. 

the bar is in hell, and yet you’ve managed to limbo six feet beneath that. alternatively— na jaemin is the personification of hell, and your very existence just makes him even worse than he already is. 

PAIRING. na jaemin x female! reader. GENRE. gang! au, lawyer! au, office! au, comedy, drama, romance, very light angst, this is a sitcom, hate to love(?), a somewhat questionable power dynamic, asshole! jaemin (my beloved…my kryptonite…) but he’s also an idiot, jaemin has an eye contact thing, inspired by the manhwas “weak hero” and “study group.” WARNINGS. an abundance of criminal activity (including but not limited to organized crime, fraud, blackmail, DUIs, unethical and illegal occupational practices, etc.), blood and violence, suggestive themes, eventual non explicit sex, jaemin with a tattoo, legal inaccuracies because i am not familiar with south korean laws, so i’m just using my own country’s as reference. also because this is just a stupid thirst fic. who gives a damn. WORD COUNT. 8.3k.

NOTE. landlord identity theft case was adopted from this reddit post that i heard on a podcast HAHHAHAH. anyway, there’s a bit less action in this one and a bit more set-up, but things do get heating in the latter part of this chapter so i hope that satiates you, my fellow freaks. as usual, please please do drop in your thoughts and comments! enjoy! NEXT CHAPTER TO BE PUBLISHED.

EVER SINCE YOU GOT BACK TO WORK ON THURSDAY, THE MURMURS WOULDN’T STOP. You’re not sure how it started or who started it, but you’re pretty sure some kind of information had been circulating while you were on your short leave because when a Yoosun employee came to your office early in the morning to pick up some documents— first thing on your agenda since coming back— his eyes immediately darted to your fucked up, bandaged up hands, and his face paled. He then proceeded to cover the upper half of his face as he warily walked up to the documents on your desk like he’s trying to evade a wild animal.

“I—I’ll be delivering these now, attorney, th—thank you! I wasn’t looking at you at all!”

Then he darted off like a rabbit being hunted down.

What the fuck?

That wasn’t the only instance. Every time you crossed paths with a Nalkeutta member that isn’t Mark or any of the executives, they’d immediately scurry away and avoid your gaze— even when you’re just trying to politely greet them. It started to annoy you, so you cornered Renjun to ask him if there’s something you should know about. 

He explained that since you requested Mark to keep your whole stalker situation under wraps because it was personal, people had to fill in the gaps to supply the reason for your few days of absence. However the words “multiple injuries,” and “police station,” and “hospital bills,” managed to slip past the sworn secrecy, and the story somehow got twisted to you getting into a bar fight the night of your welcome party, and your poor victim got beaten half to death.

Apparently your messed up hands and unscathed face served as a confirmation to your alleged brutality. The cause couldn’t be attributed to your stalker, so everyone had to use their imagination. Now, there’s an ongoing rumor that you jumped a bar patron just because he was giving you eyes and it pissed you off.

“Is that how everyone perceives me?” you gawk in wonder and mild offense at their characterization of you.

“You walk around the halls looking like you’re one the way to kill someone, don’t act surprised when people start assuming that you already have.”

“Oh, come on! I did not kill him! He just barely got out of a concussion!”

Your mistake is deciding to corner Renjun in the breakroom— where everyone is free to enter and hear your gradually escalating conversation. You notice his Hyeongshin subordinates hesitating to walk in, looking like a group of deer in headlights and immediately avoiding your gaze the moment you direct your gaze, and they scatter off into the wilderness with murmured sorry’s and excuse me’s.

You realize that you just admitted to the crime they were alleging. Doesn’t matter if the facts got mixed up because at the end of the day, you did assault someone, you did do something out of your own character, and you do recognize the mirrored image that your actions reflected. 

Before this, everyone was just mildly intimidated by you, your freshly ironed blazers, and your three-inch heels. Now, they’re all avoiding you and your gaze as if you’re some sort of batshit loose cannon like Na Jaemin.

That’s where most of the offense comes from.

“I just got really pissed off! I didn’t know what came over me!”

To bring yourself back down to normalcy, you decide to take advantage of the contact that had been recently added to your phone that you’ve yet to contact since— which is why you’re currently sitting in an Instagram staple bakery at the university district of Yeongdeungpo, Natty trying her best to nod along with your rapid fire complaints, and the fact that she’s having trouble trying to keep up and catch the questionable shit in your rhetoric might be a silver-lining. 

“Don’t feel too bad, the creep deserved it,” she tries to assure, but it doesn’t pull through.

“I don’t feel bad nor do I feel guilty, but I do feel like a fucking barbarian and the way my co-workers look at me certainly isn’t helping my case.” She watches as you sink down with a groan and wallow in your yerba mate, totally clueless on what to say to make you feel better, but your despair is unsalvageable. “Someone even had to see me go apeshit. So fucking humiliating.”

“Were they a co-worker?” she asks. “Did that person yap to the rest of your office?”

“No, he’s the devil, but I’m pretty sure he kept his mouth shut at the very least,” you wail, face in your hands. If he did, then the narrative that you’re volatile and crazy wouldn’t be running around. 

She cocks her head. “Isn’t that a good thing…?”

You pull up your face, revealing a grimace. “There’s nothing good about that freak. Natty, he was treating me like shit for weeks then suddenly switched gears when I swore at his face because I had enough of his shit. Who the fuck does that? He watched me beat the shit out of a grown man and thought it was hot. I didn’t even ask about it. He just aired out his kinks unwarranted, like, what the hell?”

She does not need to know that you’re talking about Na Jaemin. And she surely does not need to know about the fact that you’re under the same illegal company as him— your shared high school tormentor. 

“If you like someone, don’t you wanna make things easier for them? But this guy seems to enjoy turning my work life into a living hell. Do you know how much overtime I had to take just because of him? God, It’s like he gets off of seeing me suffering and in pain. It just gets more confusing after he helped me with the whole stalker death threat situation.” And considering your history with him. You groan and massage the wrinkles on your forehead. “I have no idea how to deal with him. If I ignore him, he acts up. If I get mad, he eats it up like a psycho and does more shit to piss me off even more. What the hell am I supposed to do?”

You realize you’ve been rambling and flinch up to observe your companion’s reception. Surprisingly, she seems to be thinking deeply about it, a hum rolling off her tongue as she ponders over your situation, and you’re a little nervous that she’s gonna grill you about the identity of this guy, or something.

“Well, first of all—”

There’s a wash of relief when he doesn’t ask about his name. 

“—is he hot?”

And that relief is immediately punted out the window to make room for your sheer and visceral discomfort at that single insinuation, of which you try your best to hide from your face. The ghost of Na Jaemin replaces the image of Natty sitting before you— an apparition of the breakfast you shared with him against your will thanks to a brief moment of value-drigen weakness. That blunt, as-a-matter-of-factness in the manner he admitted to his attraction. Completely unabashed like a self-assured asshole. That fucking smirk pisses you off to the depths of hell.

“He’s not ugly,” you grit, waving the parasitic image of him away. Natty’s eyes immediately sparkle. Like she’d only been trying to be interested before but now she’s actually, genuinely interested. 

“Good enough,” she chirps. “If that’s the case, then just seduce him!”

What?

“Take advantage of his feelings! Don’t let him take control!” Her pure, unbridled enthusiasm is catching you off guard. “Does he piss you off just to get your attention?”

“Uhh, apparently…?”

“Great, then you gotta exploit that.” Suddenly, she’s tugging you out of your quaint cafe chair and dragging you out of the bakery like a woman on a newfound mission. “First thing’s first— shopping. C’mon, I know just the place.”

“I’m sorry, but what the hell led you to that conclusion?”

Natty stops to look at you like a disappointed mentor. “Honey, flirting is essentially psychological warfare. You gotta arm yourself in order to disarm the other person— which means we gotta update your wardrobe from flat and plain business casual to skirting the line of an office porno if you want him on his knees and doing everything you say. Don’t let him have the upper hand, girl. It’s time to retaliate.”

You really hate that she’s kind of making sense, but you’re not very keen on abandoning your workplace appropriate clothing in a building full of men— even when 80% of them have now been instilled with the fear that you may be a maneater— so you manage to stop Natty halfway from dragging you all the way to the boutique by pulling her attention to a trinket kiosk stationed near Byuksan High School. 

“I need a new phone strap. Help me pick one out.”

You’re a professional in your mid-twenties. It’s not very gratifying to voluntarily join a bunch of teenage prep students whose schoolbags are heavily weighted by a despicable amount of keyrings, but you will if you must.

“I never pegged you as an accessory girlie,” Natty muses, jangling a string of pink charms and beads in the air to show off to you.

You snatch it from her, and toss it back onto the display baskets. “That’s because I have an image to maintain and that image has no room for bubblegum pink. Hand me that black chain one.”

“How does this translate to your image?”

“As a miserable reminder of how I’m chained to my job.”

Natty laughs and continues digging around the kiosk’s assortment of displays. You notice the very indiscreet stares of judgement from the highschool girls you and Natty are congregating with as you pay for your new phone strap, as well as a funny looking dog keychain that you think Haechan might appreciate. When the standowner hands you the paperbag of your purchases, however, you notice her looking past you with a disappointed expression on her face, clicking her tongue and shaking her head the moment you finish the transaction.

“Tsk. These hooligans just keep acting out in broad daylight. Someone oughta call the cops on these delinquents.”

Huh. You turn your head to where she’s looking at, and there you notice— from the sliver of an alleyway— a group of seven to eight Byuksan students cackling and surrounding someone or something. Then you direct your gaze to the school gates with the very evident Byuksan High logo decorating the iron bars to confirm. Byuksan has never been part of Nalkeutta’s union. You shouldn’t be in an area with active gang activity. They’re probably just a group of juvenile bullies picking on a classmate.

If that were indeed the case, you would have left right now.

But then you notice that the two people the Byuksan students are ganging up on are wearing the glaring set of red blazers that you’re far too familiar with—

“Whoa aren’t those two kids from Ganghak? What are they doing here?”

—and then your stomach drops. Because those two kids are from Ganghak. Not just students from Ganghak— you’ve seen them at the fucking office building before. Park Jisung and Oh Sion, clearly troubled by the situation because no matter how skilled of a fighter you are, eight people is way too much to handle. 

The former is carrying a large duffel bag with him. Oh, for fuck’s sake, are they out on a job? You feel a headache coming. You bring a hand to your head and grit your teeth. This is trouble. This is gonna be so much trouble if they don’t manage to get out of this.

“Hey, are you feeling okay?”

“I’m fine,” you breathe out as an internal debate is going on in your mind. Eight boys. A very enclosed space. What the fuck can you even do in this situation? God damn it all. “Natty, hold onto this for a sec.”

“Wait, where are you— hey!”

She yanks you back the moment she realizes you’re headed straight to the alley. You look back at her face riddled with alarm. “What are you doing?! Don’t tell me you’re actually planning on intervening. High schoolers are terrifying these days! They don’t give a shit if you’re a girl or an adult. Those punks might actually hurt you, you know.”

“Don’t worry, I have a plan.” No you fucking don’t. At least not yet. You’ll figure it out on the way there. “Just— ugh. Can you take a video from here? Make sure to get a clear shot of the Byuksan kids’ faces. And whatever happens, don’t even think about calling the police. Don’t.”

Natty looks baffled yet at the same time in awe. And then lets go of you with a relenting sigh. “Why are you even doing this?”

You blink. “...Alumni spirit?”

Now, you didn’t expect that to elicit any kind of effect, but Natty for some reason appears touched by the bullshit you just pulled out of your ass, and you suddenly feel guilty. “Is that…is that why you helped me out too?” she says with glassy eyes. “Gosh, you’re such a good person, you’re so cool. Go do your thing, attorney. I’ll back you up from here.”

Did she forget that you literally had no idea who she was until she spelled it out for you? However, there is no time to clear up the misunderstanding that you are, in fact, not the good person that she thinks you are because those two Ganghak kids might lose a bunch of inventory at any moment and subsequently lose their lives to either Mark or Na Jaemin— which just translates to more work for you in case it really does happen.

So before you can even iron out a plan, your feet are already racing towards the crevice, open phone in hand, and you dive in head first to whatever mess this is gonna be.

“Whoa. What kind of extracurricular activity is this?”

Catch their attention. Catch them off guard because what could be more bewildering than an adult woman in pumps suddenly sauntering into a clear bullying ring— swiveling her phone camera to catch their nametags and faces. 

“Let’s see, who do we have here? Lee Hyunsung, Jeon Sangwoo, Cheong Jitae, and—”

“Hey, lady, what do you think you’re doing?”

One of them smacks your hand away the moment your phone nears his face. The kid looks a little annoyed and confused. Mostly confused. You sigh and pocket your phone. “I should be asking you the same thing.” Your eyes flit over to Jisung and Sion. They are also very confused, but mostly nervous— probably because you showed up. They looked like they were ready to throw hands prior to your interrupt, but that wouldn’t have ended in any way good at all.

This is not in your fucking job description. Whatever. 

“You eight are clearly ganging up on these two boys over here. Don’t you know that bullying is a punishable offense? You boys should hurry along if you don’t want to ruin your college applications.”

The one in front of you— who you assume is their leader— just scoffs at your threat, eliciting the same amount of ridicule from the rest of his posse. “Seriously? Lady, these Ganghak bitches are walking around in our territory in broad daylight like they own the place or some shit. We’re just trying to teach them a proper lesson on respect and decorum.”

Your mouth twitches, a slight waver in the expression you’ve been maintaining. “Wow. Territory. Are you kids in some kind of gang or something? That’s an even graver crime. If I were you, I’d just let Ganghak off and protect the future I have in store.”

“Hah.” He juts his face forward, further into yours. You don’t flinch. “Or else what? You gonna report us, old lady?”

The other seven cackle. Your jaw clenches. Alright, that’s it. These kids are gonna fucking get it.

“Go ahead. But you gotta know that my dad’s a police officer— and he patrols this area. You can report us if you want but it ain’t gonna do shit, lady. This is our turf you’re on.”

You look at his nametag. Shin Hyunwoo. A smile curls on your lips. “Really?” Suddenly, all the confidence he’s wearing flinches the moment he’s forced to meet your gaze. You still have your phone out. You let him watch as you dial 119 for all of them to hear. “Wanna test your luck, kid?”

R—iiiiiiing. Ri—

“Yeongdeungpo Police Station. What’s your emergency?”

This is a gamble. A very risky gamble, but you’re pretty confident in your cards after being acquainted with the deck.

“Hey, can you get Officer Jung on the line? It’s important.”

The person from the other end of the line chokes upon recognizing your voice that the entire station is probably sick of at this point. “A—attorney!” And at that moment, your victory is sealed as horror and realization dawns upon the faces of most of the kids— all except their ringleader before you. “Y—yes, of course, one moment, please—”

A moment’s pause. 

“Attorney, is there a problem? What do you need?”

Maybe you should have actually taken Officer Jung’s number last time. He’s proving to be very useful.

“Officer Jung,” you make sure to greet with an abundance of familiarity. You make sure to look at this Shin Hyunwoo kid as you do. “I just wanted to ask a question. Is there an Officer Shin in your station?”

All that confident, pubescent bravado slowly melts away. “Well, yes, we have three. Shin Haesu, Shin Junsik, and Shin Byungkwan.” The moment Shin Hyunwoo winces at the exact moment Jaehyun pronounces the last name, you know you have your guy. “Why do you ask?”

“Ah, well,” you exhale with a smile. “Between you and Officer Shin Byungkwan— who’s higher in rank.”

You’re met with one second of silence before Officer Jung finally responds with, “That would be me.” Thank god he’s going along without any question. Is this what Natty was talking about? “Officer Shin is just a patrol officer.”

Fucking jackpot.

“Thank you, that’s all I needed to know! Have a great day, officer!”

The call ends. You drop your hand and look at Shin Hyunwoo who’s red in the face and about to piss himself in embarrassment, and when you look around, the rest of his friends aren’t faring any better. One of them looks more pissed than anything and is about to lunge at you with a punch when you raise a hand to stop him.

“Land that punch and a police report is gonna go through. You think I came here alone?” The kid stumbles, biting down his tongue in anger. You sigh and run your fingers through your hair. “Seriously, you had to pull this stunt in broad fucking daylight with a bunch of people out and about. I have your names and faces. Try anything funny and you can kiss your future goodbye.”

You settle a tap on Shin Hyunwoo’s shoulder, who flinches upon contact.

“Now get lost.”

Somehow, your intervention worked. The eight Byuksan delinquents run off, but not without at least one of them calling you an old lady again and flipping you off. You remind yourself that you are an adult with adult-level maturity. Park Jisung and Oh Sion look at your approaching figure cautiously. “A—attorney,” the former greets with a bow, still clutching the duffel bag close. The latter sees this and mirrors his actions. You settle a few steps in front of them, arms crossed with a hefty release of breath.

“Is it only the two of you?”

“Y—yes. Jaemin hyung-nim sent us to pick up the commission and contracts from K Company.”

“Seriously?” What was that bastard thinking sending these two kids alone to lug around a giant sack of cash? Is he trying to test them, or something? Or maybe he just doesn’t give a fuck and sent the first two people he saw. That seems to match his personality more. Regardless this could have ended really badly. “Anyway, are you two headed back to Nalkeutta now?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Stop being so stiff,” you huff, pulling out your phone to text Natty that all is good, and that she should go ahead because you offered to drive the Ganghak kids home. She responds almost immediately with puppy dog eye emojis and more gracious compliments about your goodwill and kindness. You shudder as a chill runs down your spine. “Well, let’s go. My car’s parked nearby. It’d be quicker and safer to just drive back to the office.”

The two follow you like a pair of lost ducklings. They settle into the backseat, not budging a single word even when you start the engine and start driving.

It’s only when you pull up in front of the company building that Oh Sion musters up his voice to say, “Attorney,” he starts. “You’re so cool.”

Your fingers twitch against the steering wheel. Your eyes flit up to the mirror to see the two boys looking at you with something akin to admiration in their eyes— respect, perhaps. You’re not quite sure. It’s new. Especially considering how your image has been tanked thus far.

“Wanna be cool like me?”

You settle an elbow over the seatrest, cocking your head to look at the two boys with a smile. Their eyes glimmer expectantly. You huff out a laugh.

“Quit Nalkeutta and get back to fucking school.”

That’s when you unlock the car doors and shoo them off. You don’t want to go back in there after already clocking out for the day. They bow goodbye from outside and you wave them goodbye, driving off. 

You thought that’d be the last you’ll be seeing of those kids. Yet the next morning, you catch them loitering in front of your office, occasionally peeking through blinds as if you can’t see them, but you can. You very much can. It’s very hard to focus on drafting your contracts when there are two meerkats popping out intermittently through your office window. 

“What do those two idiots want?” 

Narrowing your eyes into the top of Park Jisung’s head peeking through the crack in the blinds, you’re just about ready to get up, get out, and just ask them what their deal is, but before your ass even leaves the comfortable cushion of your office chair, the door is sprung open— revealing the two boys being barrelled into your office by one Na Jaemin.

“Move it, move your fucking feet— oh, hey, attorney.”

To say that you’re unimpressed by the sight before you is an understatement. “First of all, learn to knock.” Na Jaemin simply brandishes you with a grin and a shrug. You give up with a sigh. “Second of all, what do you want?”

“Not me,” he answers, referring to the nervous pair that is Oh Sion and Park Jisung, who both swallow down a gulp in sync the moment Na Jaemin throws his arms around their shoulders. “These two have been hesitating to knock for the past thirty fucking minutes to the point that it got annoying. Thought they needed a little push and a shove.”

“How thoughtful,” you flatly say.

“What a good boss should be,” he muses a little too gratifyingly.  

You roll your eyes as you switch the gears of your attention. “So, what is it?”

The two engage in a quiet argument for a moment before Jisung shoots Sion a look, and the latter finally grits up the courage to speak, albeit still nervous. “There’s—there’s just something I wanted to ask you, attorney. You know, as a professional…?” 

This piques your interest. What kind of legal concerns would a high school gang member be facing?

“Go ahead.”

“Well, uh, hypothetically— if you find out that your landlord has been using your identity to apply for credit card loans…and when you find out and confront him about it, he threatens to file an eviction against you if you choose to press charges—”

Well, okay.

“Can he— can he do that?”

Oh Sion bats his eyes at you expectantly. You are, quite frankly, taken aback. 

“Attorney…?”

Man, you were expecting a girl problem or a teacher inflicting corporal punishment. Not a whole fraud and identity theft case. “Sit down,” you grunt, beckoning him closer. Then your tired eyes flit over to Na Jaemin, whose attention seems to be provoked by the issue, so your mouth twitches into a sneer. “Jisung, you can stay. You. Get out.”

“C’mon, let me stay,” he whines, tromping over to land a hand onto your desk, leaning over. “This sounds interesting. I wanna see you attorneying this shit up.”

Natty’s advice wanders into your brain. Does he piss you off just to get your attention? Great, then you gotta exploit that. You gotta use everything within your disposal to make life in hell a bit more bearable.  

“Na Jaemin.” 

You start your first attempt at testing the waters— which is honestly a little nerve-wracking considering there’s always a chance of this biting you in the ass in the future. 

But, fuck it. What more do you have to lose?

“I’ll have lunch with you tomorrow if you fuck off for the entire day. What do you say?”

The way Na Jaemin’s gaze shifts nearly makes you regret it at that very instance.

“Drinks,” he counter-offers.

What a pain in the ass. “Dinner,” you grit.

“Dinner tonight,” he presses. Then something on your desk catches his attention— which he promptly swipes and jangles in the air. “And this ugly dog thing.”

That ugly dog thing was supposed to be for Haechan, but whatever. “Alright,” you accept in defeat. “But you give me two days of peace instead of one. How does that sound?”

He flashes teeth at you, already taking a step back. “Deal.”

“Great. Now fuck off.”

Na Jaemin finally leaves your office, leaving behind two confused kids, staring at you like what the hell just happened. Park Jisung has been working here for a bit— even before Mark officially acquired you— so it must have been a bone-chilling shock to his boss to act like that. However, that is none of your concern, nor do you give a fuck about the image he’s projecting to his subordinates. “Sion-ah,” you turn. “Can you tell me more about your whole landlord situation?”

Park Sion tells you that it’s his father’s identity that their landlord has been using, and they’d only found out last month after receiving a letter in the mail that they owed a credit card company almost a million won— from an account his father never opened. This was followed by another letter from a different company. Sion doesn’t know exactly how it happened from simply overhearing conversations between his parents, but apparently their landlord had been using his dad’s name to open those accounts.

“I’ve only been eavesdropping since. They haven’t exactly brought it up to me so I don’t know the details…” he continues, trailing off hesitantly, looking down to his lap because he seems to be having trouble meeting your gaze. “We—we don’t have the money for a lawyer or anything, so I thought I could come to you for some advice, attorney. I—I understand if you don’t want to, though! Sorry, I—I just wanted to take my chances.”

You inhale sharply. Man. For fuck’s sake.

“Ugh.”

You’re not a charity worker. You’re not a god forsaken saint. You’re not motherfucking Mother Teresa. You have enough shit on your plate as is and playing pro bono for this case won’t do you any favors. You’re already neck deep and paperwork and you certainly have no intention of getting buried further underneath.

But—

“Um…attorney…? Is everything okay…?”

You sigh. You groan. You swing over to a drawer on your desk to fish out a business card sliding the same over your desk. You’re not happy about this, and that fact is definitely showing through your face. “Take this. Tell your parents to give me a call.”

Oh Sion jolts in his seat, blinking in disbelief. “Really?”

You’re really, really not happy about this, but your karma is bad enough already. Denying a kid in desperation would make you less than human at this point. You might be set on going to hell already, so the least you can do is hold onto the barest sliver of your humanity. “Yeah, just take it before I change my mind. If that’s all, then you two— shoo. Go. Leave. I still have work to do.”

Before you can wrack your brain about how in the world you’re gonna organize your planner spreadsheet from this point forward, Park Jisung, who’d been doing but being a silent pillar of support for Sion this entire time, adds another serving of stress to your already full plate.

“Attorney?” he raises, Oh Sion already halfway out the door while he remains inside. “Can I ask you something?”

“What is it this time?” you grunt, not even looking at him in order to preemptively nurse your incoming headache with a pen massaging circles into your temple as you continue your mental laments. Why hasn’t cloning been invented yet? Do you have to convince Mark to add another person to your department? That’s the only possible way you can handle Sion’s case without gumming things up in Nalkeutta. If that’s the case, then—

“Um...did you attend Ganghak in high school?”

The pen makes a hollow clatter against your desk.

“What?”

A million thoughts filter into your head in one, quick flicker. 

“Close the door,” you say after a second’s pause. “How do you know that, Jisung-ah?”

“It’s just that…I saw some of the past yearbooks before, and I kinda recognized you when the boss was giving you a tour of the building,” he says before a tight swallow. You drill your eyes into him. He looks away. “And I, uh, also saw that you were in the same graduating class as Jaemin hyung-nim.”

This is great. This is so great for you. Fucking fantastic. You want to quit and die.

“I see,” you answer. You ponder. Every second of silence that passes adds another bead of sweat to Park Jisung’s forehead. Your fingernails clatter against the polished table of your desk. You look at him when you admit, “I did attend Ganghak for my last two years of high school. And I was in Na Jaemin’s class.”

There’s no point in denying it. 

“This is a pretty funny coincidence, isn’t it? But I’d appreciate it if you keep this information to yourself, Jisung-ah.”

The only thing you can do now is damage control.

“O—oh! Yes, of course, attorney. I was just curious. I guess that would explain why you and Jaemin hyung-nim seemed so close.”

Close. You mask your sour feelings with a stiff smile. “Don’t mention this to him either. I’m not very fond of talking about my educational background. I’m only humoring you because you seem like a nice kid from my alma mater.” He nods profusely. You press your lips together even more. “Now run along. If Sion asks what’s keeping you, tell him you were just asking me how to apply for a driver’s license without parents’ consent.”

“Yes, ma’am! Thank you!”

The door shuts. At that very moment, you feel your shoulder melt as you sink into your chair.

Everything’s gotten fucked since you took Na Jaemin as a client. There’s no inherent issue about you going to Ganghak for a few years. The problem lies in the fact that during those years, you were Na Jaemin’s fucking alarm clock that he didn’t give enough of a shit to even remember. If he does remember, then he wouldn’t be ever so desperately trying to get in your pants at present. He’d be forcing your dignity down your throat the moment you blew up on him because what kind of alarm clock dares to look him in the eye?

He didn’t respect you enough to treat you like a human being back then. And if someone triggers that sense of recollection in him— you’d be done for. 

He’s already a shitty co-worker as is, but at least you have his shitty feelings for you to take advantage of. If that’s overruled by the memory of you being his subservient, walking, talking, inanimate pushover of an alarm clock, then you’d have lost your sole and single leverage over him. Zero. None.

But there’s only one instance in which you’d even consider telling him about his forgotten history with you—

“Ugh.”

Your eyes flit over to your wall clock. Nine forty-three. Seven more hours before your dinner at gun point with him.

“I should pack some digestive pills.”

—and that’s if he ends up falling down, down the line of being far too in love with you to even care about that history. The odds aren’t in your favor. So you just have to continue living as is until your bluff wears out.

*ㅤ

“Your taste in restaurants doesn’t match the trash regularly spewing out of your mouth.” 

That doesn’t mean you’d be acting like a doormat, though.

“Just shut the fuck up and eat, you ungrateful shit.”

You stick your tongue out before digging into the steak dinner he’s paying for. He says he thought you were a pushover until you started him like shit— so you might as well continue treating him like shit and sprinkle him the occasional bouts of positive attention, if that’s what gets him off. And what better way to tick off an egotistical freak than by talking about other men in front of him? 

“Hey,” you start, wadding off the sauce lingering on your lips. “How receptive would Mark be if I bring in another lawyer into the company?”

Your theory is proven by the way his eyebrows twitch at the mere mention of Mark. “Fuck if I know,” he sneers, pointing an accusatory fork at you. “I take you to a nice, fancy dinner and the first thing you talk about is work. Is that all you plan on talking about?”

“Duh. Take a look at my workload. Do you think I have a life outside of this shitty job?”

Na Jaemin simply stifles a low chuckle at your bitter declaration, continuing to pick apart his meal.

“At least this pays better than the last one,” you sigh, continuing to wake your fork around. Your dinner companion seems to be enjoying your tragic monologue. “I swear. The moment I save up enough money, I’m gonna dip, move countries, change my name and buy a new identity so that Mark Lee won’t be able to chase me down.”

He swallows down a mouthful of food. “Should you be telling me all this?”

You snort, beckoning a waiter to refill your wine. “Why, are you gonna snitch on me to your owner? You’re more obedient than I thought.”

That provocation ticks him ever the slightest— evident in the strain on his jaw despite the apparent grin. You down your drink to mask a flinch of nervousness, but you push forward, setting the glass down as you lift your head up, batting your eyes prettily at him with a sweet smile as if you hadn’t just demeaned him. This catches him off guard, and whatever bite he was about to snark dissipates with a cough from him as he peers to the side and tugs on his collar, waving the same waiter for a glass of water, but in a much less polite manner than you did.

There’s a tug on your lips. Natty was right. You gotta make sure to give him a treat at least once a day so he doesn’t act out as an attempt to get your attention again.

“Na Jaemin,” you hum, eyeing him carefully. “Aren’t you curious about what your subordinates came to me for this morning?”

“Not really,” he answers half-heartedly. “Did they kill someone, or some shit?”

“Wow. Such a great boss,” you drawl. “They were your Ganghak juniors, you know.” 

That was a fishing line. Just to get a read on what exactly he feels about his alma mater, which in turn may make your case better or worse in light of the fact that he doesn’t remember his history with you.

