gotta-winwin

[gotta-winwin]

Hi coming in here to say that you're a really good writer and I love you

omg hi i love you too😚

ik i haven’t been as active on here but i promise ill be back soon🥲

[gotta-winwin]

typo and error | SHOWBIZ COLLAB

⭐ starring: joshua hong 💌 genre: fluff, angst | wc: 3.7k

💬 preview: Joshua loves his job as social media manager for The Carat Company, except for one thing: the actress he’s in charge of. you hate his guts, and Joshua swears he returns those feelings with vigor, and yet…forced to work in close proximity, Joshua’s forced to reckon with the idea that just maybe, despite all the animosity, he’s still madly in love with you. 

cw/tw: social media manager!joshua x actress!reader, mutual pining, oblivious idiots in love, enemies to lovers(?), light swearing, bit of crack, miscommunication trope, only one bed, brainrot hoshi, menace jeonghan

🪽fic rating: pg ☁️ masterlist & a/n: this is in direct correlation with @straylightdream's fic for the same collab! i feel so honoured to be apart of this wonderful community and i cannot believe it is finally time to share with you all this piece of work-- this collab was the beginning of it all for me: a thousand laughs and inside jokes, found family and forever friends. i am beyond grateful to be standing next to these wonderful writers and people. forever grateful to @studioeisa and @diamonddaze01 for being the tumblr parents i never knew i needed <3

now playing: tonight (i wish i was your boy) by the 1975

new actress y/n violet l/n looks absolutely grotesque in new photos from set. 

Joshua swears on his life and all things good that he meant to type gorgeous. 

He had half the mind to call Apple Services himself and complain about the terrible timing autocorrect had, as he sat in Wonwoo’s office, their company’s stern CEO staring at him from across his meticulously organized desk. 

“You’re telling me you managed to sour our new talent’s name in less than an hour of working her socials.”

Joshua lowered his gaze. “Yes.” 

Wonwoo pinched the bridge of his nose in a twinge of despair with annoyance swimming on his face. “Joshua, I cannot emphasize this enough. Our partnership with Ms. Y/N Violet needs to work. It has to.” 

“And it will.” Joshua nodded vehemently, trying to emphasize his false confidence in the matter. “I’ve got it, boss. Trust me.” Or don’t. Joshua didn’t really know what he was doing. 

Wonwoo sends him out with a few words that borderline as a threat. Words that sounded like don’t fuck this up, please and your job is on the line. 

Joshua swipes into Twitter and sees the amount of people who had screenshotted his mistake and posted it online. 

Poor social media guy, someone wrote. Don’t hate him for his fat thumbs! At least we got a good laugh. 

“Fuck me.” Joshua dials Jihoon’s number and prays the man picks up. “Hey, Hoon. I need a favour.”  

The actress I work for is going to hate me. 

“Hey.” 

It’s awkward when Joshua walks into your trailer on set. You’re poised on the makeup chair, your eyes closed as your makeup artist dusted pale pink shadow over your eyelids. You recognize his voice, and your eyebrows pinch. 

“Mr. Hong. You’re late.” You supposed it was unprofessional of you to still hold a grudge for Joshua’s social media mistake, but you couldn’t help it. 

“There was a hold up at the company.” Joshua tries his best to remain civil. There was just something about your face that infuriated him. It was too…perfect. Too pretty. 

He raises his camera and waits for you to pose in the perfected candid pose every actor and actress was taught. To look just the right amount of ‘caught off guard.’ Joshua snaps a few photos before throwing you a thumbs up. 

You motion for him to leave. “I need to rehearse my lines. In peace.” You add the last part pointedly, glancing at him through the mirror. 

He sits on the couch of your trailer, glasses perched on his nose that he looks at you with. He gives you a curt nod and exits. 

Ever the gentleman. 

But you knew that it was all a scheme. 

y/n violet l/n stuns in new photos captured on set. 

Joshua makes sure to double check, triple check, the caption before sending it out this time. 

He’s tried so hard to be nothing but perfect in the few months he had been working for you, as if each action could make up for the disaster of an entrance he had given you on their company’s social media page. 

Joshua made sure your favourite drinks and snacks were in your trailer before your arrival. He painstakingly edited every minute flaw from your photos. He kept eyeliner, lipgloss and a spare hair tie in his bag. He never complained when you asked him to reshoot a billion more photos. 

Yet for some reason, you were unwilling to forget the incident. It was clear to Joshua that you hated him. 

“Thanks.” You mutter as he hands you your morning cup of iced tea, stabbing the straw into the cup for you, mixing the ice just right. You pretend not to notice how Joshua has somehow learnt all your habits and preferences to a T within just a few months. 

He wordlessly hands you a napkin before you even ask. 

“Hey, Vi. You’re on set in 5.” The 1st AD pokes her head in to call you. 

“Okay, thanks.” 

Joshua takes your cup and napkin flawlessly and helps you down the steps. 

You hate how perfect he is.

He hates how he can feel himself caring about this job more than he should. 

fans rave over y/n violet’s assistant: internet calls him her prince-in-waiting. 

“I feel like you’re being underpaid.” Wonwoo says the next time Joshua finds himself in his office. “I hear from the rest of the staff that you’ve been doing other jobs.” 

Joshua doesn’t know what his boss is saying, and it’s evident on his face. 

“You’re not just Ms. L/N’s social media manager, you’re also her assistant and bodyguard.” Wonwoo explains, and Joshua realizes he’s got a point. 

“Oh.” 

“I’m surprised you haven’t come to me for a raise, Josh.” Wonwoo states quite frankly. “You’ve always been very good at advocating for yourself.” 

He shrugs. “It doesn’t really feel like a job.”

And the look on Wonwoo’s face tells him he’s said too much. 

“Really.” There’s an unmistakable smirk on Wonwoo’s face, the 5 - 9 Wonwoo peeking through the 9 - 5 Wonwoo for just a second. “Taking such good care of her doesn’t feel like a job.”

Joshua’s quick to backtrack. “No, I mean– I like my job.”

“Sure.” It’s obvious he doesn’t believe him.

Fuck me, Joshua thinks silently. 

Joshua can feel himself burning holes into the back of Jeonghan’s head as the man resurfaces from kissing you. 

“Cut!” He can hear the director yelling for the scene to end in the distance, yet all his senses are trained on you. 

How you pressed yourself into Jeonghan’s hold, melted into the kiss, let out the sweetest gasp into his lips. Joshua hated all of it. He hated how it made him feel. 

He watches Jeonghan whisper something into your ear, a hand brushing against your hair. 

Joshua glanced down only to realize he had been squeezing the paper cup filled with coffee in his hands, the contents slowly overflowing and dripping onto the floor. 

He looks back up and catches you looking at him.

“Fuck me.” 

You break away from Jeonghan as soon as you hear the cue from the director. 

“You alright?” Jeonghan’s quick to check in. 

You nod. “You?”

It’s an unspoken thing between the two of you, checking in with your onscreen counterpart in between work days and takes. “I’m good.” Jeonghan glances behind you and bites back a smile. “I’d say your social media guy isn’t though.” 

“Mr. Hong?” You flit your eyes over to the man in question. He’s standing near the side, your afternoon coffee in his hands and a scowl on his face. “Yeah, I don’t know what’s wrong with him.”

“He’s in love with you.” Jeonghan says it as plainly as if he had just stated tomorrow’s weather. 

You choke on air. “What?” 

Jeonghan nears, his breath tickling your ear as he fixes your hair gently. “Look at how he tenses when I near you. How his eyebrows furrow. How he looks like he wants to murder me from across the room.” 

You look, and for a second, you see it too. 

And then you blink, and it’s gone. “You’re imagining things, Hannie.” 

Your social media guy does not love you. 

It’s the dead of night when Joshua lugs your suitcase into your hotel room. He sets it down and pats it awkwardly, scanning the room for any visible threats. He’s grown accustomed to his role in your life. He still hates how it makes him feel towards you– the feelings of love that he continues to push down until they disappear– but he’s content with his job. Wonwoo did end up giving him a raise for it. 

He was now your social media manager/personal assistant/bodyguard. The paycheck was exponentially high. 

“Of course, you forget to book yourself a room.” There’s a light tease in your tone as you stare at the one bed in the giant penthouse suite. 

“Sorry.” Is all he has to offer in response. He had forgotten, in the midst of all the press releases he had to manage with the movie trailer coming out, he had only thought of booking you a room and not him. “I’ll sleep on the floor.” 

You give him a look he can’t decipher. “No.” 

Joshua blinks. “Huh?” 

“I’m not making you sleep on the floor, Hong. We can both sleep on the bed. Just stick to your side.” 

He nods, ignoring the feeling that the two of you had just crossed into some unspeakable, unknown territory. 

He doesn’t know it, but you feel it too. 

It’s strange to see him out of his usual business attire. 

You’re trying not to stare at him from above your computer screen, but you fail, eyeing the casual wear your work counterpart has on. Joshua is concentrating on something on his phone, his lips twitching as his eyes move briskly over its contents.

“Stop staring.” 

You flinch when you’re caught. “I wasn’t.”

He laughs, and the sound startles you. “I can feel your beady little eyes on me, missy.” He teases, smiling at your insulted expression. 

“Do not insult me like that, Mr. Hong– you work for me, remember?” 

“Oh, do I now?” 

There’s a moment of silence as the two of you look at one another, sharing a secret smile before both quickly turning away. 

He swears at that moment he’s in love with you, and he hates that it’s true. 

You swear you hate him under your breath. You hate how you know it’s a lie. 

The sun begins to set as Joshua hands you your nightly cup of tea. Made just the way you like it, a dash of sugar and a spoonful of honey. 

He sits beside you and turns to look at you with determination on his face. “Can I ask you a question?” 

You frown. “Sure?” 

The question that comes out of his mouth is unexpected and a nice surprise. “Have you always wanted to be an actress?” 

“Yes.” You answer immediately. ��Have you always wanted to be a…” You blank at his job title. A personal assistant? A bodyguard? Basically a boyfriend? Instead, you settle with the safest option. “...a social media manager?” 

Joshua thinks a beat too long before answering. “I guess.” 

“That doesn’t sound all too convincing.” 

“I mean– I don’t think anyone grows up wanting to be a social media manager.” 

He has a point. “What did you want to be then?”

Joshua thinks for a bit, as if the memory was already long gone and too distant to recover. “Astronaut, or something silly like that.” 

“I don’t think that’s silly. I mean–” You backtrack. “Everyone told me being an actress was a silly dream, but I’m here now.”

There’s a sour look on his face. “And I’m your social media manager.” 

“Yeah, a fucking good one.” 

He visibly brightens. “Really?” 

“I mean, you did mess up big time on that one post, but–”

“I am sorry about that.” He grimaces, and you know he really does feel bad. 

“You called me grotesque.” 

“I typed it wrong and stupid autocorrect–” 

You laugh at his indignant expression. “I’m joking, Joshua.” 

He joins in, and neither one of you notices how you had just called him by his first name. 

You look radiant in the mornings. Joshua swears on all things good and true that you cannot be real, and that you’re most certainly nothing short of an angel. 

“Good morning.” His morning voice catches you off guard. 

You turn around in bed to face him, momentarily stunned by the limited amount of space between the two of you. His hair is pushed in all directions, his eyes lazy and filled with sleep, yet– 

“Fuck me,” you think to yourself. Your social media guy was hot. But that had to just be the morning delirium talking. 

“You’re staring again.” He comments, his lips quivering into a tiny smile. “You’ve been doing that a lot.” 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

“No.” You deny it once more. “I am not staring.” 

“Sure. Sure.” He reaches a hand over and moves a piece of hair away from your face.

You blink as he moves away. “Shut up.”

The banter comes as easy as hating him once did. And as the two of you watch the sun begin to rise again, you start thinking that maybe loving him can be just as easy too. 

y/n violet l/n eats up the red carpet with new look. 

You’re dazzling on the red carpet, and Joshua spends most of his time trying to stop his mouth from hanging open. 

He raises the camera and waits for you to fix your dress. 

“Is this okay?” You look at him, fingers toying with the hem of your skirt, the bodice of your dress cinching your waist uncomfortably. Your movement is limited as you attempt to adjust the fabric of your dress down to cover more of your legs. 

Joshua wordlessly steps in to help. He moves the fabric with practiced precision, his fingers brushing against your upper thigh as he steps away again. 

“It’s perfect.” He reassures you, raising his camera once more. “C’mon, work the camera, pretty.” 

Smiling for pictures comes easy when it’s Joshua behind the camera. 

He hums contently as he studies the photos. “Perfect.” Offering you his arm, Joshua escorts you into the venue. 

Neither one of you comments on the multiple compliments the two of you received throughout the event. How every single person that walked up to you mentioned how perfect he looked by your side. 

The sky is dark and crying by the time you’re ready to leave. 

Joshua holds his coat over your head, careful not to disturb the delicate headpiece sitting in your hair. You watch him study the pouring rain, as if calculating the best way to deliver you to the car. 

“I’m going to have to carry you.” He ultimately decides.

You gape at the suggestion. “What?”

He shrugs, pointing down at your feet and the diamond encrusted heels adorning them. “Neither one of us can afford your shoes getting soaked in the rain— what are those? A billion dollars as footwear?”

He swings you into his arms effortlessly and begins the trek. 

Rain hits his back as he carries you to the car, his hair sticking to his forehead as he blinks rainwater out from his eyes. You can’t help but stare and appreciate the moment for what it is. 

“Thank you, Joshua.” You whisper, as he gently sets you into the passenger seat of your van. 

He shoots you a bright smile. “Anytime. Fasten your seatbelt, princess.” He slides into the driver’s seat, reaching over to fix the tiara sitting in your hair. 

Your stomach flips. Fuckkk. 

y/n violet l/n and her prince-in-waiting spotted in a fairytale moment after gala. 

The headlines are everywhere in the morning. 

“People think we’re together, they’re calling it some fairytale romance come to life.” Your eyes read the comments left by fans faster than your brain can comprehend them. “Are you seeing this?”

You look up to see Joshua staring blankly at his phone. 

“Joshua!” You nudge him from his stupor. “The masses think we’re in love. Do something about it!” 

He blinks. “Like what?”

“I don’t know? You’re the social media guy, don’t you guys have some kind of handbook for situations like this? Release a statement or something–” You point an accusatory finger his way. “I told you carrying me like that last night was a bad idea.” 

There’s a shit eating expression on his face that you urge to smack away. “And what if we don’t?” He tests the waters. Hook, line–

“What?”

“What if we don’t release a statement?” 

“People think we’re in love.” 

“So? Maybe they're right.”

 And…sinker. His heart threatens to jump out of his ass. 

No one had more effectively rendered you silent than Joshua had right now. “I- what?” 

Joshua stares at you for a count of three. The bravery that had overtaken him a few seconds ago was gone now, and he was trying to muster up the courage to say something– anything. 

The first two notes of Bruno Mars’s Just The Way You Are starts playing and Joshua flushes, grabbing his phone to answer the call. “Hello?” 

Jihoon’s voice crackles to life. “You know you need to report this type of shit to me, right? Your HR department? Now– I would recommend you to not date the actress you’re working for, but since that’s already been done–”

Joshua cuts him off. “What– no, we’re not dating.” He darts his eyes to look over at you. You’re pointedly avoiding eye contact. “It’s just internet gossip.” 

“Right.” 

Joshua wonders what kind of things Wonwoo was telling the rest of the department heads if Jihoon also sounded like he didn’t believe him. 

“Well, as long as you’re not dating.” Jihoon concludes the call. “Bye.” 

Joshua lowers the phone to look at you. 

The moment’s over. You both can feel it. 

y/n violet, looking ravishing on set, answers questions at Buzzfeed. 

You don’t see Joshua for the next two weeks. 

He’s still posting snippets from the press tour you and Jeonghan are currently on, busy promoting your new movie, but the man himself has gone radio silent. 

You imagine he’s regretting the last night the two of you had spent together. 

“So? Maybe they're right.” 

You find yourself spinning the conversation over and over in the back of your head, as you rehearse your answers for the next interview. You overanalyze it, again and again, until you can’t tell the difference between what actually happened and what you’ve created in your head. 

It’s the way he had so quickly shut down the idea of dating you to Jihoon that stuck with you the most. The tone. The swiftness of his words. The lack of hesitation. 

Your temporary assistant hands you your morning coffee, and you take a sip. It’s too strong, too murky, not nearly enough ice. 

You find yourself missing Joshua. You recount every little snide comment you had ever made at him and feel that wave of regret, over and over. 

But buried deep within that regret is embarrassment, and it reigns far superior. The little voice inside your head whispers seeds into your mind. He probably hates you now. You’ve been nothing but rude, and awful, and dismissive. 

Your phone buzzes to life, and you see his name on the caller ID. 

You feel like throwing up as you let it ring. 

Joshua stares at the video of your latest interview and lets out a heavy sigh. 

You’ve been dodging his calls. Joshua hates to say it, but he understands. A big time actress, being caught on social media and accused of dating her glorified butler. 

He doesn’t know what possessed him to keep calling you, but he does. Once before clocking in to work. Once clocking out. Once before bed. 

Soonyoung tells him it’s pathetic. It probably is. 

“You need to let her go, man.” Soonyoung tells him as they leave the office building. “Is she really worth all this groveling?” 

“She’s worth everything.” Joshua finds himself admitting. 

“Shit, bro.” Their marketing manager fixes him with sympathetic eyes. “You’re so cooked.” 