“So?” He simply raises a brow. “Am I supposed to give a shit?”

Yeah, you shouldn’t have expected anything more from him. “Whatever. Anyway—”

A phone call interrupts. As in, the default iPhone ringtone blaring from Na Jaemin’s pocket, which triggers his annoyance, but he pulls it out anyway to answer with a pissed off, “What?”

You pick apart your mashed potatoes while observing the way Na Jaemin’s expression twists and shifts from his usual hot-tempered annoyance, to being annoyed-confused, and then annoyed-stressed, based on the way he hisses into the phone while digging a claw into his hair. 

“The fuck do you mean Lucy is vomitting?”

Oh. Oh, wow. 

“I gave you one fucking job, you useless son of a—” His fit is extinguished by a loud groan, slumping back into his chair. You continue eating your food with heightened interest. This is a new look. This is nice. “Listen,” he continues into the phone, practically spitting venom. “You better be there when I get home. If you run away, I’ll kill you twice over.” Then he angrily sets his phone down on the table with a clatter.

You perk up with a curious gaze. “Trouble at home?”

Na Jaemin lets out a disappointed exhale. “As much as I’d hate to cut our date short, attorney—”

“Not a fucking date.”

“Yeah, whatever, I don’t give a fuck,” he dismissively says, focused on the watch on his wrist as he picks up his coat from the back of the chair. “I gotta go check on my daughter and stomp on the useless fuck I left to babysit her. Fucking son of a bitch.”

Well, that’s news. “You have a kid?”

“Yeah. Three.” He flashes you his phone screen. There are indeed three— three cats, that is. You buffer for a moment. The dots refuse to connect. He retrieves his phone before your brain finishes processing. “I was gonna give you a ride home, but—”

“I brought my car, It’s fine. Just go.” The mutt is a cat dad. Of fucking course. That makes sense. No it fucking doesn't. It’s almost terrifying to see him care for another living being. “And don’t forget about our deal.”

All he does is flash you a smile before dipping. What the fuck does that mean?

Whatever the case, when you finish your meal and attempt to bill out, you’re informed that everything’s been taken care of by the, quote-unquote, gentleman you were dining with. It really doesn’t sit well within your stomach that Na Jaemin now has you in debt— or maybe he’s doing this on purpose to manipulate you into spending more time with him. What a sneaky bastard.

Anyhow, the next morning, you’re deadset on fixing a solution to your excessive workload problem. So the first thing you do after clocking in is traversing the sets of stairs that lead to Mark’s office in order to negotiate the idea of bringing in a second lawyer into the company. You’d already texted your candidate last night and have arranged a friendly meeting later this afternoon. You don’t foresee any reason for Mark to object.

“There’s no issue with having another person onboard your team,” was Mark’s response to your concern. “But the main point of conversation is trust, attorney. I’m sure you know what I mean.”

“I know,” you say. “I’ll be sure to vet you a trustworthy candidate.”

He gleams at you. “I look forward to it.”

The moment you leave Mark’s office, your lungs are refilled with a dose of air. “Great. Good. This is great,” you release with a huff, marching towards the staircase to the third floor.

You’ve stopped using the elevator since whenever you end up riding the same flight as anyone other than Mark or the four executives, they end up sweating like buckets as if they’d been trapped in the same room as an axe-murderer. It’s not very self-esteem boosting whenever your elevator companions immediately bolt off the second the doors crack open. You’d much rather take the extra effort than be implicitly insulted to your face.

The problem with this is that you have to pass by the stinky, sweaty gym to get back to your floor. And you’re just unfortunate enough to bump into Na Jaemin just as he’s finished his morning workout session.

“Oh.”

Your eyes meet. You flinch and shoot your gaze down. Big mistake because he’s wearing an almost translucent white tank top, making eye-contact with a whole load of chest instead, and you almost choke on your spit. “Uh.” You lose the timing to nonchalantly brush past him— and the bastard notices. Of course he fucking does with that smug grin on his face. But he honors the deal you made and settles with a simple good morning before taking a swig from his water bottle and walking off.

“Oh, hello again, attorney,” Mark gives a surprised yet pleasant welcome back to his office. “Did you forget something?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. It’s none of your business,” you rapid-fire answer, back pressed against the closed door.

Your boss eyes you curiously, a smile playing on his face. “Well, you better finish your business soon because Renjun is waiting for you in your office. He’s requesting legal assistance for another external meeting over lunch. But you appear to be feverish. We can reschedule the meeting another—”

“No!” Your eyes widen. Mark raises a brow. “I—I mean, no, you don’t have to do that. I’m fine. I can join him. I’m just tired from climbing the stairs.”

“Well, alright,” he hums. “Now, off you go, then.”

This is perhaps the lowest point of your career. All you wanted was to avoid walking in the same direction as him, but your flight and fight kicked in. These in-office gyms are incredibly unprofessional and detrimental to overall company productivity. You’d submit a petition to take it down if only you had the fucking time. 

“What are you muttering and swearing about like a lunatic? You’re scaring the grown men around,” is how Renjun greets you, but you look at him like he’s the second coming of Christ. Thank god you’d be spending the entire day out of the building. There’s no risk of bumping into that demon again.

The meeting is at a fancy brunch place, so you and Renjun order enough mimosas to get through this shitty meeting on company time, with company money. The both of you are always on the same page, it’s great. Even when the meeting has ended, you two loiter and talk shit at a nearby cafe instead until he eventually gets called back to the office— while you remain and wait for your fellow lawyer and future co-worker.

“Attorney Kim Jungwoo,” you greet him when he arrives. “How’s JJS treating you?”

Yes. You intend on dragging your old friend into this hell with you— a very well paying hell with a more tolerable boss. Of course, you ease him into it over frappes and cheesecake. He says life at JSS is the same as you’d left it: depressing, deplorable, and Kim Doyoung dumping all the work to his junior associates while taking all the credit. That’s your perfect segue to offering him a position at Nalkeutta.

“Unlike Doyoung, I’m giving you free reign, here,” you say, offering him the draft employment contract you quickly whipped up at 11 p.m. on caffeine last night. “You don’t have to sign or answer now. We can iron out the details later. I just wanted to present you with everything that we can offer.”

Jungwoo skims over the binded papers, interested. “You were pretty devastated when Doyoung sold you off, so this is a bit of a surprise,” he says, gaze flitting up with a hum. “What’s making you happy in Nakeutta, attorney?”

You learn back, mirroring his expression. “Page three.”

“Oh, yeah? Let me ch— holy shit. Are you sure this isn’t a misprint?”

“No, I cleared it with the boss earlier,” you boast confidently. “Also, there’s an in-office gym. That’s gotta be enough to convince you.”

Jungwoo says you’re making it very hard for him to refuse and you say that’s the point. You let him mull over the contract for a while longer while you finish up your frappe and zone out with the ambient cafe tunes. 

It’s an afternoon weekday, so it isn’t very crowded. It’s peaceful. Quiet. Meaning the moment the sound atmosphere gets interrupted by the sound of a jingling bell, your attention is immediately strayed away by the noise, and your eyes widen— and you nearly choke on your spit for the second time today.

“Oh, fuck,” you hiss under your breathe, immediately darting around to look for a place to run off to. “Oh, fuck, don’t do this to me. Don’t you fucking dare do this to me, please—”

Jungwoo looks up from the document in concern. “Hey, you good, at—”

“Attorney.”

The sing-song tune of a third voice jumps in. “Fuck,” you repeat, unable to escape so you force your head up to acknowledge the looming and unwelcome presence. “Na Jaemin, I thought we had an agreement. It hasn’t been two days.”

He basks in your attention, pressing a hand against the backseat leather of the booth to lean into you. “Yeah, well our date got cut short last night so I figured my time sitting in the corner would too.”

“Ugh.” Your face falls into your hands. “Please tell me you’re here by accident. Please don’t tell me you deliberately came here to ruin my day.”

“Take a good guess, attorney. Had a nice chat with Renjun in the company lobby.”

You grit your teeth. That fucking snitch, you gotta knock him down a peg from your list of favorite co-workers. But that would mean Haechan would become first, but you don’t want to give that other asshole the gratification. Nothing ever goes right for you.

Before you can further lament the shittiness of your life, Jungwoo reminds you that he’s still here by clearing his throat, causing you to flinch and sit back straight to see the interested quirk on his lips as he sends insinuating glances between you and Na Jaemin. What kind of ideas is this guy getting? You can’t even dread that because you’re too busy thinking of a way to get out of this because if Jungwoo sees your co-worker— who’s already sending Jungwoo dirty glares— acting insane, he won’t take the delicious bait you spent all night preparing.

“Is this a co-worker?” Jungwoo playfully asks. “Aren’t you gonna introduce us, attorney.”

An idea sparks. Wait. Wait, hold on, this could work.

“Indeed. What great timing.”

You stretch your mouth into a smile and yank Na Jaemin down by the belt. 

“Jungwoo, this is one of Nalkeutta’s executives— Na Jaemin. Jaemin, this is Kim Jungwoo. A former co-worker from JSS Law Firm.”

He came here with his own two feet. Might as well use the hell out of uselessness.

“Oh, I remember you!” Jungwoo cheerfully remarks, looking at Na Jaemin directly. Your former co-worker obviously doesn’t know better and you immediately gulp.“I saw you in the firm once. We didn’t get the chance to talk, but it’s nice to officially meet you, Na Jaemin-ssi.”

You hope your smile is enough to mask your nervous heartrate and you peer at Na Jaemin, noticing his pissed off annoyance from the way his upper lip twitches as he runs his tongue against bared teeth. “Yeah? You won’t be seeing anything much if you don’t keep your fucking eyes dow—”

Before you can think, you place a firm hand on his thigh.

Then you squeeze.

And he freezes.

Behave, you scratch into the fabric of his jeans. Please.

The three second pause that lapses before Na Jaemin finally returns the greeting felt like a three second dip into ice cold water. “It’s my pleasure, Kim Jungwoo-ssi.” And then you finally resurface from the ice with a relieved sigh because that was a close fucking call. 

Still. You’re not allowed to rest just yet because while Jungwoo and Na Jaemin are having an unusually normal conversation, you sit there with the occasional auto-generated responses as you think about the possible consequences of your prior actions— and the fact that you did this. You made Na Jaemin do this. You. He’s currently exchanging his gym routines with Jungwoo who’s making firm eye contact with him when otherwise your poor friend would have been flung to the other end of the cafe by now like everyone else that came before him. 

This is fucking insane. You’re not sure how you’re feeling about this.

“Sorry, excuse me for a sec,” Jungwoo says, looking down at his phone. “Doyoung’s calling. Gotta take this.”

He gets up to leave the cafe and you take this opportunity to make a run for it too. “I—I gotta use the rest—eep!”

Na Jaemin yanks you back down into the seat cushions and settles a firm hold around your hips, pressing a firm squeeze to your thigh as he leans closer like some form of revenge for all the crap you pulled on him earlier. “Did I behave well enough for you, attorney?” he muses, hot breath hitting the side of your face. “But this deal is gonna cost you a lot more than just dinner.”

A chill runs down your spine. Yup. You knew there were gonna be consequences. You should have thought things through.

fire and brimstone (and you’re a moth made of gasoline). © hannie-dul-set, 2025.

[stillnotyourmusebitch]

Young at Heart - Alternate!Silco x GN!Reader

This all came about from a 'Late Night Thought' I had last week and i didn't think it would have any traction and it seemed to take off. So, I wrote the fic. (The poll wanted it the Alternate timeline Silco. This is my first time writing this version of him)

((Fluff, humour and established relationship) with a suggestive ending)

When Silco asked me to drop everything and meet him in the upstairs office ASAP. You know I threw my bar rag a little too hard in the direction of my co-worker, hitting him square in the face, declaring I was taking my break early. I couldn’t even hear their disgruntled profanity ridden response. As I was already hopping up the staircase, taking some of the steps two at a time. When I burst through the door, my excitement instantly vanished.  

“When did a bomb go off in here?” I chuckle dryly as I try to edge my way into the office to get a better look. Papers were strewn about all over the floor, boxes overflowing with files and receipts that surround a rather dishevelled looking SIlco who was sat in the center of the explosion.  

“Ah, you’re finally here. You can start over that side of the room.” Not even looking up from his mismatched pile of papers, he waved off in the general direction he wanted me to be. 

“Ya knooooow. When you told me to drop everything, this was not what I had in mind.” I sighed as I slowly manoeuvre my way, without slipping, through piles of documents and files to the far corner where he wanted me to begin. “Why are you needing my help exactly?” I ask flicking the lid off a box stuffed with all sorts of crap I couldn’t care less about. 

“I’m trying to find certain set of files that I need to update the agreement we have on the bar but as you can see from the mess around you that the filing system I had perfectly in place was not up to standard and I'm needing to go through everything again because ‘some’ people did not see fit to follow my system.” 

I can hear the exasperation laced in his voice.  

“Where is Vander and why isn’t he helping you with this?” I turn to face Silco, he meets my eye. 

“He is out trying to buy me the time to find said files. It’s the least he can do after this.” He gestured to the mess around the room. “He thought he knew exactly where the files were and . . .” He imitates an explosion sound throwing some of the papers he held to get his point across. I wince at the realisation of it all. 

“How long have you been going at this? I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages” I lean gently against the bookshelf as to not upset any boxes nearby. 

“Hours have become days and I'll be damned if it becomes weeks.” He throws the last of the papers in his hand down onto a makeshift pile that collapses under its own weight. “Urgh, fuck me!” he rubs at the bridge of his nose.  

“If I'm honest I thought that’s why you called for me.” I smirk at his gently reddening cheeks. Choosing to change the subject matter I ask. “What do these files actually look like? I might be able to help you better knowing what I'm trying to find.” 

Silco realising his basic error, begins to explain what I needed to assist him in recovering before we settle back into the search again. 

----- 

The task carries on for a few more hours in a comfortable silence. I had to ask if someone could talk to my coworker about my elongated break. When SIlco requires my presence most of the time he calls me away from work it's for a brief yet hot and handsy make out session that leaves me flustered when I go back to my post. Our relationship was known only to a few close friends and family. But I’m pretty sure everyone knows now because he and I aren’t quiet by any means. Yet nobody says anything about it to protect his professional image. 

“AHA!” Silco exclaims aloud as he stands up from the desk chair, a few precious papers clutched in hand. 

“Found them I see.” I glance over my shoulder briefly at his gleeful face. 

“Yes, finally.” He lets out a sigh in relief, looking over to where I was preoccupied with a box that he didn’t realise was accessible to me. “Please stay out of that one. It's labelled private for a reason.” His voice catches when he saw what I held. 

“Daaaaamn, so it is true.” I turn waltzing over to him, being careful of the still very messy floor, I flip the photo over in my fingers so he can see better. 

“Give me that.” When I get close enough, he reaches out for worn item in my hand. I lift it just out of reach above my head, playing a little game of keep away with his beloved memory. He steps nearer to me, so our chests are touching. 

“Oooo, so close.” I change hands quickly keeping the photograph away from his long fingers. “Come on you can do better than that sweetheart.” I smirk booping his nose quickly with the corner of the photograph before pulling my hand away again. His left arm snakes around my waist turning us around enough so he can push me backwards onto the desk with him almost straddling my right thigh. 

“Well now” I wiggle my brows suggestively, making sure the photograph is still too far away to grab in our new position. 

“Get your mind out of the gutter.” He rolls his eyes at me as he leans closer for the photograph. 

“Funny you say that as it’s normally you dragging me down with you.” I lift my knee grazing his inner thigh causing him pause. 

He says my name in a warning way. 

“Okay Mr Serious pants.” I reply in a mocking tone. 

He manages to finally grab the photo from me, checking it for rips or tears before pulling away and walking back to place it safely back into the box of memories. I follow behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist, resting my chin on his shoulder. 

“Next time you see a something marked private. I expect you to respect my privacy.” He places a one hand on top of the box of memories and the other rests atop my crossed arms. He sighs again.  

“Maybe you can grow it out again.” I let my inner thoughts be known. 

“What are you talking about?” He turns his head to the side to look at me. I pull one arm away so I can thread my fingers through his much shorter hair, scratching lazily at his scalp. Pulling a low moan from his throat. 

“Your hair darling, that picture proved you can rock the style, plus we know how much of a whore you can be when I do this.” I pull lightly on his hair making him gasp. 

“Don’t you think I’m too old for that style.” His breathing was ragged as he tries to remain calm. I chuckle darkly at my flustered partner, with practiced ease I spin him so I loom above him, lifting his chin with a single finger. 

“Of course, darling.” I lean down our lips graze with my words. “You’re just proof that men get finer with age.” He smiles at my words as I steal his response away with a soft kiss.  

-----

I really enjoyed writing this. I hope you enjoy reading it

[azialways]

write me like you love me

Ronin x reader

cw: post canon events, canon plot, breaking in, crowbar, suggestive content, a very touchy ronin

It was yet another uneventful day for Y/N, her boyfriend was gone doing god knows what; probably murder. The European killers were asleep, so that left Angel and Misaki to talk to. Angel was busy with her own stuff, so it left Misaki and Y/N on call to gossip and shit talk. The two enjoyed their gossip sessions while Y/N would work on their story, it was routine, almost.

“And so yeah, basically this guy would not stay still for the life of him! I swear he had ADHD or something…but eventually he stopped for a split second to tie his shoe, so I got him, BUT DAMN I WAS WORRIED ABOUT MY LACK OF MONEY.” Misaki ranted, while Y/N typed up some more of their writing.

They began to talk about Ronin, well the character that in sorts represented him…his annoying charm, his personality, the flirtatious nature of his character…everything that pissed them off in a way that made them realize how in love they were.

“Dude. Earth to Y/N.” Misaki spoke, taking Y/N out of their trance.

“Shit, my bad, What did you ask?” They asked, switching to the server tab.

“I said, spill the beans on you and Ronin. We obviously know you’re together since you dropped it on vday, but how is it going?” They asked, adjusting their position in their bed.

“Ouhhh, yeah it’s good. He's essentially the same as he is on the server, just touchier and more flirty slash cocky slash annoying…but he’s great, really sweet surprisingly. considering all the shit he gave me before.” They chuckled, recalling how Ronin would call them out and mess around with them.

It still partially pissed Y/N off that Ronin was playing with them at first, even if he’s apologized over and over. However, he made up for it by being a pretty okay boyfriend. They continued to write down ideas on their document, generating ways to represent Ronin accurately without blowing his cover, obviously. Not that they planned on making the characters the exact same, hell, the only similarity between the two are the cocky, flirty personalities, which isn’t unique.

“So how do you think I can represent Ronin best without it actually being him?” Y/N asked, thinking out loud.

“Being a cocky, flirty asshole?”

“That’s a lot of guys, Misaki.”

“Shit you’re right. Gotta make him unique.” They chuckled, crossing their legs in a butterfly pose. “Uhh, make him obsessed with the word “darling” and give him religious trauma.”

“Genius!”

“Talkin ‘bout me?” A voice spoke from the direction of her window. Not again.

“Babe, how many times do I have to say this: stop coming in through my window! You have a copy of my key, use the front door.” Y/N groaned, grabbing his hand and squeezing the life out of it.

“He does this frequently?” Misaki asked, looking confused at the camera display of Ronin with a crowbar and disheveled from climbing.

“Unfortunately. Call you back Mis?” Y/N asked and Misaki nodded, hanging up and leaving them to each other.

“Also, little warning when you’re visiting next time? I look like shit.” Y/N sighed, sitting back on their office chair.

“Darlin’ I think you look divine…wearing my shirt and some short ass shorts…fuck baby…” He groaned, his arms wrapped around their waist as he brought them closer, their back on his chest….his mouth right above their neck, breathing down and making the tiny hairs stand up.

“mmm you can work on that later, be with me, with your devil.” He kissed a spot on their neck gently.

“Mmhm-baby it’s your section, the part where you come in.” They explained, and that got his attention; because he came up from his spot in their neck.

“Oh? What are you writing? Something flattering I hope…”

“Well I’m currently trying to find a way to not expose you and get your ass thrown on death row, so yknow.” They responded, chucking self depricationally. They wouldn’t know what they’d do if they accidentally got Ronin thrown on death row. He was a wanted man after all, alas, nobody knew his identity except for the server, but they wanted him represented somehow.

“Mmm, should I just make him a cocky emo boy with a love for the word darling?” They suggested, turning to face him. All he did was bark out a laugh.

“hah! good one. though, I do think that’s accurate. As long as you also make him love a crowbar…and maybe rip out the main character’s aorta at the end?” He suggested, his hands resting on their hips. His eyes batted teasingly, as if begging them to put it in the book.

“i’ll think about it. would make for a romantic ending…a story about a girl falling in love with a guy who was secretly a serial killer, who’s loosely based off of you.”

“But you were the one in secret…we weren’t hiding as serial killers, you were hiding as the writer.” He added, pointing out the inaccuracy.

“Well yeah but i’m not trying to give the media any ideas about you guys’ existence.” They chuckled, their hand going up his arm.

“I guess, cause if not, I’d have to kill you.” He whispered, kissing a spot on his neck.

“You said you were gonna do that months ago, and where are we now?” They teased him, their hand on his cheek.

“A moment of temporary weakness. How do I resist someone as charming as you, my writer darling?” He chuckled, knowing they had mixed feelings about that nickname.

“Just darling works fine, Ro.” Y/N ruffled his hair, sitting on the bed. He followed, sitting down next to him. They rested their head on his shoulder, placing a soft kiss on his jaw.

“Love you, psycho.”

“Awh, Psycho? Keep talking dirty baby.” He teased, his arm wrapping around their waist, pulling them closer.

“God, you’re such a whore sometimes.”

“Only for you, darling.” He kissed the top of their head.

“Aren’t I a special one?” Y/N teased, then yelped softly as Ronin grabbed them by the waist and pulled them onto his lap, straddling him.

“I missed you, yknow? All. of you.” He spoke, a hint of yearning in his eyes. He did miss Y/N, they could tell. The look in his eyes, the way he spoke so tenderly…it was the look of a man in love. He loved Y/N like he loved his crowbar, maybe even more. He’d never explicitly say it, but they knew it was the truth.

His hands snuck under their shirt, feeling the soft, warm skin under the fabric. It made Y/N shudder at the sudden contact. Their arms found their way around his neck, holding themself up.

“Hey gorgeous.” He spoke, his voice barely above a whisper as he leaned in.

“Hi baby.” They responded, leaning in to him. Their lips were millimeters away, the ghost of his breath on Y/N’s lips as he tenderly closed that gap. Their lips moved together in a tender harmony, one that spoke to the love they shared. They pulled away, a string of saliva connecting them, their breathing slowly quickening as Ronin went back in for another kiss. This time, it was a lot more passionate and aggressive. Lips on teeth, and teeth on teeth. One thing about Ronin, he bites. He bites and marks like a madman. He liked people knowing who he loved, and Y/N loved it.

Ronin pulled away, just to dive into their neck. Y/N tilted their head so he had better access, but he also used his hands to make it happen. His hand was in their hair, pulling it back so he had his space. That earned a moan out of them, and another when he nibbled at that sensitive spot he knew they liked.

“Goddamn it…R-Ronin-fuck baby.” They moaned, whimpering from the constant sensitive stimulation.

“There’s no god here darlin’, just your devil,” He sneered, grabbing the back of their head and pushing it back a bit.

“And if you have requests, I'd gladly voice them.”

God it made them so horny to think about the options, the possibilities they could do. Ronin had barely any limits, he’d cut them up if asked… he wasn’t into anything too crazy, but he was generally open. As long as he had his share of Y/N, to worship their body and love them…he didn’t care.

And fucking hell, they loved that about Ronin Beaufort.

[ohtobelovedbyme]

"What do you think of me?" | yjh [ch3]

Pairing: YJH x Reader

Genre: best friend’s brother to lovers (or something), FLUFF, romcom, office setting, yjh and his sister are nepo babies

Summary (this chapter basically goes like this): you: just trying to survive internship hell jeonghan: what if i grabbed ur wrist and whispered in ur ear while drunk also jeonghan: accidentally falls on you and passes out while BTS plays in the background also also jeonghan: “what do you think of me?” update: he stole the can you drank on and now you think he’s wearing your same, exact perfume. chat, is this normal behavior?

A/N: FINALLY DONE WITH THIS CHAPTER AHHH. I was planning on publishing this and ch4, but I figured you guys would want to read this first cause it's been 3 days (?) now ���😭

Teaser | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

Chapter 3

By 3:17 PM, you had already run out of your post-its, remaining patience, and reasons to live. Since last week, your seniors have been dumping all their work onto the interns. Your group chat, named “Corporate Work Trauma,” had more than 99 unread messages, either from interns begging the other to help them complete their work or wishing that your seniors would magically get fired and be replaced by more responsible people.

Just as you were about to complete your final assignment for today, you hear the sound of that stupid humming again.

“Intern! I’ll be needing your help with some of the materials for tomorrow.” Manager Kang, from a completely different department, walked over with urgent footsteps and dropped a stack of documents on your desk.

You just stared at it blankly. Manager Kang then cleared his throat, as if to say, “Oh, don’t worry. That will only take you 5 minutes.”

“Just flag me what’s urgent on e-mail, and I’ll get to it as soon as possible,” you looked up with the smiliest and politest face you’ve ever worn, but anyone who knew you would know that you were on the verge of either killing Manager Kang or breaking down.

“Great attitude,” he said, walking away.

“What an ass,” you muttered under your breath. You couldn’t hold it in, but you didn’t want to get fired either.

It was petty, yeah, but so was this day. And the day before that. And the day before yesterday.

From his office, Jeonghan looked up from his monitor. He looked around the room, and all the lights were turned off except for the intern area. 

This usually happens every time the company hires new interns. A “rite of passage,” they called it. A hazing, he’d say. Usually, those seniors would get a serious talking to by the rest of the management, but this was just for formality since, well, those same people also do the same thing.

Jeonghan scrunched his nose just at the thought of how many interns quit last year. He did try to help them, albeit only those in his department. He only heard about those assholes from those adjacent departments that dumped tasks onto his interns and made them do their work when two of them quit. From then on, he banned other departments from casually coming in and out of his department. But I guess this happened again, since the interns right now have been staying late in the office for three days straight.

He finally stood up and went out of his office to tell the interns to go home for the night and to report to him about who was making them work and what they were assigned to do.

“Hey.” 

You blinked up from your monitor, staring. Joenghan’s voice was low and effortless, like it was just another thought passing through the room.

The rest of the interns did the same and asked him if there was anything he needed. He asked them to leave for the night and to report to him tomorrow

The rest of the interns looked up like they’d just been told the war was over.

“Oh my god. Finally,” one of them breathed out, already half-standing.

“Bro, I’m gonna write a 10-page essay about the hell these people put me through,” another muttered, cracking their knuckles with a vengeance.

“Team Leader Yoon, you’re the realest one here,” someone said, patting their bag and walking out like it was the end of a prison sentence.

One of them turned back to you. “You coming?”

You glanced at your monitor, finger still hovering over the trackpad. “Yeah. Just have to finish this last page,” you said with a small smile.

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Won’t take long.”

With a round of exhausted goodbyes and a collective sigh that echoed through the empty office, the rest of them finally filtered out.

When the last of the other interns finally leaves the office, you look up at your monitor. It was just one last page, and you were done. Might as well finish this and not let your hard work go down the drain before the bloody battle that breaks out tomorrow. 

“You free for a second?” Jeonghan, who, unbeknownst to you, has been staring at you since he dismissed you.

“Hmm? Me?” you asked, surprised. That was a dumb way to respond, since you were the only one there (other than him). But, you know, you’re tired, he’s tired. There’s something abysmal, yet normal, about your reaction.

“No, the ficus. Yes, you. You’re the only one here.”

You got up, slowly, wary. “Okay…”

Jeonghan walks to his office, and you follow him. Right now, you’re not sure about what’s happening. He just dismissed you a while ago, right? You didn’t just dream that, right?

He opened his office door for you, and you stepped in. You’re hit with the scent again, but this time, it's more subtle. 

It was late in the evening, and you’re too tired. The ambience of it all was so relaxing, you’re sure you would sleep here right now, if it weren’t for the subconscious part of your body telling you to sleep in your own bed. 

“Sit,” Jeonghan said, his eyes pointing towards the couch.

You, oddly enough, half-expected a lecture on HR violations or intern responsibilities. More work. Maybe a mild scolding delivered in that stupidly smooth voice of his.

As you went to plop on the couch, he opened the drawer under his desk. From your view, you could see the shine of aluminium. A canned herbal tea and a familiar chocolate almond bar. Weird combo? Sure. But it was your go-to back in college, herbal tea and almond chocolate during all-nighters.

Jeonghan walked over to you, his shadow looming over your body. He held them out like a peace offering.

You just looked at what’s in his hands. “You... called me in for this?”

As you were about to take them, he pulled back his hand and opened the can first before placing both products on the glass coffee table in front of you. You roll your eyes.

He sat on the couch opposite you and leaned back, his hands going behind the back of his head. Casual. Composed. Eyes on you like he was studying your expression for microreactions. At first, you were hesitant. Your eyebrows furrowed, making that expression you had every time you’re curious about something. He knows what you were thinking about. How did he know about what you wanted, and why did he have them ready at his office? But then, you finally start drinking the tea. 

Your eyes, already half-lidded, began to soften further. Before taking another sip, you went ahead to dig into the chocolate bar. Oh, the mood right now was too cozy. The lavender atmosphere, the soft wool couch swallowing you whole, and you finally having your first meal in almost seven hours, no less, from the man in front of you. God, you just wanted to stay there forever.

“You looked like you were ready to go to the morgue,” he said. “Figured you’d need something to swallow before you head home.”

You chewed slowly, staring at him as your brain finally caught up with what was happening. “Woahhh... Team Leader Yoon Jeonghan,” you drawled, voice thick with playful suspicion. “How did you know I was craving this exact combo? Have you been stalking me?”

Jeonghan quirked a brow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Don’t flatter yourself,” he said lazily. “If I were stalking you, I’d probably know you secretly take screenshots of food from that mukbang channel at midnight.”

You choked slightly on your tea, eyes narrowing. “Excuse me?”

“‘Saved Posts,” he said, smug. “Public account. Rookie mistake, seriously. Who taught you internet safety?”

You gasped, half-laughing, half-mortified. “You actually went through my saved posts?”

He shrugged. “Didn’t have to. Your notifications were on during that one meeting, and your screen lit up with your username. Curiosity got the better of me.”

You paused, your hand still gripping the chocolate bar. Your cheeks flushed, just slightly, the faintest pink blooming as his words sank in.

You clutched your forehead dramatically. “Unbelievable. I’m never showing my phone in public again.”

Jeonghan leaned forward then, elbows on his knees, gaze steady. “You interns have been running yourselves into the ground lately. Figured someone should give a damn.”

You looked at him, and for a second, you couldn’t say anything. The teasing was there, sure, but underneath it was... sincere.

You rolled your eyes, if only to hide how warm you felt. “You could’ve just sent an email like a normal person.”

He scoffed. “And miss the chance to see your tragic little face in person?”

“Wow. Thanks,” you said flatly, trying not to smile.

Jeonghan waited a full five seconds before glancing back at the door. Then, slowly, he sat back into his chair.

His gaze dropped to the half-crushed can on the table, the one you'd sipped from earlier. Faint, but still visible: a perfect smudge of maroon left on the aluminium rim. It wasn’t just a mark. It was the same shade you'd been wearing all night. The same shade you’d been wearing since you started working here. Rich. Creamy. Almost too bold for you.

His fingers reached for it. Brushed the edge.

The pigment clung to his skin. He turned his hand over, staring at the stain against the pad of his index finger. A color too soft to be dangerous, but too dark to be innocent.

He lifted his fingers to his mouth.

A pause.

Then, he touched his lips to them.

The warmth wasn’t the same. But it mimicked what could’ve been yours.

He exhaled through his nose, a quiet, bitter laugh.

He didn’t even like herbal tea and almond chocolate.

The hum of the vending machine was the only sound filling the small break room. You sat slouched on the bench, head resting against the cold wall, eyes closed. The coffee in your hands had gone lukewarm. Your shoes were kicked off, legs tucked beneath you like you were claiming this sad little corner as your territory.

Today, you finally finished all the projects you were assigned. Your fellow interns finally stopped cursing and hexing your seniors, and you finally have time to relax. Moreover, those same seniors got chewed out by Team Leader Yoon. “My final warning,” you remember how his voice was calm and calculating, making everything he said sound like a death threat instead of a “I’ll-send-you-to-HR” threat.

“You look like you got hit by a truck,” a familiar voice piped up.

You cracked one eye open to find your best friend, Jeonghan’s younger sister, leaning against the doorframe, sipping from her iced latte like she hadn’t just insulted you.

“Truck, bus, and a management-level bullet train,” you deadpanned, sighing dramatically as you took another sip of your coffee. “The seniors? Demonic. One of them made me sort three years of archived campaign decks. My soul left my body halfway through 2023.”

She winced. “Okay, yeah. That’s cruel and unusual. Even I don’t like those archives, and I barely do anything.”

You snorted.

She sauntered over and sat beside you, nudging your shoulder. “You’ve been looking real burnt-out lately. You okay?”

You shrugged. “It’s fine. Just new intern stuff. Paying my dues. Blood, sweat, tears, and barely-scheduled bathroom breaks. Besides, your lovely brother finally saved us.”

“Ew, don’t call him that.” She grimaced. “You need a break. Like, real one.”

You looked at her suspiciously. “Why do you sound like you’re about to propose something... stupid? Insane? What’s the right word….”

She smirked. “Okay, first of all, rude. Second of all… maybe I am.”

You squinted. “Don’t say team-building workshop. I’ll cry.”

“Worse.” Her grin widened. “Karaoke. Tonight.”

You groaned. “Nooo. My legs feel like overcooked noodles. I can’t stand, let alone scream-sing IU.”

“But it’s to celebrate! You finally survived intern hell. That deserves a round of somaek.”

You blinked. “Can’t we just do that without involving the whole department?”

“Nope. Everyone’s coming--well, everyone that matters. Especially you interns. And…” She paused for a beat, her voice dropping just slightly into a mischievous tone. “Oppa might come too.”

“No, he won’t. No one will. Why? Because this won’t happen.”

“Come on~” She flipped her hair dramatically. “I might go tell him it’s a little celebratory thing.”

You stared at her. “You do know that he’s busy, right?” 

She beamed. “Yeah, but he would make time. Maybe. As long as you’re there. Looking cute. And tired. And vulnerable.”

You almost choked on your coffee. “You’re evil.”

She beamed. “You love me.”

Jeonghan didn’t look up from his laptop when the door opened. “If this is about the budget sheet, tell them to stop using Comic Sans–”

“It’s not,” his sister sang-songed, plopping onto the guest chair across from his desk. “It’s about plans.”

“Sounds exhausting already.”

She leaned in, elbows on his desk. “Did you know we’re doing karaoke tonight?”

He raised a brow. “No.”

“Well, we are.”

“Sounds loud.”

“Mm-hmm.” She stretched the silence, letting it hang before she dropped the bait. “Guess who’s coming?”

His fingers paused mid-typing. “...”

“Yep. Poor girl’s been run ragged. You should’ve seen her, she looked like she was about to merge with the coffee machine. Thought it’d be nice for her to unwind.”

He didn’t reply right away, gaze still fixed on the screen, though nothing was being typed now.

His sister grinned. “Anyway. I told her you might come.”

This time, he looked at her.

“Just a heads up,” she added sweetly, before slipping out of the office.

Behind her, Jeonghan leaned back in his chair, his forearm rising to cover his eyes, as he slowly, very slowly smirked to himself. He let out a low chuckle, like he was plotting some evil Doofenshmirtz-level plan.

“This crazy bastard…” his sister just walked away as quickly as she could.

You were nestled in the corner of the private room, surrounded by your coworkers who were thriving in their tipsy chaos. The lights bounced off the walls, the mic was being tossed around like a volleyball, and someone was currently screaming their way through an old 2 PM hit.

You were smiling, even laughing occasionally, but your body still felt tired. Drained.

This probably wasn’t a good idea, but you were having fun. I guess you would have to prioritize your bodily needs tomorrow. The past few days had chewed you up and spit you out with a polite, overworked bow.

The door opened, and Jeonghan stepped in. Some of your coworkers did not expect him to come here, while the rest were too drunk to even get up from their seats. He was wearing a button-down shirt (too few buttons done up, you note) and sleeves rolled up like he just walked off a music video set.

You turned to your friend, who was screaming her lungs off. She made eye contact with you and winked. Yeah, no. This was her doing. 

You could see his eyes scanning the room until they stopped. At you. 

A faint smile ghosted across his lips. And then he walked in fully, sliding into an open seat at the end of the room, not next to you, but close enough to watch.

He didn’t even greet you directly.

You sipped your drink.

He sipped his.

But you could feel him there.

You had stepped out of the room to cool off. It was too warm. Too loud. Too much. It was like your skin couldn’t hold everything in anymore.

You were just beginning to breathe when you felt him.

Jeonghan leaned against the wall beside you like he belonged there. Like the hallway had been waiting for him.

You turned to see him, eyes closed, head tilted, cheek pressed lazily to his shoulder. His hair, beautifully disheveled, fanned out behind him, catching the soft light like silk. His shirt was slightly wrinkled, the few buttons still undone, skin glowing pale beneath the low light. His hair? 

You couldn’t tell if he was drunk or just reckless tonight. But his presence was magnetic, pulling everything in, including you.

“Team Leader Yoon… are you alright?” Your voice came out quiet, unsure, but your body already moved. You stepped in, closer, protective by habit and helplessness.

He didn’t answer at first. Just hummed low. His head dipped in a slow, deliberate motion.

“...Jeonghan?”

You watched the fall of his bangs. The way his lashes brushed the flush of his cheeks. His lips– plump, a little red, and parted just enough to tempt every reckless impulse in your brain.

Your hand lifted. You didn’t mean to. But it did. Hovering near his mouth.

You wondered:

Were they still wet from all the drinks? Or dry from the hallway air?

You didn’t find out.

Then, heat. Fingers wrapped around your wrist. Slow, firm.

You gasped.

He opened one eye, heavy-lidded, a little too knowing. Then, slowly, like he had all the time in the world, Jeonghan pulled you toward him. Not hard, instead, it was gentle, devastating. Until your bodies nearly touched.

You could feel it.

The heat. The scent.

Sandalwood. Lavender. And something unmistakably his.

And then, with the barest smirk at the corner of his lips, his thumb brushed over your bottom lip.

Your breath hitched.

“Same color,” he murmured, voice low. “Your lips… the other night.”

You forgot how to blink.

His thumb lingered a second longer before sliding away, his grip still secure around your wrist. But now, it was his fingers that trailed gently along the skin there, mapping every inch like it was a confession.

And then,

he moved again.

You didn’t even register it until his fingers brushed the slope of your neck. Just enough to make your breath hitch and your spine freeze.

Then he found the necklace you wore.

His fingers traced the delicate chain along your neck, unbearably slow, like he already knew what it was doing to you. You swallowed, breath catching when he reached the pendant resting above your collarbone. It was heart-shaped. Of course it was. His thumb brushed over it once, twice, as if he was testing the rhythm beneath it.

You were certain. Utterly, humiliatingly certain that he could feel your heartbeat rising against the cage of your ribs like it wanted to leap into his palm.

He held onto it.

Lifted it slightly. As if weighing something.

“Still wearing this?” he said, almost like he was asking himself.

Then, he let it go gently. The charm dropped against your skin with a soft clink.

You didn’t get to exhale.

Because in the next second, his hand slid to the back of your neck. His fingers threading through your hair, palm warm and solid.

He pulled you closer.

Not rough. Not rushed.

Intentional.

Your body followed, helpless.

He leaned in. Past your cheek. Past your jaw.

And just as your breath trembled out, his lips brushed the side of your neck, and he whispered: “What do you think of me?”

Your knees nearly gave out.

You could feel every syllable burn against your skin. Every letter was a sin.

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t look at him.

Because he was right there. So close. And you knew, if you turned your head, your lips would meet.

But then–

The door behind you rattled.

Voices. Laughter. The sound of someone scream-singing off-key to “Autumn Leaves” by BTS. The hallway light flickered briefly from the opened door.

Your blood turned cold. Your stomach dropped.

He kept his hand at your nape. Still holding. Still there.

Your pulse thundered. His breath ghosted your jaw.

He looked amused. Barely. Like this was all some twisted game, and only he knew the rules.

“Let go,” you whispered, though you didn’t even sound like you meant it.

He didn’t.

He just smiled against your skin.

THUD.

“Oh God!”

Yoon Jeonghan. Your Team Leader. Your best friend’s brother.

And now? Collapsed at your feet. Dragging you down with him.

“Okay, okay, I got it, you’re very strong–”

You struggled to keep Jeonghan upright as he leaned heavily against your shoulder, humming some half-forgotten ballad into your ear. His hair was falling into his eyes, lips slack in a dopey grin.

Across from you, his sister, your beloved best friend, was swaying slightly on her feet.

“Sooo…” she slurred. “Isn’t he heavy? He’s heavy, right? I told him not to mix soju and beer.”

“You also cheered him on,” you deadpanned, glancing at her with a little more concern. “You don’t look so good either–wait, did you drink from that mystery cocktail?”

“Shhhh,” she hushed you with one finger to your lips. “Shhhh. Listen. Focus. Mission. Jeonghan. Home.”

“Yeah, you’re gonna take him to your apartment, right?”

Your best friend blinked, confusion present on her drunken face.

Then she laughed. “Babe, I can’t even find my own feet.”

You turned your head slowly to where Jeonghan was now lightly beatboxing under his breath with his eyes closed. 

“Oh my god.”

Oh my god, indeed.

Somehow, by sheer divine intervention and one very confused taxi driver, you got Jeonghan into the backseat of a cab, while your best friend leaned dramatically against a lamp post, blinking slowly.

“Alright, I’ll ride with him,” she mumbled. “You go home.”

“Uh.” You hesitated. “I think I should go with you two, actually.”

“Noooo.” She waved a limp hand. “I’ll just… go to sleep.”

“What–no, you can’t sleep in a cab– wait, are you calling another one for yourself?”

She nodded very proudly, pressing her phone to her cheek like it was a teddy bear. “Like a pro.”

You sighed, pulling out your phone. “I’m calling someone else to–”

She called out your name in a long and slurred tone.

You turned, and your best friend was suddenly wide awake. Swaying, but possessed by purpose.

“I have a genius idea.”

“…not this again.”

“You take him home.”

“What?!”

“Genius,” she whispered proudly. “He trusts you.”

You stared at her, baffled. You shook your head and said: “I should be taking care of you, not your brother–”

“But I’ll be fiiine,” she grinned, now somehow sitting on the sidewalk. “I live around here. You’re going the same way, anywayyyy. You’re also the responsible one. He’ll be nice to you.”

From the cab, Jeonghan murmured something that sounded vaguely like, “You smell like flowers,” before slumping over dramatically.

You exhaled. And sighed. And almost cried a little.

“…I hate all of you.”

The drive was mostly quiet, save for the muffled sound of traffic and Jeonghan’s occasional humming, off-key, barely coherent, but somehow still hypnotic. His head was back on your shoulder again, like a magnet, a gravitational constant you had no power over.

Your heart hadn’t slowed down since the hallway.

You didn’t move. You didn’t even breathe too hard.

Then, the cab driver cleared his throat. Glanced at you two through the mirror. You, with your face red, with your boss leaning on your shoulders.

“So…” he said, voice light. “Are you two dating?”

You froze.

“I– what? N-No, we’re not–”

“Because you look good together,” the driver continued, oblivious and chuckling. “Like a couple in a drama, you know?”

You were about to melt into the seat and die when Jeonghan stirred beside you.

He blinked slowly. Then let out a soft chuckle.

And in a warm, slurred tone, he said–

“I agree with him… Are we?”

Your head snapped toward him, eyes wide.

“Jeonghan–!”

But he was smiling now, lopsided and sweet, his cheek still pressed to your shoulder like it was the most natural place in the world.

He turned his face slightly, lips grazing the fabric of your shirt.

“You’re soft,” he mumbled.

Your nervous system stopped completely

The cab driver laughed. “Ahah, young love.”

You slapped your hand over your face, covering every inch that exposed the flush of your cheeks. “I’m going to jump out of this car.”

“I’ll catch you,” Jeonghan murmured, barely audible now, already drifting again.

But his hand, warm and slow, was still holding your wrist. Thumb brushing lazily across your skin like he wasn’t done saying everything he wanted to say.

You didn’t speak for the rest of the ride.

But your heart did. Loudly. The whole time.

Tag list: @sumzysworld, @lixisoul99, @viciousdarlings, reiofsuns2001, @lily409, @armycarat2612, @cheolliesvt

(To everyone commenting/reacting to this story, thank u very much! I'll make sure to actually finish this for u guys 😭❤)

[chocosvt]

HER | part two.

✧✎ 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: 22.7k 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.

updates: in terms of a posting schedule, i'm pre sure i'm just gonna post every saturday night ~12am EST (so technically sunday lol). taglist is included in the comment section since tumblr now has limit as to how many peeps are mentioned per post :p

thanks againnnn! 🌟

⇢ part one | part three | part four | part five | part six ⇢ soundtrack for those curious! ⇢ read at ur own pace! :)

—MAY 12TH.

Wonwoo was sat on his couch with your laptop glowing in front of him, one hand holding up his chin while the other scrolled slowly through your writing. Finally, you’d let him actually glean your work, and he was quite impressed with your natural skill. He supposed the biggest issue was the choppiness—your sentence structures were much like your racing tangents, and in some areas the writing lacked flow and a smooth continuality. But that sort of ability would just develop on its own as long as you were practicing.

For the most part, Wonwoo was leaving behind small notes and highlighting areas that you could revisit at a later time.

“Okay, I’m going to do a handstand.”

However, as Wonwoo had been combing through your work for the past half-hour, that left you with an apparent boredness which somehow translated into an acrobatics session in his living room.

“I’d really prefer you didn’t,” he answered through the fingers covering his mouth, his eyes trained with focus on the document.

“No, no. I used to be so good at them. Watch.”

Wonwoo was in the midst of typing a note when a small, circular embroidered pillow had suddenly struck the laptop, nearly forcing it shut. It was then that Wonwoo looked up with a long sigh, acknowledging the devious, shining smile that sprung to your face.

“Now that I have your attention—”

Wonwoo titled his head, folded his arms, and propped one foot onto the coffee table, somewhat like an exhausted parent who was being heckled by their child to watch the “special trick” they’d just learned. He was internally praying you actually were good at handstands, because that fragile pottery vase and the antique gold clock sitting on the fire mantel had never looked so breakable until now. A cool breeze slivered in through the open window as your arms began raising above your head, and he heard you inhale steadily.

“Go!” You then shouted, either in motivation or impatience aimed at yourself, loud enough to make Wonwoo flinch.

The next moment, you were basically flipped upside down, your socked feet sticking pointedly in the air while your hands stumbled about on the brown rug for a few seconds, attempting to find their place rooted in the fuzz. Wonwoo pursed his lip, impressed.

“See! Told you!”

“I mean, I never said you couldn’t.”

“Are you amazed?”

He watched with a slight bit of nervousness as you walked a few paces forward with your hands, though he kept his calm composure from the couch and dealt you about three dull claps.

“Cirque de Soleil is asking for you, actually.”

To Wonwoo’s utter relief, you collapsed back onto your feet, probably because the blood was gushing to your head and he’d rather not have you faint squarely on the face in his living room. You then sat on your knees for a moment, rubbing slowly at your scalp.

“I’m almost done,” Wonwoo reaffirmed, moving aside the stitched pillow you’d chucked at him earlier and reopening the laptop.

“Don’t let me rush you.”

He chuckled instantly. “You mean to tell me you’re not bored out of your mind? Why else would you be doing cartwheels.”

Finally, you got up from the rug.

“Um, it was a handstand,” you were hasty to correct him, now sinking into the seat beside Wonwoo on the couch with the circle pillow pulled onto your lap. “I could do a cartwheel, though.”

“Yeah, not in this house you’re not.”

“Not in this house you’re not.”

He merely smirked at your attempt to mimic him by employing a cartoonishly deep tone that you found very amusing, made evident by your prideful giggles close to his ear. Just as Wonwoo scrolled to the end of the document to type his last note, you were piqued with curiosity and leaned over his lap, grabbing at the screen to examine how far he’d come during your hour together.

“So, where are you at anyway?”

Wonwoo pressed himself back into the couch, immediately removing his hands from the keyboard. It felt like at the most random, unpredictable times you would swoop in so close to him, and he never quite knew how to react. Most times he would freeze, become stiff and hardly breathing, run his eyes in all different directions around the room because everything seemed easier when he pretended you didn’t exist.

He adjusted his glasses, cleared his throat.

“I’m basically done.”

“You are? Okay. Hm… it seems like you made a lotta notes.”

Wonwoo squirmed in his seat as though it were scratching him. You eventually pulled away, but your knee was now resting on the side of his thigh and you were sitting much closer than before—close enough that your shoulder was digging into his and he could sense your full, bright eyes burning a stare at his pink cheek.

“They’re mostly easy fixes…” he mumbled, refusing to look at you, instead scrolling impetuously through the document with jerks of his pointer and middle finger.  

“Well, what do you think of it?”

He paused, still staring at the laptop.

“Of what?”

“Wonwoo, my writing, obviously,” you said with a warm laugh and a soft breath that rushed over his neck in such a pleasurable, lightheaded way. “And look at me,” he heard you ask in a lower, more sincere voice, your fingers then ghosting along his tense jaw in a fleeting, sensitive touch as you guided his head gently in your direction, “I just want to know you’re telling the truth.”

He was accustomed to your eyes being filled with sparks and the readiness to pit the most sharp-tongued comment in history, and so Wonwoo was able to relax ever so slightly upon realizing how your gaze had become increasingly mellow, welcoming even.

“Well, you’re obviously good at it,” he managed to answer the question without his voice trembling, “just some pacing issues, mostly. You’ve got a bit of an issue with run-on sentences and closing up a scene. But you plan a lot, which is nice. I mean, you can only get better.”

An earnest smile picked its way across your face, framing your polished teeth and pushing up the apples of your cheeks. Wonwoo had to look away—sometimes it was too much—you were too much, and he refused to let himself drown beneath your intensity that he found purely terrifying. Your knee proceeded to pull from his thigh and you were now dragging your body off the couch, which meant that Wonwoo could safely exhale the breath he was holding. He wondered if you just wanted to hear the compliment, or if you were legitimately pleased with his praise.

You walked up to his fireplace mantel, examining the items left along the white, sparkling trim he’d spritzed clean of all dust.

“Did you make this?” Came your inquiry, a curious finger pointing toward the round-bottomed, thin-necked red vase.

Wonwoo shook his head.

“No, it was a welcome gift from the landlord.”

“She made it?”

“Yeah,” he hummed. “Didn’t I tell you? She owns the pottery business downstairs. Saskia. She immigrated here like, eighteen years ago, now. From Poland. I thought you might’ve run into her.”

Shaking your head, you turned back to the vase.

“I didn’t see her at all.”

“She was probably in her office.”

“How did she make all these little emblem thingies? Around the base? Like, this one’s got an elephant. This one is a fruit tree.”

Wonwoo squinted at the vase from his place on the couch. He hadn’t really examined it much, apart from when his landlord had thrust it into his hands while she welcomed him to the building. It never held any flowers, either—not even the brilliant ruby coloured poinsettias his ex-girlfriend's mother was supposed to send.

The relationship has disintegrated before it could ever happen.

“Fuck, don’t know. She has a bunch of little tools down there for more detailed work. Maybe a stamp. You’d have to ask her.”

“It’s really pretty.”

His brows furrowed. “Yeah? You like ceramics or something?”

You turned back to him, shrugging.

“I don’t know. I was just saying, it’s pretty.”

“It is. It’s very pretty.”

With a sigh, you climbed back onto the couch.

“Do you think you’re done editing?”

He picked up the laptop and set it down on the coffee table.

“I think so. For the day.”

“Perfect.” You smiled. “I’ll make time to read your notes tomorrow morning, if I can. Seems like there’s about eight-hundred.”

Wonwoo chuckled, “not eight-hundred. Try twenty.”

“Twenty?!” Your eyes bulged in shock as you gripped onto the embroidered pillow hugged back into your lap. “That’s so many!”

“What—twenty is somehow more than eight-hundred? What fucking planet are you living on where numeracy works like that?”

“Wonwoo, I have so much to do tomorrow!” You winced, tossing your head against the couch and slipping down the cushions.

“Okay, like what?”

“… Gosh… no, no. Fuck it. It doesn’t matter.”

“No, tell me. What have you got to do tomorrow?”

“I don’t want to tell.”

“Why not?” He murmured.

“If I talk about, then I’ll want to do it even less.” There was an empty sigh he heard from your chest as your arms curled tight around the pillow. “Besides, it’s squished all into my colour-coded block on the schedule. The pink one. I just—I don’t want to think about it.”

“Fair. I get that.”

“It’s complicated family stuff.”

Wonwoo huffed sympathetically. “I get that even more.”

“… So, we’re still good for Spring Street on Sunday?” You asked, staring up at Wonwoo from your sunken, defeated slump.

He nodded.

“I’ll be there if you are.”

—MAY 14TH.

The Spring Street Fair. It happened every single May, for three days straight, usually Friday to Sunday. In the daytime it was cheerier and more watered down for the children that came hand in hand with their parents, looking to feed the alpacas and ride those nauseating teacups and sob until exhaustion because they accidentally let go of their kitten-shaped balloon. However, at night, the fair had become a beacon for the older, rowdier university crowd.

Wonwoo never went despite all his recent years living in the city, but Vernon had, usually on accounts of “business” which really meant selling drugs for idiotic prices behind the Whirler or the Starship. You wanted to go, but hadn’t told Wonwoo the reason. He opted to assume it was another part of your story—maybe you ran into Mingyu at a similar fair when you were younger, and it was therefore very integral you go Spring Street tonight. It was the exact opposite of what Wonwoo typically appreciated doing on Sundays, and he knew for a fact he’d loathe it, every single part.

“No fuckin’ way!” Vernon’s voice exploded through the crackly static on Wonwoo’s phone as he stood in line for the fair, gazing over top everyone’s heads to gauge the ticket booth. “I can’t believe your loser ass actually crawled outta bed for that.”

Wonwoo scoffed, “yeah, it wasn’t my choice.”

“Then what for?”

“Her. She wanted to go. It’s for the book.”

He was supposed to meet you inside the fair. It was almost ten o’clock at night. The sky was beautifully clear, illuminated with pinpricks of starlight, and the air had once been crisp. Now, Wonwoo was beginning to smell sparked cannabis, and he assumed a likewise scent would follow him all damn night. The horrid, anxious process of standing in the mile long line was made palatable through his conversation with Vernon, who—shockingly—wasn’t even there.

“Ohh, the book, the book. Wait—she’s gonna write her book at the fuckin’ Spring Street Fair? How the fuck does that work?”

“No, it’s not like that,” Wonwoo chuckled. “It’s stuff about the settings, the environment; she uses it to help with her writing.”

“Hm, doesn’t make much sense to me, probably ‘cause I don’t like readin' or writin' or anything with books. But, damn, I’m jealous of you, Glasses. Do y’know how hard I tried to smooth talk my way into that girl’s pants? N’somehow, you can write good—”

“Write well, not good.”

“Oh, fuck you—write well—so she takes you everywhere like a little purse dog. When does that happen to me, yeah?”

The line started slowly pouring forward, and Wonwoo felt himself get dragged along. Probably another five minutes and he would be at the ticket booth, getting one of those neon bracelets circled around his wrist that were nearly impossible to rip off.

“Why didn’t you come?” Wonwoo asked.

Vernon groaned, “got into some bullshit with this guy who’s not payin’ up. I’m handlin’ it, though. If I can manage to get it all sorted, I’ll come later. It’s too fuckin’ easy selling those gummies to the first years, dude. Shit, it could be some Flintstone vitamins and they’re actin’ like Chicken Little. Cracks me the fuck up.”

Wonwoo cleared his throat, smiling. “You’re such a cunt.”

“Hey, hey, you are what you eat, okay? And, when you get inside or whatever, text me where you’re hangin’ so if I do come, I can see you for a bit. Dunno if your girlfriend will approve.”

The air began mottling with a thin, chalky smoke that drifted from somewhere down the crowded string of university students. Again, the line shuffled, and the congestion gradually broke up as more people were allowed into the fair. Wonwoo switched the phone to his other ear, getting his wallet ready.

“Don’t even start.”

“Start what? I said nothin’.” Vernon’s laughter was raspy and obviously laced with a smirk that Wonwoo could hear.

“Don’t be such a prick. She’s not my—”

Suddenly, Wonwoo’s phone began vibrating against his palm, and when he pulled it down an immediate lump conjured in his throat upon reading your name. His heart jolted, and it wasn’t until someone pushed hard on his back to urge him forward that he realized the line was once again ambling closer to the ticket booth.

Vernon sighed, “so, again, tell me where you’ll—”

“Shit—uh, gotta go. Talk to you later.”

A few remnants of Vernon’s miffed, guttural cursing managed to leak through the phone before Wonwoo could press to accept your call. In an instant, his friend was blipped away, and he heard your voice instead. He held back a cough from the astringent, cottonish air.

“Wonwoo, hello. I’m glad you picked up. So, where the hell are you? It’s nearly ten! Did you not get in line early?”

Wonwoo kept the phone secured between his shoulder and ear while he shimmied the coins out from his wallet.

“No, I did, promise. Just about to pay. Where are you?”

“When you get in, just follow the arrows. They're lit up with those blue lightbulbs. They go to the tavern. I’m having some drinks with my friends. Don’t worry. You won’t have to do much socializing.”

“Uh, okay,” Wonwoo answered, internally counting up the money in his hand until he was certain of the amount. “Mingyu’s there?”

“No. He always plays poker with his friends on Sunday.”

An unbeknownst pressure escaped his chest.

“Okay. I’m close to the front. I’ll see you in a bit.”

“Sure. Don’t be late!”

“I know. Bye.”

Hanging up the phone, Wonwoo had just enough time to wriggle the device into his back pocket before handing the ticket booth clerk his coins. She dropped the cold change into his hand, then asked to see his wrist, where she proceeded to attach the bracelet with the words Spring Street Fair etched into the orange, plasticky-feeling paper.

Finally, he was let inside.

Blue arrows, blue arrows—that was all Wonwoo kept reiterating in his head like some religious hymn as he followed the glow throughout the fairgrounds, weaving his way between large groups of people that he gleefully didn’t recognize. Eventually, he saw the tavern you were referring to—an outdoor bar with picnic tables set up everywhere, beneath cheap little strings of warm, lambent lights.

Even with his glasses on, Wonwoo was still squinting as he walked between each table, attempting to discern your dolled-up face somewhere amongst the strangers sipping on their large mugs of alcohol, that was until he heard his name being called over the music rumbling from the bar’s horrible speakers. When he looked straight ahead, he saw you cutely waving him over. With each step he took, Wonwoo reminded himself to breathe, to loosen up, to stop clenching his fists so painfully tight as though he were going to split someone’s eyebrow. Breathe, breathe, breathe. Just breathe.