Joshua frowns. “What does that even mean?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. Wonwoo made the whole marketing team take this seminar on the new internet codes.” Soonyoung slaps him on the back. “If she’s worth that much to you, then show her.” 

“How? She won’t even pick up my calls. And our schedules barely line up anymore.” 

Soonyoung dangles his phone between his fingertips. “You’re the social media guy, right?” 

There’s a wicked spark behind those eyes. Fuck. 

y/n violet’s prince-in-waiting steps into the spotlight: is this love or just workplace loyalty?

You’re somewhere in Singapore getting ready for another interview when Jeonghan breaks into your trailer with a manic smile on his face. “Look at this article that just came out.” He thrusts his phone into your face. 

You blink at the headline. “What–”

“Your prince-in-waiting just blew up the whole internet.” 

You blitz through the article in record speed, catching snippets and quotes from Joshua. 

Working for her was a nightmare. Violet’s spoiled, high-maintenance, an all around princess. 

You push his phone away. “I don’t want to read all that.” 

Jeonghan groans. “Don’t just glance at it, read it. Like actually.” 

Working for her was a nightmare– I was forced to confront the reality that I wasn’t just doing all of it for the paycheck, I was doing it for her. 

Violet’s spoiled, high-maintenance, an all around princess– but that was okay. I didn’t mind it. I liked maintaining her. 

And finally, the last quote in the article. 

“I suppose when you spend that much time staring at one person’s photos… falling a bit in love with them is inevitable.” 

You blink. “Ava?” 

Your temporary assistant raises her head. “Yes?” 

“I need you to get Mr. Hong on the next flight over here.” 

y/n violet takes movie premiere by storm– bringing her prince-in-waiting as her plus one. 

Despite all that has changed in your relationship with Joshua, these events still remain the same.

He still gets on his knees to take the perfect pictures of you in your dress. He still brings you drinks whenever he notices you’re parched. Still carries your heels for you when your feet start aching on the way home.

Yet some things have changed: like the fact that his hand is now placed possessively on your waist as he navigates the crowd with you next to him. 

“I still don’t like that guy.” He mutters into your ear as you both say goodbye to Jeonghan and his date. 

You laugh. “He’s just Jeonghan.” 

“He’s kissed you.” He hisses, fixing your necklace so it sits perfectly on your collarbone. “And we both know he was cuddling up to you on set just to piss me off.” 

“Maybe.” You admit. “But that’s just Jeonghan.” 

“Whatever.” Joshua throws one last dirty look at the actor before fixing you with loving eyes. “You’re mine now, anyways. Right?” 

You scrunch your nose. “Wouldn’t you like to know, social media boy?” 

He pinches your hip in retaliation. 

The banter still comes easy. And you’re pleased to find out that loving him comes just as easy too. 

[gotta-winwin]

this is not a fic, or anything pertaining to seventeen, but something i wrote on my way to work today-- riding through the bus route of my city. i'm sharing this because i'm quite proud of it, and i hope someone reading it will relate to the feeling: nostalgia, remembrance, the indents of someone you used to be.

the bus route: R4

this bus route is familiar. routine and mundane. we pass the run-down gas stations, busy schools, businessmen out on their lunch break. the air conditioning runs just a bit too loud. the bus rattles along the uneven pavement, rocking my stomach until my lunch feels uncomfortably mixed. my hair covers my face from the glare of the sun reflecting against the tall buildings. we pass weed stores and the ramen place i used to visit with friends. 

this bus route has seen many versions of me. me, on the first day of summer heading to work, bright-eyed and laughing next to someone i used to call my soulmate. me, two days in, head spinning and a forced smile on my face— lips twitched up in a way where only i could tell it wasn’t real. she still sat next to me, and continued to do so for the rest of summer. it’s seen me reread text messages until my vision blurred together, as if doing it enough would change the words that were so ingrained in my brain. 

it’s seen me cry, tears welling up in the corners of my eyes, threatening to spill out as i pondered the end of my life and how it would play out. a knife to the wrist, a bottle of rum, my back against the cold pavement of a run-down road. or as i envisioned death at the hands of someone else, the anger of their words— how each attack felt worse coming from someone i used to think loved me. the yellow handrails that i’ve clung onto have seen my shaky hands type out the address of mental health clinics, all the while as she sat next to me, not seeing my tears— or pretending not to. as she laughed about the same thing that was slowly devouring me from the inside, rotting and stewing with evil. this bus has seen countless goodbyes. countless journeys to and from work. a year of therapy visits. dodging around smelly students from vancouver college. avoiding eye contact when a familiar stranger enters the double doors.

the walls and stuffy windows of this four wheeled vehicle has seen it all— every scar, every moment. every person that has once sat next to me, bags touching and shoulders brushing, now nothing but a stranger with the information of a close friend. it must remember me, hair curlier and makeup-less, school skirt above my knees and a backpack over one shoulder. two working AirPods in my ears, a thousand rings on every finger. and it must remember the title of each book i’ve ever devoured on its seats, each fast food chain bag sitting on my lap, every loud laugh, every complaint of the burning heat or biting frost. 

and i wonder if it still remembers me now, sitting in the same spot after nearly a year, my hair a different colour and my eyeliner a different brand. the seat next to me sits empty, occasionally occupying a stranger. i am entirely new, changed, completely different. 

yet i see indents of who i used to be amidst the yellow and blue and grey. 

similarly, as i get off the skytrain and onto the platform above the entrance, directly opposite the mall of my hometown— i am struck with the remembrance of it all. and the repeated realization of just how much burnaby’s public transportation has seen of me. without a car, i am left to explore the barebones of this city, traveling through its inner systems and carried through its belly.

while multiple skytrain platforms exist in my narrative— the new west station and the feeling of a conversation yelled through the wind, waterfront station and the incident with a knife, bridgeport and the multitude of late nights— metrotown station reigns far superior. 

i have walked up and down those tall escalators a thousand times over, destinations and feelings different and jumbled each time. towards concerts, towards work, towards meetings with old friends i haven’t seen in years, towards nowhere in particular. 

the skytrain platform has heard many unrepeatable conversations, ones filled with impulse and zero constraint. ones with full honesty and a thousand regrets. it’s heard all the why’s and i’m sorry’s and how have you been’s? it’s seen bittersweet hugs before separating forever, silly handshakes between friends after a movie late at night. eye rolls and pullings of ponytails. 

my math textbook once sat at the bottom of the large trash can sitting right in the middle of the platform. and so did a thousand starbucks drinks, a thousand quick work lunches. a billion receipts and movie tickets. apology flowers that came with a shit apology. alcohol bottles, empty packs of gum. my grade ten yearbook— the one with all the slurs and the word slut in sharpie that i tried to white-out. a poem about missed chances from someone who really couldn’t write a poem but tried and failed anyways. a thousand basketball scoresheets. 

my life— sitting with the train tracks and bus routes. 

[gotta-winwin]

update:

we're going on a mini mini hiatus for two weeks as i transition from one thing to another-- ie. no posts and no fics (except for collabs). i will still be online and lurking (and writing!) and there will be lots of stuff ready to share with you guys once i'm back :)

i love you all !

[gotta-winwin]

FIELD NOTES: FROM THE SHALLOW END

༄.° pairing: jeon wonwoo x f!reader | ༄.° wc: 7.7k ༄.° genre: nanny diary au | au pair!reader ༄.° warnings: definitely some angst + self-spiraling, bad/negligent rich people parenting, consumption of alcohol, mentions of vomit ༄.° a/n: for cam and em's carat bay collab! was so grateful to take part in another collab and experiment with my writing style a bit :)) please do check out all the other amazing authors in this collab, they are all so so so dear to me

Entry #1: On the Indigenous Habits of the Affluent Family on Summer Vacation June 13th, 3:04 PM

In the wilds of Carat Bay, the modern matriarch is most commonly spotted with an oat milk matcha and AirPods, muttering something about KPIs. The modern patriarch is nowhere to be seen, having mumbled something about a “board meeting” and “golf with the boys.” Their offspring, small but feral, roam through chlorinated terrain. Their natural prey? Au pairs in department store swimsuits.

Junseo had eaten four frozen lemonades and was now in the middle of what experts in the field might call “a sugar-induced sprint toward cardiac disaster.”

“Junseo, no running by the pool!” you shout, too late. He slips, recovers, and keeps going like a greased piglet on roller skates.

Across the concrete savannah of Carat Bay’s family pool zone, Junhee is in her usual position: crouched at the border between chlorinated civilization and murky wilderness, pool noodle in hand. She is attempting to commit amphibicide via repeated poking of a highly displeased frog.

“Junhee, love, leave the frog alone—he lives here!”

“His name is Boba!” she screams back.

The frog does not look like a Boba. He looks like he’s reconsidering all of his life choices, which, frankly, makes two of you.

Your sandals squeak—a mistake you didn’t realize you’d made until about an hour into your first shift. They’re cute, sure. But tractionless. Supportless. Flat as your social life ever since you moved back in with your parents and became, for lack of better options, an anthropologist in exile.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Just a few months ago you were crossing the graduation stage in soft linen, clutching your master’s degree in anthropology like it meant something. You had been so certain academia would need someone like you—sharp-eyed, good at syntax, fluent in both fieldwork and feminist theory.

Turns out, the only people hiring anthropologists in this economy are tech companies doing ethics theater and pharmaceutical firms in need of plausible deniability.

You had been dying slowly on your parents’ couch for exactly three weeks when your friend Lexi sent the flyer:

Want to make $$$ babysitting rich kids all summer? Full access to country club, pool, catered lunches. No drowning allowed. :)

You had laughed. And then, somewhere between the fourth rejection email and your mother asking if you wanted to help organize her sock drawer, you’d sent in a resume. You even lied and said you liked children. Two days later, you were hired. The check had commas in it.

Now you’re standing in a wet Target swimsuit, sunburn blooming across your chest, wondering if the rash on your neck is from stress, sweat, or the “reef-safe, organic, mommy-formulated” sunscreen that smells like expired chamomile and four-day-old chlorine.

“Junseo,” you call again, “do not eat that bandaid!”

The bandaid goes into his mouth. The bandaid is chewed. You scream internally.

Your employer, Mrs. Cho,  the mother of these twin terrors, has not moved from her perch in the family cabana for the last forty minutes. She’d tossed you a dismissive “just make sure they don’t drown” before retreating into her kaftan and a Zoom meeting. She’s been there ever since: AirPods in, matcha sweating on the teakwood side table, gesturing wildly as she mutters about influencers and packaging aesthetics.

You, meanwhile, are the last line of defense between civilization and frog-assisted chaos.

Later, after bribing the children into a nap with gummy worms and a story you mostly made up about a magical flamingo who goes to therapy, you collapse onto a sun-warmed lounger just outside the cabana. It's one of the only moments of quiet you’ve had since arriving. The kind of quiet that rings a little in your ears.

You close your eyes. Take a deep breath. Maybe consider what a plane ticket to literally anywhere else might cost.

That’s when you feel it—a shift in the light. A shadow cast across your body.

You blink up.

There’s a boy—no, not quite. A man. Mid-twenties, maybe. Dark hair falling slightly into his eyes, expression unreadable. His nametag says Wonwoo. He’s wearing the Carat Bay staff polo, a towel slung casually over his shoulder. His left hand holds a chilled bottle of water, condensation trailing lazy rivulets down his fingers.

He offers it wordlessly.

You take it, startled. “Thank you,” you say, your voice hoarse from yelling and sun.

He doesn’t speak. Just gives you a single, small nod, and walks away.

You watch his back retreat into the shimmer of pool heat, the bottle already cold against your lips.

You don’t know it yet, but this is the last peaceful moment you’ll have for a while.

Entry #2: On Power Hierarchies and Poolside Social Climbing June 20th, 11:35 AM

In most pack dynamics, the alpha asserts dominance through elaborate displays of confidence. At Carat Bay, this involves hosting themed pool parties and knowing the regional manager’s golf handicap. Among the matriarchs, alliances shift over whose offspring made swim team and who dared to bring store-bought cupcakes to the birthday cabana. It is important to master the subtle art of pretending one is not competing.

You lose your hearing somewhere around the fifth time Junhee screams, “I DON’T WANNA BE A ZEBRA.”

Junseo, face flushed with fury and injustice, echoes her like a demonic chorus: “WE’RE NOT ZEBRAS! I WANNA BE A T-REX!”

“Fine,” you hiss, crouched on the cabana floor with one knee in a puddle of apple juice, “be a godda–dang dinosaur in a zebra onesie, just get in the outfit.”

Today is not your day.

Today is Savannah Safari Birthday™, an event as horrifying as it is aggressively coordinated. The themed party, hosted by one of the more alpha Carat Bay mothers (you learn her name is Seoyeon, but she goes by Stacie, spelled with an ‘ie’ like a threat), has transformed her family cabana into an influencer’s fever dream. Giant cardboard giraffes. Balloon arches in beige and gold. Matching straw hats for all children. And a disturbingly lifelike stuffed zebra standing near the dessert table like it's waiting for a sacrifice.

You wrangle the twins into their assigned costumes—faux-animal-print rompers with little ears on the hoods—while they shriek like banshees at a frequency NASA might want to study.

By the time you emerge into the main cabana area, sweating and frayed, the pool moms are already circling each other like predators in designer plumage.

“Did you hear?” one says, adjusting her visor. “Eunkyung got waitlisted for pre-competitive swim. Waitlisted. And they just redid their pool.”

A blonde with glistening shoulders gasps theatrically. “Waitlisted? Oh no. Maybe she can take up something less... saturated. Pickleball, maybe.”

There’s laughter, brittle as pressed glass.

You hover near the fruit skewers, pretending to supervise the twins as they pelt each other with animal crackers. That’s when you hear it: the first volley fired in your direction.

“Aw, is your niece helping you today?” one of the moms trills, gesturing at you without looking. Her sunglasses are enormous and opaque.

“She’s adorable,” another adds, tone sweet and scalding. “That suit is so… real. You just don’t see people being brave about texture anymore.”

You blink, mouth parting slightly. You’re not sure whether to laugh or start quoting Margaret Mead in self-defense.

“Actually,” you say slowly, “I’m their au pair.”

They blink back, uncomprehending. One finally nods. “Oh! Like an assistant.”

Sure. Like that.

You eventually find yourself corralled in a shady corner with the other au pairs and nannies—two from Portugal, one from Toronto, and one with an indeterminate accent who looks like she’s seen war. Together, you trade horror stories like wartime nurses. One saw a child try to feed a wedding ring to a koi fish. Another was asked to prepare an all-raw vegan lunch for a toddler who eats crayons. You are both horrified and comforted. Trauma loves company.

It ends, as all things do, in carnage. A child screams because someone else got to sit on the fake zebra. Another sobs over the injustice of the animal-shaped cupcakes melting in the heat. You grab the twins, now sticky with fruit and full on far too much cake for their afternoon nap, and make a beeline for the cabana exit just as one of the moms begins berating a nanny for not predicting her daughter’s alleged strawberry allergy.

You’re almost free.

Almost.

And then you crash directly into someone solid.

You go down like a bowling pin.

“Oh my god!” Junseo howls. “YOU FELL!”

“Like, BOOM!” Junhee adds, collapsing into giggles.

You are on the hot concrete, stunned, clutching your elbow and your remaining dignity.

And there he is again.

Wonwoo.

He’s traded his polo for a linen button-up, slightly wrinkled and unfairly flattering. He looks down at you, impassive.

“Hey,” he says.

You blink up at him. “Hi.”

He offers a hand. You take it, and he pulls you up with barely any effort. His hand is warm. Callused. There’s a quiet strength to him, like a character in a Ghibli film who lives alone in the woods and speaks only in cryptic haikus.

Before you can say anything else, one of the moms descends like a hawk. Or a hyena that’s recently had fillers.

“Oh, Wonwoo,” she purrs, practically draping herself across his side. Her teeth gleam. “I didn’t know you were back from Singapore. Is your father joining us for the benefit this year?”

He gently disentangles himself.

“He’s expecting me for lunch,” he replies, tone polite and final.

Her lips purse. You watch her recalibrate in real time, already turning toward another potential social rung.

Wonwoo glances back at you. His expression doesn’t change, but there’s something faint in his eyes. Amusement, maybe. Or pity. Or just wind.

Then he’s gone.

Later, when the twins are face-first in naps (which took a significant amount of wrangling to achieve) and your phone finally has a signal, you search his name.

Jeon Wonwoo.

Son of the owner. Executive board. Dartmouth-educated. There’s a press photo of him at a ribbon-cutting ceremony for a sustainability initiative.

Of course.

You drop the phone onto the lounge chair beside you and cover your face with a towel.

Maybe he’s not so different from the moms after all.

Or maybe worse—maybe he’s just better at pretending he isn’t.

Entry #3: On The Nanny Condition (Also Known As: “Doormat Syndrome”) June 30th, 12:47 PM

Subservience in child-rearing roles is often mistaken for passivity. However, this is more accurately understood as the practiced stillness of someone who has weathered too many juice spills and tantrums. It is not a weakness, but a form of strategic surrender – resignation honed into an art.

It starts the way all days start now: with screaming.

You don’t even flinch anymore. Junseo has weaponized volume as a strategy. Junhee has started using phrases like “I’m telling Mommy!” even though Mommy, at this point, might as well be a cryptid. You text Mrs. Cho about the lunch situation and get no response. You text again. Then once more, with slightly more passive-aggression. Still nothing.