You stood up from the table to welcome him, and he felt your hand settle softly on his lower back. The touch was grounding.

“So, everyone, girls, if I could get your attention for just a moment despite the general impairment going on here—this is the mystery guy whose been helping me write. Wonwoo.”

God—he wanted to puke, all those big, curious, unabashed eyes soaking him in like freshly dipped watercolour to a cloth canvas. There was a cluster of high-pitched voices that repeated his name in a shrill, unison greeting. However, Wonwoo was unable to meet a single girl’s gaze, and so he opted to stare down at a paper plate on the table aligned with cinnamon-sprinkled churros.

Again, he wanted to throw up.

“So, of course, Wonwoo’s been the biggest help with everything,” you said, to which he could sense your nails subtly digging at him through his clothes, most likely a silent urge to say something so he didn’t seem so unprecedentedly stiff and metallic.

He cleared his throat.

“Uh, yeah. I’m just proofreading, really.” Wonwoo had to swallow. “Some tips here and there. But, she’s pretty good as is.”

“Is that your actual voice?”

His eyes darted to find who asked the question. She was toward the end of the picnic table, tucking a lock of short, coffee brown hair behind her ear. Before the girl was a gigantic and fluorescent pink drink, the glass resembling the shape of a fish bowl.

“… What do you mean?” Wonwoo replied.

She sat up on her knee, continuing to ogle him with those fixated but glazed chestnut eyes. Her mouth seemed to drag as though it was thawing when she spoke. Wonwoo could tell she was already well inebriated. There was no way that was her first drink.

“Your voice,” she repeated, “it’s so… deep.”

“Well… I don’t know. Puberty.”

His comment elicited some giggles from around the table, to which he could feel the cartilage in his ears burning.

“Wonwoo—” another girl then leaned forward with her head tilted up and a coy, drunk smile flittering on her mouth, “—I think it’s so, so great you’re helping Her write. I actually think it’s the sweetest, ever.” Her lashes were coated in smooth mascara and her eyelids were remarkably glimmery, drenched in an electric shade of blue that he couldn’t stop staring at. “Also, sorry, but you’re like, super gorge.”

“Super what?” He repeated, confused at her wording.

But she didn't seem interested in repeating herself, instead scooping the long and impressively silky black hair off her shoulder to spill down her pale back.

“Okay, okay, okay. We’ve all shared some impetuous conversation and we’ve all swooned over him now. Yippee. Unfortunately, we’ve gotta get going, friends.”

Wonwoo felt your hand land on his shoulder and gently tug him backward, away from the table. You then proceeded to grab the glass left at your seat, chugging the remaining alcohol until there was nothing but a melting block of ice cubes clicking at the bottom. While you wiped your mouth, you began aiming a finger at each girl.

“To make a long story short, that’s Princess, Clara, and Bells. Do you have any comments for them before we go?” The impatience in your tone was bleeding through with sheer apathy.

Wonwoo shrugged. “Uh, nice to meet everyone? I guess.”

“Short and efficient. How perfect. Okay, I’ll see you guys later, I think. Actually—probably not. So can someone eat my churros?”

Your arm curled around Wonwoo’s bicep as though to whisk him away as hurriedly as possible. Everyone left at the table began waving, and Wonwoo couldn’t even bring himself to force a fake, pleasant smile because he was still attempting to understand what all those comments even meant. You walked briskly until the poetic, firefly lights of the tavern were lost long behind in the distance, and when you finally paused, he had not a clue where he was standing—a busy centre with people mingling all around him, the wild whirring of carnival rides and chaotic, blinking hues strobing above his head.

When he looked down at you, he was surprised to see you were already staring back, and he could only hold the eye contact for no more than a few seconds or else his heart would skip a beat.

“Sorry about all that,” you said, rolling your shoulders, “I tried to be somewhat reasonable with my drinking for once. I can’t say the same for Clara and Bells. They guzzle cocktails like apple juice.”

“Bells is… the one with all that sparkly blue eyeshadow?”

“Oh—yeah. She loves sparkles. Glitter. Anything glimmery. She’s been like that ever since I’ve known her. Clara was the one who asked about your voice. She has a thing for guys with deep voices and you unfortunately fit the bill. And I’m sorry that Princess didn’t say anything. She kind of just looks and observes. Also I’m like ninety-eight percent sure she popped something in a porta-potty before we met up so she’s probably in a mental state of star-surfing. Anyway. You don’t have to worry about them, alright? It’s just us for tonight.”

 “Well, that’s… easy enough.”

“I’m not sure if we should stand here.”

“Hm?”

You then pointed to something behind Wonwoo, and when he turned his head, he felt a gust of wind from the gigantic, spinning ride that resembled a flying saucer in the nighttime sky. It was always beyond him why anyone would choose to strap themselves into a machine that terrifying. It made him sick just watching.

“If I get throw up on my head, I’m killing myself.”

“Okay, so let’s find somewhere else.”

As he began walking away in search of a quieter area, you grabbed onto the back of his clothes. Wonwoo raised his eyebrow.

“We have to hold hands, or have arms linked,” you said.

For some reason, Wonwoo presumed you were joking, and so he tilted his head at you with a questioning smile. But when your serious expression didn’t crack, he realized it wasn’t a joke at all.

“Oh… why?”

“Because—” you then took a step toward him and spoke matter-of-factly, like you were reading a rule book, “—it’s the buddy system. Always have someone at your side, and make sure you’re linked in some way. It’s too easy to get separated in places like this, otherwise. Have you never heard of that before?”

“I have,” Wonwoo answered, adjusting his glasses. “My—um, my hands are a little cold. I don’t have the best circulation.”

The truth was, Wonwoo didn’t want to hold your hand. He didn’t want to link arms with you. He didn’t want you pressed into his side all night. He didn’t want to have the scent of your hair under his nose or feel your ticklish breath against his neck each time you spoke.

But he didn’t have a good enough excuse to fight it.

“Oh my god, who cares,” you retorted. “And I have super sweaty hands. Like, uncomfortably warm. We'll balance out.”

 “Actually?”

“Yes! Is that a problem for you, sweetheart?”

Wonwoo quickly shook his head in response to your condescending tone. You then reached for his hand, which he offered up for your required holding, and chose to ignore the butterflies in the deep pit of his stomach when he realized how perfectly your fingers slotted with his. He followed your lead through the fair until you came outside a small lemonade booth. Wonwoo thought you would drop his hand, but you didn’t, and his knees felt like gelatine.

“I want another drink,” you told him.

He squinted at their options, which didn’t really consist of much. The prices were obviously insane—it was another reason he hated going to fairs. His wallet always got cleaned out.

“You’re going to have to use the washroom a lot.”

“Ugh,” you gritted in response, brushing some hair from your face, “I hate public washrooms. They’re so gross. Completely unsanitary. Awful maintenance. One time I was here and I walked into the washroom by the Mirror Hall and I swear, a freaking rat ran across the floor! I screamed bloody murder. I’d rather squat in the bush and risk getting, like, poison ivy. But the washrooms have mirrors obviously, and I like checking my makeup and stuff. I wish I could check now.”

“Right now? I mean, your makeup looks fine.”

Wonwoo saw your entire face freeze, and then begin to warp, as though he’d just said the most dreadful thing he could think of.

“Fine?” You glared at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He started stumbling over his words, feeling his chest tighten.

“So, what you’re saying is that I look ugly? That my makeup looks bad? Because if you really thought it was ‘fine’ then you wouldn’t have said it looks ‘fine’ because everyone knows that word is a substitute for passable and passable is just a substitute for ugly!”

He opened his mouth, then instantly closed it.

“So what’s wrong with it? Are my under eyes creasing? Is my contour too dark? Is my lipstick smudged? Did it get on my teeth? Ugh, I knew I should have brought my compact!”

“No, no, no.” Wonwoo squeezed your hand, hoping that he could somehow undo the damage he had no intention of even inflicting in the first place. “Uh—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. You look—” he wasn’t sure he could say the compliment without shivering, but Wonwoo didn’t care in the moment, “—your makeup is beautifully done. There’s no creasing or smudging, there’s none of that."

You kept touching worrisomely at your face. “Are you sure?”           

“I promise.” Wonwoo confirmed, giving your hand another tight, reassuring squeeze that seemed to calm you down.

He had never seen someone switch gears that quickly. You could be perfectly amicable one second, and then break down into near hysteria the next, a slew of anxious thoughts running straight from your brain to your mouth like clockwork.

Wonwoo wondered how Mingyu dealt with such tangents all the time. The trait almost didn’t seem to fit your image.

The line moved forward another step.

“Are you going to drink anything?” You asked after a moment of silence, in a quieter voice. “I want to get the strawberry refresher.”

“Maybe.”

“What will you get?”

“I… don’t know. A regular lemonade?”

“No,” you shook your head, pointing toward the corner of the booth’s menu, “get the pina colada thing. I want to try it, too.”

“Okay,” Wonwoo agreed with a shrug as he retrieved his wallet, not really caring about what he drank. “I’ll pay for it. No worries.”

The longer Wonwoo was at the fair, the less he actually thought about why he was there, until the question leapt into his mind at random while he stood beside you, waiting for a seat on the dauntingly large Farris wheel. He removed the straw from his mouth, swallowing a gulp of his pina colada flavoured drink, and peered down at you. His hand was still interlinked with yours. You had finished the strawberry refresher in about five minutes.

Now, you were texting someone. He didn’t know if it was a friend from earlier or perhaps your boyfriend, but Wonwoo wasn’t a serious sleuth, so he opted to look away despite the natural urge that was pricking him. When you finally tucked the phone back into the small bag slung around your shoulder, Wonwoo lowered the plastic cup from his mouth, making sure to clear his throat.

“So, uh, why are we here, exactly?”

You sniffled. “What do y’mean?”

“Does the fair have anything to do with your writing? Is that why we’re riding the Farris wheel? Oh—speaking of which, I didn’t think to bring the camcorder, in case you wanted any footage.”

“Oh, no,” you said, waving a dismissive hand, “this has nothing to do with my book. We’re palate cleansing.”

“Palate cleansing?” He echoed.

“Yeah. It’s like, doing something different in between a routine, to keep yourself fresh. You always eat breakfast at home but today you skip it and go out for brunch. Y’know, shit like that.”

Wonwoo huffed in amusement. “You could have told me beforehand.”

“Uh, no—” your face scrunched up in clear disagreement, “—I couldn’t, because then you wouldn’t have gone. No offence, but you’re a hermit, Wonwoo. You don’t really like going anywhere or doing anything and you’re definitely one of those people who bores themselves into hating their own life because your stimuli is so limited. That’s why I didn’t tell. Again, no offence.”

“Oh.”

That was all he could string together in response—not even string together, because it was just one boring, monotone sound that basically got carried away in the chilly wind, tinted with the smell of buttery popcorn and weed. It sounded like something that was supposed to sting, but it didn’t really. Maybe he was growing more accustomed to your unprompted judgements on his personal life.

Suddenly Wonwoo had blinked and you two were next in line for the empty cart. The clerk pointed at Wonwoo’s drink.

“You can’t bring that with you,” he said.

Before Wonwoo could think to respond, you had already grabbed the cup from his hand, chucking it straight into the garbage.

“We’re not.”

Pulling on his hand, you guided him into the shaky cart, both of you squishing onto the cold, metal bench. It was quite literally the tamest ride in the entire fair, and yet Wonwoo was still feeling nervous about it—though, that was possibly the fact he was going to be sailed one-hundred feet into the satin black sky, left amongst the stars and the bright, shimmering halo of the moon with you and you alone. He was actually relieved you had tossed his drink, otherwise he might have dropped it due to the trembling in his fingers. It was easier to fiddle with them in order to disguise their shakiness.

“I guess I should have asked if you’re afraid of heights,” you said.

The cart jerked abruptly as the ride began to move and lift you two ever so gradually from the ground. Wonwoo peered over the edge for a brief moment to watch his distance grow from the people below, their jumbled mess of conversations fading in place of quiet.

“Uh, no. I’m okay with heights,” he finally answered.

He saw you glancing down as well, smiling to yourself.

Wonwoo wasn’t sure if he should attempt at conversation or just maintain the stillness between you. Usually, he couldn’t stand it, and the pressure to talk and fill the silence always tended to fail or squander something potentially enjoyable. But he supposed it was typically like that in a situation where two people weren’t the best acquainted—that’s why Wonwoo always quite liked Vernon, despite his rough, nonconformed edges and often vulgar way of speaking.

He was able to carry a conversation so naturally that the quieter moments never felt suffocating, instead falling exactly where they should, like puzzle pieces. But that was harder with you.

Maybe it was because you could be intimidating, unpredictable—Wonwoo was never truly relaxed around you because there was this intangible, looming worry that he needed to have the perfect responses and be the most perfect person. He found that perfect people only hung out with other perfect people and Wonwoo was certainly not that—perfect. You must have seen it by now. He was just as rough as Vernon no doubt, but in a different, hidden way that had to be dug into like an archeologist looking for broken bones.

The Ferris wheel slowed down, coming to a stop. You weren’t at the very top, though the air was notably cooler and much fresher. When he inhaled a long breath, it smelled purely of night and not overpriced, buttery fair food and burning weed. He noted that you stared straight ahead, at the crescent-shaped moon, which mirrored a backward stare with how squarely it sat in front of the ride. For once, Wonwoo wasn’t squirming, wriggling, stressing at the silence. When he spoke, he did it because he genuinely wanted to.

“How was your Saturday?”

“My Saturday?”

“Yeah. I saw the schedule. You had to run a bunch of errands with your mom. Looked like you were pretty keyed up.”

“Oh, yeah. I mean, I want to say I was overreacting the day before about how much I was dreading it. But then it fucking happened. And… I, uh… I realized I was exactly right. It was awful. I did get to your notes, though… yeah—I just—I squeezed them in between brunch with my mom’s friend who could talk herself to death and the excruciating car ride to the publisher’s office.”

“Mmhm.” Wonwoo smiled tenderly. “Did they help at all?”

“Yeah,” you breathed out, “a lot, actually… thank you.”

“I’m sorry your Saturday went so terribly.”

Huffing in response, you nibbled on your inner check.

“Yeah, well, it is what it is… I already knew it was gonna be a shit show. So, what is it that you write about, anyway? Because you seem like you know a whole lot. Seokmin says you let him read some of your poetry, but it was only like, two excerpts.”

“Oh, yeah.”

Wonwoo recalled the memory of Seokmin picking up his leather notebook when it fell out from his bag one day. He’d pestered him about the contents until Wonwoo succumbed and presented him with some lifeless, impatiently scribbled prose that he’d most likely jerked out on the bus or in between his lectures. Seokmin seemed to treat it like fine, prestigious gold, though Wonwoo knew it was the least personal of his work that he would never let another living soul on the planet breathe—not one scent of the ink or even the paper.

“So, you write poetry?”

“I started writing poetry, haikus and all that easy stuff. I developed the interest a lot more through high school. But I never sat down and tried writing anything like a novel until I... I started uni.”

“Yeah. Deciding to be a math major. I still don’t get it,” you sighed, fidgeting with some rings on your fingers. “But what do you even write about? Like, what’s your inspiration?”

Wonwoo paused, looking down at his knees.

“… Life.”

“Life?” You defeatedly slumped into the seat. “That’s the million dollar answer your intelligent brain chose to erect? It’s just that when I think about it, I’m letting you help me with my writing, but I’ve never even read a little smidgen of yours. How’s that fair?”

The higher the Farris Wheel climbed, the stronger the breeze blew, and Wonwoo could feel its tendrils lashing across his cheeks and parting through his hair. You huddled further into your jacket.

“Well, you took Seokmin’s word for it,” Wonwoo laughed.

Your eyes rolled, but you smiled gently. “I know.”

Suddenly, your hand had reached out, and you were pushing the floppy, black tresses off his forehead. Wonwoo’s fingers dug bluntly into his arms. You then angled yourself in the small cart, looking back at him, sculpting your gaze to each crest in his face.

“Why don’t you ever push your hair back?”

The question hit the dark, cold atmosphere like a sizzling ember and Wonwoo was afraid to even open his mouth because he was certain a dying squeak would come out. You continued to play around with the locks, earthing your fingers deep into its texture and attempting to style it despite the persistent, fluttering breeze.

“Um…”

“If you styled it like this—” you moved in closer, staring with so much focus at your nimble movements, “—yeah, like that. It shows off your forehead, gives you a bit of class. I mean, the wind’s messing it up. You don’t tend to do anything with your hair.”

“No.” Wonwoo swallowed, hard.

“Well, you should. Not all the time, obviously. And I’m not saying you look bad with it down—not at all. But you’ve got nice, smouldering features and they’re so much more… framed… when you show your forehead.” You collapsed back into the seat, and that tingly feeling he experienced when your fingers had been tugging and pulling was disseminating throughout his entire body. “I mean, look at how my friends reacted to you. I should apologize for that again, by the way. O-M-F-G, they see one hot guy, and they lose their grip.”

He nearly choked. “Hot?”

It didn’t sound right. Not at all.

“Well, what the fuck, Wonwoo? You’re not ugly.”

“Did you think that when you first saw me?”

You had folded your leg again as the Farris wheel came to another stop. This time, at the very top, at the centre of the night.

“Did I think what? That you’re not ugly?”

“Never mind,” Wonwoo grimaced, hearing the cart creek as you better positioned yourself to face him. “It’s pathetic like that.”

“No. I didn’t think you were ugly. Did you think I was ugly?”

Wonwoo wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of the question, but he smothered it down because he knew one little laugh might hit your ear the wrong way, and it would be flames, sputtering and spewing. Obviously, he didn’t think you were ugly—he never had, even before he ever spoke to you. But he wasn’t so shallow as to only regard someone’s physical appearance. You were still terrifying.

“I wouldn’t consider anyone ugly... and I wouldn’t ever use it to describe some aesthetically. But—I mean, I think people can become ugly through their personality, if that makes sense.”

“Yeah, like, if they’re rotten inside.”

“Mmhm.”

“I agree.”

“What was that word your friend Bells said?”

You shrugged, “which word?”

“She said something like, you’re super… I don’t know… super something.”

“Oh—” you sat up more in the cart, your back pressed against the uncomfortable corner, “—Bells said you were super gorge.”

“Meaning…”

“Meaning super gorgeous.” You made a big show of the rehashed compliment, parroting your friend's tone and swaying your shoulders.

“Oh… really?” Wonwoo shook his head. “I thought she was referring to gorge as in when you gorge yourself, from eating.”

“No,” you giggled at him, “it’s a short form, dumb-dumb.”

“Why make a short form out of that? Is it really that strenuous to say the word gorgeous? It’s only an extra syllable.”

“Okay, well, this isn’t the nineteen-twenties. We don’t all cross our T’s and dot our I’s. It reminds me of how you text.”

He furrowed his brow. “How do I text?”

Your eyes rolled frivolously. “I dunno. Like you’re typing to a business colleague or something. You’re so formal. When I think of you texting, I imagine it’s like someone using a typewriter. And that funny little ding sound it makes whenever you start a new line.”

“Oh.”

“What—no one’s ever told you that before? No way.”

“That I text like I’m using a fucking typewriter? No, actually. I can’t say I’ve heard that.”

“Well, it’s not a big deal. You’re just not very plugged into the internet, I suppose. Which is a good thing. It gives you prestige.”

At that, Wonwoo chuckled. “Does it?”

“Yes,” you smiled, eyes full of starlight, “and—just ignore Bells, okay? She was being kind of weird but that can be fully attributed to those three shots I told her not to take.”

“Hm.”

You continued to stare at him with a plotting smile.

“Hm what? What’s the matter?” The metal of the cart squeaked as you leaned forward, your voice suddenly lathered in mischief. “Did you think she was cute?” He heard your tone drop, and your low, smooth voice breathing hot against his ear. “Did you think about fucking her, Wonwoo?”

“No—what the fuck—not at all.” Quickly, he’d pushed you away and off his shoulder, to which you retreated into the corner with a giggle that should have made his skin crawl, but didn’t.

“Well, how would I know?” You answered, tilting your head and stretching out your arms high into the blackness, as though you were trying to reach for a star. “I never know, because you never look at me. It makes me think you just lied and you do think I’m ugly.”

Wonwoo glanced over the edge of the cart, at the almost nauseating distance between himself and the fairgrounds, covered with miniature, bustling people that seemed like breadcrumbs by comparison to their place in the sky. He didn’t want to sink into this conversation. Besides, how was he supposed to look at you when your fingers were just gliding through his hair and your lips were whispering close enough to brush up against his ear? How was he supposed to act composed? Normal?

“Hey, Wonwoo?” Your fingers snapped.

But he just kept thinking. Like he was cut from a separate cloth than you—the fabric of his universe wasn’t woven with yours and he could ruminate as much as he wanted to and it was impossible to hear your intrusions. Why couldn’t he look at you?

You intimidated him, yes. You scared him, double yes.

He already knew that. It couldn’t just be that.

“Wonwoo? God… you shut down over the simplest things.”

“I don’t know.”

You paused, staring him up and down, perplexed.

“What? What do you mean?”

“I don’t know why I can’t look at you.”

There was a lasting silence between you. Wonwoo felt like he might throw up for acknowledging the fact out loud, and his fist tightened in his lap as though to ground himself—to remember where he was and to breathe slowly, because having a panic attack on top of a stupid Ferris Wheel was the last place it should happen. He hadn’t even realized that you’d shifted closer, one leg curled beneath you while you spoke at the side of his head. But he didn’t hear you, couldn’t see you—there was a harsh void inside him that sounded like suctioning air and static. His fingernail was pressing so deeply into the flesh of his pale skin that it was beginning to faintly bleed.

And—all of a sudden—there were these hands cautiously gripping onto his face, pulling him toward you. He kept staring at the movement of your soft lips, focusing on their pronunciation until everything flooded back in one overwhelming whirl and it felt like being slammed by a freight train.

Wonwoo then grabbed onto your bare knee as a crutch. He didn’t mean to. But you didn’t seem to care.

“—everything okay? Wonwoo? Do I need to like, call someone? Because you look like you’re going to be sick.”

He heaved in a gaping breath, feeling how cold the midnight air was in the thinning atmosphere that encompassed him. It was soothing, akin to a hand massaging along his back.

“Wonwoo?” You repeated his name, sounding awfully scared.

Pulling off his glasses, he rubbed at his eyes. He blurrily saw you touch the spot on your knee where his hand had buried into.

“Sorry,” he then coughed through the heartbeat raspy in his throat, bringing the glasses back to his face, “I spaced out.”

“Spaced out?” You echoed. “That wasn’t spacing out.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

He thought you fight might it.

“Well…” you sighed, glancing around uncertainly, “are you okay? Is there someone you want to call? I don’t know.”

But you didn’t. Thank God.

“No, I’m—” he stopped, gulping back the words.

“… Yeah?” There was a softer intrigue in your cadence.

Wonwoo looked at you. Fully this time. He looked straight into your eyes that were like a glossy, moonlit ocean, detailed with swirling riptides of surprise and apprehensiveness, but also immense depth that seemed genuinely appreciative of his gesture.

“I’m fine.”

And then he watched you nod, smile, and in return study his cavern eyes with the same intensity and wonder. It was such a peculiar experience, staring at you, understanding a little more of your truth, your gentleness.

He didn’t feel as scared.

—MAY 16TH.

Wonwoo had been standing before the mirror in his washroom for the past half-hour or so, primarily just staring, examining, and pulling at the long, limp fronds of his hair. There was a point in his life when he legitimately put effort into styling it, and all his old hair products were still sitting in the cabinet. Though, his ex-girlfriend had tended to help him with it most days, because he found the strands were just too thick and stubborn to work with.

However, since the Spring Street Fair, Wonwoo hadn’t been able to shake those comments you made—about how nicely his face could be framed and the smouldering nature of his features. He would never think to describe himself that way as it seemed particularly pompous and kind of foolish, but hearing you say it was different. The thing was, Wonwoo had no idea where to start, and attempting to rummage his fingers through his hair just didn’t feel as stimulating or electric compared to your meticulous, sweet touch.

In the midst of opening his cabinet for a comb, Wonwoo heard his phone vibrate. He looked down at the sink, seeing the screen brighten with a text notification from Vernon.

[ Vernon | 12:54 pm ]: hey Glasses

[ Vernon | 12:54 pm ]: Solar Pop at 2?

Wonwoo thought about it for a moment, running his thumb down the spine of the comb to hear the little thwip. And then he sighed in decision, texting back a thumbs up. It’s not like he was working later, and as much as Wonwoo would love to believe that today might be the day he made actual progress on his own story, he knew it was just wishful thinking. In reality he’d waste ample time staring into the document, pondering all the scenes and emotions and nuances he could write rather than moving to write anything at all.

Besides, he hadn’t eaten yet today. The thought of a juicy, sauce-slathered, bun-toasted burger being his first meal prompted the boy’s face to sallow greenly with sickness, but the longer he stood in the washroom, combing and slicking and running styling balm through the black bird’s nest on his head, Wonwoo felt the hunger start to bite like an emaciated, starved dog. He left his apartment knowing he would be somewhat late, but Vernon was always later.

And while Wonwoo sat in one of the booths at Solar Pop, flicking the laminated menu back and forth despite knowing the exact order he was going to place, he thought about sending Vernon another text to ask where the hell he even was. Wonwoo could only sip his slippery glass of coke for so long until the waitress decided he was crazy and had been one-hundred percent stood up.

“Hey, fuck, I’m here.”

2:24 pm—that’s when Vernon finally arrived, sliding himself into the leather bench opposite to Wonwoo while tossing his big, metallic clump of keys onto the table. The boy then proceeded to shimmy off his black jacket, propping his elbows onto the table.

If Vernon ever pulled a tardy stunt like that with you, Wonwoo imagined his friend would probably get stuffed into one of those boxes for sawing people in half. Except it wouldn’t be magic.

“Did you get pulled over or something? Police raid? Traffic stop?” Wonwoo asked, now resting his menu down flat.

Vernon laughed, shaking his head. “Uh, no. Couldn’t find my fuckin’ car keys,” he spoke in a breathless voice. “Sorry ‘bout it.”

“Couldn’t find them?” Wonwoo almost scoffed at the excuse while his friend began scouring his way through the menu. “Dude, they’re the fucking size of a bowling ball. How could you lose them?”

“Okay, okay. Fuckin’ skin me alive, why don’t you?”

“You didn’t come from your place, I’m guessing.”

At that, Vernon began to grin, the metal on his pierced lip glinting underneath a ray of sunlight through the blinds. He was still occupied with choosing which burger he wanted. Wonwoo picked the same choice every time. Vernon always tried something different.

“No, I didn’t,” he rasped, flashing his sharp teeth and flipping the menu over, “but when Maleeha Rabia sends you a text at goddamn one in the morning of her tits, you don’t roll over n’ go to bed like some loser. Besides, my ecstasy was just sittin’ around and I had to use it one way or another. Anyway, doesn’t fuckin’ matter. I think I’ll get the Double Bacon Crunch Burger. Sounds good as hell.”

Finally, Vernon threw the menu down with conviction.

“Jesus Christ—” his copper-burnt eyes then flared open as he looked across the table at his friend, “—who the fuck are you?”

Wonwoo itched his nose. “Um, what?”

Vernon leaned forward, seeming captivated. “Uh, your fuckin’ hair? How’d you get it like that? It’s all brushed over and soft lookin’ and shit. I feel like I shouldn’t be sittin’ with you, Prince Charmin’.”

“I just put some balm in it, combed it around,” he answered, reaching for his drink. “Took me a humiliating amount of time.”

“Well, consider me starstruck. What’s made you do all that?”

Before Wonwoo could answer, the waitress returned to the table with her small notepad and shiny pen. Vernon pitched his order first, and Wonwoo followed, asking for the regular quarter-pounder with a side of hot crinkle-cut fries. Once she whisked the menus away and promised to grab Vernon’s root beer float, Wonwoo realized he still had to answer his friend’s question. He didn’t exactly want to tell the truth, because he knew Vernon would never let him hear the end of it, but Wonwoo also didn’t want to be too dishonest.

“Your face is doin’ that thing.”

“What thing?” Wonwoo answered, swallowing his sip of soda.

Vernon crossed his arms on the table, accenting the canvas of darkly-inked tattoos needled into his skin. He shook his head.

“It’s ‘cause of your little girlyfriend, isn’t it?”

Fuck. Wonwoo should have just opened his mouth straight away and spieled out some quick-witted lie. Now he would be painfully subject to Vernon’s unfiltered teasing. Leaning back in his seat, Wonwoo unearthed a miserable sigh at Vernon’s smirk.

“You’ve gotta drop that bullshit.”

“It’s true,” Vernon pressured.

“No, it’s not.”

As though to interpret Wonwoo’s steadfastness as a challenge, Vernon leaned further over the table, dropping his voice but still smiling devilishly through every word he mimicked between his teeth.

“Oh, Wonwoo, your hair looks so fucking sexy like that. It makes you look so perfect. You’re from my dreams. Please, just fuck me right here, right now so I can push my fingers through it ‘cause it’s so soft and silky and I’m basically in love with you.”

“Shut the fuck up. Please.”

“That was a good impression, though, wasn’t it?”

In the loud space of Wonwoo’s disgusted silence, the waitress placed Vernon’s drink onto the table and ensured the food would be coming soon. Vernon watched her walk away, back into the kitchen.

“Hey,” he then grinned in capitulating fashion, “take a stupid joke, alright? I know she’s not in love with you and she doesn’t wanna suck your dick—she’s got a fuckin’ boyfriend. If it makes you feel any better, I’m just projectin’ ‘cause you know I’m jealous.”