Mr. Cho is presumably in a meeting, on a plane, or golfing through time. His only presence this week has been the sound of an engine disappearing down the driveway at six-fifteen each morning. You’re beginning to suspect he has never actually seen the twins awake.

By 11:30, it’s full meltdown hour. Junhee has decided to sob violently about the wrong flavor of juice. Junseo is lying on the pool deck and pretending to die of hunger. You make the tragic mistake of attempting to fix this by visiting the snack bar—only to find it’s out of chicken nuggets.

Of course it is.

The cabana attendant (your supposed lifeline in this glittering suburban dystopia) is nowhere to be found. Probably hiding behind a towel cart and Googling how to fake appendicitis.

A mom walks by, sipping iced espresso in a wine glass. She clocks the situation—the spilled juice, your panicked rustling through bags, the tantrum echoing off the water—and gives you the kind of look normally reserved for videos of shelter dogs.

Then, like a scene change in a commercial for laundry detergent, he appears.

Wonwoo. The cabana attendant from three down, and apparently some sort of summer camp MacGyver.

Without a word, he crouches beside your mess of a pool chair, reaches into his tote, and withdraws two juice boxes like they’ve been summoned by divine intervention.

“Trade secret,” he says, handing them over. “I keep a stash for emergencies.”

The twins freeze mid-wail. Their heads swivel toward the juice. Junhee actually snatches it like a raccoon who’s just spotted an unattended churro.

You mouth thank you as chaos briefly, miraculously, subsides. Wonwoo gives a small shrug, like it's no big deal that he's just singlehandedly de-escalated a Code Red tantrum. Then he starts rummaging through his bag again.

“Here,” he says, offering you a slightly squished protein bar. “You look like you might pass out before 2. Not a great look in front of the junior elite.”

You stare at the bar, then at him. “Are you always this prepared?”

He squints at the twins, now peacefully arguing over whether dinosaurs could swim. “Experience.”

He rises, but pauses. “Oh, and: sing to them,” he adds, like it’s obvious. “The nap goes easier if you sing. Something simple. Doesn’t matter what.”

You blink. “You know a lot about naps.”

He smirks. Whisper-soft, barely there. “Only the essential ones.”

And then he’s walking away. You’re about to call after him, maybe say something actually coherent, when you spot it. Just barely poking out of his overstuffed bag, next to sunscreen and a spare shirt:

A Secret History, cover creased, dog-eared, loved.

The twins fall asleep in your lap thirty minutes later, sticky fingers curled around juice boxes, heads tilted together like cherubs.

You hum a lullaby under your breath. It works.

Maybe this doormat thing isn’t about surrender, you think, watching the sun cut soft lines through their hair. Maybe it’s about endurance. Outlasting the storm. Knowing when to bend, and when to hum.

And maybe—just maybe—you’re not the only one pretending.

Entry #4: A Brief Field Guide to Cabana Boys (Genus: Mysteriousus Hotus) July 12th, 7:30 PM

Often underestimated, the Cabana Boy is a curious species: quiet, observant, and frequently found next to industrial-sized coolers. Contrary to popular belief, he is not just decorative. He may, in fact, be reading Donna Tartt during fireworks displays and composing short fiction between towel runs. 

You're not sure when you started paying attention. Not in the obvious way—wrangling two five-year-olds who are constantly on the verge of a sugar-induced existential crisis leaves little room for distractions. But somewhere between juice box negotiations and sunscreen reapplications, you noticed the pattern.

Wonwoo clocks in for his 1:00 PM shift at 12:53 on the dot, every day. Rain or shine.

He always brings a slightly crumbly granola bar at exactly 12:45 and hands it over without ceremony. He’s also taken to giving unsolicited (but disturbingly effective) child-wrangling tips.

“If you let them watch an episode of Clifford in the shade, they mellow out.” “Junhee will eat steamed broccoli if Junseo is watching.” “They nap better if you hum the Indiana Jones theme.”

When you ask how he knows this, he just shrugs.

“I’ve watched them grow up here.”

He folds towels into perfect thirds—perfect enough to undo the entire previous shift’s work, muttering about symmetry.

And he always—always—has a book in his bag. You’ve clocked A Secret History, Beloved, Middlesex, and now—somehow—Antigone. You, being a civilized person, use sticky notes. He dog-ears. He highlights. You try not to hold it against him.

Then one night, the miracle. A fireworks show lures both Mr. and Mrs. Cho into spending quality time with their children—together—and for the first time in thirty-one days, you are given a few hours off.

You wander the resort grounds in what you tell yourself is idle exploration. You're not looking for him, not exactly. You're just…curious.

You find him perched in the shade outside the Cabana Attendants' Shack, book open, fingers curled at the spine. The sunset drapes him in gold.

“Greek tragedy?” you ask, nodding at the cover.

He startles slightly. Then sees it’s you and offers that small, lopsided smile that always feels like a secret.

“Loyalty to family and all that.” He snaps the book shut. “Why, do you have a favorite?”

The conversation unfolds in sideways glances and thoughtful pauses. He’s more well-read than you expected—not that you ever assumed he was dumb, but you didn’t quite picture him as the kind of guy who casually references Antigone while sipping Gatorade.

You want to bring up the fact that he’s the rumored heir to the waterpark conglomerate whose name is literally embroidered on your staff polo, but you don’t. He doesn’t bring it up, either.

Instead, you trail him as he clocks back in and begins his closing duties. You talk as he refolds towels, delivers last-call lemonades, and waves kids off the splash pad.

He’s soft-spoken but sharp, a bit of a walking contradiction. He debates philosophy with the same tone he uses to explain popsicle storage procedures.

He quotes The Odyssey unprompted. You’re unsure if you’re gagging or swooning. Possibly both. He laughs. The good kind—the kind that makes you want to say something clever, just to earn it again.

And then:

A string of texts from Mrs. Cho.

Where are you? Can you be back in ten? Junseo is trying to drink the pool water again.

Three hours gone in a blink.

You sigh, brushing off your shorts. “Duty calls.”

He doesn’t protest. Just reaches into his bag and hands you a worn paperback with a faded spine.

“You’d like this,” he says. “Don’t worry. I only highlighted a little.”

As you jog back to the family villa, the book clutched under your arm, you catch yourself smiling. You don’t know what exactly just happened—but you know you’re already looking forward to tomorrow.

The Cabana Boy: mysterious, mythological, mildly infuriating.

You’re definitely going to need another field guide.

Entry #5: On Emotional Labor (And How to Pretend You’re Fine) July 18th, 3:56 PM

Among caretakers, the phrase “I’m fine” functions less as a truth and more as a survival mechanism – an autopilot response honed through repetition, like muscle memory or disassociation. It’s not an admission of wellness so much as a polite way of saying: I have exactly six fruit snacks and half a juice box keeping me together right now, please do not ask follow-up questions. 

Today is the worst day on record. Not just this summer—ever.

Junhee is feverish and glassy-eyed. Junseo hasn’t stopped crying since 9:07 AM. The phrase “I want mommy” has been used with increasing volume and ferocity for six straight hours.

And still, Mrs. Cho floats in after breakfast, clacking away in her designer heels like you’re just another inconvenience in a long string of logistics. She deposits them into your arms with the same care one might give a bag of dry cleaning. She clacks off in Valentino heels without a glance back. She says “they’ve been so moody lately,” as if their tear-streaked faces and refusal to be peeled off your torso aren’t a screaming counterargument.

Even Wonwoo, usually the child-whisperer, strikes out. He tries Clifford. He tries juice box diplomacy. He even pulls out the secret popsicle stash. Nothing works.

The grand finale: Junhee vomits bright blue Slushie all over your shirt just as Mrs. Cho reappears.

She gasps, horrified—not at her child, no. At you. “This is completely inappropriate. What did you even feed him?”

You’re too shocked to speak.

Wonwoo watches from across the cabana, eyes wide, towel frozen mid-fold. And then—just like that—you snap.

Your eyes are already stinging, breath hitching. You mutter something about needing a minute, and walk fast. Not away from the cabana—out.

You don’t know where you're going, just that it needs to be anywhere else. You barrel through pool chairs, past shrieking toddlers, past lifeguards gossiping about hot guests, and you barely notice the quiet footsteps trailing behind you.

A hand catches your upper arm. Not rough, just... certain.

Wonwoo pulls you into the cool, echoey silence of the staff locker room and sits you down like it’s the most normal thing in the world. You don’t resist.

You sit, shoulders trembling. He turns to his locker, rifling through it. A few seconds later, he tosses a shirt into your lap.

“Here. It’s clean. Smells weird, though. You might smell like sunscreen and... me.”

You pick it up with shaking hands. Chlorine, citrus deodorant, rain. Wonwoo. It hits like a trigger.

And then— You lose it.

Not the gentle, single-tear kind of cinematic breakdown. No. This is a crash out. Full-body. Unfiltered.

You're pacing now, the shirt clutched in your hand like a lifeline, voice cracking with every word.

“I hate this family.” “I swear to God, if that woman says one more thing about how hard parenting is—while dumping her kids on me like they’re furniture—I’m gonna lose my actual goddamn mind.” “I’m twenty-three! I should be backpacking in Spain or studying abroad or—I don’t know—eating a yogurt in peace without someone screaming about their sock being too tight.”

You kick a locker.

“And I’m trying so hard. I’m doing everything right. I’ve read so many blogs, Wonwoo.”

You turn toward him, eyes red-rimmed and wild.

“And you know what I get? Vomited on. In public.”

He hasn’t moved. Just sits on the bench, legs spread, arms on his knees, staring up at you like he’s watching a fire he’s not sure how to put out. Like he knows he’ll burn if he gets too close—but also that maybe it’s worth it.

“Are you… done?” he asks, finally. Gently.

You stop. Blink. And then let out a small, wet laugh that sounds more like a sob. You sit down hard next to him, the adrenaline draining from your limbs all at once.

“I think so.”

He leans back slightly. Not touching you, but close enough that you can feel the calm radiating off him.

“Better?”

You don’t answer immediately. You don’t know. But you nod anyway. And he accepts it, like that’s enough.

You sit there, the two of you, in chlorine-scented silence. His shirt still bunched in your lap. Your breathing slows. You count your heartbeats.

And for the first time all summer, someone lets you be tired. Not “still smiling” tired. Not “push through it” tired. Just... human.

You think, maybe, that matters more than anything.

Entry #6: On the Sociocultural Function of Shared Snacks (And Other Low-Stakes Intimacies) July 25th, 6:23 PM

Anthropological theory suggests that the exchange of Goldfish and Capri Suns constitutes a primitive yet potent form of courtship. Especially when accompanied by verbal rituals such as, “You look like you need a break,” and, “Do you want the last one?” While not as elaborate as other mating rituals, these offerings appear to hold significant emotional currency. Further study is required, but initial findings suggest: this may be how modern love begins. 

There’s a rhythm now. He always saves the last piña colada juice box for you. You always act like you don’t care and then accept it anyway, muttering something about “fake cocktails for fake lifeguards.” He always laughs. You always drink it.

You make fun of the way he organizes the towel bins—by saturation level, apparently. “This one’s damp-damp, and that one’s wet-wet? You okay, Marie Kondo?”

Wonwoo shrugs like he’s heard worse, like maybe he’s even proud of it. “It brings me peace.”

It’s easy with him. He always finds his way to your cabana when things are quiet. No one sends him. He just appears. He drops into the lounge chair beside you like he belongs there, legs stretched out, sunglasses slipping down his nose. Sometimes he brings snacks—peanut butter pretzels, Goldfish, gummy worms he claims are “for the kids.” You both know better.

You talk books. Somehow he’s never read Magic Treehouse, which you find personally offensive. “It’s basically required reading for emotionally unstable gifted kids.”

He grins. “Sounds like I dodged a bullet.”

“You’d love it,” you tell him, tossing a pretzel at his face. “You’re such a Virgo.”

“I’m not a Virgo.”

“Spiritually, though.”

He makes you laugh at least once a day. Not a polite laugh. An ugly, tired, full-body snort—the kind that feels like exhaling something heavy.

One afternoon, your fingers brush when he hands you a juice box. The contact is brief, but it lingers. Just enough to make you glance up, and he’s already looking back. Not with some dramatic, swoon-worthy gaze—just steady. Familiar. Like he knows you. Like he sees you.

And then, inevitably, the twins start screaming about a grasshopper. One of them insists it’s going to bite their nose off. The moment cracks clean in half. Wonwoo groans, gets up, and trudges off to play bug bouncer. You watch him go, vaguely amused. A little disappointed.

Later, when the cabana is blissfully quiet again, you ask him something you’ve been holding onto for a while.

“Why do you work here when you don’t need to?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Just stares at the pool, unreadable. For a second, you think he’s going to deflect with a joke—but instead, he says, quietly, “It’s easier to know people when they’re not pretending.”

He says it like it’s obvious. Like it’s been sitting in the air this whole time, waiting for you to notice.

You don’t quite know what to do with that. But you don’t push.

Instead, you hand him the last peanut butter pretzel without a word. He takes it. And for now, that feels like enough.

Entry #7: On Burnout, Bus Rides, and the Quiet in Between July 31st, 8:39 PM

The much-awaited night off is often viewed as an unproductive lull in the performance of domestic labor. But for the emotionally fried caretaker figure, it is the only sanctioned absence where no one cries, no one spills, and no one demands apple slices cut the “right” way. It is the lone moment in which the help is not expected to perform servitude with a smile. In anthropological terms: a brief return to personhood. 

You end up at a bus stop just outside the waterpark. The sun’s long gone, and so are your responsibilities, at least for the next few hours. You’re not even sure where you’re headed. You just wanted to leave. To move. To breathe. You might be a little tipsy—courtesy of the fully stocked cabana bar—but that’s between you and whatever god watches over tired girls with aching feet and full hearts.

Wonwoo finds you under the weak, flickering light of the stop like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“What are you doing here?”

“I have the night off,” you say, nudging a pebble with the toe of your sandal. “Didn’t know where to go. I’m not from here.”

He looks at you for a moment, then smiles. “You’ve got the whole night off?”

You nod just as the bus pulls up. He doesn’t hesitate, just holds out his arm and asks, “Wanna do something fun?”

You giggle, loop your arm through his, and climb aboard.

The bus ride is a quiet kind of lovely. The kind that lets your bones settle after a day of noise and chlorine and children threatening to stage a coup over who gets the blue floatie. You’re too tired to flirt, and he doesn’t seem to mind. He offers his shoulder, opens a book, and lets you lean.

“I didn’t know you took the bus,” you mumble, sleep thick in your voice.

He chuckles. “Why? Thought I had a Porsche?”

You smile into the fabric of his shirt. “What kind of chaebol son doesn’t have a sports car?”

“I do,” he says, tapping his fingers as he leans in close enough for you to get a whiff of his cologne. It’s earthy. Warm. “It’s just hard to park.”

Eventually, the bus rolls into a small downtown area lit with fairy lights, where families drift between ice cream shops and late-night cafés. Wonwoo takes your hand and tugs you down a side street, stopping in front of what looks like an abandoned bookstore. The sign is faded. The windows are dark.

You squint. “On my one night off this summer, you brought me to a murder scene?”

He scoffs, already pulling keys from his pocket. “I clerked here in high school. The owner never asked for them back.”

Inside, the air smells like dust and old stories. He flips on a few lamps and the space flickers to life—messy and charming in a way that feels sacred.

What follows is, undeniably, a reading date. But you both pretend it’s not. It can’t be. Not when summer is almost over. Not when you’ve seen what happens to girls who let themselves want too much.

Still, you talk. You read. He shows you where he used to stash beanbags as a teenager and the corner of a shelf where he carved his name when he was seventeen. He pulls down a hollowed-out book that still contains an unopened bag of gummy bears. When he throws one toward you, you catch it in your mouth without breaking eye contact, and he laughs so hard he nearly drops the whole bag.

At some point, you sigh about how much you miss Cherry Garcia ice cream. He disappears, and a few minutes later, returns with a milkshake.

“It’s not ice cream,” he says, offering it to you, “but it is Cherry Garcia.”

You take one sip and groan. “You’re dangerous.”

“We can split it,” he offers, clearly pleased with himself.

You settle back into the beanbags with the milkshake between you. His shoulder brushes yours. Your pinkies touch. You’re pretty sure this is what love feels like—soft and slow and unbearably sweet.

You’re just about to lean in when your phone rings.

Mrs. Cho.

You answer, and before you can even say hello, her voice cuts through, sharp and desperate. “I need you back. They won’t sleep until you sing to them. Come back now.”

The twins are screaming in the background.

You shoot up, already apologizing, already stuffing your phone in your pocket and looking for your bag.

Wonwoo follows you to the door. Just as you reach for the handle, his hand wraps gently around your wrist.

“You’re the only person from the waterpark I’ve shown this store to,” he says, voice low, almost unsure, and it takes all the willpower in the world not to push him up against the stacks and kiss him stupid. “We should– we should do this again. If you want.” 

You should go. You have to go. But instead, you rise on your tiptoes and press a feather-light kiss to his cheek.

“I would love that,” you whisper.

Then you're gone, milkshake in hand, racing back to the chaos. But the softness of that night stays with you.

Entry #8: On the Perfect Family (And Other Bedtime Stories) August 12th, 1:56 PM

Anthropologists agree that the family unit, built on generations of blood and loyalty, is sacred. This theory begins to unravel around 1:07 PM, when the matriarch of the Cho family – Balenciaga-clad and Bluetooth’d – screams at her offspring for dripping popsicle juice on her Hermès towel. The offspring seek emotional refuge in the arms of the hired help. This only infuriates the matriarch further. Field notes suggest that the sacred family unit may, in fact, be a PR stunt. 