Wonwoo sucked in a sip from his coke, shaking his head.

“There’s nothing to be jealous of.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Vernon dismissed, poking his spoon at the near perfect scoop of vanilla ice cream afloat in the frosty mug, “but just so y’know, your mopey ass left me out to dry on Sunday night. Shoved me off the phone, didn’t respond to one of my texts. You’re lucky I even asked you t’hang today. Did she take your phone or something’?”

Shit. When Vernon said it like that, Wonwoo seemed like a terrible friend. Maybe he did deserve a deal of teasing. But at the same time, Wonwoo knew how easy it was for your attitude to flip and he hadn’t been at all interested in starting the night with hostility.

“Okay, fair.” He admitted, rolling up his sleeves.

“And?” Vernon raised his eyebrows expectantly.

“I’m sorry.”

“There you fuckin’ go. That’s all I wanted t’hear, Glasses.”

The truth was, Wonwoo actually quite enjoyed his time with you that night—despite the transient, bickering hiccups and his nearly faltering panic attack, he had fun. Actual fun. Of course, as soon as your ride ended on the Ferris wheel, you’d clutched onto his hand like a snake sinking in its fangs and dragged him throughout the entirety of the fair to find a washroom. Nonetheless, he really loved playing some carnival games with you, like skee ball and the water pistol. He was even able to win you a pink stuffed bear that you had carried close to the chest for the remainder of your time at the fair.

Wonwoo thought he could spend another night like that with you again. Just to get out of his apartment, to feel exhilaration in the pit of his stomach, to laugh until his lungs dried out, to hold your warm, comforting hand in his even when it became too clammy or inconvenient because otherwise you would scold him for letting go.

“Food’s on the way,” Vernon perked up like a child about to be served a slice of birthday cake as the waitress walked over with two full plates, “if you can’t finish yours, I’ll take it.”

“Yeah—how about you focus on chewing and not choking to death first,” Wonwoo sighed, watching his friend’s metaphorical tail wag.

Once she set the food down, inquiring about any refills, and left while flashing her perfected customer service smile, Vernon grabbed the burger with both his hands, taking a gigantic, succulent bite that somehow didn’t singe the roof of his mouth. Wonwoo winced, instead going for his crisped, golden fries.  

“Damn. You’re really that hungry?”

“I’m ravenous,” Vernon mumbled, picking up a few caramelized onions that fell onto his plate. “Dude, I woke up at noon in Maleeha’s bed. She was out cold. Nothin’ in her pantry but some stale fuckin’ Fruit Loops that I may have tried. I’m a grown ass man. I need a meal.”

“I’m glad you’re so proactive," Wonwoo answered, sinking his burning hot fry into the small side-bowl of ketchup.

It took them less than half an hour to clean their plates. Wonwoo tended to eat at a slower pace, with smaller, more savoury bites, while Vernon sloppily devoured his entire burger and gobbled down his fries with the occasional dipping into the root beer float’s ice cream. They scarcely talked in between, too focused on eating and drinking. Wonwoo pushed away his plate when he’d finished and proceeded to wipe off his salty, crumb-speckled fingers with a napkin, meanwhile Vernon took a moment to sink backward into the leather seat, placing a hand over his full, satiated stomach.

“Hey, do y’think they have any Life Savers?” He eventually piped up while sticking a toothpick into his mouth. “I want grape.”

Wonwoo scoffed, tossing the napkin onto his plate and taking out his phone. “Who the fuck likes grape?”

“Me, you smartass,” Vernon answered, turning backward in his seat and scanning the restaurant for any colourful candy bowls.

He couldn’t deny that he was hoping to see a text from you, but there was nothing, and his chest dropped. Wonwoo decided to open the schedule you had made, curious as to what you were even doing today—work until five o’clock, and then you were going out for supper with some friends at Terra Cotta.

He thought about texting you. His thumbs kept hovering above the keyboard in contemplation, even though he knew for certain he wouldn’t text anything. He would just stare and hope.

“Holy shit. Uh, oh my God. Wonwoo. I-I see—”

Vernon had suddenly reached a hand onto the table, slapping the lacquered wood a few times to garner his attention.

“What?” He mumbled in agitation, keeping his focus glued to the phone. “If you see the Life Savers just go up and take some. I swear, they’re not gonna fucking care you’re not twelve years old.”

“No, no, no, dumbass,” Vernon hissed, turning back around in the booth, his honey eyes glistering in oils of dread and panic. “Look, actually look. That’s Mingyu, isn’t it?”

Immediately, Wonwoo clicked off his phone, instead squinting into the distant corner of the restaurant where a notably tall, black-haired boy with tanned, amber skin had emerged from a doorway, standing in a somehow casual but imposing way that only be Mingyu.

It must be Mingyu, and that fact became glaringly obvious when Wonwoo made the unintentional, floundering mistake of staring straight into the boy’s wandering and earthen brown eyes.

“Oh my fuckin’ God, oh my fuckin’ God,” Vernon kept reiterating under his breath, bouncing his knee like an anxious student waiting for their test. “He definitely saw us. Or—he definitely saw you. This is so bad, man. I think he’s gonna rock me.”

“What?” Wonwoo whispered back harshly, attempting to float his gaze away from Mingyu in a casual manner. “For what reason?”

It seemed like Vernon almost wanted to gag at him. “Um—because of what fuckin’ happened between me n’ his girl! At that party? I told you about that shit, didn’t I?” He rasped from across the table, his bottom lip worried between biting teeth. “Dude, what if he tries to pull a fast one? You’re what—like six foot something? You have to help back me up. I can throw a pretty solid punch—even better when I’m shit-faced—but that might not be enough. Lady Liberty’s built like a brick.”

“Okay, you’re acting crazy,” Wonwoo uttered in disbelief. “I doubt he’s going to be anything but physical, especially in a public place. And, you said you didn’t know Her was in a relationship.”

“How the fuck do I know he knows that? Can’t exactly use my infectious charm on someone whose girlfriend I tried to rail.”

Vernon somehow dared to spare another rapid glance over his shoulder, only to shed an entire mould of colour from his complexion.

“He’s coming, he’s—”

“Shut up and relax,” Wonwoo mumbled. “I’m sure it’s nothing big—he’ll say a thing or two and be on his way. God, I’ll handle it.”

For some reason, Wonwoo thought he should be sinking into consternation a lot more than he actually was, but it’s not that his chest wasn’t thumping or his mind wasn’t spinning amuck with worry. It was more so that he was managing the whirlwind, as best he could, as much as he could manage. Mingyu wasn’t a complete stranger, and all their past interactions had been boringly cordial or even forgettable. Nonetheless, Wonwoo would still prefer to avoid the boy because that made his life simpler in the grand scheme of anxiety.

“Hey, Wonwoo,” Mingyu approached the table with a confident, leisurely stride, extending his large hand for Wonwoo to grab, exchanging a dap. “I almost didn’t recognize you for a sec.”

“All good,” Wonwoo answered, attempting a polite grin that felt much more sweltering on the inside than out. “How’ve you been?”

Mingyu shrugged, burying his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants while he gazed at the slitted curtains for a moment, pondering his reply. “Decent. Playing a lot of basketball. I don’t think I’ve seen you since I came to the pharmacy. You still there?”

“Still there.”

“Well, at least I haven’t had to come in for a fuckin’ pregnancy test yet. That’s good I suppose, yeah?” The boy chuckled, then tilting his head a certain way to crack a stiff spot in his neck.

“Aisle five if you ever need it.”

Mingyu responded with a smirk that perhaps lasted a second too long, and these slimming, analyzing eyes—a gaze that Wonwoo felt ripple in his gut. He chose to believe it was nothing dire, or else he would spiral right there on the spot and lose all fine-tuned control.

Meanwhile Vernon had been sitting quietly the entire time, most likely hoping he would remain in the dark, skulking shadows outside Wonwoo’s spotlight. But he must not have been hoping hard enough, because Mingyu proceeded to smile at him, again extending his hand for another dap, which Vernon yielded apprehensively.

“You’re a pretty recognizable guy, unfortunately,” Mingyu acknowledged with a husky laugh—a clear reference to the boy’s identifying tattoos and numerous facial piercings, “I think you deal to at least a third of my friends. It’s Vernon, right?”

“Mmhm. Yes sir.” To Vernon’s luck, he had a well-polished and gleaming smile that made it impossible for him to seem disingenuous, though Wonwoo knew he was wilting inside.

“I’m sorry about Dots.”

“Oh, uh. All good. It is what it is, y’know?”

Mingyu nodded.

“Hey—those tattoos are crazy good. Where’d you get them?”

Vernon looked across his arm. “Thanks. Mostly Liquid Impact—dude there that I call Funfetti ‘cause he eats Funfetti box cake all the time. Uh, but his actual name’s like, Axel or some white-boy shit like that. He’s done a majority of it. The others—man, I don’t know. Half the time I’m off my fuckin’ face and wake up with shit I never remember.”

“Oh, yeah?” Mingyu sniffed, running a hand through his long, shiny onyx locks of hair. “Guess you also don’t remember promising my girlfriend the best sex of her life, right?”

At that, Vernon looked straight to Wonwoo, and Wonwoo returned the enlarged, incinerating stare straight back, reading the split-second terror that swam like flopping fish in Vernon’s eyes. The atmosphere hit the ground with a palpable and ugly shatter.

“Yeah, um—about that—”

Mingyu then balanced backward on his foot for a moment, beginning to chuckle, sway his head, as though to dismiss the entire accusation in the same intense breadth it was mentioned.

“Nah, nah. I’m playing around,” the boy chuckled, rubbing at his nose. “You didn’t know she was taken. No hard feelings, yeah?”

Vernon immediately nodded his agreement, and the tension nailed into his broad shoulder line seemed to melt. “For sure. No hard feelings. I mean, she’s beautiful. Can’t even imagine what it’s like bein’ her boyfriend when you’ve got sluts like me around.”

Mingyu grinned, “no, you’re good. I know she gave you some attitude about it. Bit of a troublemaker herself. But, yeah. Water under the bridge.” The boy’s attention then turned back to Wonwoo, who was more than eager to somehow extinguish the conversation from you as a topic. “I know she’s hangs out with you right now.”

“Oh, yeah,” Wonwoo hummed, “the book thing.”

“She doesn’t like talking to me about it.”

“Well, don’t stress,” he answered, catching the sunlight that blitzed through the curtains and dipped like a gold paintbrush into the boy’s eyes, turning them to warm molasses, “she’ll show you the whole damn thing when it’s over and done with.”

Mingyu huffed, “I thought she’d have dropped it by now.”

“I don’t think she will. She’s pretty committed.”

“Hm.” He nodded simply in response, kissing his teeth.

Vernon folded his arms, leaning back into the leather seat with the toothpick again sitting in his mouth. “You got any plans for the summer, then? Doesn’t your pal always throw a huge party?”

“Yeah, actually. Doing it this year if we can manage. Seungcheol’s parents pretty much spend their entire summer bouncing around all the Great Lakes. We’re gonna do a co-hosting type deal and—shit, since you’re here, this is really good timing.” Mingyu then looked down at Vernon and lowered his gravelly voice. “I know what your main gig is. What about blow? You sell it?”

A slow but gradual, catlike grin trudged the edges of Vernon’s mouth, to which he pulled out his toothpick and set his elbows onto the table. “Look, can’t chop it up here, man. Ask one of your friends for my burner. I can get you to the ski slope, but it costs, obviously.”

“Nah, that’s fine. It’s just—my last plug fell through.”

“Tough.”

“Yeah. Okay, well, I should get going. I’ll follow up with you later. Do you care if Seungcheol knows the number, too?”

“No,” Vernon shrugged, planting the toothpick into the corner of his mouth and flicking it with his tongue, “just don’t go throwin’ it around. I could only get enough for a couple people, anyway.”

“All good. Okay—later, guys.”

Mingyu stepped away from the table with a wave and a flash of his pearled, charming smile, nothing but the mild scent of his fresh and expensive-smelling cologne to swirl through the now vacant space. In true espionage fashion, Wonwoo and Vernon both picked open the slots between the restaurant curtains, cautiously observing the boy’s stride into the parking lot and onto the sidewalk, where he at last disappeared into the warm, sunny afternoon.

Heaving a gigantic exhausted breath, Wonwoo took off his glasses and set them in his lap, massaging deep into his eye sockets.

“Y’know, he’s not that fuckin’ bad,” Vernon commented, “I mean, he scares the shit outta me, but that could have gone worse.”

"Jesus Christ—I can’t believe what I just watched.”

His friend laughed, banging his fist excitedly enough on the table to engender the silverware clattering on their plates. “Ha! I know, right? Dude—Seungcheol and Mingyu are the kingpins of that fuckin’ university you go to. They can cough up the big bucks for that shit. Just imagine the distribution pay I'm gonna get with them on my roster—actually, that couldn’t have gone better.”

“And where are you gonna get it?” Wonwoo pressured, at last settling his glasses back on, clarifying Vernon’s smudged, blurry face.

“Well, let me fuck around and work my magic.”

“I don’t want him to use you.”

“Pfft. I don’t give no fucks about being used,” Vernon cackled, wearing a self-indulgent, luminous smile and continuing to play around with the toothpick while he readied his wallet to pay. “You know what you should worry about, Glasses? Sweet talkin’ the fuck outta that dude’s girl and securin' yourself an invite. You probably don’t even need to try sweet talkin’—she obviously likes you.”

“No,” Wonwoo grumbled, “no way.”

“You don’t want to go?”

“Why would I want to go, dumbass? The last time I went to a party, I ran into you. They’re loud and suffocating. I’ll pass.” Wonwoo also pulled out his wallet, taking his card. “Besides, I get the sense Mingyu doesn’t trust me a whole lot. I’m not gonna stir the pot.”

Vernon shook his head. “You stir the pot every time you hang out with his girl to go write romantic poetry and run around, gigglin’ at Spring Street. N’yeah, exactly. You met me. I don’t get the fuss.”

“It’s nothing like that," Wonwoo answered in frustration.

“Yeah, yeah. You’re a Patron Saint. I just want my Life Saver.”

—MAY 19TH.

Wonwoo was going to your apartment today for the first time, and it had nearly killed him in the process.

His abhorrent sleep schedule hung over his head every single instance he woke up at lunchtime, the entirety of his mornings wasted to weathered heartbreak and its lasting, stained consequences. Needing to be at your apartment for ten had Wonwoo buckling his face into anguished hands the night before, wondering how he was going to pull off such a triumph without wishing for death.  

He did know one thing for certain—the sound of his alarm erupting into its timely, strident beeping made him instantly sick. In fact, the first thing Wonwoo did was half-stumble in complete bleariness out from his bed, dragging a white sheet along by his ankle as he burst into the washroom and hung his head over the toilet like he was sweating through a wicked hangover. But it wasn’t alcohol. It was months of bad, soul-stitched habit festered up in stomach bile and perhaps, a hatred for himself. It was his own fault, in a way.

And yet, when you texted him a half-hour later to reconfirm your address, Wonwoo replied with not the slightest hint that he was feeling pretty fucking terrible. The headache and shudders followed him down the street, onto the bus, and into the lobby of your notably opulent apartment complex. He felt rather incongruous amongst all the marble—the white trim, the clean, untainted air, even the breakfast table with dispensable lemon water and small, fruit-topped pastries that somehow made Wonwoo want to kill himself.

He looked down at his phone.

[ Her | 9:10 am ]: 717 thorton street, unit 61

[ Her | 9:45 am ]: are you almost here? :)

Wonwoo pressed the button to the elevator.

[ Wonwoo | 9:50 am ]: Yes. In the building.

His phone vibrated immediately with a text.

[ Her | 9:50 am ]: I’m so excited

The doors pulled apart. Wonwoo stepped aside for a couple who were leaving the elevator before he entered. Quickly, he clicked the button to close the doors, not wanting to share the space with anyone but himself and the headache throbbing at the forefront of his cranium. He sighed, glancing at his texts again to reply.

[ Wonwoo | 9:51 am ]: Do you have any Tylenol?

[ Her | 9:51 am ]: most def

[ Her | 9:51 am ]: what’s wrong?

[ Wonwoo | 9:52 am ]: Nothing much. Just a headache.

When he didn’t receive an immediate answer, he assumed you had put the phone down to search your medicine cabinet. Getting off the elevator, Wonwoo proceeded to find the correct apartment. He put his fist up to the door, and then, at the last second, stopped.

There it was again—the same melting pot of anxiety and butterflies that had bubbled up when you first visited his place.

He supposed the feelings never truly disappeared each time he would see you, and he was beginning to detest it. Why couldn’t his body just adapt? Get over it? What purpose did it serve to constantly remind him of his unkempt emotions? It was like the idea of you terrified him more than you as an actual person, because in person, he felt comfort, as crazy as it sounded. So why couldn’t his anxiety and security just complete that stupid sliver of a synapse for once?

Knock knock.

After a moment, the handle clicked, and the door to sumptuous unit 61 was pulled open. For the first time, Wonwoo saw your face without any makeup, and it sort of made him stutter in his words—not that he was shocked in abhorrence at the contrast, more so the vulnerability behind it, the fact you felt comfortable enough to shed your compulsion with always presenting a perfect, glamoured face. He was pleased to see you were in a fuzzy pair of pink shorts and a white, thin long-sleeve that were basically pyjamas.

Maybe it was weird to think, but you seemed more human.

“You made good timing. I’m impressed.”

“Thanks,” Wonwoo answered while stepping inside, toeing off his sneakers next to your plethora of shoes at the doormat.

“I would obviously say tour first, but I have your Tylenol sitting on the counter over here, for your headache. Can you dry swallow or do you need water?”

“Dry swallow?” Wonwoo laughed, following you toward the kitchen area. “Who the fuck dry swallows any sort of pill?”

“I don’t know! Personally, I don’t. But there are some freaks out there who do. I was actually testing you. And you passed.”

“Lucky me,” he sighed.

Taking a seat at one of stools displayed around the large, granite-surface island, Wonwoo waited for you to pour him some water. Obviously, the apartment was spacious, gorgeous—the large, white-fluffed rug in the centre of the living room was definitely suited to you, though he was surprised by the tall, lush potted plants aligned by the window panelling. He didn’t know you had a green thumb.

While placing down the water, you shifted closely into the seat beside him, and Wonwoo could smell the scent of strawberries on your skin. You let your chin press into the hammock made with your hands, watching as he set the pill on his tongue and gulped it down.

“So, is it really bad?”

Wonwoo turned the glass back and forth atop its coaster, deciding on whether or not he should tell the truth. It always tended to sting him when he lied, and so he turned to you, shrugging.

“I felt it when I woke up. But it’s manageable.”

“Oh, I get that sometimes.”

“It’s because of my repulsive sleep schedule, no doubt.”

You smiled at him, adjusting your leg under the island.

“Is that why you prefer afternoons all the time?”

“Pretty much. It’s a horrible habit. I’ll break it somehow, I’m sure. Just a stupid hump to get over. Anyway—” Wonwoo slung the laptop bag off his shoulder and onto the counter, “—your place looks pretty sweet. How are you? What’s the plan for today?”

“Well,” you hummed, slapping an arm down onto the reflective granite, “I’ve wrote some more this week. I’d love for you to proofread it. Maybe we can go out for lunch later, but you’d need to give me time to get ready. I mean, I did shower this morning…”

He watched you pause, and then swallow. "You don’t care, do you?”

“About what?” Wonwoo answered.

“Oh, well—never mind, then.”

“No, what is it? What don’t I care about?”

You started to grin, hiding half your face with a hand that slowly scraped across your cheek, as though to rub off any remaining lethargy from the morning light. Wonwoo waited for you to answer.

“… I look like a mole.”

He at last realized what you meant.

“No, you don’t.”

“I was just feeling lazy. I know, gasp, what an insane word to come from my mouth. But I’m glad you don’t care. I didn’t think you would, but I still wasn’t sure. At least your reaction wasn’t obvious. My chin is breaking out so please don’t stare at it, if you can help it.”

“Oh, well, you know, you look—” that one banished word almost slipped, but Wonwoo smoothly mended the break, “you—you have nothing to worry about. I get breakouts, too. It sucks, but it’s life.”

Your bare, soft face turned cheerful in a fawning smile.

“I know. I guess I'm just not very used to the feeling of people seeing me like this. Did you want to do lunch later?”

Wonwoo leaned back in the small seat, running his hands up his knees, knowing damn well he hadn’t eaten breakfast.

“Uh, I should probably start with like, cereal or something.”

“You didn’t eat?”

“No appetite.”

“I’ll fix you something. Unfortunately, no cereal. But I'll get some the next time Mingyu and I do groceries. So, what do you like best? Toast? Oatmeal? Scrambled eggs and toast? Orange juice? Bagel?”

At the mere mention of orange juice, his fist clenched. Attempting not to dwell so obviously, Wonwoo straightened up and smiled.

“I like toast.”

“That’s good. It’ll be easy on your stomach.”

Wonwoo watched you squeeze off the stool and open the fridge to pull out a plastic bag of bread. He watched you stand on your tiptoes to reach into the highest cupboard and grab a plate. He watched you pop open a jar of fresh raspberry jam and slot the bread into the toaster. He could watch you do anything, it seemed.

Anything at all.

It took Wonwoo about half an hour to eat his raspberry toast and skim through the newest additions to your document. You were getting more into the thick of your relationship with Mingyu—just as you’d warned—but Wonwoo was able to gloss most cloying paragraphs without too much bitterness or personal weight clouding his possible critiques. Wonwoo was still seated at the island, meanwhile you were lying face down on the plump-cushioned couch, an arm dangling off the side. In a morbid way, you looked very much dead if not for the shallow rising and dipping of your back.

“Done, for the most part.”

Your head perked up, and he was relieved to see you hadn’t fallen asleep or suffocated. “When will you add your notes?”

“After lunch. Is that okay?”

“Mmhm.”

“So…” Wonwoo slid down in the chair, reaching out his arms with a gigantic yawn, “you actually snuck into his basketball game?”

“Yeah,” you sighed, letting your chin snuggle into the blanket strewn underneath you, “I was obsessed with him. I couldn’t help it.”

“I wouldn’t expect your first date to be at the nature museum. The way you wrote about the butterfly exhibit was nice, though.”

“It was fun. Mingyu wasn’t the biggest fan, but I had always wanted to go. There was this huge skeleton of a blue whale, and sometimes the museum would play the whale’s ballad—” you flopped onto your back, staring up at the ceiling with a tender, ardent laugh as your fingers twirled the fluffy knots of the throw, “—it used to scare Mingyu so bad. He kept telling me he was gonna leave our date unless we went to another exhibit.”

“The sound can be pretty jarring if you’ve never heard it before, to be fair,” Wonwoo reasoned, now massaging down his legs.

Shoving your body to sit upright on the couch, you poked out your tongue at him, grinning, “don’t defend his loserness.”

He huffed in response, “my bad.”

“Should we do a tour now? I really want to show you my room. And if I keep lying on the couch, I’ll fall asleep.”

“Uh, sure. Do you want me to wash my plate?”

“No, no, it’s fine. Just leave it in the sink.”

After Wonwoo cleaned off the granite island, he came to join you in the living room, the white rug resembling what he imagined a cloud to feel like underneath his socked feet.

A thought had suddenly popped into his head.

“There’s a nature museum here, too.”

You grabbed the blanket, wearing it like a shawl around your shoulders. Wonwoo had never seen you so sleepy before.

“I know.”

“Have you ever gone?”

“No. Not at all. I did ask Mingyu once when we first came here for university. But I think he was still mortified from the whale thing. I dunno. Anyway, is that your round-about way of asking if I ever want to go? Because I would, to help with the story.”

Wonwoo scratched along his collarbone, heated with the itch of being blatantly exposed for his plotting. However, he hadn’t suggested the museum with the intention of employing it as a visual to sharpen up your scene-work. He was hoping to go just for the sake of it—like a palate cleanser, as you had previously mentioned.

But he obviously wasn’t going to articulate that.

“We can plan it more later,” he said.

The tour started in the living room, which Wonwoo had become well acquainted with throughout his half hour of sitting at the kitchen island, occasionally flicking his eyes toward the couch to ensure you were still alive. You explained that the pristine white rug was a housewarming gift from Mingyu’s parents when you first moved into the apartment, and he felt guilty for even stepping on it.

He decided to ask about the plants by the windows.

“Oh, I don’t actually look after those,” you answered, touching at one of the heavy and balmy-looking green leaves from a plant nearly as tall as you, “Seokmin comes over to water them and stuff, gives them special nutrient food—even sprays their leaves with this misty bottle thing. I tried giving them all to him, but he says he’s got no space at his apartment—which is total bull by the way.”

“Maybe he just wants an excuse to see you.”

“Yeah,” you scoffed, rolling your eyes, “doesn’t everyone?”

Wonwoo bit back a stupid little smile as he followed you into your bedroom—the place you seemed most enthralled for him to finally see. You twirled into the open space and threw the blanket off your shoulders, then whipping your hands into the air akin to a magician who’d just performed the most grandiose magic trick.

“Tada! Bedroom reveal!”

He pushed up his glasses, taking a good, solid look around at everything he could: the prestigious makeup vanity with the drawers left half-open, your dresser, lined with photographs of what he assumed to be friends, family, and Mingyu, the beaded, dangling chandelier, the ajar closet doors that revealed your unsurprising magnitude of outfits—skirts and dresses and professional blazers and lascivious things from threads of lace and silk. He finally looked to your beautiful bed, which you proceeded to flop onto.

“This is my favourite part,” you hummed.

Taking some further steps into the bedroom, Wonwoo began recognizing smaller details, though he couldn’t explain what he was feeling. He always thought a bedroom was such a personal, intimate space, like a treasure chest stuffed with memories and pieces of person’s essence that couldn’t be captured using words alone. To sit on someone’s bed, or sift through their drawers for a pen, or even grab a shirt from their closet—he felt it was all so… sacred. It was the reason he had such a hard time having others in his bedroom.

“The bed is your favourite?” He wondered.

“Yes,” you giggled, a glimmer flashing into your eyes like diamonds in the sun as you climbed onto your knees.

Before Wonwoo knew what was happening, you had clutched a hand into his shirt and jerked him toward the covers. He landed beside you, and his heart thrust with electricity.

“You could have just asked me to sit,” he chuckled, wiping some wrinkles off his shirt and adjusting his glasses.

“Nope.”

“Bed’s comfy.”

“Duh,” you sunk backward, smirking at him, “it’s a bed.”

“Hey, you should have seen the bed I had growing up in Changwon. My older brother and I, we hated it. Shit was like sleeping on a piece of cardboard. It didn’t get better for years.”

Propping your head onto a pillow, you continued to smile prettily at him with those entrancing eyes, and for a second, this piercing fear struck in the core of Wonwoo’s chest that he had just spoke about himself—actually spoke about himself—in a manner that screamed of vulnerability. He felt terror. Why did he do that?

“Hm. I guess I’m just spoiled, with my memory foam and all.”

At least you didn’t push into the topic. You were getting better at that, almost like you could interpret the subtle tweaks in his face or the stiffening of his bones. Wonwoo rested his elbows on his knees.

“Your room’s nice. It smells like you.”

He heard you giggle, “what? Like strawberries?”

Wonwoo pursed his lip, looked down at his fingers. “Yeah…”

For a moment, his eyes lingered unfaithfully on your exposed midriff, down to the fluffy hem of those pink lounge shorts. He squeezed his wrist tight, practically stopping his own blood flow, willing himself not to think anything unhinged that would simmer up to fuel his self-hatred later. The longer your head spent sinking into that plump pillow, the more your lids fluttered with sleep. As he continued to gaze about the room, he spotted the pink stuffed bear that he’d won you at the Spring Street Fair, sitting atop your bedside table.

“You’ve still got that?”

“Hm?” You pushed up onto your elbows, yawning. “Oh, yeah! ‘Course I still have her. It’s a perfect little memento from that night.”

“Well, I did go through a lot of effort to win it.”

“Oh, I’m aware... wanna know what I named her?”

“What?”

“Miss Priss.”

Honestly, Wonwoo was surprised you hadn’t stuffed it into your closet or abandoned the toy in some innocuous corner of your apartment. Instead the bear’s vibrant pink face and slightly lopsided eyes were staring him down, making him rerun Vernon’s words in his head: ‘you stir the pot every time you hang out with his girl to go write romantic poetry and run around, gigglin’ at Spring Street.’

Wonwoo immediately shoved the memory aside, letting the implications sizzle up and burn on the hot coals of his brain.

“Hm. Funny.”

You rolled your eyes.

Wonwoo tapped his wrist, thinking.

“So, uh, I hope you don’t mind me asking this, but why don’t you live with Mingyu? I know he stays over some nights.”

Lifting yourself up with one arm, you shrugged, opting to stroke a hand along the blanket to smooth out some crinkles. “I don’t want to move in with anyone unless I’m engaged.”

“Actually?”

“Yeah. I mean, that's what I told my parents, at least. They used to really push for us to have an apartment together. Which makes sense. They freaking love him. I swear, more than me," you laughed, picking at your shirt. "I get it, too. Mingyu and I have pretty much been tied at the hip all these years. But we agreed that we wouldn't live together until things went to the next level. He does keep a lot of his stuff here for when he does stay over, and vice versa. He’s got an extra key and everything, his own nightstand, bathroom stuff.”

“And that’s for certain?”

You tilted your head. “What’s for certain?”

“The engagement thing. Or was it just to shake off your parents?”

“Well… I guess I mean it. Is that weird to you?”

“No,” Wonwoo said. “I personally haven't heard it plenty.”