The cabana smells like sun-warmed linen and something floral—maybe Mrs. Cho’s perfume. You sit cross-legged on the floor, the twins clambering onto your lap, sticky popsicle juice glistening on their chins. Junseo hiccups, eyes wide, while Junhee presses her damp cheek against your arm, seeking shelter.

Then it happens.

A sharp, slicing voice cuts through the quiet: “Why is there juice dripping on my Hermès towel?” Mrs. Cho storms in, Balenciaga heels clicking like thunder on pavement. The Bluetooth earpiece flashes a faint blue as she glares at you, voice rising like a storm.

The twins flinch. Junhee blinks up at her mother like she’s seeing a stranger. Junseo presses closer to you, face buried in your shirt. You feel the warmth of their small bodies, the tremble in their chests. You are not their mother. You know that. But in moments like this, someone has to be.

Mrs. Cho snaps, “Do not coddle them. This is why they don’t respect me.”

You stand slowly, steadying the children behind you.

“I’m just trying to calm them down,” you say, carefully.

“Oh, please.” Her tone sharpens. “You don’t think I see what you’re doing? What everyone sees? The other mothers laugh behind your back — the little nanny girl and the owner’s son playing house.”

Your breath catches.

“I’m not—”

“I’m not finished.” She steps closer. “You are not their mother. Stop pretending to be. Stop making them believe you are.”

You blink once, twice. And then you break.

“No,” you snap. “You stop. You stop making them believe I’m their mother. You leave them with me for ten hours a day, five days a week. You miss their birthdays. You forget their allergies. You don't even know Junhee likes frogs or that Junseo has nightmares when it rains. You don’t see them. But I do.”

She stiffens. You press the twins behind you gently.

“For fuck’s sake, Mrs. Cho,” you whisper, too tired to yell anymore. “Do you really think this is how good mothers act?”

The silence that follows is jagged. Sharp.

You don't wait for her to respond. You turn. You walk — briskly, almost blindly — past the frozen faces in the walkway, past Wonwoo standing by the corner, unreadable.

You don’t stop until you’re outside.

Night comes like a soft blanket. You’re at the twins’ bedside again, tracing their damp hair, humming lullabies until their breathing evens out. Mrs. Cho sits stiffly across the room, staring at her phone. Her husband lounges on the couch, like nothing happened. As if nothing ever happens. 

You're walking beside the lazy river, hands stuffed into the pockets of your hoodie, when you hear the familiar tread of footsteps behind you.

Wonwoo.

You don’t look at him.

“I heard everything,” he says.

You don’t say anything. You keep walking.

“She was way out of line.”

You stop. “You don’t need to defend me.”

“I’m not,” he says quietly. “I’m angry.”

You turn to him. “Why? Why do you even care?”

He falters. “Because I—”

You laugh bitterly. “You what, Wonwoo? You care about me? You want to play the hero now? Where were you earlier? When she humiliated me in front of everyone? You just stood there.”

“I didn’t know what to do—”

“You never know what to do,” you snap, voice cracking. “You always wait until I’m falling apart and then you show up when it’s safe again. When I’ve already picked up my pieces.”

His jaw clenches.

“I’m sorry,” he says, but it sounds like sandpaper. “I should’ve said something. I wanted to.”

“And now what? You want me to pat you on the back because you chased me down after sunset?” Your voice breaks. “This isn’t a fucking romance movie, Wonwoo. You don’t get points for showing up late.”

He stares at you — really stares — and then he says, low and quiet, “I didn’t chase you down for points.”

You shake your head and look away.

“I came because I couldn't let you walk away thinking I didn’t care.” He takes a step closer. “You’re not just someone I flirt with by the pool. You’re not just the girl who helps with the twins. You’re...”

His voice falters.

“You’re the only person who makes this place feel real.”

You feel the ache of it — like something soft tearing.

“I didn’t ask for this,” you whisper.

“Neither did I,” he says. “But I’m here.”

And then he kisses you.

It starts hesitant — a question, a breath — but when you don't pull away, he deepens it, slow and hungry. One hand slides to your jaw, the other finds your waist. You kiss him back like you’ve been holding your breath for two whole months. Because you have.

He pulls back just enough to whisper, “Come with me.”

You nod, breathless.

You stumble through the grass, past the empty lounge chairs, half-laughing, half-shaking. He kisses you again by the maintenance shed. Again near the outdoor shower. You lose track of where you’re going. You only know his hands, his mouth, the way he looks at you like you’re something he’s been dying to touch.

By the time you reach the locker room, he’s pushing you gently against the door, lips trailing fire down your neck.

“Fucking finally,” he groans, like it’s been killing him not to say it. His voice in your ear makes your knees buckle.

You grip his shirt, feel the muscles of his back flex under your fingers. He smells like chlorine and sunscreen and gummy bears and sweat and you want, want, want.

He kisses you again, deeper this time — all tongue and teeth and desperation. The kind of kiss that says I missed you, I wanted you, I want you still.

And then, suddenly — mid-kiss, mid-moment — the world crashes back in.

He’s the son of the owner. He drives a Porsche that probably never sees the road and reads Bukowski like it’s gospel.

You? You read bedtime stories and wipe juice off a Hermès towel. You’re an au pair with a paper degree and an expiring visa. Your chest tightens with a thousand what-ifs.

The summer is bleeding out. 

And you're kissing a boy who might not be yours when it ends.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Entry #9: On the Danger of Wanting More August 19th, 4:21 PM

In most societal structures, the help is expected to exist quietly on the periphery – present but visible, useful but never central. And falling for someone above one’s pay grade? Historically ill-advised, frequently humiliating, and almost always doomed. But anthropologists agree that humans are predictable irrational – no amount of emotional detachment can fully protect you from a boy that kisses you stupid and casually quotes Euripedes. 

You pulled away after the kiss, gasping. Dizzy. Brain short-circuiting.

The class divide. The logistics. The impossible futures.

He’s the son of the owner. He could never work another day and still live comfortably into infinity. You’re scraping together tips and spare change, trying to stretch your contract into a real life. He’s got gilded options. You’ve got a ticking clock.

So you avoid him.

When you see him walking toward the cabana for his daily granola bar pilgrimage, you redirect the twins toward the kiddie pool. When he shows up with your favorite pina colada — extra pineapple, no cherry — you pretend it’s nap time. You dodge, deflect, disappear. You rehearse polite excuses until they become muscle memory.

It takes a week for him to finally corner you.

You’re headed to the bathroom, sunglasses on, hoodie up despite the August heat. He intercepts you by the towel stand.

“What are you doing?” he asks, voice low, not angry but confused.

You blink. “Nothing. Peeing?”

“You’re avoiding me.”

“No…”

“You are,” he says, stepping closer. “Don’t lie. You won’t even look at me.”

You focus intently on a damp footprint on the pavement. “I’ve just been… busy.”

“What did I do wrong?”

He says your name like it matters. Like he means it. A question and a plea and a prayer all at once.

“I thought this was going somewhere,” he says. “Where did I go wrong?”

You open your mouth. Close it. Swallow. Then:

“You didn’t.”

His shoulders drop in relief. He starts to move closer, arms lifting — but you stop him with a hand on his chest.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” you repeat. “I did.”

Now he looks confused. “What are you talking about?”

“Wonwoo,” you sigh. “One day, you’re going to take over. You’re going to be CEO of a global resort empire. And me? I’m going to be here. Covered in five-year-olds’ snot and banana crumbs, probably chasing a preschooler into a fountain.”

“So?” he scoffs. “I don’t want this.” He gestures broadly at the lazy river, the snack bar, the sunburned luxury. “I’m not staying. I got into an MFA program. I’m leaving at the end of the month.”

That throws you. “Wait—what? Really?”

He nods. “I want to write. Always have.”

You blink. “Okay… and?”

He reaches out and takes your hand, threading your fingers together like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“You don’t have it all figured out,” he says softly. “That’s okay. Neither do I. But what are you gaining from babysitting your own life?”

You want to laugh. Or cry. Or kiss him again. Maybe all three.

But you don’t answer. Not yet.

That night, you get a text.

[Attachment: IMG_0142.jpeg]

A photo of an email. Congratulations! You’ve been accepted to the Creative Writing MFA program at—

[Attachment: PDF Lease Agreement]

Two bedrooms. Hardwood floors. Half a mile from the university. Your hometown.

Then a message from him:

You could write too, you know. I’d read every word.

Entry #10: On Exit Strategies (And the Beginnings We Don’t See Coming) August 23rd, 7:54 AM

In the study of human nature, we often assume that endings are marked, observable events – clean breaks punctuated by ritual. But fieldwork reveals a more complex truth: endings, like goodbyes, are rarely so precise. Sometimes the dissolve quietly, like mist off the surface of a morning pool. Sometimes they masquerade as beginnings. And sometimes, they don’t happen at all – not really. 

It’s your last day at Carat Bay.

The twins start kindergarten on Monday. Their regular au pair — a disheveled girl who looks like she once studied French literature and now only speaks in juice box negotiations — has returned.

You say goodbye to the kids, crouched low to meet their eyes. Junhee hugs you, sticky-fingered and sad. Junseo asks, “Who’ll sing to us now?” in a voice so small it nearly breaks you.

You press teary kisses to their damp little heads. Promise they’ll be okay. They’re good kids. You tell yourself that means something.

You say goodbye to Mr. and Mrs. Cho.

Mrs. Cho barely glances up from her phone. She waves vaguely. Her acrylics glint in the sun.

Mr. Cho squints at you from over his tablet. “We had a new nanny this summer?”

You roll your eyes as you walk away, his confusion trailing behind you like bad perfume.

You drag your suitcase down the cobbled path toward the villa’s front gate, sunscreen and chlorine still clinging to your skin. The early morning air smells like pool chemicals and hotel pastries.

And then you see it — the Porsche, parked crooked in the drive like it doesn’t know it’s expensive.

Wonwoo is leaned against the side, arms crossed, sunglasses perched low on his nose like he’s auditioning for a commercial titled Regret Nothing.

He straightens when he sees you, already moving to grab your suitcase.

“So,” he says, like it’s casual. Like it’s not everything. “You comin’ with me?”

You pretend to think. Just for show. Just for the story.

Then you’re moving — fast, reckless — throwing your arms around him like you never learned how to say goodbye. His mouth finds yours in a kiss that feels like a collision — breathless, greedy, impossible. He laughs against your lips as you stumble back against the car, the heat of the hood warming your spine.

“You ever driven a Porsche?” he asks, his grin crooked, summer-sick and daring.

You break the kiss just long enough to smile. “Not yet.”

He presses the keys into your hand like a promise. Like a dare. Like the start of something you didn’t plan for — and maybe that’s the point.

You take the keys. Open the door.

And you drive — not toward an ending.

But into something new.

Epilogue: On Retrospective Analysis and the Unscientific Nature of Love Not Dated (yet)

Anthropologists caution against emotional entanglement with their subjects, citing compromised objectivity, blurred boundaries, and the potential erosion of professional distance. This author would like to report that such boundaries are far more porous when your subject brings you coffee and quotes Aeschylus. In the interest of full disclosure: This author ignored the rule. Repeatedly. And with alarming enthusiasm. 

Three years later, you live together in a house with creaky floors and a crooked porch light. Wonwoo brings you coffee before you've asked for it, sets it beside your laptop with the reverence usually reserved for sacred texts. He reads your pages in silence, a red pen tucked behind one ear, and presses soft kisses to the back of your neck when you write too late into the night.

The work is fiction. Technically. But when he gets to the part about juice boxes and Clifford the Big Red Dog, his fingers find yours. He doesn’t say anything, just smiles that slow, knowing smile he saves for when he catches you pretending not to be sentimental.

He's finished his MFA now. Teaches English at the local high school, spends his afternoons grading essays about Of Mice and Men and trying not to laugh when his students call The Iliad “a chore to read.” He comes home smelling like school lunches and adolescent chaos, drops his bag by the door and finds you, always.

The Porsche sits untouched under your window—an inheritance he never asked for, gathering dust and sun-bleached leaves. He takes the train instead. Says he likes the time to read.

Sometimes, you still wake up waiting for someone to call your name and hand you someone else’s kids. Sometimes, you still flinch when your phone rings. But mostly, you write. And mostly, you’re okay.

There is no neat conclusion. Only this: You’re allowed to want things. You’re allowed to keep them, too.

[gotta-winwin]

𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐍𝐄 : 𝟏𝟎𝟎 𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐁

100SVT Collab Masterlist 💎✨

Welcome to the official masterlist for the 100SVT Collab, a celebration of Yuki’s 100 followers milestone! 🎉 This collab is hosted by Yuki (me), Rae (@nerdycheol), Tiya (@gyubakeries), and Ro (@shinysobi).

Here, you'll find all the incredible works created by participants, inspired by the theme 100—whether it’s 100 days, 100 memories, 100 texts, or anything else creative!

📌 Entries will be updated as they are posted. Stay tuned for amazing SEVENTEEN content! 🎨✍️🎶

Click here to join the taglist

-> A Seat Across From You by @nerdycheol

Pairings: Choi Seungcheol x reader

Warning(s): strangers to lovers, slow-burn, slice of Life, fluff

W/C: est. 9k+

Summary: Two strangers. One train. An unspoken connection.

Every morning, you and Seungcheol share the same ride—fleeting glances, silent routines, and a growing curiosity neither of you dares to voice. As days pass, the distance between you starts to shrink in quiet, unexpected ways. Could your daily commute lead to something more... or will you remain strangers, passing by like trains on separate tracks?

↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺

-> Bae-sically Fake by @mylovesstuffs

Pairings: Jeonghan × fem!reader

Warning(s): Fake dating au, modern au, romance, comedy, slice of life, slow burn, emotional healing, mentions of past emotional abuse/manipulation, toxic ex, emotional trauma and flashbacks, manipulation disguised as affection [past], reference to stalking/following for confirmation of infidelity, heartbreak and betrayal, gaslighting implications [in past relationship], alcohol consumption, mild cursing/swearing, themes of grief and emotional vulnerability, soft romantic tension, no smut [so far; not written yet], emotionally guarded reader, indirect trauma references, workplace sexism [called out], fluffy but with realistic emotional baggage, cheating and infidelity [past, non-graphic]

*Advanced warning(s): grooming mentioned [non-graphic but explicit reference], mentions of underage grooming [girls legal but barely, predatory behavior], ptsd-like emotional responses

W/C: est 40k+

Summary: You swear when you made up your fake relationship, you didn't know that someone worked at the coffee shop with the same name or that your family would go to check out. Now everyone thinks you guys are actually together, and, well, pretending to be fake partners has never been so complicated. Jeonghan plays along, and even offers you a deal—100 days to let him try and woo your closed-off heart.

↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺

-> Start A War by @sanaxo-o

Pairings: Joshua Hong x female!reader

Warning(s): angst, fluff if you squint, strangers to lovers, kissing, apocalyptic kind of au since it revolves around monsters, major character death, graphic description of a dead body

W/C: tbd

Summary: Getting stuck in a town with no way to escape was not a part of your plan—getting trapped in a town where monsters come out at night to hunt and rip you apart was not your plan either. It was as if living in a nightmare where you were not able to escape but despite all of that you managed to find a small place of comfort in a person who helped you throughout your chaos filled thoughts and anxious queries with his sweet and gentle eyes which always held warmth in them.

↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺

-> 100 Ways To Lose Your Love(And 1 To Get It Back) by @cheers-to-you-th

Pairings: Joshua x Reader

Warning(s): Angst, hurt/comfort, eventual fluff (?), emotional slow burn, exes to lovers

W/C: tbd

Summary: Love isn’t lost in the big fights, it’s lost in the fear of being truly seen. The real question is, where is it found?

↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺

-> 100 Ways To Love You by @bella-feed

Pairings: playboi!Jun, clg-student!jun, non-idol!bf jun x f!reader, clg-student!reader. *the reader's name is Nara*

Warning(s): fluff, black cat gf x golden retriever bf, smut (MDNI 18+ only), angsty (at the end) smut (MDNI 18+ only), mentions of food, and alcohol. mentions of seungkwan and few other members. seungkwan is jun's bestfriend. mentions of flowers, swimming, going on dates, drinking alcohol and shi. jun is a playboi. bit angsty in the end. hopefully there’s a part two. lmk if i missed any warnings

*Smut Warning(s): dom!jun, kissing, making out, unprotected sex (don't do it!!!), fingering, slight spanking and face slapping. body fluids (sweat, cum) oral (both m and f; both receiving and giving). lmk if I missed anything

W/C: tbd

Summary: A bet, with three prominent and important conditions, resulted in you and Jun ending up together. But is it a forever thingy?

↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺

-> Loving You For Days And Years by @kyeomofhearts

Pairings: Kwon Soonyoung x fem!reader

Warning(s): slice of life, romance, fluff, humor, non-idol au, swearing, suggestive, time-skips, tooth rotting fluff that might make you want to throw up :P

W/C: 2-3k(tbd)

Summary: You weren’t necessarily looking for love when you met Kwon Soonyoung. Loud, a little dumb, and always cracking jokes at the worst times–he wasn’t exactly your ideal type. And yet, somewhere between his ridiculous texts and the way he always made sure you got home safe, he somehow found a way to your heart. And you? You let him stay.

↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺

-> All Twisted Secrets by @esrione

Pairings: -

Warning(s): Blood, corpse, gore, romance, psychopath survival games(aka dystopian games), poisoned, death, suicide, romance at some point, angst, gunshot fight, gambling(?), action, MDNI, 21+ NSFW

W/C: 52k+

Summary: 100 dollars in casino chips were needed to escape. Trapped in a deadly game, survival meant playing by the host's twisted rules—or breaking them entirely. As morality fades, Soonyoung and his classmates make a final gamble: kill or be killed. But when the blood dried and the bodies have fallen, one question lingers—was it ever about survival, or had they become the very monsters they sought to destroy?

Teaser | ↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺

-> In The Brown And Blue by @gotta-winwin

Pairings: Jeon Wonwoo x reader

Warning(s): Dystopian, fluff, angst, comfort, mentions of blood, injury, minimal gore, swearing, loss of memory

W/C: tbd

Summary: It’s the centennial of the tunnel’s existence, marking the legacy since its sudden appearance in the woods across your small town. Legends say entering the tunnel sends you back in time to find those lost to you– and as you travel deeper into the tunnel, you swear you can see him, hidden in the brown and blue.

↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺

-> Tour Date by @ppyopulii

Pairings: rockstar!lee jihoon x rising star!reader

W/C: tbd, hoping to be around 8k-10k

Warning(s): Cursing, hook-up culture, mentions of needles, mentions of drugs, mentions of dieting → body dysphoria

*Smut warning(s): making out, Perhaps some fingering (f!receiving)

Summary: The limelight is *yours*—you’ve been itching for it ever since your debut only six months ago, and your pathway to stardom is a straight-shot after being recruited to be the opener for the world-famous rock band CH33RS. This a hundred day tour is sure to bring you the fame you know you’re deserving of, especially after the announcement of your upcoming debut album. The only catch? WOOZI, lead singer of CH33RS, hates you.

↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺

-> A Prescription For Romance by @shinysobi

Pairings: Lee Jihoon x reader

Warning(s): Established relationship (or is it) slice of life, fluff, comedy (reader has a name)

W/C: tbd

Summary: When the new residents join the Cardiothoracic Department, they're thrown for a loop when it comes to the two youngest professors of the hospital- Neurosurgeon Lee Jihoon and you, the Cardiothoracic surgeon. Fed up, they devise a scheme-which might be ingenious, which might be stupid. Will it work? Or will they continue to live under the thumbs of cruella and sauron?

↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺

-> Until You Know Me by @diamonddaze01

Pairings: Seokmin x reader

Warning(s): reincarnation AU, soulmate au, angst, fluff, suggestive (?), discussions of death/reincarnation and heartbreak

W/C: tbd

Summary: Seokmin has loved you 99 times. But in this life, just like every other, you don't remember. You never do. But Seomin? He remembers everything. Every goodbye. Every loss. Every time he almost kept you.

↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺

-> Coffee and Confessions by @gyubakeries

Pairings: Kim Mingyu x f!reader

Warning(s): romance, fluff, slight angst, businessman!mingyu, barista!mc, journal entries and coffee as plot devices, unhealthy consumption of coffee, commitment issues (from mingyu), strangers to lovers

W/C: tbd

Summary: When Kim Mingyu, the no-nonsense businessman, meets you, the barista who laughs more in a simple exchange than he has in the past week, he feels his heart do something strange. Under the guise of understanding this foreign emotion, he keeps coming back to meet you with his journal concealed within the sharp lines of his formal blazers. Soon, the lines between research and attraction blur, and Mingyu finds the same word recurring in the pages of his journal --- your name.

↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺

-> Si belle Homme List by @shinysobi

Pairings: Xu Minghao x f!reader

Warning(s): romance, fluff, comedy, angst, photographer!minghao, matchmaker!mc, slight coercion involved, copious referenes to smoking and drinking, friends to lovers

W/C: tbd

Summary: When Yewon's fiance dumps her before her wedding, she briefly contemplates murder, suicide, and arson--not necessarily in that order. Unfortunately, she has too many events to attend as a married woman, so she turns to her best friend, Xu Minghao, for a contract-100 days as her fiance, no strings attached.

↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺

-> Love In Half Tones by @nerdycheol

Pairings: Xu Minghao x reader

Warning(s): Fluff, angst, bittersweet

W/C: tbd

Summary: You’re a ballerina with big dreams. Minghao’s an artist still waiting for his big break. You meet by chance and fall into something quiet, comforting, and...real. But when your career takes off and his doesn’t, everything starts to shift. You both want to hold on—but chasing dreams sometimes means letting go.

↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺

-> 100 Days by @esrione

Pairings: Boo Seungkwan x reader

Warning(s): fluff, angst, sci-fi, enemies to lovers troop, horror, mentioned of death, explosion and fire flames, robotics

W/C: 11.6k+

Summary: A detective awakens in an abandoned, eerie facility with no memory of how he got there. Armed with a mysterious gameboy-style device, he must navigate dangerous floors filled with hostile robotic maids. As he searches for hidden remote controls to unlock the building’s secrets, every step brings him closer to a truth he never expected.

Teaser | ↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺

-> Lowkey, What Are We? by @vampsol

Pairings: Hansol Vernon Chwe x reader

Warning(s): fluff, angst, smut, fwb!au, brother's best friend!au, college au, feat! joshua hong and kwon soonyoung of seventeen and yang jeongin of stray kids, jealousy trope, two idiots in love but unwilling to admit it

*Smut warning(s): oral (m + f receiving), handjob, praise kink, pet names (baby, sweetheart, etc), unprotected sex, creampie

W/C: tbd

Summary: Your brother's best friend wasn't exactly the perfect guy to start a sexual relationship with, but it's too late to turn back. Your heart may already be too entangled to let him go, no matter your rules, for better or worse.

↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺

-> The Way The Cookie Crumbles by @studioeisa

Pairings: Lee Chan x food journalist!reader

Warning(s): Mentions of food, disease (which neither mcs have). cussing/swearing. themes of food and memory.

W/C: est. 5k

Summary: You need one good story to get your career off the ground. Lee Chan is on a mission to try every chocolate chip cookie in Seoul. Better start somewhere, right?

↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺

[gotta-winwin]

covered in his favour | l.c

⭐ starring: lee chan 💌 genre: fluff, crack | wc: 1.1k 💬 preview: the campus lifeguard loves you and he never fails to show you just how far that love goes: deeper than the ocean and further than any sea. 

cw/tw: college au, lifeguard!chan x surfer!reader, mutual pining, declarations of love, part of the svt university au, timeskip

🪽 fic rating: pg  ☁️ masterlist & a/n: bday fic for the lovely, lovely tiya (@gyubakeries)! I love, love, love you– deeper than the ocean and further than any sea :3

now playing: sailor song by gigi perez

If there was one thing Chan loved more than the ocean– it’d be the ocean’s lover. 

He liked sitting on the perch of his lifeguard tower. It gave him the most perfect view of the beach and all its inhabitants, including you: the center of all his attention, his thoughts and desires. 

You looked best next to the water, and with the amount of time you spent down at the campus beach, the working lifeguards had all named you the ocean’s lover. How the ocean seemed to bend and sway to your will, carrying you through the waves on your surfboard. 

“You’ve got to stop staring at her and start actually doing your job, Chan.” Mingyu nudges his leg, catching his attention for the next shift rotation. “Or just go talk to her.” 

Chan shakes his head. “She’s way out of my league, bro.” 

He hops off the lifeguard tower and onto the warm sand beneath him, sinking his toes into its grains. His eyes unconsciously flitted back to you, watching as you lounged on your surfboard, floating near the shallow end. 

He’s been watching you for long enough to know you’re parched by the way your lips purse and your gaze falls back on the shore when you’d usually never acknowledge land while on water. 

He rethinks Mingyu’s words before grabbing a bottle of water and making his way to you. 

You notice him walking towards you rather quickly, as your eyes scanned the shoreline and noticed a lifeguard making his way to you. 

You recognize him: the boy that shined like the summer sun, with curls that made any ocean wave jealous. 

He wades through the waters until his hand rests on the edge of your surfboard, the other holding out a bottle of water for you to take. 

“Thank you.” You raise an eyebrow at the kind gesture, accepting it nonetheless. “Are lifeguards usually this attentive to every beachgoer's needs?” 

Chan shakes his head and water droplets fall from his hair onto his tanned skin. “Only the pretty ones.”

You laugh. “Been watching me a lot, Chan?” 

He blinks, more caught off by the use of his name than the light accusation. “You know my name?” 

“I have class with Seokmin and he’s mentioned you and Mingyu work down by the beach for summers instead of going home.” 

He lets out a sound of realization and smiles at you, arms supporting himself on your surfboard while he floats next to you. “Will you let me take you out then?” 

Your eyebrows raise once again. “You’re very bold.” 

He laughs and the waves grow in intensity, rocking the two of you to its own rhythm. “Not usually.” 

There’s a whistle from the shore and Chan turns to wave at his partner. “Well, duty calls.” He raises himself out from the water with his hands on your surfboard, leaning over and planting a soft kiss to your cheek. The water droplets from his hair land on you and you laugh as he pulls away. “Think about it, okay?” 

You watch him swim away with a sort of awe, watching as the ocean seemed to bend and sway to his every movement. 

Chan waits for you by the docks as the clock on his watch strikes midnight. The moon is out, painting reflections on the ocean waters, still and silent in the night. The wind is strong tonight, but Chan doesn’t feel cold, chest warm with the anticipation of your arrival. 

“Chan!” 

He turns when he hears his name being called and watches you run along the shoreline towards him. He laughs a little when you stumble on the sand, his breath hitting the summer air in a wisp of smoke. 

He knows he loves you now. It could never have been any clearer. 

“Don’t laugh at me!” You poke his chest once you skid to a stop in front of him, an equally happy smile on your face as you attempt a glare at him. “I could’ve really fallen.” 

“And it would have been equally funny.” He quips, moving away when you smack his arm. 

He grabs a hold of your hand, pulling you closer. “Come. I want to show you something.” 

Chan walks with you beside him, his feet on the wet sand, inhaling the scent of the ocean’s salts. He feels suddenly full and incredibly lucky. 

You’re laser-focused on the pace of Chan’s breathing as the two of you neared the end of the shore and he turned to face you at the edge. 

“Where are you taking me?” You ask, a little nervous as you walk further from campus. 

He gives you a reassuring smile. “It’s a little hidden, but the boys and I used to come here often during our first year.” 

He motions for you to go first, helping you over the rocks that spread over the tiny streams of water and into a cave. 

It’s small enough for light to still overpower the dark, as Chan pulls out a blanket from one of the nooks in the rock, laying it out on the sand and motioning you over. 

You sit, and he pulls you closer. He smells like the ocean– like love. 

“Look.” Chan points at the dark horizon. 

You hum. “The ocean looks like it goes on forever.” You lean your head on his shoulder and you feel him relax under your touch. 

“That’s the point.” Chan murmurs, voice low. “The ocean is forever. Continuous, endless, reliable and always there.” 

You turn your head and find him already looking at you, faces inches away from each other, eyes glinting underneath the moonlight. 

You half-wish for him to lean in for a kiss, but he doesn’t– not in the way you thought he would. Instead, he pulls you just a little bit closer, pressing a light kiss to your cheek. 

You get the sudden feeling that Chan wants to relish the feeling of loving you– sinking into the waves of your love and slowing time down. 

The events of the first summer with Chan repeat: again, again, as your time together flies by no matter how slow the two of you try to make it. 

You love Chan for one summer, then two, then three, then forever. And he does the same. 

He sinks to his knees on the beach one summer night, similar to those you’ve spent with him years ago. On just one knee this time, although you see a hint of a wicked smile on his face as he recalls the times he used to kneel for you on the beach for other purposes.

You cup his chin and he looks up at you.

He says his vows, words of loving you like the ocean– endless, forever, as deep and wide as the waters will go. 

And while the other elements of life may rust and fall, Chan’s love for you stays. He’ll love you so long as the ocean never dries. And even then, he’d fill up the dried ocean, bucket by bucket, if it meant staying next to you for a little longer.

[gotta-winwin]

here holds the collection of stories where love bloomed on the campus of 17 university, in the midst of youth and laughter.

all fics are connected and referenced in the same universe. each can be read as a standalone or as one big read.

KWON SOONYOUNG // PACKING IT UP - coming soon. the resident tiger of House SEVENTEEN is stuck loving his best friend-- soonyoung watches you stumble through life, waiting for the day you finally see him– the silent protector of heart.

JEON WONWOO // EXAM SWAP - class schedule here. the smartass of House SEVENTEEN is rendered useless at the sight of his academic enemy. amidst the chaos of this year's major swap, wonwoo is forced to swallow his pride-- or lose you.

LEE SEOKMIN // WHEN SEOKMIN FALLS IN LOVE - class schedule here. House SEVENTEEN grapples with the idea that their resident bachelor might be in love…as all the signs start to show up.

KIM MINGYU // BACK TO FRIENDS - class schedule here. Mingyu has spent enough time loving you to know you were never going to love him back. He returns to House SEVENTEEN for one last party years later...and one final chance with you.

LEE CHAN // COVERED IN HIS FAVOUR - class schedule here The campus lifeguard loves you and he never fails to show you just how far that love goes: deeper than the ocean and further than any sea.

a/n: this came as a welcomed surprise-- all these fics were written for various projects/standalones, but as i began to picture all these stories revolving around the same universe on campus, the more i fell in love with the idea of it. here's 17 university! enjoy!

[gotta-winwin]

dont apologizeee you;ve been pumping out fics consistently for tha past few weeksss we're very grateful that you're writing so much for usss <33

ee thank you! i love getting back into the rhythm of pumping out fics left and right, although i will be taking a quick break this + next week to focus on some big life events + milestones. mwah ily

[gotta-winwin]

how many fics do you have plannedd becayse you're pumpingg themm out consistentlyyy thank youu queen

god... if you saw my wip list... i'm lucky that inspo and motivation has been consistent for now, although i will be taking a quick break this + next week to recharge and get through a couple big life events :)

as for how many fics exactly... well...

packing it up with kwon soonyoung covered in his favour (sailor song) with lee chan more additions to svt 10th anniversary event number one girl with lee jihoon

...and more to come <3

[gotta-winwin]

i know the end | c.vn

⭐ starring: vernon chwe 💌 genre: angst | wc: 2.3k

💬 preview: vernon returns to the site of it all– growing up, falling in love, death– nearly nine years later. 

cw/tw: reader is dead through the whole fic, heavy angst, inspired by the bridge to terabithia (2007), recalling memories, childhood friends, talk of injury and death, investigating a death

🪽fic rating: pg  ☁️ masterlist & a/n: bridge to terabithia! i loved experimenting with this type of format and story idea– unconventional but so so good. this one is dedicated to lexi (@vampsol)

now playing: i know the end by phoebe bridgers

this is an addition to the angst olympics: click here to read the masterlist!

Vernon returns to the scene of the crime– to you. 

He knows it’s unhealthy to be lingering on the past, his mind forever stuck in a time loop while his physical body moved on, yet he couldn’t help it. He couldn’t bring himself to leave, not when he still hadn’t figured out exactly what had happened nine years ago. 

He’s mulled over the events of that day many times over in his head, circling through until he comes up empty handed with his head throbbing from tears shed.  

He vows to himself he’ll stop thinking of you once he’s figured it all out. Once he knows how and why you died. 

He takes careful steps up the ladder of your treehouse, now covered in moss and rotting from the moisture. It’s smaller than he remembers it, or perhaps he’s just taller– no longer the four foot boy he once was. He ducks his head inside the tiny space and smiles. 

The secret alcove the two of you shared had not changed. 

If he concentrated hard enough, he could almost see you sitting on the cushions next to where he stood, a picture book in your hands, your hair tied back in pigtails and the braided friendship bracelet on your wrist. 

It’s strange, for Vernon knew you’d be almost eighteen by now. You’re forever frozen in his mind, and he can’t picture what you might look like if you had lived, no matter how hard he tries. 

He runs his fingers across the weathered spines of the books lining the bookshelf in the corner and closes his eyes. 

The first thing he smells is the forest. Back in its heyday, the forest had smelled like rain and fresh moss, the scent overtaking his senses and transporting him back in time where he stood. 

He takes a long breath and the smell of your lavender shampoo washes through him. 

He opens his eyes. 

“Hey, Non.” Your eyes twinkle up at him from your place on the floor. Your legs are crossed, hands in your lap as you look quizzically at him. “What are you doing?” 

He blinks. “You’re here.” 

You laugh. “I’m always here. Did you get yelled at by your dad again? Is that why you’re up here?” 

It takes Vernon a second to remember what you were talking about. You were still frozen in his childhood, and although it felt like a lifetime ago for him, it was all you knew. 

He shakes his head. “No. I just missed you.” He remembers how you were always here, curled up in the treehouse. 

Your cheeks turn pink at his words. “What’s going on with you? You’re never this kind to me.” 

Vernon’s heart stings, but he knows it’s true. 10 year old him had believed the two of you were going to be together forever, and why waste time telling you he loved you when he had a lifetime to say it? “I guess I had an epiphany.” 

He watches as your eyebrows furrow, not knowing the word. 

“A realization.” He explained, although it doesn’t even begin to cover it. “I do miss you.” 

You smile, and he sees the wiggly tooth he would’ve pulled out for you in a couple days. In the past. “Well, we’re together now.” 

His lungs constrict as he watches you pat the spot next to you, urging him to sit. He stumbles back and climbs down the ladder, movements hurried and clumsy. 

“Vernon!” He hears you call for him as he descends, but he doesn’t stop until his feet touch the mossy grass once again. 

He forces himself to breathe, willing the pooling tears away from his eyes. He’s not proud of it, but he flees, running back towards the road– back to civilization. 

It takes Vernon three days to gather the courage to return back to the treehouse. He doesn’t dare enter however, staying put on the sturdy ground as he cranes his neck to look at the makeshift window. 

He swears ghosts aren’t real. Yet– you had been right there. 

He takes a deliberate turn away from the ladder, instead trekking in the opposite direction, deeper into the forest. 

He knew where he’d find the answers he needed. 

The road to Terabithia is difficult to remember, as Vernon scrambles for the right path and directions. He knows it’s silly– a childhood ritual to open up a door to a make-believe kingdom, but you had died on your way to Terabithia, and Vernon knew he needed to retrace those steps.

A straight line through the red berry bushes. Skip the third rock as you cross the creek. Don’t touch the water– even if it’s shallow, the waters are poisoned so unassuming people can’t find the kingdom. Circle the lonely tree stump twice before moving on. Knock on the wrinkly tree that looks like an old hag. Say the password and walk through the vines covering the hole to the other side. Terabithia will show itself to you if you did it all right. 

Vernon does it all perfectly until he reaches the vines. 

“Shoot.” He mutters, pacing back and forth in front of the wrinkly tree. At least he believed it was the right tree, it no longer looked like an old hag in his adult eyes. “What was the password?” 

He knocks on the wood. “Huckleberry!” Vernon murmurs a quick prayer and walks through the vines. 

Nothing. 

He exits and tries again. 

Nothing. Again. Nothing. Again. 

Vernon keeps trying until the vines have rubbed his arms raw and his hair was covered in decaying leaves. 

Yet Terabithia keeps its gates closed to him. 

“Why?” It’s a croaked out whisper, as Vernon kneels on the forest floor, vision blurry from the tears bubbling up in his sight. 

Deep down, he knows the answer. Terabithia was never real, even if it had been real to the both of you once before. 

Vernon climbs into his childhood bed and wallows. It’s pathetic, but he curls up underneath the Spiderman sheets and tries to disappear into the mattress. 

His parents are happy he’s home, but he knows they’re still worried about why. He hears them whisper about it in the hallway. 

“You know he doesn’t do well coming home.” His mother’s voice reaches his ears in a hushed whisper. “It’s still too raw.” 

His father scoffs. “It’s been nearly 9 years since Y/N–” 

“Don’t say her name.” His mother hisses, effectively cutting his father off. “He’s not well. I knew we should’ve moved out of this town when we had the chance.” 

Their voices grow fainter as they walk away, taking the rest of the conversation away from Vernon, downstairs. 

He throws the duvet over his head, shutting out all light and sound. 

“Hey.” 

He jumps when an arm touches his side, warm and alive. 

“Holy shit– Y/N, you can’t scare me like that. Where did you–” He breaks off when he turns and your face is inches away from his. 

“You said a bad word.” You giggle at him, booping his nose with your index finger. “Why are you under the covers?” 

“Hiding.” He mumbles, looking down at his hands and realizing he’s gotten smaller. “What–” 

“Hiding from what?” 

“From…” Vernon pauses, not quite knowing. “Everything, I guess.” 

You flip over onto your back and the duvet sags around you, covering you from his view. Vernon pushes it back up with his leg. 

“How old are we?” He asks, because he’s got a feeling he’s no longer 18 anymore.

Your eyes side eye both him and his question. “We’re 10. We’ve always been 10.” 

“Right.” 

There’s a silence as you stare up at the light escaping through the threads of the duvet and Vernon stares at you. 

“Y/N.” He whispers, his voice catching in his throat. 

You hum. 

“Will you take me to Terabithia?” 

Vernon kept his focus on the warmth of your hand gripping his as he followed you out the house and across the street towards the forest. 

He’s forgotten how the world looked as a child, relearning how vivid and curious the world looked around him. He’s wide-eyed as he stumbles after you, hand clutching yours tightly as if the autumn breeze could suddenly whisk you away. 

He doesn’t understand how it’s possible that you’re here. He doesn’t bother to understand– Vernon simply allows himself to feel. 

You sing the old nursery rhyme that contains the directions to Terabithia as the two of you venture deeper into the forest. 

“A straight line through berry red, cross the creek through just up ahead, skip the third and the water’s bad, circle the lonely sitting spot, say hello to the hag with the pot, speak the password once and twice, Terabithia lies beyond the vines!” 

Vernon pulls you back towards him as you both near the entrance. “Wait.” 

You frown. “What’s wrong?” 

“What if it doesn’t work anymore?” 

You laugh. “Terabithia likes us, it won’t close the gates.” 

You try and untangle your fingers from his, but Vernon refuses to let go. 

“Let me go, Non.” You tug away, harder this time. “Let me go!” 

He grips tighter. He’s afraid if he lets you go, you’ll leave. 

“Vernon, you’re scaring me.” You’re looking at him with a little fear, but mostly concern.

He takes a deep breath and drops your hand. “I’m sorry.” 

You study him just a little longer before shaking out your hand, reaching up to knock the wrinkly tree. “Huckleberry, huckleberry.” You repeat the password twice. 

“Wait.” His voice breaks as he stops you, moments before you pass through the vines. 

You stop mid-step to look back at him. “Why are you crying, Non?” 

He reaches up to wipe his face, hands coming back wet and grimy with dirt. He hadn’t realized he had been crying. “I–” Why had he been crying? “I don’t know.” 

You reach a hand out to him. “Come on, Terabithia’s waiting.” 

He watches as you step through, disappearing into the vines. He reaches for your outstretched hand and grabs onto nothing. 

It’s a mad scramble as he runs through the gate after you, the vines whacking him painfully in the face as he passes through. He’s much taller now, and he feels distinctly 18 once more. 

“No, no–” Vernon panics when he doesn’t see you on the other side. “Y/N? No– No! No, I was so close!” He kicks a pile of fallen leaves on the ground next to him and they fly up into the air, scattering across the mossy carpet. 

His face is wet and his tongue tastes bitter with tears. 

Terabithia remains closed. 

Vernon picks himself back enough to go out with his parents for one day. 

He wheels the shopping cart through the aisles brainlessly, eyes unfocused. No matter how hard he tries, his mind still fixates on the path to Terabithia– and you. 

And then he sees it. You. 

He halts to a stop in the middle of the aisle, head turning back around for another look. A girl stands in the aisle across from him, her long brown hair reaching her waist and a braided friendship bracelet on her wrist. 

It’s you, if you had lived to see 18. 

Vernon’s heart drops to his stomach and he finds himself running towards you. His mouth opens to call out your name, but words fail him, rendering him silent as he follows you out the supermarket and into the parking lot. 

You keep walking, and Vernon continues to follow. 

Across the street, into the forest, past the treehouse and red berry bushes. 

Vernon nears enough to hear you singing the tune, the old nursery rhyme with the directions to Terabithia. He knows it’s you for sure now. It has to be you. 

He knows it doesn't make any sense. How you’re walking in front of him, fully grown and very much alive, but Vernon doesn’t question it. Instead, he continues to follow you– feeling the hope and warmth coursing through his veins and revamping his heart. 

“Skip the third and the water’s bad.” You’re still singing as you jump the rocks across the creek, its waters rushing with power through the forest. 

Vernon sees it before it happens, like he’s seen it once before. You leap to skip the third rock, following the instructions of the song, and your foot slips. 

Vernon screams as he watches your head crash against the rock and your body slip into the water’s current. It echoes through the forest and the birds fly in a frenzy off the nearby trees. 

He swears he’s seen this happen before– nine or so years ago. 

This time however, unlike the boy he was nine years ago, Vernon doesn’t hesitate. 

He kicks off his shoes and jumps in after you. He’s not going to watch you die twice. 

The cold hits him first, the rushing waves overtaking his senses as he attempts to find you in the current. 

“Y/N!” The water bubbles around him as he screams for you. 

It’s a sorry attempt. Vernon can feel his clothes weighing him down, as the currents fought to keep him away from you. 

He sees you, just a few feet away from him. Vernon battles the crashing waters to get to you. 

He’s losing air, but he keeps going, until the waters go deeper and you start to sink. Vernon kicks, propelling himself closer to you– deeper into the water. 

Air escapes him. He sputters and chokes. But he keeps going. You’re right there. 

Vernon watches you drop, your hair floating around your sleeping face. You’re even more beautiful at 18 and Vernon feels his lungs constrict at the thought of getting to love you as adults. 

Then he blinks, and you’re gone. 

Vernon stops kicking. He lets himself sink. 

Doctor’s notes: 

Patient: Vernon Hansol Chwe Reason: PTSD, heightened grief causing hallucinations (SED)

Doctor’s notes:  The patient suffered from a traumatic loss of a childhood friend and lover at a young age, as he watched her slip and fall into the creek while playing in the forest. He has been unresponsive, his mind blocking out the memory as a way to protect himself. The patient has also experienced heightened hallucinations, believing the friend to be still alive and with him. Encouraged treatment is to distance him from places pertaining to the trauma. 

Let him forget her.  

[gotta-winwin]

THAT’S SHOWBIZ, BABY! 💼 AN SVT COLLABORATION

Welcome to the high-stakes world of rival medial moguls, The Carat Company and Sebong Corporation. From HR nightmares to boardroom powerplays, the lights are on and the cameras are rolling; our writers are taking you behind the scenes of the industry’s fiercest (and pettiest) workplace battles. Talent Managers Tara (@diamonddaze01) and Kae (@studioeisa) are proud to present: That’s Showbiz, Baby!

[TAG LIST] ✨ Book a conference room now to get exclusive access to every deal closed, memo leaked, and steamy office romance as it drops.  

[HR NOTICE] 🔞 Some files in this archive are strictly 18+ and may contain NSFW material. Please review 📊 Key Deliverables and 📝 Meeting minutes for individual content warnings before entering a conference room.

📺 THE CARAT COMPANY.

🗓️ CONFERENCE ROOM 1: routine romance 🤝 Booked by @studioeisa, on behalf of talent recruiter!seungcheol and freelancer!reader. 📋 Agenda: you have a routine. a foolproof, tried and tested daily schedule. when the hell did choi seungcheol become part of it? 📊 Key Deliverables: humor, romance, pinch of angst. 📝 Meeting minutes: profanity, mentions of food. slowburn -ish, meet ugly, coffee shop romance, feelings realization/denial, seungcheol is a flirty bastard, discussions of freelancing/corporate life.

Read the teaser here. Read the full fic here.

🗓️ CONFERENCE ROOM 2: Touching Yourself 🤝 Booked by  @straylightdream, on behalf of actor!jeonghan and f!reader. 📋 Agenda: After a stressful day on set leaves him wondering if being an actor is really what he wants, he calls you. One phone call leads to both you crossing lines you never imagined you would cross. 📊 Key Deliverables: smut, friends to lovers, mutual pining, romance, comfort, angst. 📝 Meeting minutes: depression, anxiety, jeonghan is really going through it, severe stress from a job, alcohol consumption, crying, lots of emotions, mentions menstrual cycles.

Read the teaser here. Read the full fic here.

🗓️ CONFERENCE ROOM 3: stars in the sky 🤝 Booked by @simpxxstan, on behalf of actor!jeonghan and reader. 📋 Agenda: yoon jeonghan has not a care in the world throughout the day - he’s the prince, it’s his time to reign. a million autographs every day, an unending echo of fanchants, and jeonghan knows he’s the most desired man in the country right now. but when the flashlights dim, the curtains are drawn, and the monsters step out of the dark, there’s only one hand he wants to hold. only one pair of eyes make his heart smile, only one voice lulls him into sleep every night, only one scent he desires to drown in, only one touch that lets him find himself again. 📊 Key Deliverables: co-workers to lovers, grumpy x sunshine trope, angst, smut, light fluff. 📝 Meeting minutes: smut warnings to be added later (mdni!), bickering and verbal banter, no private space, anxiety and panic attacks, online bullying, trolling, breakdown of self-confidence, nightmares, lots of angst really, casual flirting, more warnings to be added later.

Read the teaser here. Read the full fic here.

🗓️ CONFERENCE ROOM 4: Please, Block Me 🤝 Booked by @okiedokrie, on behalf of social media manager!joshua and reader. 📋 Agenda: Joshua Hong, 29, Social Media Manager. Forced to learn whatever meme lingo the kids are saying these days. Got harassed by the Social Media Manager of Queen Quesadilla when he used to work for King Taco; he quit. He works for The Carat Company now, where unfortunately, you followed. 📊 Key Deliverables: TBA. 📝 Meeting minutes: TBA.

Read the teaser here. Read the full fic here.

🗓️ CONFERENCE ROOM 5: Typo and Error 🤝 Booked by @gotta-winwin, on behalf of social media manager!joshua and actress!reader. 📋 Agenda: Joshua loves his job as social media manager for The Carat Company, except for one thing: the actress he’s in charge of. you hate his guts, and Joshua swears he returns those feelings with vigor, and yet… forced to work in close proximity, Joshua’s forced to reckon with the idea that just maybe, despite all the animosity, he’s still madly in love with you. 📊 Key Deliverables: fluff, crack, slight angst. 📝 Meeting minutes: light swearing, mutual pining, oblivious idiots in love, enemies to lovers(?), heavy denial of feelings, discussions of fame/film industry.

Read the teaser here. Read the full fic here.

🗓️ CONFERENCE ROOM 6: Too Far 🤝 Booked by @lovetaroandtaemin, on behalf of Intern!Jun and Secretary!Reader. 📋 Agenda: When your friend suggested letting the new intern in your company's legal department move in with you, you had your doubts. As time went on, though, the two of you grew closer than you ever could have anticipated. The only problem was that you were certain that he didn't see you the same way you saw him. 📊 Key Deliverables: Angst, Fluff, Smut. Roommates to lovers 📝 Meeting minutes: Jun is a loser with jealousy problems, profanity, LOTS of suggestive/NSFW content that Will Be Determined Later, both of these fuckers need to work on their communication skills. 

Read the teaser here. Read the full fic here.

🗓️ CONFERENCE ROOM 7: company benefits 🤝 Booked by @studioeisa, on behalf of social media intern!junhui and copywriter!reader. 📋 Agenda: you can't really call wen junhui your ex-boyfriend. it was more of a friends with benefits situation—except you only got ghosted, while he got an internship at your recommendation. people always say to not bite the hand that feeds you; it looks like jun didn't get the memo. 📊 Key Deliverables: smut, romance, angst with a happy ending. 📝 Meeting minutes: profanity, mentions of food & alcohol consumption, job loss. ex-situationship, forced proximity, so much tension..., nepotism!!!, marketing terms, soonyoung gets his own warning.

Read the teaser here. Read the full fic here.

🗓️ CONFERENCE ROOM 8: Be My Tigress? 🤝 Booked by @svtiddiess on behalf of Marketing Manager!Hoshi and Assistant Manager!Reader. 📋 Agenda: After moving halfway across the world to Korea, you landed a job as an Assistant Manager at Carat Company, a media company known for television production, music management, and digital content creation. Your boss, Soonyoung—though he insists everyone call him Hoshi—turned out to be an absolute whirlwind of chaos. From tiger-themed stationery and tiger-themed office décor to a full-on tiger fursuit, his relentless dedication to his so-called "tiger agenda" has left you questioning your sanity on more than one occasion. (Seriously, what even is a horanghae??) As you adjust to your new life and career, one question keeps nagging at you: how has he not been fired yet? No, really—why hasn't anyone reported this insane man to HR? 📊 Key Deliverables: crack, fluff, slightest of angst, smut, office romance. 📝 Meeting minutes: Tiger agenda is strong in this one, Hoshi is very unserious (and a diva), unrealistic workplace environment, multiple sex scenes, HR pls don't fire Hoshi. 

Read the teaser here. Read the full fic here.

🗓️ CONFERENCE ROOM 9: Beyond the Transcripts 🤝 Booked by @joonsytip, on behalf of CEO!wonwoo and Head of Legal!Reader. 📋 Agenda: Jeon Wonwoo, the calmest and untainted CEO to ever exist, gets his world shaken up when he finds you again, as the legal department head at his own company and your only registered family is a little guy who resembles him a bit too much. Alternatively, you are smooth in onboarding Wonwoo into your son's life but problems arise when he tries to slide back into yours. 📊 Key Deliverables: angst, smut, fluff, exes to co-parents to lovers. 📝 Meeting minutes: themes of co parenting, mentions of past difficult pregnancy, misogynistic slurs being used at workplace, minor accident.

Read the teaser here. Read the full fic here.

🗓️ CONFERENCE ROOM 10: Prologue To ??? 🤝 Booked by @chugging-antiseptic-dye, on behalf of HR Manager!Jihoon and Operations Manager!Reader. 📋 Agenda: You did not know HR manager Jihoon. You did not want to know HR manager Jihoon. However when fate throws you and an unconscious body to make his acquaintance, you realize that still water truly holds its depths. And maybe diving in head first was not the best decision. Yet, what else could you do? The show must go on. 📊 Key Deliverables: Horror,  Murder Mystery, Paranormal, Psychological Thriller, Suspense, Urban, Angst, Hurt/Comfort. 📝 Meeting minutes: POV Switching, Amnesia, Blood, Gore, Grief/Mourning, Injury, Kidnapping, Morally Grey Characters, Mentions of Death/ Murder, Body Horror, Descriptions of Injury, Nightmares, Substance Abuse, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Coworkers to maybe lovers, Ambiguous Open Ending.