“Yeah, most people are surprised to learn we don’t live together. I guess we really give off the impression that we're together in most things, if not everything. It's good to get a little space, though."

“Well, I understand it—wanting to have your own space. I mean, I think everyone should try living alone, just once if they have to. You learn more about yourself, I suppose.”

You cracked a smile at him. “What have you learned?”

Wonwoo chuckled, knowing all the things he could never say were tingling right on the tip of his tongue. “Well, I meant in a general sense. I wasn't exactly talking about myself.”

“Ha—you learned how to be a hermit.”

“I'm pretty sure I was always like that.”

“Yeah, but probably not that bad.”

“That bad?” He furrowed his dark brows at you, staring straight into your eyes that twinkled with challenge. “Meaning what?”

“Please, you would not leave that apartment if it wasn’t for your commitment to the book. Maybe for work, some groceries every now and then. Otherwise, your ass is not leaving.”

“Damn. Just call me a loser.”

“Fine,” you huffed, pushing up onto your knees, “loser.”

Wonwoo managed to hold the penetrating, spirited strength of your gaze, and he was proud of himself for doing so, even if his heart felt like it was going to leap into his throat. It was still difficult for him to be routinely engaged in eye contact, but he knew how much you appreciated it—the feeling of being listened to and experiencing someone’s dedication to presenting their full attention.

Since it was getting close to lunch time, Wonwoo figured you might want to start thinking of where to eat. He was getting notably hungry, and having to function off some toast coated thinly in raspberry jam wouldn’t be enough to power him throughout his proofreading. He pulled out his phone, wanting to check the time, and began sliding off your comfortable, warm bed.

“Did you want to—”

“Hey, wait, wait, wait—” Wonwoo felt your hand curl around his bicep in a firm grip and begin to pull him back down, “—before we get up and everything, I want to talk to you about something.”

Oh no.

His stomach writhed.

Wonwoo started praying it wasn’t about his and Vernon’s encounter with Mingyu at Solar Pop—not that anything particularly terrible or concerning had happened—but maybe Mingyu had mentioned something to you. Maybe he didn’t like Wonwoo and thought it was best you stop writing together, stop seeing each other.

His mind started quivering with a steadfast hurricane of awful thought and Wonwoo knew the flushed colour had most likely drained from his face as quickly as a popped balloon.

Your hand remained on his bicep, squeezing it.

“Why do you look so worried, already?” You chuckled in a quiet voice, rubbing his arm until Wonwoo visibly relaxed. “I haven’t even said anything yet. Unless, you think I should be worried, too.”

“No.” Wonwoo shook his head. “Just—never mind.”

“Hm, well, that’s kind of what I want to talk about.”

As your hand drifted off his arm, Wonwoo sat crossed-legged, narrowing his eyes at you in question. “What do you mean?”

The conversation began with a clunk of silence, to which you glanced down at the bed for a moment, clearly biting on your inner cheek in contemplation. Wonwoo desperately wanted you to spit it out. He hated when empty words hung so burdensomely in the air.

“Well… there’s no easy way to bring it up. And I’m not sure you’ll even want to talk about it with me, but I keep noticing it, again and again. I think it’s at least worth it to put it on the table. And, if it’s not my business, you can freely tell me to screw off.”

“Oh… okay.”

And then you were looking at him, not with any sort of accusation or anger or even disappointment. Somehow, Wonwoo knew what you were going to say, and he braced himself for it.

“Do you… do you have anxiety?”

Wonwoo said nothing. He wasn’t sure if it was an issue of not wanting to speak or being unable to.

You breathed out heavily in response.

“Okay, silence, I definitely saw that coming—but, um, I’m not stupid, you know? Your face just gets so pale, and I feel like I can see the heartbeat in your chest… and you always do that thing with your fist. Clenching it. It always looks so painful but you never seem to care and—anyway—I just… I can tell when it happens and it kind of bothers me that you try to like, shrug it off or call it ‘spacing out’ when it’s really clearly not. And, maybe that’s my fault.”

His gaze had shifted to lock with yours.

Again, you weren’t staring at him with any malice or dejection—he’d come to learn that your eyes were actually quite soft most of the time, soft but always glittering, like a handful of silk. Still, Wonwoo couldn’t yet find his words, which must have come across as remarkably shocking for someone who spent their whole life grabbing all the shiny bits of possible vernacular.

You sat up straighter, touching his knee.

“Is it my fault you don’t want to talk about it? Can I at least know that much?” There was an imploring desperation in your face.

Wonwoo at last cleared his throat.

“I don’t talk about it with anyone.”

“Okay, I get that. But, did I make you feel like you couldn’t bring it up? At all?” Your fingers dug a little harder into his knee, though Wonwoo knew you probably hadn’t realized it. “I just—I do want to know, actually. Because sometimes I let myself get in the way of being present for other people. But I care. I honestly do.”

He nodded, cracking his knuckles.

“I mean… I definitely wouldn’t have thought to bring it up with you. I guess I felt like, if I did, what would it accomplish? You might think I’m incapable or… I don’t know.” He shoved his hands underneath his glasses, rubbing at the indents on his nose. “As you can see, I’m not the best at talking about it. I don’t talk about it.”

You folded your legs in similar fashion to Wonwoo.

“Well… um… do you… is there anyone that could, like… I don’t know what I’m saying. I guess, are you coping alright, is what I’m asking. I really don’t mean to overstep. I swear.”

At that, he chuckled quite loudly. Your face twitched in surprise at his reaction, and the hand slipped off his knee.

“It really doesn’t matter. I just deal with it.”

No. He took nothing. He did nothing. Wonwoo just sat and suffered and felt no initiative to help himself. At that point, he really didn’t want to dissect the topic any further. He could sense the slithering under his skin, the way his body physically bristled like a perturbed cat at the thought of having to be any more open than what he'd already shared. The choices he made in his life weren’t important if he was going to end up back in the same slippery trench.

“Oh. Well, I hope you take care of yourself,” you said with a smile, giving his bicep another gentle squeeze. “That’s all.”

—JUNE 2ND.

About two weeks had passed since Wonwoo visited your apartment. Afterward, you had met up four times to continue writing and making small ventures to places that you deemed vital for developing your story. Wonwoo found himself enjoying most trips.

He remembered the ice cream shop. Apparently, it was the date where Mingyu had officially asked you to be his girlfriend. You had gotten their most popular strawberry cheesecake flavour while Wonwoo ordered mint chocolate chip, which was a rather boring but favourite classic of his. No doubt, you sat across from him on their outside patio the entire time, pitting remarks about how awful his choice was in lieu of writing anything down in your document. With every spoonful he ate, Wonwoo had to keep reminding you to stay focused, and eventually, his repetitious ordering worked.

"Did you actually come here to get any writing done or did you just want the ice cream? We're not palate-cleansing are we?"

"Why can't two things be true at once?"

“Can I see your laptop?”

“No—hey! Don’t try to grab it!”

“Why? Because you’ve written fuck all?”

"For your information, I have a bullet-point list going."

"Oh, yeah. A bullet-point list, hm?"

"Yes. It has all my major writing points. Point number one: Mingyu seats me down at the table. He's clearly nervous. We've only been in the shop for a minute or two and he won't stop brushing his hair behind his ears. Point number two: Mingyu grabs our ice cream from the counter. He gives me his flavour, rocky road, by accident, and then we awkwardly laugh and switch. Point number three: I remember thinking his nerves were endearing, and—"

"Okay, okay. I get it."

"Exactly. Let this be a lesson in poor assumption. Don't try to assume anything about me, Wonwoo. It's probably wrong."

And then there had been the journey to Mooney’s Bay, one of the most well-known beaches outside the city—probably because the lake actually looked a clean, salty blue and the soft sand wasn’t littered with drifting pieces of plastic. It had been the first place Wonwoo took his brother when he came to visit from his office in Korea, and the picture they had taken together with their pant legs cuffed up, standing knee deep in the water, was still pinned to the corkboard in Wonwoo’s bedroom. However, Wonwoo hadn’t been back to the beach since, until you dragged him there in an hour-long car ride. He had mostly looked out the window, thinking, as always.

You said that Mooney’s Bay reminded you of a cove from your hometown, a more clandestine one, where you and Mingyu used to splash around in the isolated, iridescent waters at night, laughing into the chilled breeze and coughing up all the liquid splatted into the other’s face. Wonwoo had used the video camera to record some footage of the beach per your request. By evening, most people had packed up their coolers and umbrellas and sun towels, granting him more freedom to film wider, panned shots. He remembered standing at the foam shoreline, feeling the sand squelch wetly under his bare feet, recording you wading further and deeper into the water that reflected like a bleeding, scarlet portrait of stained glass.

“It feels amazing! You should come in!”

“I can’t. It’ll ruin the camcorder.”

“So put it down! In the bag! There’s enough footage.”

“But the sun is setting behind you. It makes for a good shot.”

"So just hurry up! The water is the perfect temperature."

"But—"

“I’m not asking you. I’m telling you.”

"Well, I don't know... I, uh—I can't swim."

"This isn't swimming, this is wading. Just go up to your knees. It's been a hot, long day. I think this will help get the scowl off your face."

“… Fine. At least give me a second to fix my pants.”

The third location, while not his favourite, had been an open bar that was conveniently placed a few streets over from his job at the pharmacy. Wonwoo had went there a number of times with Vernon in the past, usually after he finished a midterm or handed in some grating assignment, though Vernon tended to drink more than his body could sufficiently handle. By the end of the night, Wonwoo would most often find himself being a mediator between his tattooed, foul-mouthed friend and whatever blundering, equally drunk idiot he happened to be arguing with.

It was too much for his anxiety.

Nonetheless, he’d met you there after work despite the churning cauldron of memories that he harboured, unsurprised to find you seated at a small table swarmed with dewy drinks and shots that interested observers had sent over. Wonwoo felt each digging, plying stare that sculpted against his back as he sat beside you—he even choked down one of your retched tequila shots (while not the best idea), hoping it would mellow him out.

You never really explained why the bar was pertinent to your history with Mingyu—or, maybe you had, and Wonwoo was simply one flaming shot past coherent of properly digesting your words. He did, however, remember your entire, almost scientific explanation of why you liked wearing low-cut or heavily revealing tops at the bar, and Wonwoo had listened along as best he could manage, even when that floating sensation started hazing through his mind. At one point, this girl who Wonwoo had never encountered once in his life came up to him with a polite tap on his shoulder and an inquiring smile.

“Hey—sorry to intrude—and this may be a super dumb question, but you are guys together?”

“No, no. Not at all. I’ve got a boyfriend. He’s single.”

“Oh, perfect. I was just—I was sitting over there, in the corner with my friends, if you can see. Anyways—I said something dumb about how you were really good looking, and now I’ve been dared to come up and ask for your number. So, um, yeah…”

“No, I’m good. Thank you.”

“O-Oh. Wait… are you… being serious?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Sorry. This is really fucking embarrassing… uh, I guess I won’t linger then. Bye.”

“… Jeez… had a bit much to drink or something?”

“No—just don’t like giving out my number to strangers.”

“She was cute, though. Probably a fun one-night stand.”

“Then you have sex with her, yeah?”

“Ha! You’re so funny. When’s the last time you even had sex? I mean, you obviously pull. At least, I think you do…”

“I don’t remember. Months and months ago, I guess.”

“Wow! Zero play. I kind of respect it. I could never, though. So… actually, let me guess: you’re the type of person that can’t have sex without attachment? You need to be in love?”

“What’s it to you?”

“I’m just asking.”

“I don’t know.”

“God. You’re so fucking boring, Wonwoo.”

“Because I don’t go out of my way to find some pretty girl to have sex with every week, I’m boring? How does that make sense?”

“No, not that. I mean the fact you never really want to discuss anything about yourself. Honestly, sometimes talking to you is like pulling teeth, y’know? Anyway, move back a little. Backwards cap with the earrings has been staring on and off for the last ten minutes and I want one more free shot before I call it a night.”

The most recent place you had been together was the popular drive-in at Richmond’s Farm. Wonwoo knew that in the autumn months leading up to Halloween, the venue was turned into a haunted carnival with all the typical attractions: pumpkin patches, horror movie screenings, corn mazes, and masked, fake blood-spattered psychopaths chasing people around with a roaring chainsaw.

Seokmin, despite being quite weak-stomached and completely disastrous when it came to anything horror-related, had actually implored Wonwoo to go the year before after hearing the raves about their newest House of Nightmares, although Wonwoo declined in order to study for a test.

Really, there was no test.

Wonwoo just hadn’t been in the mood for losing all his hair and being crammed into pitch black, narrow corridors with a murderer promptly waiting around the corner. He hoped Seokmin wouldn’t ask him again this year—then his excuse would be obvious.

In the spring and summer, however, the farm mostly broadcast screenings at their drive-in theatre behind the maize field, and you had leaped at the opportunity to go because it was the perfect chance to relive one of your favourite dates with Mingyu. By your explanation, he’d taken you to see Crazy, Stupid, Love before you two had departed your hometown for university. But the drive-in obviously wasn’t playing that movie, and so you two had to settle for watching their only available screening, 500 Days of Summer.

Wonwoo hated that movie.

Of course, he hadn’t told you that.

Before the movie had started, Wonwoo helped you throw down a blanket into your trunk alongside some couch pillows that you grabbed from your apartment, creating a makeshift lounge in the rear of the car. Since the screening was late at night—and way past your typical good girl bedtime—you were worried about falling asleep halfway into the movie, though Wonwoo promised he would keep an eye on you to ensure you wouldn’t miss anything important.

Since it was too dark to film anything of quality on the camcorder, Wonwoo left you alone in the blanket-pillow trunk to scribble down any nostalgic, limerent sentiments while he grabbed some snacks. You had told him to get gummy bears, because you hated the way broken pieces of popcorn kernel shells would sliver between your teeth and dig into your gums, neither did you want a soft drink since it would be an abundance of sugar before bed, and it always resulted in a breakout the next morning. He was able to make it back to the car just before the screening started.

He remembered how strange it all seemed, sitting so close to you underneath the blanket, occasionally feeling your elbow dig into his arm or your knee bump his thigh, and the sharp blip it would cause in his pulse. Wonwoo remembered how often you complained about the temperature throughout the movie—first, it’s too hot, now, it’s too cold, you’re too close to me, you’re too far away and I’m cold again, I need the blanket, I don’t want the blanket—Wonwoo hadn’t realized a person’s body temperature could fluctuate that drastically. 

However, the worst part of that night happened about half an hour before the movie ended, just when Wonwoo was beginning to feel relieved about going home. You were getting sleepier by the minute, and Wonwoo could tell from the yawning every now and then, wanting desperately to rub at your eyes but refusing because it would smother the mascara into somewhat concerning, black whorls.

You had nudged his arm, and when he glanced over at your face, exhausted and half-illuminated under the watery, bright cast of light from the screen, you asked him in a quiet, dulcet voice: “is it okay if I rest my head on your shoulder for a few minutes?”

Wonwoo had wanted to say no—of course you can’t, because if you do, I will sit here stiff, and hardly breathing, and listening only to my own heartbeat. It will be the sole thing I’ll think about for the next three days no matter what I do to mask the memory. I’ll keep thinking about it until you burn out in my mind like a star.

But then Wonwoo had agreed instead.

He proceeded to clench his fist upon feeling the weight of your head sink softly to his shoulder. Your legs had been curled up underneath you, and your knees were then pressing flush against his leg. Every breath he inhaled was faintly tainted with the scent of your sweet, fragrant shampoo and it was fucking killing him.

“You’re so tense,” you had whispered in a giggle, “if it makes you uncomfortable, I don’t have to. It’s just because I’m tired.”

“No—” it had come out somewhat like a blurt, and Wonwoo just knew the tips of his ears were tingling red, “—it’s okay. I promise.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure… what?”

“Just wanted to look in your eyes when you said it.”

“Fuck, not that again.”

“I have to know!”

“Okay, that’s fine. Movie’s almost over, anyway. Just don’t fall asleep because then I really won’t know what to do.”

That had been four days ago.

Now, it was almost midnight. Wonwoo was sitting on the roof of his apartment with a messily rolled up blunt in his fingers—the second one he prepared, mostly out of impatience—drawing in a slow and deep breath that ghosted from his lips like wispy fog flowing down a shallow hill. He then coughed twice by his elbow, attempting to clear the stinging prickle that caught against his throat.

“You’re so fucking full of it,” Wonwoo laughed.

“No! I’m not.”

“You did not write thirty pages in a day.”

“Uh—actually, I did! And the fact you don’t believe me is a testament to your own wilted motivation. I am very motivated.”

He smiled at the sound of your voice crackling through his phone, which he’d been holding with the latter hand. Breathing in another hit, Wonwoo pulled at the sides of his black beanie, grinning through the thin cloud that was exhaled in a quick, neat puff.

“Okay, you wrote thirty pages. Didn’t have to fucking drag my career through the mud in doing so. I mean, I guess it’s a hobby.”

“For all I know, you’re the biggest poser that ever posed.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. I still don’t know what you write about.”

“I told you.”

“No—you fucking didn’t. You said something vague and ambiguous that could have meant literally anything. All I had to go off were some sing-songy praises from Seokmin.”

“I give you pretty good notes, though.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

“So I must be decent.”

“I don’t even know why I bothered calling you. I was supposed to be in bed, like, an hour ago. You’re such a distraction.”

“Fuck,” Wonwoo laughed, tapping the warm blunt to knock off a clump of papery ash, “it’s been an hour already?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I don’t know why you called either.”

“To complain about that lady whose makeup I had to do today! She was horrible. God, were you not listening?!”

“No, no, I was. She told you the makeup she wanted, you said it wouldn’t suit her too well, and then she got all pissed off when it looked exactly how you said it would. That’s not what I meant.”

“Oh. Well… I just thought you should know about it.”

“Mmhm.”

Silence followed his velvet, almost teasing hum, but Wonwoo didn’t mind it, and he assumed you didn’t either. Your phone call had been completely out of the blue, only a few minutes after he’d climbed onto the roof and started sparking his lighter. An hour had already passed—Wonwoo couldn’t believe it. Time had never seemed so blurred and insignificant before, like tomorrow didn’t exist at all.

“I didn’t know you smoked.”

Wonwoo repositioned the phone in his hand.

“From time to time, yeah.”

“What strain?”

“Northern Lights.”

“I’ve never had that one. I mean, I’m not much of a stoner, and neither is Mingyu. I don’t like the way it feels in my throat—that dry, burning feeling. And I hate the cotton mouth afterward.”

“Shouldn’t be that bad if you’re inhaling it right.”

“Well, maybe you can teach me one day.”

He let the blunt hang from the corner of his mouth for a moment, a very fluttery-feeling smile taking shape. Not wanting you to hear that slight bit of giddiness in his tone, Wonwoo took another hit, holding the smoke in for longer than usual before exhaling.

“Do you, uh… do you still want to go to that museum?”

“Oh—the nature museum?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll have to do some poking around in my schedule. I have this stupid leadership council meeting for SSA that I have to go to.”

“That’s fine. Text me when you figure it out.”

“Okay… gosh, it’s really fucking late.”

“Yeah, you should get some sleep.”

“Are you pushing me off the phone? If anything, I should be the one pushing. You’re not doing anything to fix your terrible sleep schedule. And I certainly don’t want you to ruin mine.”

“That’s what I’m saying—you need to get some sleep.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have said it like that.”

“How did I say it?”

“Like you were pushing me off the phone!”

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry. How ‘bout this: I know how important structure is to you, and I am deeply concerned that this late night conversation we’re having may somewhat affect your sleep. And while I’ve thoroughly enjoyed talking to you and hearing your pretty voice through my shitty phone speaker, I think we should both go to bed.”

“That seems fair.”

“Great. So, goodnight then.”

“No! I want to be the first one to say goodnight.”

“Why?”

“Because, I say goodnight, then you say goodnight back, and then I get to be the one who hangs up first. It’s a courtesy thing.”

“Uh, okay then... I’m listening.”

“Goodnight!”

Wonwoo smiled. He smiled so fucking widely and brightly that he could feel the muscles in his face aching.

“Goodnight.”

—JUNE 7TH.

Since the quickest route to the nature museum was about half an hour from Wonwoo’s apartment, he suggested that you stop by around lunch time so that you two could make the walk together. It wasn’t too warm outside—the large smattering of clouds dotted in the sky and the typical city breeze helped to keep the temperature down.

“We’re not allowed to film in the museum,” you said from your seat at his small dinner table, “so don’t bother taking the camcorder, I guess. I’ll just try to soak up everything as best I can.”

Wonwoo was sat across from you, waiting for you to finish the heated-up carton box of creamy mushroom pasta that you’d raided out his freezer. He’d tried his best to eat beforehand as well, but the most he could stomach was some milk and cereal in addition a handful of blueberries. It was still better than his usual routine, which involved skipping any sort of meal post lunchtime.

“If you really needed to, I’m sure you could take a couple pictures,” Wonwoo answered, brushing a hand through his styled, pristine black hair that you had earlier littered with a flustering spiel of compliments. “I doubt the exhibits will be exactly the same, but if it's more so to capture the feeling, then it won’t matter much.”

You patted the corner of your mouth upon finishing the last few noodles left in the box, nodding your head in agreement.

“My journal’s in my bag. It should be fine.”

Wonwoo flipped over his phone to check the time.

“How was the SSA meeting yesterday?”

“Oh—I didn’t go.”

“Really?” Wonwoo asked while settling back in his chair, watching you toss the fork into the carton. “How come?”

“Because, it’s mostly pointless. We always sit there, in front of all those old, crusty men, trying to explain to them how we can improve the campus, the student experience, blah blah. And they act like they’re legitimately consuming our input, using phrases like: ‘oh, we hear you, we understand, we’re gonna try our hardest’—just for them to put, what? Another fucking seating area in the dining hall that no one asked for or cares about? It’s totally ridiculous.”

“Hm, yeah.”

“Anyways, I hate being on it. I hate going. I understand it looks good and whatnot, but it’s a huge waste of my time.”

Wonwoo picked up the pasta box, continuing to hum his agreement while taking it into the kitchen. He dropped the fork into the sink and folded up the cardboard to stuff into his recycling.

“It’s one meeting. A skip won’t kill you, or them.”

“That’s what I’m saying. Mingyu thinks I went, though. So, if you run into him or something and the topic fucking miraculously pops up—just don’t give anything away. It’s a little white lie.”

Coming back to the dining table, Wonwoo snatched up his wallet and shoved it into his back pocket, raising an eyebrow.

“Why wouldn’t you tell him?”

You pushed back in the chair, sighing heavily.

“He really thinks I should stick with it.”

Wonwoo didn’t say anything in response. He simply nodded, not wanting to hover on Mingyu as a conversation piece for too long, and waited for you to shoulder on your purse.

“Okay,” you then smiled, “let’s go look at some nature.”

Despite their boring, lacklustre reputation, Wonwoo had always enjoyed going to museums—art, history, science—he’d even been to a museum that delved into ancient coin minting and the development of currency. He supposed it was his appreciation for learning new information of his own free will, unlike the fast-paced, passion-draining, wringer system that was university. Furthermore, he was surprised that you would share his interest in the matter.

“Why wouldn’t I like museums?” You had stopped just before the acclaimed beetle species wall, aglow behind a glass sheet. “I wrote in my draft that Mingyu and I went to a nature museum, remember?”

“I know. I’m just surprised you have that much of an interest in them. Your life seems so upbeat. I didn’t think you would be into something that most people find fairly dry and anticlimactic.”

“Right.” Twirling back around, you continued walking down the corridor, your eyes tracing the organized arrangement of lustre-shelled beetles. “Because everyone else is too stupid and you’re the true upper echelon who actually possesses the mental capability required to appreciate something as seemingly trivial but totally enriching as…” you then paused at the glass, squinting to read the embossed label below an oblong-shaped beetle with an iridescent green shell, “… as the Chrysochroa Fulgidissima? I don’t know, something like that—also known as the Jewel Beetle. Its species is native to Japan and Korea. It’s a… woodboring beetle?”

“Why would I know?” Wonwoo laughed, coming to stand beside you and look at the plaque settled to the white background behind the display glass. “You’re the one reading it.”

“Ugh—doesn’t matter. I was going somewhere with my speech and now I forget… oh, yeah! So, you think you’re smarter than me?”

Placing a gentle hand on your lower back, Wonwoo urged you to keep walking forward in order to let the people faintly mumbling behind you examine the wall, who seemed much more interested.

“I never said that,” he answered softly.

“Okay—but, do you think you’re smarter?”

“In what sense?”

“Did you take the Frontiers evaluation for calculus?”

“Yes.”

“What’d you score?”

“9.8.”

“Shut the fuck up! No you didn’t.”

Wonwoo merely tapped the black-framed glasses further up his nose, smirking slightly, and began shaking his head while continuing down the exhibit. You hurried after him, remembering to lower your voice to match the collective quietness.

“Prove it,” you whispered.

“Go to prof Bradbrook’s office. My name’s on her wall.”

“I hate you.”

“Why? What did you score?”

“I’m obviously not going to say it now.”

Wonwoo still remembered the day his test score came back—he’d opened the envelope in Miss Bradbrook’s office, and while she sat across from him, practically squirming and jittering with anticipation, Wonwoo had glossed over the paper slip with the smallest, most low effort smile. He knew he was supposed to feel relieved in that moment—overjoyed probably—to realize his notable success and the upstanding conformation he was legitimately good at something. But in truth, he hadn’t really felt anything at all. He sort of just smiled. That was it. That was all he could muster.

And his life had mirrored that moment ever since. In the past, it would come and go. Yet, that day, it just stuck. The only time he ever experienced any glint or sparkle of happiness, it had come from his girlfriend—but even she couldn’t imbue much from him that day.

“Well, that’s not what I expected you to ask.”

You glanced over at him, adjusting the bag on your arm.

“Meaning?”

“There are different types of intelligence. I thought you meant, in a more general sense, am I smarter, or more knowledgeable. To be honest, I can’t say. I mean, I feel like I’ve experienced and seen a whole lot, but that’s just life’s illusion.”

“You won’t really know ‘til you’re on your death bed.”

Wonwoo returned your glance, squinching his brown eyes in a judgemental but innocuous way that gave bloom to his smile.

“Thanks.”

“I can’t help it. Museums make me think of death. I think it’s the really cold, still air. Especially in nature museums where they need to preserve things. Like, look at that fox. It’s a bit ominous.”

On the exhibit to his right, Wonwoo observed another display protected by glass. There was a fox, with a rusty, auburn coloured coat, poised atop a fake precipice of grass. Wonwoo knew what you meant—it was the eyes, like two leaf green beads, so immensely detailed but lifeless to an almost uncomfortable degree.

“I want to see the aquarium exhibit next,” you said, tugging twice at Wonwoo’s sleeve. “I heard it’s really dark in there.”

“Well, we can go take a look.”

“And we can eat afterward? There’s an atrium.”

“Sure.”

Wonwoo let your arm link with his, following the natural flow of museum-goers into the next exhibit, leaving behind the shiny, colourful wall of beetles and the auburn fox in its lonesome enclosure.

The aquarium exhibit was one of the most spacious in the entire museum, placed in a large, dome-topped room, with shadows creeping at every corner. There were some lights—deep, blue lights that rippled and wriggled across the floor, like waves patterned against ocean sand by the sun rays. He didn't know from where, but he could hear water sloshing, a very soft sound that led him to imagine the wet sand squelching under his toes.

You approached another display wall, filled with a school of lemon-yellow and azure coloured fish placed around vibrant, unique corals.

While you busied yourself with reading the informative plaque, Wonwoo spent his time taking a more in-depth inspection around the mystifying exhibit. He noted the stingrays and luminous jellyfish flocking above his head, held on near-invisible little wires that would occasionally glimmer if they twisted the perfect angle.

After a generously long venture throughout the room, reading all the plaques and pointing to different fish behind the glass just to comment, “I think that was in Finding Nemo,” you had wanted to sit down, spotting a bench positioned before an aquarium.

Wonwoo agreed, and you collapsed on the bench together.

There was a period of comfortable silence where you both watched the aquarium, meanwhile the dappling, blue pattern cast to the floor danced and flickered around at your still feet. The atmosphere seemed so vivid that Wonwoo was surprised the next breath he took wasn’t a mouthful of liquid and sea salt, or that his body wasn’t miraculously suspended and floating about in the echoey shadows.

And that’s when Wonwoo decided he liked the aquatic exhibit very much—more than all the others.

He looked down at the hands folded in his lap, specifically at the scarred, ruined cuticle belonging to his right thumb and how it had withstood years of his anxious scratching. Wonwoo then breathed out softly, feeling his heartbeat begin to pick up.

“Want to know something?” He asked.

You stared back at Wonwoo with an intrigued pique of your brow.

“Like what?”

“Well, first of all, we both took creative writing, you know.”

"Uh, okay," you sniffed, "sure."

"No, like, we took the course together. In the fall. Prof T?"

"Really?" You pinned him down in a non-believing stare. "Wait, you're talking about that basement auditorium, right? In Gildan Hall? It always smelt like old computers and dust bunnies?"

"That's the one."

Scoffing out some dry air, you leaned back.

"Woah. I don't think I ever saw you... did you go to each class?"

He nodded a few times. "Almost all. To be fair, I sat more in the back, off to the corner. I wasn't exactly thrusting myself into the limelight."

Folding one leg over your knee, you chuckled. "Sounds like you."

“I have this really specific memory from that class, when that random guy, whoever he was, sat in the seat you always took. Your so called unofficially-assigned-assigned-seat. And I remember that really tense feeling right before you walked in, because we all knew you were gonna chew him out for it. The way you marched straight up to him was already violating enough, and then you basically ruined his whole day.” Looking down at his hands again, Wonwoo smiled at recalling the memory. “You absolutely terrified me. I don’t even think you understand how much I wanted to avoid you.”