Read the teaser here. Read the full fic here.

🗓️ CONFERENCE ROOM 11: Emails I Can't Send 🤝 Booked by @diamonddaze01, on behalf of  Managing Director of HR! Jihoon and Planning and Recruitment Specialist! Reader. 📋 Agenda: Jihoon has always been clear: work is work, and co-workers are co-workers. Boundaries keep things clean. Professional. Predictable. As Managing Director of HR at The Carat Company, that's exactly how he likes it. But when a too-charming, too-bright former Sebong Corp employee joins his team, Jihoon is forced to confront the one boundary he may no longer be able to hold: the one between you and him. 📊 Key Deliverables: humor, fluff, angst with a happy ending. 📝 Meeting minutes: epistolary, suggestive for sure, consumption of alcohol.

Read the teaser here. Read the full fic here.

📺 SEBONG CORPORATION.

🗓️ CONFERENCE ROOM 1: An Alluring Score 🤝 Booked by @seoloquent, on behalf of Artists and Repertoire Representative!DK and Conductor!Reader. 📋 Agenda: Willing to risk everything, his career included, Seokmin knew you had to be the one in charge of Sebong Corp’s newest feature film’s score soundtrack. The only issue was, you had no physical proof of experience. Despite the doubts coming from executives, your family, and even yourself, Seokmin resolved to help you prove everyone wrong, and showcase your alluring score to the world. 📊 Key Deliverables: fluff, humor, slight angst, strangers to lovers. 📝 Meeting minutes: seokmin has a slight issue with boundaries (could be a little annoying), depictions of misogyny, grief, mentions of death (not important character), inaccurate representation of film industry (I did as much research as I could!). 

Read the teaser here. Read the full fic here.

🗓️ CONFERENCE ROOM 2: LoserBoy vs. HaterGirl 🤝 Booked by @gyubakeries, on behalf of Social Media Intern!Mingyu and IT Specialist!Reader. 📋 Agenda: When Kim Mingyu, the new addition to the Social Media department of Sebong Corp. shows up at your office, requesting you to feature in one of the 'promotional tiktoks' he's been assigned to film, you tell yourself that it'll be your last interaction with the puppy-faced, hyper-energetic intern. A few months, twenty tiktoks, and a diabetes-inducing amount of sugar, you can't quite remember exactly why you had wanted to stay away from him in the first place. 📊 Key Deliverables: comedy, romance, light angst, one-sided enemies to lovers, grumpy x sunshine, pining, a dash of slowburn. 📝 Meeting minutes: sexual content, mingyu being a teensy bit annoying, a lot of obliviousness.

Read the teaser here. Read the full fic here.

🗓️ CONFERENCE ROOM 3: HR Meets Heart 🤝 Booked by @soo0hee, on behalf of HR Manager!Minghao and afab!reader. 📋 Agenda: When you didn't get the promotion you were licking your fingers for, you weren't at all amused. When it was the one person you were sure was out for your every last nerve to get said promotion, you were even less amused. Now stuck with a new boss you loathed you were sure you'd go insane — but what if it's in a different way then you thought.... 📊 Key Deliverables: fluff, enemies to lovers. 📝 Meeting minutes: suggestive, language, alcohol.

Read the teaser here. Read the full fic here.

🗓️ CONFERENCE ROOM 4: Mr. Boo: Coffee, Campaigns, and Confessions 🤝 Booked by @smiley-pansy, on behalf of Marketing Manager!Seungkwan and Brand & Promotions Coordinator!Reader. 📋 Agenda: You and Seungkwan work behind the scenes at Sebong Corporation, a bustling movie production company. When you're assigned to co-lead the marketing campaign for Eclipse Rising—the studio’s most high-profile release yet—your already-close working relationship takes center stage. Through morning coffee runs, chaotic brainstorming sessions, late-night strategy meetings, and a surprisingly sweet team-building retreat, your friendship deepens into something more. 📊 Key Deliverables: fluff, slight crack, coworkers-to-lovers, (attempt at) comedy. 📝 Meeting minutes: light swearing, adorable idiots in love.

Read the teaser here. Read the full fic here.

🗓️ CONFERENCE ROOM 5: damage control 🤝 Booked by @heechwe, on behalf of and actor!vernon and reader. 📋 Agenda: Hansol Vernon Chwe is one of the most frustrating clients to have on the payroll yet one of the biggest and brightest stars on cable television. He's reckless, carefree, and always dancing to the beat of his own drum. And it is up to you, his new assistant, to hold onto the reigns in time for the press run and upcoming premiere of his hit show's second season. No matter what it takes, or how hard you fall for him in the process. 📊 Key Deliverables: TBA. 📝 Meeting minutes: TBA.

Read the teaser here. Read the full fic here.

🗓️ CONFERENCE ROOM 6: homemade dynamite 🤝 Booked by @miniseokminnies, on behalf of actor!vernon and fem!director!reader. 📋 Agenda: Vernon Chwe is a serious actor. That’s how his company, Sebong Corporation, markets him at least. He couldn’t be less interested in that strategy, he’d much rather focus on projects that inspire him. When an email from you, an indie film director that’s been on his radar, comes through his inbox he practically jumps at the opportunity. Trust him on this, okay? It’ll turn out amazing, he’ll make sure of it. 📊 Key Deliverables: fluff, smut, strangers to co workers to lovers. 📝 Meeting minutes: Vernon causing problems for his boss, deeply inappropriate use of a lake, semi public sex, angst if you squint, feelings of being lost. 

Read the teaser here. Read the full fic here.

🗓️ CONFERENCE ROOM 8: Entertaining Pleasures 🤝 Booked by @bitchlessdino, on behalf of Entertainment CEO!Chan and afab!TV Producer!Reader. 📋 Agenda: Chan didn't think he had what it takes and motivation to be a CEO when he rather be the one on stage. It wasn't until he met the most obnoxious TV producer he's ever met that he was committed to being the best goddamn Entertainment CEO they and Carat Company has ever seen. 📊 Key Deliverables: fluff, comedy, smut, enemies to fwbs, fwb to ??? 📝 Meeting minutes: cocky!chan, undermining!reader, poor use of filming/modeling sets and their equipment, lowkey exhibitionism. 

Read the teaser here. Read the full fic here.

🗓️ CONFERENCE ROOM 7: On Your Side 🤝 Booked by @chanranghaeys, on behalf of ceo!lee chan and cfo!fem!reader. 📋 Agenda: Being seatmates with Chan for your senior year back in arts high school changed your life forever. Being estranged and distant friends with Dino, celebrated idol-slash-actor, messed with your head—and your heart. Being the Chief Financial Officer and right hand of Sebong Corporation’s newest CEO, Mr. Lee Chan turned you both into people that barely knew each other. But would you both be willing to stick it through to the end, claiming to be on each other’s side? 📊 Key Deliverables: high school friends to estranged friends to office colleagues to enemies to ??? 📝 Meeting minutes: puppy love and high school crushes, borderline office romance, mutual pining but they’re adamant to antagonize each other.

Read the teaser here. Read the full fic here.

Once again, sign up for the tag list to get tagged for teasers and fic drops. See you in office!

[gotta-winwin]

SERENA!!

😭😭😭😭😭

SERENA!!!

I JUST READ DAY ONE AND IM HERE BAWLING MY EYES OUT, THIS IS NOT FAIR!!! WHY??? WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS TO ME!!!!

it's actually so good, and I loved every second of it. im so excited to see more!!!

AHHAH HI! i cried writing it if that’s any consolation😚 we will be taking a break from angst in this blog for at least a couple fics…so save ur tears for another day 🕺🕺

and tysm for the kind words💗

[gotta-winwin]

Nooooo cause what did I just read?? Day one is amazing I felt the pain in me.. I am in shock basically. Love all of your work. Hope you have a good day or night pls stay safe and healthy.

P.s did you dicontinue Cyana? Sorry if this offended you in a way of I'm being annoying. Just was wondering as I haven't seen her around .

thank you for all the kind words! and yes...i did discontinue the cyana x svt series just because it was taking up too much of my time and i wanted to focus more on writing individual fics. (i giggled when you said "i haven't seen her around" and i love how she's this little person existing in the depths of tumblr like someone irl) idk when she'll be back but we never know!

[gotta-winwin]

day one | w.jh

⭐ starring: wen junhui 💌 genre: angst | wc: 2.2k 💬 preview: you and jun are all too familiar with goodbyes paired with the slight chance that you’ll never see each other again. it comes with his job as an astronaut, and when jun’s assigned to a mission that might take a whole lifetime to complete, you have to accept that this goodbye might be something else entirely. permanent and forever. 

cw/tw: astronaut!jun x researcher!reader, inspired by interstellar, set in the 2060s where Earth is all farmland and weeds, the war against time, long distance relationship taken to the max, so many goodbyes, butchering of astronaut terms

🪽fic rating: pg  ☁️ masterlist & a/n: angst. ha. this one is a gift to @lovetaroandtaemin mwah <3

now playing: forever star by 张洢豪

this is an addition to my 500 followers event: click here to read the masterlist!

A rocket flies into the sky, taking your lover away from you. 

It flies fast, filled with power and speed, perfectly designed by the research you had supplied the space team with. 

You had been tempted to burn the notebook that contained your life's work, if only as an attempt to keep Jun with you, yet the whole discovery was too tempting to give up. 

You and Jun would make it into the history books. Names written next to each other in mankind’s greatest achievement. Physical bodies nowhere near one another. 

You figured you’d be okay without him. After all, you and Jun were all too familiar with goodbyes. You stare at your calendar and realize you’ve lived longer without him than with him. 

The realization burns. 

You remember sending him off on his first flight into the universe. 

“I can’t believe I actually made it.” Jun shakes you with both hands in excitement. “We made it.” 

You can’t help but smile through the tears threatening to spill down your face. “I’m going to miss you.” You blink, and they slide down your face like waterfalls. 

He presses the pads of his thumbs to your cheeks, wiping the droplets away. “I’m going to miss you too. But I’ll be back very soon.” 

You were both so young, so clean and untouched by the suffering the next few years would be. So naive. So stupid to think it’d ever work out. 

Jun presses a feather light kiss to your forehead, stooping lower to brush against your lips. 

The first goodbye is always the easiest. You’re yet to learn the detrimental toll loving someone a universe away would put on you, and Jun was yet to learn the loneliness of outer space. 

You throw a kiss into the wind as the rocket containing your lover takes off. 

You only find solace in the fact that you’ll see him again in a couple weeks or so. 

Jun comes back with a plethora of stories to tell your nieces and nephews. 

They gather around him after dinner, eyes wide as they listened to him detail what meteor showers looked like from millions of miles away. He draws the Milky Way on a napkin. He tells them about showering upside down while bouncing your youngest niece on his leg.

You serve the kids orange juice in a glass jar and Jun his beer in a can. 

The patio lights gleam in the night sky around you. Jun catches your eye in the middle of a particularly funny story and he breaks into a dazzling smile. 

“My star.” He pulls you closer to him by the hip. 

“My moon.” You respond back, pushing his hair away from his eyes. It’s a delicate play on his last name and his love for all things outer space.

It’s the last day either of you are incandescently happy.  

The next few goodbyes are much harder than the first. 

Jun cradles your head in his hands as he whispers his goodbyes, pressing his forehead against yours as your tears drop and mix together.

He doesn’t want to leave.

“I’ll be back very soon.” He states once again, but it’s not true this time. The mission calls for at least a year on the International Space Station, and Jun knows that’s longer than anytime he’s ever been without you. “I’m sorry.”

The worst part is that it’s no one's fault. “I’m sorry too.” You don’t know on whose behalf you’re apologizing for. You. The space team. The government. The universe. 

Jun pulls you in for a hug, and he savours it like it’s his last. 

“I’ll be back.” He promises. “I’ll be back.” 

You blow the sky a kiss as the rocket takes off once again. You watch until it becomes a speck of dust in the sky, disappearing behind the murky clouds and into a place you cannot follow. 

You restart the countdown.

Jun had dreamed of becoming an astronaut for as long as he can remember. He still finds drawings of himself in astronaut gear from kindergarten, scattered in the boxes up in his parent’s attic. 

Jun used to love anything to do with space. The stars, the moon, the orbits. Jun used to love everything. 

He didn’t anymore. Not when it cost him his time with you. 

He found himself longing for a way back into the past, when times were simpler and traveling to space was just a dream too far away to even comprehend. It was an odd thing to think about when he used to long for nothing but the current position he was in now. 

Jun stares off into the distance, watching as the stars blinked fire into the nothingness around them, and thought of you. 

“Moon man, your commander’s looking for you.” Your heels clack against the marble floor of the compound. 

He looks up from the files in his hands and relaxes upon seeing you. “My star.” 

“Your commander’s been looking for you.” You repeat yourself, flipping the lights on in the room. “What are you doing sitting in the dark? You’ll ruin your eyes, reading in the dark like that.” 

“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “It’s too loud in the main space.” 

You kneel down to sit on the floor beside him, glancing at the papers in his hands. You spot the words: time, barrier and travel. You think nothing of it. “Between Commander Choi barking orders and Soonyoung throwing paper planes at the back of Mingyu’s head– I understand.” 

“You’re still somehow able to calculate g-force and interdimensional shit in that ruckus though.” Jun points out, and you laugh at his lack of knowledge behind the mathematics that went into sending him and his comrades to space. 

“I’m special.” You state simply. 

His eyes turn into crescent moons when he smiles at you. “Yes. Yes, you are.” 

If he concentrates hard enough, Jun can almost feel your body heat radiating against his arm, as if you were right there next to him. He doesn’t dare turn to look beside him, fearing that if he did, the feeling of you would dissipate away. 

“Jun!” Mingyu calls him from the other side of the pod, floating with his legs crossed. “You’re on dinner duty today.” 

He turns to respond quickly, but by the time he returns back to his bubble of solitude, you’re already gone. 

The worst news is always delivered through an unassuming phone call. 

Jun’s limbs are tangled with yours in bed as you both enjoy a rare day off from work. It’s quiet, a peaceful and welcoming contrast to your usual hectic schedules.

His phone rings and he groans to pick it up. 

You don’t hear the conversation, but you can tell from his face that it’s Commander Choi on the other end of the call. 

“Right. Are you sure? Okay.” Jun mumbles a quick goodbye before ending the call, a tight expression on his face. 

“What?” 

Whatever it is, he doesn’t want to say. “Work stuff.” He waves it away, curling his arms back around your waist and dragging you back into bed. 

Your phone rings a few minutes later.

“We need you to come in.” It’s your own department head, Dr. Yoon, on the other end of the line. 

“What’s going on?” Your voice is rushed, you can sense the strain in the lead researcher’s voice even through the terrible connection your cabin house has. 

Jun’s watching you, equally on edge from the side of the bed. 

“We’ve been ordered to prepare the necessary calculations for the next flight.”

Your shoulders relax. It’s a mundane thing. “It’s my day off, boss.” 

“Not anymore. They wanted my best researcher, Y/N. It’s a big deal, this next flight. Come in and I’ll tell you more. Your boyfriend will have to come in too, he’s the one flying.”

You can feel your heart drop into the pits of your stomach as Dr. Yoon hangs up.

You and Jun later learn that the trip is for some government threat too confidential for you to know. They brief Jun on the whole mission, but your lover’s sworn to secrecy and doesn’t offer much. 

All you know is that he’ll be gone for a long, long time. 

“Time works differently in space.” Jun tells you.

“I know that, dumbass.” You reply back, already agitated by the news. “I was the one that discovered the formula for it.” 

He covers your hands with his, eyes patient despite the glare he was receiving. “I know, my star. But I’m going much farther. A year on Earth will only be a couple hours to me.” 

You don’t need to do any calculations to figure out what he’s trying to tell you. 

“I’ll be dead when you come back.” 

He winces. “No. Just– old.” 

“And you’ll still be young.”

He nods. “I will be back. I promise.” 

It’s a promise that isn’t his to give, but he gives it anyways. 

You and Jun had become familiar with goodbyes, practiced and seasoned veterans in the art of parting. The ritual was always the same: a tender kiss, a prolonged hug, whispers and promises of a quick return, quiet declarations of love. He always walks away first. You blow a kiss to the sky as you watch him leave. It’s practiced. Memorized. 

But this time it’s different. You both fumble, clumsy, knowing it was the last time for a long time– maybe forever. 

“I can’t walk away first this time.” His voice breaks as he admits it, fingers gripping yours for much longer than usual. “Please don’t make me.” 

You wipe away your tears and pull yourself together. “Okay.” 

It takes everything in you to turn and walk yourself back to the car. You watch him hesitate for a beat before leaving himself. 

You throw a weak kiss towards the sky as the rocket takes off, taking your lover away from you for the final time. 

The scientific community calls it takotsubo cardiomyopathy, or broken heart syndrome. The astronauts call it a shift so long it broke the guy. 

Jun calls it missing you. 

His comrades see it too. His bones are showing more than his skin. Food no longer agrees with him. His eyes are void of light and they no longer turn into crescent moons when he smiles, or rather, he no longer smiles. 

There are many names for the disease Jun suffers with. 

Mingyu prefers a more straightforward term. 

“He’s dying, commander.” 

Commander Choi knows he is, but there’s no way back home for any of them. Not where they had found themselves in– planets away and in a completely unknown part of the universe. “I know.” Is all he says. “I know.” 

They watch as Jun stares out the circular window of the space station, eyes transfixed on the blue terrain around them. A new ecosystem entirely, yet he showed no sign of excitement or curiosity. 

He hums a lonely tune to himself as he runs a finger across the groove of the glass. His eyes glaze over and he smiles– it’s a painful one, filled with sorrow and grief. 

“Y/N.” He whispers your name and his breath fogs up the glass. 

Commander Choi and Mingyu can’t help but think he’s not just missing you anymore. 

Jun’s mourning you like you’re already dead.

MANY YEARS LATER. 

Your nieces and nephews have all grown now, heading into their adult years or bordering on the brink of graduating high school. 

They still ask for stories of the moon man, of the uncle they remember in blips of childhood memories. 

You tell them all about the early years with Jun. How he used to swat away Mingyu’s paper airplanes whenever they got too close to your face. How he used to pick you up from your house for work even if it was on the opposite side of town. You detail his adventures with the stars in the vast universe above where you stood. 

Your nieces see him as the perfect example of what they should have in a future lover. Your nephews see him as who they should become. 

“Why did you never marry?” Your youngest niece asks, her eyes brimming with tears from the last story you had just finished retelling. The story of how you got so good at goodbyes. She’s much older now, but she still idolizes Jun as if he were the moon itself. 

Your lips quiver into a weak smile. “I don’t know, honey. I guess I could never see myself with anyone else. And I just kept waiting.” 

“You’re still waiting.” Your oldest nephew observes from the edge of the armchair. He pokes the crackling fire in the firepit with a stick. “For Uncle Moon.” 

“Yes.” You blink away the sudden tears appearing in the crevices of your eyes. “I suppose I am.” 

“Why?” It’s an innocent question, reminding you of the wide-eyed innocence you once had, years ago. 

“He has been with me since day one.” You explain. “It won’t be fair if he’s not with me till the end.”

You see in their eyes that they don’t really understand. They will, once they’ve met their own moon. 

You send them off to bed one by one before you’re finally left alone, sitting out on the patio overlooking your farm land. 

You raise your head to greet your lover in the sky. 

“Hi, my moon.” 

It glows in the center of the dark sky, crescent shaped like his eyes. The stars wink at you from around it. 

Your wrinkled and weakened fingers shake as you raise your hand to blow a kiss to the moon and you picture him reaching out to catch it– wherever he is now. 

MISSION LOG:

Mission success. Entering Earth’s atmosphere in T-Minus 10 hours. Mission length: 124 Earth years. 17 years in orbit. 

Commander Choi logging in. 

Pilot Kim logging in. 

Mission Specialist Kwon logging in. 

Fuel at 23%.

Welcome home.  

[gotta-winwin]

day one | w.jh TEASER

⭐ starring: wen junhui 💌 genre: angst | wc: 2.2k 💬 preview: you and jun are all too familiar with goodbyes paired with the slight chance that you’ll never see each other again. it comes with his job as an astronaut, and when jun’s assigned to a mission that might take a whole lifetime to complete, you have to accept that this goodbye might be something else entirely. permanent and forever. 

cw/tw: astronaut!jun x researcher!reader, inspired by interstellar, set in the 2060s where Earth is all farmland and weeds, the war against time, long distance relationship taken to the max, so many goodbyes, butchering of astronaut terms

🪽fic rating: pg  | release date: may 17th ☁️ masterlist & a/n: angst. ha. this one is a gift to @lovetaroandtaemin mwah <3

now playing: forever star by 张洢豪

this is an addition to my 500 followers event: click here to read the masterlist!

A rocket flies into the sky, taking your lover away from you. 

It flies fast, filled with power and speed, perfectly designed by the research you had supplied the space team with. 

You had been tempted to burn the notebook that contained your life's work, if only as an attempt to keep Jun with you, yet the whole discovery was too tempting to give up. 

You and Jun would make it into the history books. Names written next to each other in mankind’s greatest achievement. Physical bodies nowhere near one another. 

You figured you’d be okay without him. After all, you and Jun were all too familiar with goodbyes. You stare at your calendar and realize you’ve lived longer without him than with him. 

The realization burns. 

You remember sending him off on his first flight into the universe. 

“I can’t believe I actually made it.” Jun shakes you with both hands in excitement. “We made it.” 

You can’t help but smile through the tears threatening to spill down your face. “I’m going to miss you.” You blink, and they slide down your face like waterfalls. 

He presses the pads of his thumbs to your cheeks, wiping the droplets away. “I’m going to miss you too. But I’ll be back very soon.” 

You were both so young, so clean and untouched by the suffering the next few years would be. So naive. So stupid to think it’d ever work out. 

Jun presses a feather light kiss to your forehead, stooping lower to brush against your lips. 

The first goodbye is always the easiest. You’re yet to learn the detrimental toll loving someone a universe away would put on you, and Jun was yet to learn the loneliness of outer space. 

You throw a kiss into the wind as the rocket containing your lover takes off. 

You only find solace in the fact that you’ll see him again in a couple weeks or so. 

Jun comes back with a plethora of stories to tell your nieces and nephews. 

They gather around him after dinner, eyes wide as they listened to him detail what meteor showers looked like from millions of miles away. He draws the Milky Way on a napkin. He tells them about showering upside down while bouncing your youngest niece on his leg.

You serve the kids orange juice in a glass jar and Jun his beer in a can. 

The patio lights gleam in the night sky around you. Jun catches your eye in the middle of a particularly funny story and he breaks into a dazzling smile. 

“My star.” He pulls you closer to him by the hip. 

“My moon.” You respond back, pushing his hair away from his eyes. It’s a delicate play on his last name and his love for all things outer space.

It’s the last day either of you are incandescently happy. 

[gotta-winwin]

the neighbour | c.vn

⭐ starring: vernon chwe 💌 genre: fluff, angst | wc: 1.5k 💬 preview: you remember him vaguely, in the midst of dreams and faint shadow of a friend. vernon swore he would marry you once you were old enough. it’s been a lifetime since then, and you still live next door to each other– as strangers instead of the lovers you could’ve been. 

cw/tw: neighbour!vernon x reader, friends to almost lovers to strangers, missed opportunity, childish innocence, the first stumblings of love, a quiet goodbye no one can understand, fireworks

🪽 fic rating: pg  ☁️ masterlist & a/n: this event collection is filled with stories inspired by my own personal experiences with people. this one is : that one kid who lived next to me and swore he’d marry me once we were older than just 7. the musings of innocent, silly love without a care in the world. thank you to @chugging-antiseptic-dye for betaing!

now playing: 18 by one direction, i look in people’s windows by taylor swift

this is an addition to remember them…?, a celebration event for svt’s 10th anniversary. 

You watch Vernon grow up through a window: a doorway into Narnia. 

It starts with Spiderman stickers on the walls and toy trucks littering the floor. 

A young boy waves at you from his spot on the windowsill, a mop of curly brown hair covering his dark eyebrows. 

“What’s your name?” His voice is loud and full of energy. 

For a second you’re stunned. Your neighbourhood had always been filled with old folks who had grown tired of living– and now, there was a boy, waving at you like you were the moon. 

“I’m Y/N!” You yell back, and your voice is hoarse from prolonged silence. 

“I’m Vernon!” His smile is bright enough to be seen from where you stand, through the murkiness of your window. “Wait, let me show you something!” He ducks his head and disappears from view.

You wait. Even at such a young age, you were staring at him with a kind of exasperation and amusement that would follow the both of you through childhood. 

He reappears in the window holding a variety of DvDs in his hands. “My dad got me a new DvD player for my birthday. Do you want to come over?” 

He senses you hesitating before you. Vernon had always read you better than you could ever read yourself. “I have the new Terminator movie!” He waves the DvD case enticingly. 

You nod, agreeing to meet him at his front door for the movie. You watch him beam in excitement. 

Looking back at the memory, you still recall how you didn’t give a damn about the new Terminator movie. You had agreed purely because of the joy Vernon had on his face, sitting next to him in his bedroom as he ranted about how cool the action scenes were. Something about the reloading of a gun with one hand. 

You didn’t regret it, even now, in hindsight. It gave you your first dearest friend– and a stranger that would hold those memories in the palm of his hands, even if you’d never see each other again. 

Vernon rigs up a telephone between your windows. 

It’s made up of an old clothesline, paper cups, and a whole lot of duct tape. The device is reminiscent of the telephone line the two of you had made in science class at school. 

“Now we can talk whenever we want.” Vernon explains, tiny fingers tying the line to the hook by your curtains. 

“We already talk whenever we want.” You point out. 

Vernon glances back at you with a frown on his face. “Yeah, but we’re always yelling. What if we had secrets to share?” 

“You’re always over at my house anyways.” You rebuke his argument once again. 

His shoulders sink. “Shut up.” 

You walk over to tug at the knot, making sure it was secure. “I’m only joking, Nonnie. It’s a good idea.” 

Vernon lights up at the compliment. “Right?”

The two of you don’t ever use the telephone device. Instead, secrets are told underneath the duvet and in closets covered by winter jackets. 

Your parents joke that it won’t be long before their two families become one. It already has, Vernon’s parents are yours and vice versa, yet both you and Vernon are too young to understand that what your parents are implying is marriage. 

“Y/N, you must like Vernon.” Your mother comments causally on a random Tuesday afternoon. 

You’re one foot out the door towards Vernon’s house. 

“Yes, of course.” You reply, eyebrows furrowing at the question. “Vernon’s my best friend.” 

Your mother shares a smile with your father over the kitchen counter. 

“I swear one day I’ll be walking you down the aisle to marry that boy.” Your father jokes, a stern yet comedic expression crossing his face. 

You shrug, not quite getting it. “Whatever. Can I go play with Vernon now?” 

In the house next to yours, Vernon is faced with the same confusion. You enter his living room just in time to hear his father ask him about you. 

“So, you must really like Y/N.” 

Vernon’s sitting on the sofa, legs swinging mid-air, picking out the next movie you’re about to watch together. “Yes, of course I like Y/N.” 

“Like her enough to marry her one day?” There’s humour in his father’s voice at the question. 

Vernon shrugs. “Sure.” He spots you standing there and jumps off the sofa to pull you upstairs. “We’re watching a movie! We’ll be down for dinner.” 

It’s a silly joke, really. Neither you or Vernon thinks much of it. The conversation fades from memory as the two of you grow older, but the sentiment stays. As if it was something important that was supposed to happen. 

Vernon gets a puppy for his tenth birthday. 

You’re jealous, as you watch his parents settle the white and fluffy dog into his arms. 

“I want a puppy too!” You complain, pouting at your own parents. “Why does Nonnie get one? I’m literally older.” 

The parents laugh and Vernon raises the puppy towards you, a crooked smile on his face. 

“Here, Y/N.” He sets the ball of fur into your lap. “It can be our puppy. You can visit her whenever you want.” 

Both your parents coo at the sight, but they fall upon deaf ears. You stroke the puppy’s head and smile. “She’s cute.” 

Vernon hums, agreeing. “You should name her. I can’t decide.” 

“Snow.” It’s easy. Snow was you and Vernon’s favourite kind of weather. “She’s like a little snowball.” 

You can tell by the grin on Vernon’s face that he loves it. “She’s so tiny.” He scoops her up with just one hand and admires her. “I hope she stays this tiny.”

“The puppy will grow.” Your father comments from the other side of the living room. “She’ll grow with the both of you.”

You share a look with Vernon. “We’re never growing.”

“Yeah.” Vernon agrees. “I wanna stay like this forever.” 

It’s a childish comment. A fleeting, impossible wish to capture and freeze your childhood bliss. 

The first kiss is a stumble, a tentative and clumsy display of pure affection. 

You blink as Vernon pulls away, light pink coating his cheeks underneath the dimming light coming from the window. 

“What was that?” You raise a hand to your face as you feel warmth bloom into your cheeks. 

Vernon shrugs. “My parents do it all the time. They say you do it when you really love someone.” 

You smile. “You love me?” 

Vernon nods. “Of course.” 

“I love you too.” 

Vernon laces his hand in yours and turns back to the book he had been reading. Your heads bump together as you stretch out on the carpeted floor to read beside him. 

Neither one of you brings up the kiss again. Or the declaration of love. 

The first crack in the glass takes place somewhere in fifth grade. 

You knock on Vernon’s door, arms ladened with snacks and candy for your weekly movie binge on Friday nights. Sour Patch, Kinder Surprise, a bottle of orange juice. Vernon’s personal selection. 

His mom opens the door instead. 

“Vernon went out with his friends, honey.” There’s an apologetic look on her face that looks almost like sympathy. 

“Oh. He didn’t tell me.” It’s strange, but you don’t think much of it. You hand the snacks to his mother. “Give these to him, please.” 

“Don’t you want to keep these for yourself?” 

You shake your head. “I don’t like them very much. It’s Vernon’s favourite.” 

Vernon’s room is empty when you enter yours. The lights are off, and you squint to see that the Spiderman stickers have been peeled off the walls opposite his bed. 

One missed Friday night turns into two. Then three. Your parents pull you out of public school and move you to a school a city away. Friday movie nights become something a lifetime ago. 

You still see Vernon through the window some nights. You’re not home much anymore, and neither is he. 

But on the occasional nights where your schedules line up, you could spot him moving about his room, doing whatever teenage boys did. 

There are posters of cars and famous musicians covering his walls now. A new bed, a new gaming console. It looks entirely foreign– like you had never stepped foot into it before. 

Sometimes Vernon glances your way and you lock eyes. 

You wonder if he feels the same way about you that you feel about him. If your room also looked like a stranger’s. The pink walls were purple now, the childish toys on the counter replaced by books and a makeup mirror. 

He almost always looks away first. He’d blink rapidly as he averted his gaze to anything else, as if the very sight of you had burned his corneas and was painful to watch. 

You see him one last time at neighbourhood barbecue night in the middle of August. 

“Hey.” His voice is deeper now. He’s grown into himself. 

“Hi.” You don’t fail to notice the way his eyes rake across your figure as if he was trying to pick out what parts of you he still recognized. 

“I heard you’re leaving town. Heading east?” He shuffles until he stands right next to you, arm brushing against yours. 

“Yeah.” You had never planned to stay in your hometown for university. “I heard you’re staying.” 

Vernon nods. “I am. You know I never planned on leaving.” 

You’re caught off guard by the sudden familiarity because, you do know. “I guess.” You say instead. 

There’s a pause before Vernon speaks again, and your heart coils at his next words. 

“Snow misses you.” His voice is quiet, barely audible over the hum of the crowd. “She doesn’t understand why you stopped showing up.” He pauses. “I don’t either.” 

The admission is quiet. Heavy. Altogether unwelcoming. 

“Oh.” There’s nothing else you can say. I’m sorry didn’t really feel like enough. 

“You left.” He adds, and there’s no accusation in his voice. Just a fact. 

The past is a blip in your memory as you try and recall what exactly tore the two of you apart. “I guess I did. I didn’t have much of a choice though. My parents wanted–” 

“I know. And I guess I wasn’t that great of a friend once we got older.” Vernon remembers neglecting you in favour of his newer, cooler friends. 

He reaches for your hand as the neighbour uncles start lighting the fireworks. It’s a fumble, uncoordinated and unfamiliar, as your fingers laced together for the first time in years. Neither one of you says anything, as you crane your necks to watch the fireworks fly. 

Vernon squeezes your hand once. Twice. One final time. 

A silent goodbye. A silent agreement that it was for good this time. 

You return to your childhood bedroom after graduating university. It’s a stranger to you now too. 

A shadow crosses your wall as you pack your childhood into cardboard boxes. You turn to see Vernon’s window is opened, and you watch silently as he packs his own memories into boxes too. 

He still looks the same through that window. Grown, taller, but still the same. 

You were proper strangers now. Strangers who knew each other takeout orders. Strangers who had seen each other laugh. And cry. And leave. 

A twist of pain enters your chest as you watch Vernon close his curtains. His eyes are fixed on a patch of peeling paint on your side of the house– anything to not look at you.

The curtains slide shut. A finale to your time together.

You each leave your respective houses and drive towards the undecided future as two separate entities. 

The bedrooms are empty, quiet. 

The telephone line sways in the wind, dirty and frayed. Neither one of you ever attempt to take it down. 

author’s note : 

A letter to r. 

In all honesty, I can barely remember you now. I remember blips, as if the times with you were something in dreams. 

But I do remember how alive I felt next to you, the middle of the summer, barrelling down the sidewalk in a golf cart. I remember how your dog’s claws feel against the skin of my thighs whenever she’d jump up to welcome me in. I remember movie night. I remember you. 

We don’t see much of each other anymore. And in all honesty, I’m okay with that. We were brilliant together as kids but sometimes things are just that. Just that. Nothing more than a pair of best friends who thought we could never grow up and stay innocent and lively forever. 

There’s a poem I wrote, years ago, as I walked past your house on my way to work. 

ten years old  driving a golf cart down the hill  going too fast, we tipped over  and almost killed ourselves  your dad and my dad joked we’d grow up to marry each other neither one of us took that seriously  we don’t talk anymore  i walk past your house on the way to work each summer morning your dog still sits patiently outside your window as if she’s waiting for me to come home after six years  as if she doesn’t understand why i stopped showing up 

 I hope you remember it all too.