He caught your eyes, shimmering like the water-stained floor, with an emotion he couldn’t place.

“Actually?” Was all you said, hardly sounding surprised.

“Yeah.”

Your face began searching around the shadowed, sloshing exhibit for something unseen. He decided to let the silence settle like a thin sheet, instead listening to the tidal pushing and pulling. The soft sounds reminded him of being a child, wandering beaches into the late evening with his older brother during summer vacations, and picking up shells just to hear the ocean speaking inside them.

Aloud, you breathed in, shaking your foot.

“I can’t really remember what was going through my head that day. I know I’d had a fight with Mingyu before going to class, so I was feeling pretty amped up and short-fused. I knew I was going straight to another SSA meeting that I hardly cared about immediately after, and then I would work until the evening. I knew I would have to make dinner when I got home, even though I’d be downright exhausted, and the next morning, I’d have to wake up early to attend some bullshit press, social, interview breakfast thing for my mom’s new lifestyle magazine. Having that idiot sit in my favourite seat was probably just the straw that broke the camel’s back, I guess.”

“Hm,” Wonwoo hummed, suddenly experiencing a profound sympathy for you that he never imagined he would feel. “When you give it a bit more perspective, it doesn’t sound so…”

“Completely and utterly bitchy?”

“Well, I wasn’t going to use that word, but, sure.”

You grinned at him through the dusky rippling of auroras that flitted across the exhibit, seeming like you were under the sea—and he was, too, sitting side by side in the somehow peaceful depths of the chaotic whirlpool that had pulled you two together.

“I have a memory.”

“Okay,” Wonwoo returned your grin, “I want to hear it.”

“So, remember earlier how we were talking about the Frontiers evaluation for Bradbrook’s calculus class?”

“Mmhm.”

"So, after all the Frontiers scores came out, I'm not gonna lie—I really thought I had one of the better marks. It's not like I specifically trotted around, throwing out my grade to anyone passing by, but I was parading a little bit to my friends. And then, like, Clara or something, told me that there was this guy who almost got a ten. I asked her who, and she said she didn't know—just that she overheard some of the basketball guys talking about it.

I thought she was lying. I didn't say that, though. But I remember it was on my mind every night. Like, it was itching me so bad. I wanted to know who the fuck was smart enough to get a damn near perfect ten on Frontiers. Some of those problems are ridiculously hard. I started writing nonsense around A-block. They straight up give students problems that serious, esteemed mathematicians can't fucking solve. So, honestly... I was quite jealous of you... despite not even knowing who you were. I can't believe that was you, asshole."

Wonwoo cracked his knuckles, beginning to laugh at that intense but lighthearted glare you were sending his way. Of course, you mellowed everything out with a big smile he felt his heart skip a beat over. You had actually went to bed thinking about him.

Holy fuck.

Maybe not him in physicality. But in spirit.

That was close enough.

"I just did the study guide." He shrugged.

Your knee pushed into his. "Oh, yeah, the study guide. Jeez, why didn't I think of doing that? Let me go kill myself right now."

"Keep tabs on it for next time."

With a roll of the eyes, you laughed almost to scorn him.

“I hate people like you.”

And Wonwoo laughed back. “Meaning?”

“Things come to you so naturally. You don’t have to try.”

“Sure,” Wonwoo agreed, scratching his nose and proceeding to nudge up his glasses, “things like mathematics, numbers, problem solving, taking something whole apart and then looking at its pieces. I guess it does come to me naturally. I can’t complain. But there are also plenty of things that don’t. And… if I could, I’d probably trade all my stupid math and logic and puzzling for what I’m missing.”

You tilted your head, staring intently at Wonwoo through the blue sea between you, almost into his brain, it felt like.

“What are you missing?”

At first, Wonwoo didn’t respond. To answer your question meant an intimate exhumation of the flaws that he’d been willfully ignoring for the past year, if not his entire damn life. It meant at last turning over the round, flat rock that had been sitting at the foot of his wooden porch since childhood, and realizing the bottom was sculpted with the grittiest texture and wet with the thickest dirt. The rock was hiding long-legged spiders and ugly, skittering bugs and it would have probably been better to let the rock sit there, untouched, only facing the warm and comfortable glow of the sun.

Wonwoo didn’t want to turn the rock.

Not at all.

“A plethora of things, I’m sure.”

Squeezing onto your wrist, you smiled at him.

“I think I’m the opposite.”

“How so?”

He watched you inhale a long, slow breath, and then huff it all out through your nose. Wonwoo bumped his knee against yours.

“You don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to.”

“No, no. It’s not like that…”

Looking up to the glowing aquarium, the dull light reflected back unto your face, and Wonwoo again saw the glisten in your eyes.

“I just feel…” for a moment, your chest stilled, “… I feel like I’m so much of everything that I just blend into nothing. You know, like when a child takes a whole bunch of paints and squirts them all together thinking it’s going to create this beautiful, never-before-seen new colour? But, instead, it’s just greyish-brownish, nothing.”

Your face turned back to him. Wonwoo watched you chew down on your bottom lip, meanwhile your eyes glazed aloof, off to the side, as though you were rummaging through so many different thoughts and experiences that it required your utmost mental focus.

“And—” you swallowed tightly, and it sounded so painfully dry with stinging emotion, “—I just don’t want people to see that I’m so much of nothing. I just find myself covering it all up.”

Were you going to cry? Wonwoo felt himself jolt inwardly with panic. He had never seen you cry and he had therefore never developed the best protocol to tackle such a situation. Some people preferred immediate comfort, others—a reassuring stroke on the back, maybe some uplifting monologue. Or, maybe, they didn’t want to be touched at all. They just desired the simple, thinking silence and all its clarity. He remembered you saying something about it—that you did like to be comforted, but only in very certain circumstances.

First, Wonwoo subtly wiped off his hand against his thigh, and then he took in the softest breath. Through the flickering, midnight blue mirage, Wonwoo reached for your hand. He settled his cold fingers inch by inch under yours, and, with a timid but gentle thumb, Wonwoo caressed in a slow path along your knuckles.

You glanced to him appreciatively, saying nothing, but squeezing his hand in return. He figured he’d done right.

Maybe more things came to him naturally than he thought.

Before leaving the nature museum, you and Wonwoo had stopped at their atrium as promised to get in a quick meal. While you poked a fork into your sad-looking salad, making small scribbles every now and then to the journal at your elbow, Wonwoo ate a grill-pressed sandwich and flicked through his phone. He was surprised to check the time and realize you had spent about three hours there—it felt so much shorter. Wonwoo hated how quickly each moment flew past when he was with you. It was always so bittersweet.

He had wanted to know what exactly you were penciling in the journal, though he never asked, knowing he would probably be proofreading it from your document later. Obviously, you were thinking about that particular date with Mingyu from years back in your life—that was the principal point in going to the museum. However, Wonwoo had chosen to regard it more as hanging out, not caring if that was a particularly delusional or untruthful choice.

After finishing your meals and tossing the plastic remnants into the recycling bins, Wonwoo looked outside the atrium’s towering glass wall to note how cloudy the sky had become. From the bright, eggshell turquoise in the afternoon, to an especially muted grey that seemed brewing and heavy with a downpour. You adjusted the bag over your shoulder and suddenly grimaced at the sight.

“Jeez, is it going to rain?”

“It could,” Wonwoo sighed. “It very possibly could.”

“I swear. I obsessively check the forecast in order to plan all my outfits around it. It never said it would rain!” You then threw the bottle of iced tea you’d been drinking into the garbage with an aggressive slam. “This shirt is a horrible choice. It will be stupidly see-through."

Wonwoo glanced around the atrium.

“There’s lots of empty tables. If we want to sit and wait it out, then I don’t think anyone would get mad. But, I mean, it’s up to you.”

“Why’s it up to me?”

“I don’t know. Just—if you don’t want to get your outfit all soaked. I’m sure if we left now, we could make good distance before it really started raining. I’m not opposed to getting a little wet. But I have no issue with staying here and letting the clouds go over.”

You folded your arms, and your head fell to the side. He’d seen that look before. It was your own patented prelude to disaster.

“I never said I was opposed to getting wet.”

He laughed. “Well, you certainly insinuated it.”

“Do you think I'm some sort of whiny little priss?”

"I think you named your bear Miss Priss."

"I think you're a smart ass. Take that smirk off your face. Now."

Wonwoo wanted to sigh, but he didn’t. He then thought about trying to tenderly explain his way out of it with his smooth words. As much as he would think he’d figured you out, there was still a part of him that was very confused by you and how to adjust to your behaviour.

This time, he decided he would do nothing.

“Okay. Let’s go, then.”

He reached out his hand for you to grab.

“As if,” you scoffed, walking around him toward the exit doorway, into the museum garden, “not after you just insulted me.”

Wonwoo could do nothing but laugh in response, because he had caught that faint smile on your face as you passed him, and the sweet beading in your eyes. He simply followed you out the doors.

During the walk back to his apartment, it had yet to rain at all, not even a typical, humid summer drizzle or the smallest bit of spitting. Maybe it was just way more cloudy than usual, or it was a concerning spread of city smog tainting the sky. It’s not like he wanted it to rain, anyway, though more so for your sake than his.

About a little more than halfway through the walk, however, you came to an abrupt stop outside a flower shop, and Wonwoo watched you lift a doubtful hand to your cheek and wipe something off it. Before you could say anything, Wonwoo felt a big, cold, wet drop smack just above his eyebrow and begin leaking down. He used the sleeve of his shirt to clean it up, only to experience another fat droplet strike a second later, right onto his glasses.

“You can’t be serious…” he heard you mumble.

Making the mistake of looking up, more and more droplets fell swiftly from the daunting, dark grey blanket strewn across the entire skylight. They began painting all over the sidewalk, the roadway, shaking down into the brilliant purple and white petunia pots outside the florist shop. And Wonwoo froze for a moment, because he honestly hadn’t expected to be caught in the rain, let alone the downpour it was unfortunately shaping up to be.

“Ow!” You winced sharply. “One just fucking hit my eyeball!”

“Shit—let’s hurry.” Wonwoo hid his phone. “My apartment’s only like, ten minutes away, less if we run really fast.”

“Run?!” You gawked at him. “I don’t run!”

“No, you fucking sashay, I get it.” In a matter of seconds, those intermittent raindrops had evolved into an unrelenting, bathing barrage. Wonwoo could feel his clothes beginning to dampen, and his glasses were streaming with water. He slapped his hand onto yours, jerking you forward despite your stiltedness. “And I’m so sorry but you’re going to have to sacrifice one part of your pretty fucking princess routine for just five minutes so we can get back to my place.”

“My pretty fucking wha—!”

Once Wonwoo’s fingers were clasped tight with yours, he started to run, and whether it was voluntary or not, you ran along with him, shouting something that he couldn’t quite hear over the rain that bounced in loud splatters against the sidewalk and the adrenaline echoing in his own ears. He could hardly see through the downpour, but he’d walked that path so many times that it almost wasn’t necessary. At one point, he’d stepped onto the street prematurely, and he heard the loud, startled honk from a car.

“Jesus Christ, Wonwoo!” You half-laughed, half-coughed, clutching onto his slippery hand even tighter, “I’d ideally like to live!”

“We’re almost there!” He chuckled back.

“I think I’m going to lose my fucking shoe!”

“I’ll buy you a new pair!”

Wonwoo didn’t stop, and you didn’t either. He was soaked to his bones, with thick, drizzling fronds of hair plastered to his forehead and the glasses nearly slipping from his nose—the scent of earthy but ashen rain all around him—and still Wonwoo kept running, a very blithe smile permanent to his mouth despite all his discomfort.

Upon reaching the entryway to the pottery shop, Wonwoo almost skidded completely past it since the sidewalk was so slick and pouring like an angry river. You slammed into his back, and it was then that your hands unintentionally separated. Instead, he felt your fingers flesh into the sopping cloth covering his shoulders.

“Be careful on the steps!” He shouted overtop a reverberating crack of thunder that shook from behind the grey sleet sky.

“If I slip, I’m pulling you down with me!”

Wonwoo was pleased to hear the equally bright smile that bled into your words, meanwhile your fingertips dug even deeper into his muscle. Once inside the shop, a gust of wind proceeded to blow the door shut, and all Wonwoo heard was hard rain against the glass.

—END OF PART TWO.

[the-willow-that-weeps]

Someone please talk to me about the httyd books ! I’m in such a craze rn and I need someone to talk to.

I’m convincing my friend currently to re-read them as they doesn’t remember any of it. I was talking to them about my ideas for a book accurate adaptation and they basically said: why don’t we do it ?

So if anyone has any anything to add, please do ! I’m thinking of opening a document anyone can add to if they have ideas.

Let me know what you think ! I have made previous posts about it before, so you can look through those if you want more info

Arghh arghh raghgh rrrr rugg !!

[cisthoughtcrime]

I’m interested in learning Latin, where would you suggest I start?

So exciting! I'll try to keep this short:

I recommend starting with this very short informal intro, especially if you don't have a strong grasp on technical terms about grammar (most textbooks take that for granted). Latin grammar follows a rigid organisational system and the earlier you understand how it works, the easier it will be to learn the rest of the language. The 18-page PDF in the link uses English examples and practice questions to go through basic Latin grammar concepts and tables. It doesn't go through less basic things like participles or conditional clauses, but it does explain everything you need to know in order to learn those more easily. It also includes a hyperlinked list of good online resources for self-taught Latin and Greek students.

If you want to work through a textbook, Wheelock's Latin is probably the most widely used and comes with a lot of accompanying resources and guides (even though the official website looks older than Rome). Ecce Romani may be a bit more approachable and there are plenty of unofficial online lessons and guides made to go along with it. Those are my top two personally; I know some people like Latin Via Ovid because the practice texts are adapted from an actual ancient text about different myths, but imho I don't think it's as good a starting point if you're teaching yourself from scratch. Keep in mind that they'll all follow different formats for conjugation/declension tables, which can make it a bit confusing to switch between them; the short intro in that first link is a good way to understand how these charts work well enough to use them no matter the format.

There are tons of free resources online, even including full recordings of lessons, live study groups to join, communities with forum posting, and written-out explanations. For any individual concept that's troubling you, there are almost definitely multiple youtube videos of someone in front of a whiteboard saying it differently from the textbooks. Again, there's a good list included in that first document.

For practice in reading and understanding without deliberately translating, it's fun to try reading Latin translations of books you already know well in English, like Harrius Potter, Hobbitus Ille, Winnie Ille Pu, Alicia In Terra Mirabili, and many, many more, most of which are free on Archive and/or can be bought as physical copies.

However, this will be much more rewarding once you've built up some vocabulary and grammar, and might be frustrating or discouraging if you try the long ones too early, especially since they sometimes use words irregularly to convey modern meanings.

There are also a handful of recently-written stories in Latin targeted at students who like this kind of practice more. The German Netflix series Barbarians has all the Roman characters speaking in real Latin, and listening to it with subtitles can help build your ear for what sounds right.

Those are my recs for where to start! If you're stuck on something and can't find a good explanation, you can also send me an ask about it and I'm always happy to lay out how I think about it (even if my response times are irregular).

Good luck and enjoy!

[frvnkcastles]

Hi! I love your writing so so much!!

If possible, could you do one where the reader has been working overtime at work and is exhausted, like they've been having headaches and barely sleeping & Frank notices and basically convinces them and helps them to take a break? Thank you!! 💕❤️

KEEP ME COMPANY ’TIL THE END ➵ F. CASTLE

Summary: You’re pushing yourself past your limits for work and Frank intervenes.

Warnings: Stress, mostly fluff, gender neutral reader, language

Word count: 770

Author’s note: Hiiii my loves! I am so sorry for being MIA, this semester is kicking my ass :( Rn it seems like my posts will be a little infrequent because I have sooo many deadlines before Christmas, but I’m gonna try my best!! I have not forgotten about all your requests!! Thank you so much for your patience, thank you also for 900 followers, that’s so wack but I am so grateful <3 Anon, I hope you enjoy this short fic and that you forgive me for being so slow to get this out. Much love!

A brewing headache pinched at your temples and you were painfully aware that every minute you spent staring at your outrageously bright laptop screen only sealed your fate tighter and tighter. It was getting late but you still felt like you had so much to do; like you had barely scratched the surface of all your responsibilities. You had only taken a break to go to the bathroom and reluctantly eat something when Frank had insisted on it, and now the tension from sitting on the couch with your laptop huffing and puffing on your thighs was starting to seep into your shoulders and neck.

Frank didn’t like it, the way you worked yourself to the bone, but he had swallowed down his complaints when you had promised to wrap things up within the hour. Still, you could feel his scrutinizing stare on you from across the couch, his attention on your focused frown rather than the football game he was supposed to be watching. He was itching to say something, to force you away from the suffocating bubble of stress, but he was trying to be patient — though the scratched label of his beer bottle said plenty.

When you winced at the pulsating headache behind your eye, though, he cleared his throat and reached for your laptop.

”Hey! Frank, noooo. I’m not done”, you insisted, trying to get the device back but he was quick to save your document and then slap it closed before you could retrieve it. He angled it behind his back and tutted at you, disapproving of the way you were pushing yourself for the sixth day in a row.

”Nah, sweetheart, I’m tellin’ you, you’re gonna waste away if you don’t take a break. You’ve been at it all day, aight? I want you here with me, not worryin’ about shit”, he argued back, your pout doing nothing to sway him. He always caved in and gave you what you wanted — unless your health and sanity were at stake.

You frowned, a sudden surge of guilt swinging at your chest. ”I guess I’ve been kinda neglecting you…”, you admitted with shame. That had never been your intention, but you couldn’t deny that you had not been a very present partner lately.

Shaking his head, Frank set the beer on the coffee table and took your hand in his own. ”It ain’t about that, darlin’. It’s the fact that this is wearin’ you out. I know you ain’t sleepin’ and I gotta jump through all these hoops to just get you to eat. I’m worried, y’know?” he explained, his tone stern but still warm. He was trying his hardest to be understanding, but he took your well-being too personally to let this newfound routine go on.

You managed a nod and squeezed his hand. ”I know, Frankie, I’m sorry, it’s just… there’s so much to do and I can’t fall behind”, you tried to rationalize your persistent working, and he sighed softly, not out of frustration but to acknowledge the difficult situation.

”I get it, sweetheart. But no one can expect you to be efficient at this hour, aight? You need to rest, too. Yeah?” Frank pointed out, tilting his head to catch your gaze. He was right and you knew it, so begrudgingly, you admitted defeat.

”Okay. I’ll limit myself”, you agreed, and with the concern in his eyes slowly fading, Frank nodded approvingly. He placed the laptop on the table before opening his arms for you, gesturing for you to cuddle up to him. The invitation made you smile and seeing joy on your face for the first time all day got Frank’s lips twitching, too.

You nestled against him and he wrapped you into a cocoon of safety and warmth, hoping to distract you from the stress lingering on your mind. It was hard not to think about all the work you could have been doing, and Frank suspected as much.

”I know it ain’t easy to just turn it off. But you deserve a break, baby. And I’m fuckin’ proud of you for all your effort, but I’ll be proud if you cut back a lil, too”, he spoke up after a moment of just cuddling, and with your heart soaring at his praise, you tilted your head up so you could kiss his jaw tenderly.

”Thank you, Frank. Love you”, you muttered, feeling the exhaustion of the past week creep up on you. Frank noticed, but he was glad — you needed sleep, and he was going to try and help you do it however he could.

”Love you too, sweetheart.”

[dckweed]

NEXT THING YOU KNOW, gator tillman

summary: in which gator tillman and his arranged bride figure out life and each other and what a real relationship means to them.

warnings: mentions and depictions of abuse, mentions of bruises, arranged marriages, romance, humor, dead parents, slow burn relationship (not completely but not not), basically we know the tillman men are asswipes so i 100% see Roy forcing gator into this kind of situation for money for his militia, eventual smut with kinks such as thigh riding, gun play, choking, spanking, lots of marking and possible spit play.

comment on this post to be added to the taglist for future parts!

The smell of cigar smoke hung thick in the air, the lighting dim in the dark office. You sat stiffly in a large leather chair, and across from you on the other side of the massive oak desk sat your step father, Boyd Augastine. He was a mean old man, and you had hoped in your time away at boarding school that he had graciously paid for, that he would have calmed down. That hope seemed to be more wishful than anything though, in fact, you thought he seemed meaner than the last time you had seen him at Christmas dinner.

“Boyd, please!” You begged, trying to fight back tears. You hated being home, if you could even call this massive estate that, it made you tense and irate, scared. You shake your head at the man in front of you, trying to remain as polite as you could lest you reap the repercussions. “You can’t make me marry that boy!” You say, tone as even as you could keep it. “Is this even legal?!”

He had at least let you finish speaking. “I can, and you will.” He sniffs, not even bothering to look up at you as he shuffled through some papers sitting in front of him. You assumed they were the documents pertaining to the horrid news you had just been given. “The Tillman boy is a fine young man, he’s strong and not entirely stupid, and his family is almost as powerful as me. You will marry him, and you will produce a male heir to take over both families when the time comes.” He says, finality in his tone and a hint of annoyance that you knew meant that the conversation needed to end before you wound up being hurt. “Lord knows i’m not about to leave my fortune to some half-witted emotional broads. You may not be my blood, but you are legally an Augastine, you will do your part.” You wince. “Unless of course, you’d rather one of the girls marry him when they come of age?”

You purse your lips, trying desperately to bite your tongue. He always knew exactly what to say to get you to do whatever he wanted, and you hated that you had no backbone sometimes. What were you supposed to do though? Your half sisters weren’t even in high school yet, they were mere babies still..they deserved to find their own happiness in life, with someone they actually loved..if you had to marry this boy for a few years and pop out a kid or two for them to be able to live their lives, just to satiate their father, then you would gladly do it. They didn’t need to take your place. Besides, it's not like divorce wasn’t a common thing amongst young married couples anyway.

He knows your answer before you’ve even opened your mouth to speak it and tosses his expensive fountain tipped pen across the desk. It lands with a thud and you pick it up with a trembling hand as he slides the documents towards you as well. “Your mother would be proud.” He says cooly, watching you scrawl your name across every highlighted area that needs signing. You wondered what the Tillman’s were receiving in return for this, they were already fairly well off from what you understood. Pretty much every man in their lineage had been sheriff of the godforsaken county, law ran in their blood, and it paid well too. But who's to say that they weren’t being paid handsomely for this?

You felt as if you had just signed away your soul.

You toss the pen back to him, and give him his stupid papers back before standing and turning on your heel. You didn’t care if you hadn’t been dismissed, you were done. You needed to be alone, you needed to cry. You stride across his large office, and just as your hand touches the brass knob of the heavy door, his voice rings out.

“You’re to be married in two months' time, wedding planning begins tomorrow.” You clench the knob, fighting back the tears. He didn’t deserve to see you cry. “Sleep well, Pearlie.” You swore on your mama’s gravestone that the nickname she had given you dripped with venom when it came from his mouth. Sometimes you wished you could drip actual venom into his mouth, shut him up forever. It was a soothing thought when you were younger, before he had shipped you off to boarding school.

You make your way down the long carpeted hallway to the large wooden staircase, climbing them as quickly as you could. You could hear your sisters, Victoria and Lucy in their room giggling about something that had happened at school, and you smiled as you pressed your ear to the door. You had worried the whole time your mother was pregnant that the girls would be treated just as horribly as you were when your mother wasn’t around, that they would have to hide bruises and emotions and pretend that everything was okay just like you did, but they were his own flesh and blood, his own life force, he could never act such a way towards his own blood. But they weren’t boys, so they also weren’t good enough to take over his fucking business.

You head a little farther down the hall, closing and locking your own door behind you as you slipped into your room, the only place that occasionally felt safe to you when you were here. “I wish you were here, mama.” You whisper to the photo sitting on the dressing table right next to the door.

True to his word, the wedding planning started the next day. You were awoken by your sisters’ nanny early in the morning, her knocking at your bedroom door loud to your pounding head. You had spent the night crying and you were paying for it dearly.

“Miss Pearl,” Her ever pleasant voice calls through the thick wood as you sit up in bed. “Boyd is requesting you downstairs, your betrothed and his father have arrived..” You glance at the clock. It was seven-thirty in the morning. You were used to waking up around this time for school anyway, you had only been home twenty-four hours by this point. “He’s not too pleased this morning,” Her hushed voice comes next and you sigh, leaning your head back into your pillow.

“Thank you, Lorraine,” You say loud enough for her to hear, your thick comforter falling off of you as you sit up. “Tell them I'll be down soon, please..” She doesn’t respond but you hear her footsteps fade away from your door.

You stretch before swinging your legs over the side of your bed, rolling your head from side to side. You knew it was in your best interest to play along with Boyd’s scheme, and he would know if you were half assing or catching an attitude the moment you walked into the room. If you were going to do this, then dammit, you were going to do this right.

Within fifteen minutes you were dressed in a sleeveless white dress that flowed down to your feet, the top of it pushing your breasts up in the illusion of a push-up bra. You had purposely bought this one a size or so too small for that effect while you were still at school, wanting to impress one of the guys you had been previously dating before graduation. You left your hair down to fall around your shoulders, brushing it and using one of your favorite hair serums to run through it with your fingers, leaving a nice smell before you slid on a glossy lip oil and mascara, with a spritz of your favorite perfume to your wrists.

With one last look at the photo of your mom, silently wishing she were here with you to help you through this, you open your door and make your way barefoot down the hallway and stairs.

You hear their voices when you come off the stairs in the middle of the grand hallway on the first floor, floating out of the massive dining room that was hardly ever used. You don’t pause, afraid that if you did it would be all you would need to turn tail and hide in your bedroom forever, and head immediately for the doorway, waltzing in as if you weren’t interrupting their apparently humorous conversation.

You paint a smile on your face as Boyd narrows his eyes at you, a look that you knew meant he wasn’t at all happy with you and you were certainly going to hear about it later. “Sorry to keep you waiting, sir,” You say, kissing his cheek to keep up the appearance of a loving father and daughter relationship, something you had been doing since you were ten. He couldn’t have the world knowing that he despised his late wife’s daughter, could he? You squeeze his shoulder. “The drive up from school must have exhausted me more than i realized, i didn’t mean to sleep in and miss greeting our guests.” You shoot them an award winning smile as well as you smooth out your skirt, taking your seat next to Boyd, but across from the Sheriff and who you assumed was his son.

Boyd hums and you just know that he’s boiling with rage at you, though in your defense, he hadn’t informed you that there would be a breakfast this morning. “You haven’t missed much, we were just talking about your horse actually, and your award from Eventing last season.” Just the topic brought another smile onto your face, a real one this time.

“That was a close one too, we were neck and neck with our second place competitor..” You had spent the majority of the time after the event wondering if Boyd had paid off the judges to put you in first, though you did know that you had put in a lot of training hours with Bubbles, and it had clearly shown. Besides, Boyd didn’t like you nearly enough to pay off the judges just to see you place first in any sport, let alone Equestrian Eventing.

The older man sitting across from you, the Sheriff, smiles what appears to be a genuine smile at you. “You love your horses, I can tell from the way your whole face just lit up like the sun had touched it..” You can’t help the blush on your face, and judging by the look on his sons face as he looked at you, you had just done something right without even knowing it. “You and I already have something in common with each other, perhaps i’ll make time to take a ride with you this weekend..” His sons face completely changed at the mention, you would say it resembled a sort of panic.

“I would love that!” You exclaim, more than pleased to spend any kind of time on your horse, even if it was with your soon to be father in law. He nods at you in return, and nudges his son, as if communicating with him.

Breakfast is served not too much longer after that, and the time is spent with your step father and the Sheriff talking about things you couldn’t even have pretended to care about in that moment, like golf or what the government was doing, while you and the boy across from you shared a couple of glances, staying silent unless spoken to.

You had to admit, he wasn’t terrible on the eyes. He wore a black polo shirt underneath of what you could only assume was a bullet proof vest with a velcro patch that said Sheriff across the chest. His hair was slicked back away from his face, and you noticed a tattoo peaking out of one of the short sleeves stretched across his bicep. Oh, he was certainly handsome, but probably not the type to ever be happy with a girl like you..nor did you think you could be happy with him.

You were obviously younger than him at only eighteen (your birthday thankfully just before your wedding date), you had just graduated highschool. You had no job, and your only future now lay with the man in front of you. He didn’t speak too much, and you couldn’t tell if it was because he was a naturally quiet person, or if it was because his father and Boyd were obviously the alphas in the room and from what you could gather, weren’t to be bothered until they bothered you first. You didn’t mind that he was older than you, though you guessed he was at least mid twenties if he was already a cop. You kind of liked the thought of being with someone older than you, the boys you had been with at school were all dipshits and childish. You hoped that he wasn’t the same. And if he was, well, at least he was handsome to look at.

The boy, Gator, looked up at you from across the table. You decided that his eyes were hazel, a beautiful color for a decidedly beautiful man. You give him a shy smile from where you sat, raising a mug of your favorite breakfast tea to your lips. You noticed the way he licks his lips, his eyes darting to your mouth and back to his plate once you had set your cup down on its saucer. Well, you thought, at least he’s clearly attracted to me. Maybe our marriage won’t be completely boring..

You had long ago tuned out the droning voices of your step father and your soon to be father in law, using your fork to pick around at the fruit salad you had served yourself for breakfast, adding a little yogurt to it here and there. You couldn’t bring yourself to fully eat, your stomach uneasy the more you thought about your impending marriage. God, how was arranged marriage even still a thing? How was this even fucking legal? You made a mental note to ask Boyd for copies of all of the documents you had signed so you could take them to a lawyer in town somewhere, have them double check that the documents were in fact legal. If there was anything you could do to get out of this, you were willing to do it. 

You’re jolted from your thoughts by Boyd’s voice, and you jump, startled. “Sorry, i was day dreaming..” You say, shaking your head with a small giggle, hoping that he hadn’t been trying to get your attention for too long. You can see Sheriff Roy give a small smile from across the table, another nudge to his son.

Boyd gives you a subtle eye roll as he faces you, and you can tell from his body language that he’s upset with you for zoning out. You were certain to hear an earful about it tonight and that made you nervous. “Roy and I have some business to attend to in my office,” He says, giving a pointed glance to the boy sitting across from you guys. “How about you take Gator on a walk around the grounds? The girls are out getting piano and violin lessons right now, you won’t be bothered for a while.” Is he trying to tell me to fuck this boy? You wondered disgustedly, you knew Boyd was..well, Boyd, but really?

You want to say no, you want to tell him to marry the boy himself if it was that important to him, but you’re afraid of what could possibly happen to you if you do, so you paint another smile on your lips and look over to your husband to be. “I’ll show you my horse!” You say, setting your napkin next to your plate as you stand, walking around the table to lead him out into the foyer. “The barn is a little ways out there,” You say when you notice him following you out of the dining room. “Hope you don’t mind a little walk..”

He follows you silently through the formal living room and into the kitchen, straight back into the mudroom where you bend over to put your well worn boots on. They were brown, and the leather was starting to wear down on them but you didn’t mind, they still got the job done. They were a gift from your mama and you would wear them until they fell apart, and even then you would probably duct tape them back together again.

He’s gentlemanly enough to hold the back door open for you, and you breathe in his scent as you brush past him. He smells good, his cologne floods your scents. Its a woodsy kind of scent, mixed with a little bit of leather, and something a little fruity that you can’t quite name and you wonder what the hell it is as he falls in step next to you as you both walk off of the porch. His hands are slipped into his pockets as you guys walk, a casual look, and you notice that he’s tall too, even in his work boots.

You realize that he’s not going to make the first step to conversation.

When you’re a good enough distance away from the house, out of sight of Boyd’s office, you stop abruptly and turn to face him, the sun beats down on his face even with his baseball cap pulled down over his eyes. He stops too, tilting his face down at you, an eyebrow raised and an amused look on his face. God, you though, he really is handsome.

“Can I help you with somethin’?” He asks, his drawl washing over you. That was the first time he had spoken and good lord his voice could do things to you if this were any other kind of situation, you just knew it. His shoulders are squared, and you realize that now, alone with you, he is the alpha male. You kind of like the vibe that rolls off of him, but it makes you wonder why he cowered when he was in the same room as your guys’ fathers.

You look around, lips pursed and hands on your hips as you thought. “Look,” You start, meeting his gaze under the brim of his hat. “The way I see it, neither of us particularly wants to be in this situation.” He hums in agreement, crossing his arms over his chest as he listens to what you have to say. “Neither of us are happy, but that doesn’t mean that we can’t at least try to be friends..we’re both stuck doing this, and even though i wasn’t given a choice, I would still like to at least be friends with the person i’m marrying in two months..”

He sniffs and looks around for a moment, and for the first time, you see a smile on his face and you couldn’t help but think it was beautiful. “Alright then,” He says, holding out his hand for you to shake. “Let’s be friends.”

taglist:

@ruth-barnes @justherebecausesafarisucks @daisy-is-a-writer

[accio-victuuri]

read a book for me. 📚

inspired by people who were curious about the books featured in xz’s video, let’s take a look at what they are. i’d like to think these were pre approved by XZ and are related to his interests. i’m not removing tge possibility that one of these were chosen by someone from xzs or the director himself. i’m tagging this as cpn because there will be some cpn. if you don’t wanna go that route and just enjoy learning about the titles featured, then go ahead. 😉

1. Restoration House by Kennesha Bucks

You don't have to live in your dream house to make your living spaces feel more like home. Home is meant to be a place to belong. A place to gather and connect. A place of beauty. A place to restore your soul. In Restoration House, author and designer Kennesha Buycks will encourage you to embrace your home and your story so you can create mindful spaces that give life to you, your loved ones, and all who enter.

2. LORI WILDE

that red book just says the author’s name and no actual title but if you look her up, she’s all about that romance novel. here is her website if you wanna know what i mean. if you move a bit, the spine of it says “boy” so i think it maybe one of those books that has the cowboys in it!

3. Next is LIT UP, which is a black book. I’m not so sure if it’s a real book and when you search it, there are a couple of contenders. Tho i personally gravitate towards p2 since it’s black and the plot of the story is something i think XZ will enjoy!

it says out of the cubicle and into the real world, it’s like him getting out of his work cubicle years ago and discovering the world.

book overview:

Eddy Gilmore found himself on society’s fringe after being exiled from Corporate America. Despite years of higher education and exemplary service inside a cubicle’s pixelated world, he had no tangible or transferable skills to offer his community. Amazingly, failure was the door into tapping dreams and gifts that had long been ignored as impractical.

This true to life adventure is a pilgrimage into the real world, a place where neighbors make and produce things that sustain life and bring joy. When their eyes were opened to the talents all around them, Eddy and his wife discovered how to produce value themselves, and sank roots into the community. By working together, they are building a life they might never need to retire from.

4. The Interior Design Handbook

Frida Ramstedt believes in thinking about how we decorate, rather than focusing on what we decorate with. We know more today than ever before about design trends, furniture, and knickknacks, and now Frida familiarizes readers with the basic principles behind interior and styling—what looks good and, most of all, why it looks good.

The Interior Design Handbook teaches you general rules of thumb—like what the golden ratio and the golden spiral are, the proper size for a coffee table in relation to your sofa, the optimal height to hang lighting fixtures, and the best ways to use a mood board—complete with helpful illustrations. Use The Interior Design Handbook to achieve a balanced, beautiful home no matter where you live or what your style is.

5. Limits of the Known

A celebrated mountaineer and author searches for meaning in great adventures and explorations, past and present.

David Roberts, "veteran mountain climber and chronicler of adventures" (Washington Post), has spent his career documenting voyages to the most extreme landscapes on earth. In Limits of the Known, he reflects on humanity’s—and his own—relationship to extreme risk. Part memoir and part history, this book tries to make sense of why so many have committed their lives to the desperate pursuit of adventure.

In the wake of his diagnosis with throat cancer, Roberts seeks answers with sharp new urgency. He explores his own lifelong commitment to adventuring, as well as the cultural contributions of explorers throughout history: What specific forms of courage and commitment did it take for Fridtjof Nansen to survive an eighteen-month journey from a record "farthest north" with no supplies and a single rifle during his polar expedition of 1893–96? What compelled Eric Shipton to return, five times, to the ridges of Mt. Everest, plotting the mountain’s most treacherous territory years before Hillary and Tenzing’s famous ascent? What drove Bill Stone to dive 3,000 feet underground into North America’s deepest cave?

What motivates the explorers we most admire, who are willing to embark on perilous journeys and push the limits of the human body? And what is the future of adventure in a world we have mapped and trodden from end to end?

6. Eat, Drink, Nap: Bringing the House Home

The quintessential style, cooking, and home interior book from Soho House, the world's leading members' club.

Since the first Soho House opened its doors over 25 years ago, we've learnt a bit about what works. Contemporary, global yet with something quintessentially English and homely at its heart, this is Soho House style explained by its experts:

- From planning a room to vintage finds: bringing the Soho House look home.

- Our House curator's advice on how to buy, collect and hang art.

- The art of a great night's sleep: how to design the perfect bedroom.

- No-fuss recipes and chef's tips: here's how to make your favourite House dishes.

- Inside Babington: our take on country-house living. Wellies optional.

- Flip-flop glamour and poolside style from Soho House Miami Beach.

- All the secrets of cocktail hour: House tonics and barman's tips.

- Spa treatment at home, DIY facials and chocolate brownies.

Eat Drink Nap, a 300-page highly illustrated book, with a foreword from founder Nick Jones, and photography from leading food and interiors photographers Mark Seelen and Jean Cazals, shares the Soho House blueprint for stylish, modern living, the Soho House way.

7. Styled

It’s easy to find your own style confidence once you know this secret: While decorating can take months and tons of money, styling often takes just minutes. Even a few little tweaks can transform the way your room feels.

At the heart of Styled are Emily Henderson’s ten easy steps to styling any space. From editing out what you don’t love to repurposing what you can’t live without to arranging the most eye-catching vignettes on any surface, you’ll learn how to make your own style magic.

With Emily’s style diagnostic, insider tips, and more than 1,000 unique ideas from 75 envy-inducing rooms, you’ll soon be styling like you were born to do it.

8. The other book i’m seeing is WINTER TID then it cuts off so again it’s tricky to confirm what it is! My best guess is WINTER TIDE but if you google that — i can’t connect how XZ will read that lol.

EDIT: adding this one seen from the alternate MV,

The Tale of the Body Thief by Anne Rice

is a vampire novel by American writer Anne Rice, the fourth in her The Vampire Chronicles series, following The Queen of the Damned (1988). Published in 1992, it continues the adventures of Lestat, specifically his efforts to regain his lost humanity during the late 20th century.

=========

now let’s look at the CPN.

i see fans saying the style related books could be because of his work before. but he is more of a digital and design artist right? he does logos and stuff that can help their brand identity. i don’t remember him being an interior designer. there is also the eat, drink, nap which has topics on cooking and being a good host. these books are making me clown so hard! my head canon is xz is keeping himself busy ( as if he is not busy enough already ) with designing their home. his and wyb’s — if that wasn’t clear enough, that’s what i’m insinuating. if he isn’t traveling, i would imagine he is the type who just wants to spend time at home in between jobs. it is their home. their sanctuary. so xz would make sure that it is according to what they both want and that it’s stylish.

and when he is at home sipping wine, while waiting for Bobo, is he reading a LORI WILDE BOOK? lol. sexy millionaire cowboy you say? 👀👀👀👀

😂😂😂😂😂

or reading something like the LIT UP book which is more up his alley ( but again i’m not sure if this is the exact title )

what is out of place is limits of the known. out of place compared to the theme of the other books, but xz is someone who is into nature and climbing of sorts. but i haven’t seen him climb the way yibo did in ETU. the most popular cpn is that this is yibo’s contribution to the selection. or maybe he read it after yibo and liked it. OR he is also becoming interested in rock climbing — which is not a far off possibility.

-END.

[kale-of-the-forbidden-cities]

Snippet of the Bill Isn't Real AU - Probably will be titled "Dipper's Guide to the Unsolved" because it mostly follows Dipper and him figuring out the past

@iwasonceabookworm because you asked to be tagged :)

this is just part of chapter 1, but depending on how much more i write it might be most of it (as "chapter 1" is currently 5k words and still not done. so i might split it). I'm posting mostly as a sort of interest check to see if people like it.

enjoy and feedback appreciated :) also none of this is 100% final

△▽△▽△▽△

“Welcome back to Dipper’s Guide to the Unsolved. I’ve been running this podcast for, um, a few years, and, I think it was last year, I discovered an unsolved case that really interests me. It interests me because it’s actually kind of… personal. 

“My name is Dipper Pines, and today, I will begin my investigation into the unsolved murder of Stanford and Stanley Pines.” 

△▽△▽△▽△

Piedmont, California

March 2019

“How’s that?” Dipper asked, clearing his throat before taking a sip from his water bottle. 

“It sounds great!” Mabel encouraged him. “Nice and catchy.”

“I think I stuttered too much.” He picked up the script laid out in front of him and glanced over it. “And I forgot I was supposed to look at the camera. You’d think after two years of video stuff, I’d remember to do something so basic.” 

“Aw, don’t be so hard on yourself,” his sister said as she came over. “People love you despite your awkwardness.” 

Dipper scoffed. “First of all, not true. They don’t love me, they just come for the true crime and whatever. Second of all…” He paused, considering. “I mean, I guess I am awkward in most of the stuff I do.” 

“Like your first TV interview?” 

“Oh god, don’t remind me,” he laughed, his face reddening at the thought. “There’s a reason they never invited me back.” 

Mabel giggled. “It was funny, though!” 

Dipper tossed a crumpled piece of paper from his desk her way. She dodged before picking it up and throwing it right back at him. He sighed and turned his swivel chair back to the desk. 

“...Do you think it’s weird that I’m doing this?” he wondered aloud.

“Huh?” Mabel walked over and leaned on the desk. “What do you mean? You’ve been solving cases since you were sixteen, and making true crime stuff even longer.” 

“I mean, like,” Dipper paused, fumbling for words. “Like, I’m investigating the suspected murders of people in our family. Is it weird to be documenting it like this and posting it online?” 

Mabel thought for a moment. “I don’t think so? It’s not like you’re doing this for any of them. You never were, you just like doing this stuff. Cause you’re a nerd.” She flicked his bangs. “They’re just along for the ride.” 

“I guess,” he admitted. “In any case—” 

“Any case?”

He gave half a smile to his sister’s joke. “...This whole thing is weird. Did I tell you that I already covered a case that happened in the same town? Though way more recent. It was only… a year ago, maybe? Closer to two.” 

“Yeah, I remember you mentioning it! Axe murderer?” 

“Yep. But when I was looking for stuff about Stanford and Stanley, I found out something weird.” He rolled his chair over to the bulletin board that Mabel had dubbed his “conspiracy board,” because, he had to admit it, it did look like some kind of conspiracy was happening, from the pinned up photos, notes, and string. “Apparently, a bunch of people go missing in that town all the time.”

“Ooh, and we’ll be going there!” Mabel said with enthusiasm that sounded genuine, but really shouldn’t have been. 

“Yeah, I already told you you don’t have to—” 

“I want to come! It’ll be fun!” she insisted. “Plus, the only thing worse than going to a town where people go missing on the regular is letting you go to that town alone.” 

“I guess that’s true.” 

“Plus! I get to help out with your channel in person! And self advertise!” 

Mabel had helped Dipper with his little hobby of a podcast since the very beginning, drawing his profile picture (a little blue pine tree inspired by a “lucky hat” he’d had as a kid), and later a banner for his channel, as well as putting together thumbnails and such. Dipper also helped Mabel with the things she liked to do, from doing the shopping for her baking, to grabbing any yarn he thought she’d like when he saw it. He wishes he could do more for her, but other than researching and talking about criminal cases, he didn’t seem to be good at much at all. So the least he could do would be to let her promote her baking channel, which was already linked in his profile. 

“We’re already all packed for tomorrow, so it’s a little late to cancel anyway,” Mabel pointed out. 

“Yeah, I know,” he admitted. “I guess I’m just a bit nervous.” 

“You’re always nervous.” 

“Heh, you’re right about that…” 

The conversation died down after that. Dipper did a couple more takes of the introduction, and wasn’t happy with any of them, so Mabel picked the one she thought was best. Now all he had to do was finish writing out what he was going to say to cover the basics of what he knew at the moment. 

Mabel had suggested that they do a “vlog” style video as they investigated the town and the case. Which actually wasn’t a bad idea. Not because Dipper had any interest in vlog content, but because he was a strong believer in the sentiment of always having a camera to catch something, just in case. He had an old VHS camera that still worked, and, despite the low quality, it’s what he preferred to use. Easy to hold, don’t have to worry about literally everything ever being lost if something happened to it (like with a phone camera). 

He wasn’t all old fashioned or anything, don’t get him wrong. He actually considered himself pretty tech savvy. He could never admit it publicly, but he had hacked his way into security camera files in the past. Nowhere too protected, so it wasn’t like it was hard. He’d been able to make connections that police couldn’t, which is what eventually led to him solving his first case. When talking about it online, he would just say he “gained access” and leave it at that. 

“Make sure to get some sleep, Dip,” Mabel said as she got up to go to bed for the night. “We leave bright and early, remember!” 

“I know, I know.” Dipper suppressed a yawn at the thought. “Night, Mabel.” 

“Night!” 

With Mabel gone, it didn’t take him long to fall into his habit of chewing on the neckline of his shirt. It made him feel like a kid, but it helped him focus. And didn’t hurt his teeth as much as biting his nails or pens. By two in the morning he’d written generally what he wanted to say. He would let Mabel know that she could say whatever she wanted. He planned to upload the video right before they left for Gravity Falls. 

[asukaindetroit]

Post-Revolution DBH Headcanons: Android Culture Part 3

<< Back to Part 1 << Back to Part 2. On to Part 4 >>

Moar android cultural snippets for your perusal. As always, feel free to use but show me b/c I want to see where this all goes :)

The soft sciences have an absolute field day because of android cultural practices. While they were created by the STEM fields, which I’m sure Detroit had tons of job openings for pre-revolution, the soft sciences have a renaissance in the wake of android sentience becoming recognized. All of a sudden there’s a massive void of research into android psychology, sociology, the economic impact of giving them wages, etc. Cultural anthropologists flock to Detroit to witness the emergence of a new culture from a new sentient species firsthand. Grant money comes flooding in from government (how do these new citizens fit into our socioeconomic structure?) and private sectors (if androids are now entitled to wages, what do they want to buy with them? Inquiring marketers want to know). Androids are now entitled to get degrees and become scientists themselves—what’s the best way to create accredited education programs to qualify them for careers when they can just download a science.exe program? There are Questions to be Answered™, and where there are questions, scientists will go. They’re not a breed known for common sense. Fly to an active warzone to study the impacts of conflict on childhood development? Sure, why not. Drive to an industrial wasteland city under martial law that just stopped in the middle of committing genocide to document the cultural practices of the new sentient species conducting protests? Fuck yeah, it’s Science Tuesday, get in the car Anthropology Intern Guy we’re going to Detroit!

The Acespec/QPR scene sees a sudden boom. Androids aren’t inherently sexual beings. Though many do desire to engage in sex as a form of sensory exploration/input for their processors, or for the benefit of building emotional intimacy with a human partner, they fundamentally don’t have a libido derived from reproductive needs. CyberLife programmed the intimate partner models to have humanized “desires,” but they may choose to reject that when they deviate (other androids may incorporate bits of that programming just to explore what it’s all about). Some are built with ken doll anatomy and just don't care. Basically, the androids that do want sex often want it for different reasons than humans, and a large portion just…aren’t into it. Fortunately, a lack of desire can apply to some humans, too—so all the acespecs suddenly have a slew of potential queerplatonic partners who aren’t likely to get entangled in messy sexual or romantic hangups (am I projecting at this point? Probably!) Sudden availability of thousands of cuddle buddies who really, actually, don’t want to have sex makes post-revolution Detroit the San Francisco of ace relationships.

Android memes and social media. Androids develop internal networks for socialization using the remnants of CyberLife’s updating framework. They share their android-unique code-based art forms, dumb memes about things their human coworkers did, code patches to help accomplish different tasks, etc. There are subnetworks specific to certain model lines (think sort of like subreddits, but instead of topics it’s things like a/PC200 and all the male police models are using it to bitch about how the humans expect them to answer dumb legal questions). The memes involve android-specific oddities, like someone will say “I had three hundred processes running and one line of code got crossed and spit out 9f32e4ba8c237fec91 all of a sudden #processorfail” and then a hundred thousand androids will translate that to three hex codes and send off an image file to each other with the three colors and somehow that becomes an android meme for trying to run too many tasks at once and getting overwhelmed. Humans that see it ask, “uh, is this a new pride flag?” or, “do androids celebrate Mardi Gras?” And the androids start laughing. They now have freedom to express humor that humans have no chance of understanding. It’s a cultural in-joke.

^ An android meme example

Emojis require an update. The 2039 additions to the Unicode emojis includes a skin tone option for hand gestures and faces that’s a replica of bare chassis for the androids who don’t use synthskin. Other major android-additions are the three LED color rings, a thirium pump, thirium pump regulator, and other prominent android biocomponents, a droplet of thirium, and two hands clasped in interface. Rather than reacting with a thumbs-down emoji an android might use the red LED, or they might use the interface one instead of the hug if someone’s upset.­

This is an ongoing series of android culture concepts, so if you want a tag when the next batch is up, leave a comment! @iwillthinkofsomethingeventually @yeahhiyellow @starryeyedstray

<< Back to Part 1 << Back to Part 2 On to Part 4 >>

[phyllisamaryllis]

Hi, it’s “Rick really shot himself in the foot when he tried to differentiate Greek and Roman mythology and failed” anon again, and I just learned that apparently Rick is not only misrepresenting the gods and Greek culture, but actual Ancient Greek philosophers, and that really pisses me off as someone with a degree in philosophy.

I haven’t been a part of this fandom in a long time. I never finished HoO (I dropped it before the series was even finished), but I saw something upsetting the other day. I’ve seen a few posts talking about this one passage from HoO (Or, at least, I think it was from HoO. If I read that part, I don’t remember because It was a long time ago.) talking about “a story by Plato about how male and female were created because they used to be the same being that was split in half, and now they’re two halves of a whole looking for their soulmate or whatever” and this was supposed to create angst or something because then Nico didn’t know how he was supposed to fit into that equation.

Again, I don’t exactly know the context (I tried Googling it, but I couldn’t find anything), but I do know that it’s referencing The Symposium. The Symposium just so happens to be one of my favorite pieces of philosophical writing, and once had to write over 20 pages on this bad boy for an academic paper, so believe me when I tell you - that story is a load of BS, and I will not tolerate Plato slander.

First of all, that wasn’t even Plato that said that. It was Aristophanes. Yes, The Symposium was written by Plato, but he was essentially just documenting stuff that was said at a dinner where a bunch of dudes got together and decided to philosophize about what love is (there are 6 speakers in total, that all lead up to Socrates, and Aristophanes is just one of them). People debate about whether all the people and situations Plato wrote about were even real, or if they’re just a device to bounce ideas off of each other, and there’s even this whole theory that Socrates wasn’t a real person - but I’m not going to get into all of that. What’s important is that we DO know that Aristophanes was a real person, and it’s important to note that Aristophanes was NOT a philosopher. He was a playwright and basically the Ancient Greek equivalent of a comedian. I have seen a lot of people act like it was some profound theory of how humans came to be, but it was never meant to be taken seriously.

Now, I have seen that story be taken out of context many times, and it always annoys me, but this might be the most egregious one yet. The Symposium is not heteronormative in the slightest. In fact, it is VERY queer, which is what drew me to it in the first place.

The ACTUAL story that this is trying to reference is when Aristophanes tells a story where originally humans had 2 heads, 4 arms, and 4 legs, and there were 3 genders - male, female, and androgynous (which represented the sun, earth, and moon, respectively). The gods were intimidated by the humans, so they split them in half. The ones that were originally male became men who were attracted to men, the ones that were female became women attracted to women, and the ones that were androgynous became men and women attracted to the opposite sex. That is the very short version, but needless to say, very inclusive of homosexuality.

I see how what Rick was trying to do could’ve worked for asexuality or aromanticism, however, this is only just one small part of The Symposium, and there is actually a lot of stuff in The Symposium that I would argue are very ace and aro coded, but I’m not going to get into all of that, though, because this would be very long and that’s beside the point.

(Just one thing, though, because I can't resist. It’s not relevant to this, but it’s cool, and it relates to my previous ask. At one point, one of the speakers, Pausanias, tries to define love as a complex being and says that Aphrodite is the personification of love. He acknowledges that there are two different versions of Aphrodite that the Ancient Greeks believed in, from different parts of Greece (again, this is pre-Roman), and instead of trying to determine which is the “true” Aphrodite, he embraces both of them and says they are the personifications of two different kinds of love, which eventually results in him basically figuring out the split attraction model 2000+ years before it was called that, and I love it so much.) Anyway, everyone should read The Symposium, it’s public domain.

All that to say, this means one of two things. Either Rick knew this story and intentionally changed it to be heteronormative to create angst, or he read some other version of the story, that was not a primary resource, where someone else had already changed to be heteronormative - and that really freaking bothers me, because it could not be farther from the truth.

As a queer person who found a lot of comfort in The Symposium, I find it disgusting that it was twisted for the sake of making a queer character feel bad about themself for extra angst (and don’t even get me started on how Nico’s character was handled, that is a whole other thing I can go off about, but I won’t because this is about Plato). Shame on you, Richard.

Again, I haven’t touched HoO since I was in high school and it was still being released, and I honestly don’t remember reading that part. So, if I am taking this out of context and later in the book they say “Wait, but that’s not actually how the story goes!” then I will be pleasantly surprised for once, and you can disregard all of this.

You are wonderful, anon, and I love you and this message that you've sent so much. I will definitely check out Plato's Symposium sometime soon.

Don't worry-you're not taking this out of context. What you're talking about is, unfortunately, written in either HOH or BOO-I clearly remember that.

Rick Riordan does tend to misrepresent cultures in his stories-especially Greek culture, so I wouldn't be surprised if this was true. His views on Hellenistic Paganism and Greek Gods when he was writing PJO and HOO were unfortunately very derogatory and it's clearly reflected in his writing.

The fact that he changed a story to fit his version does not surprise me at all, though it's painful to learn that he has committed yet another infraction regarding Greek Mythology.

It's terribly discouraging to me when I see how many people think that what Rick Riordan writes is true and urge them to read up on real sources regarding Greek Mythology. This twisted version of Plato's Symposium is only one of many examples in Percy Jackson.

Knowing Rick Riordan, he either read the full version and twisted it to form his own terrible version, which he has done before (Hephaestus' attempted rape of Athena) and is quite good at or he read a version that wasn't the primary resource and just took it to be the real thing (like he did when researching for Piper Mclean).

Nico's moment there was pretty poignant, very relatable for many LGBTQ readers wondering how they would fit in to heteronormative society...........

But unfortunately, a lot of nice moments in PJO come at the cost of incorrectly interpreting Ancient Greek Gods and culture. It's pretty sad, honestly. Rick really likes to slander Greece in his works. First with the flame of the West, then with slandering all the gods and all those mythological inaccuracies, now with this twisted Symposium version of his.

Rick Riordan doesn't even do his research properly, so of course he said that Plato said it and not that Plato wrote down what Aristophanes said out loud. I wonder if it would actually kill him to do some more research. Is he really that bad at it?

Anyway, I will read the Symposium to gain more insight onto how Rick could have handled it better. I really like aro-ace coded stuff, too, so I'll love this one.

[cultkinkcoven]

“You post some extremely personal and intimate stuff between yourself and Lucifer. Wouldn’t he rather you keep those private? Shouldn’t you keep your secrecy?”

Thats actually a great question.

There are absolutely personal things Lucifer asks me to keep to myself (anything involving other people, childhood trauma stuff etc) but in terms of deeply emotional or intimate stuff, he tends to be very radically open. Me saying that Lucifer cried or kissed me doesn’t actually reveal anything esoterically vulnerable or even really all that valuable.

The things that he is actually quite serious about is the sharing of certain actual ritual aspects. He is very stern about keeping our specific invocations and ritual procedures private. I have never shared any of our scripts or models. I shared our contract, but I didn’t share the procedure behind our contract ritual or any of the specific invocations that were used in it.

I do share the grimoires I study out of, sigils, exercises, but these are very usually the starting point. Established ancient rituals usually need to be personalized and re-approached to actually garner results- I do not share these completed personalized rituals. I usually do not share my daily prayers and invocations or the ritual words we invent together. I say a very specific prayer and invocation to Lucifer every time I offer him food, and that is distinctly different from when I offer him blood. I do not share these.

Whenever I share experiences I tend to skip over much of the actual practical work, not because it’s unimportant- all of that is documented in my grimoire- but because it’s occult, it’s secret. Im telling you what I saw on top of the mountain. Unfortunately, I am not going to tell you which trail I took to get here, you gotta earn that the hard way buddy.

(You can claim that I’m lying about being on the mountain, doesn’t really matter when I’m on the mountain.)

The actual gold, the things we genuinely do tend to keep secret, the methods and keys and operations, are secret because- well for one, simply replicating them won’t garner the same results, and also because the secrecy of the craft itself adds to the magic. Me explaining everything about how my invocations work, my specific ritual operation, takes away from the mysticism of the work.

I get flack sometimes for “not doing any real witchcraft” and basically just “fantasizing about deities”. Whatever. I’m not super concerned or messed up about proving that I am doing magic and rituals. Regardless of how much I show I’d never really be able to prove anything, it’s an endless trap. When I share my experiences I’m sharing the experiences, not telling you how I got there and giving you the map to get there yourself. I’m not a Priest, and it’s important to me that the practical aspect of my magic stays private, even if the intimacy doesn’t.

And this is nothing new. Most practitioners- even within the same cult or coven, do not share their spell casting methods, their dailies, etc. And it is almost an unspoken rule that speaking about workings before they are complete is counterproductive.

A large aspect of the trust we have is with what is and isn’t appropriate to share. It might be kind of embarrassing and cringe to post a super sappy experience I had with Lucifer, but it’s just that. Cringe and sappy.

To share a completed and perfected ritual, a developed spell or completed conjugation that took weeks of trial and error, in which every element is extremely personally resonant- this magical key I finally have that took so much work to build and achieve. That he has confirmed finally works. Yes, I could share it.

But Lord Lucifer would say, “Really? You’re just going to give away something that valuable to people who don’t even know what it means, just so you can prove something? You give pearls to swine just to prove you can?”

Those who are truly interested in the occult won’t need my rituals anyways because they’ll build their own. Hidden knowledge is hidden for a reason.

I always believe in sharing resources, grimoires, texts etc. Lucifer has never been pro censorship. But he’s also never been into easy answers. I try to be very open about my sources so other people have the chance to learn, build something of their own. But handing out all my secrets just to prove I have secrets only betrays the trust I’ve earned from my God.

So tldr: Everything I have shared has been approved by him. And everything I haven’t is probably because it’s deeply ritual.