iamwon

[iamwon]

OTP Prompts: Road Trips

Stopping at absolutely every gift shop along the way so they can buy stupid little presents for each other.

Singing along to the music that's playing at the top of their lungs.

Having deep conversations that they would otherwise never have.

Making fun of the driver's driving.

Bringing their furry friend along to enjoy the trip with them.

The person in the passenger's seat trying to navigate where they're going but they're navigationally challenged. Cue childish arguments and yelling as the stress gets to them.

The passenger insisting that they drive for a while but the other hates the way they drive.

The third person chilling in the backseat with their headphones on while the other two chatter away in the front.

Hysterical laughter when the driver makes mistakes.

Coming up with new insults.

The driver bringing the passenger's free hand up to their lips to kiss.

The excitement that happens each time they see a store they've wanted to visit for ages.

Introducing new songs to each other to help the time pass by.

[iamwon]

Warsan Shire, from "Extreme Girlhood", Bless the Daughter Raised by a Voice in Her Head

[iamwon]

“You can say anything and I will not abandon you.”

[iamwon]

Mahmoud Darwish, tr. by Munir Akash and Carolyn Forché, from Unfortunately, It Was Paradise; “He Embraces His Murderer”

[Text ID: “I will never cease embracing you. / And I will never release you.”]

[iamwon]

"I did not like to be touched, but it was a strange dislike. I did not like to be touched because I craved it too much. I wanted to be held very tight so I would not break."

-Marya Hornbacher, Wasted

[iamwon]

[iamwon]

🍫

🍫quietly hand over a treat/food item ➝ @iamwon

Contrary to popular beliefs Yohan likes to spoil people he is fond of. It's his love language but one he's not aware of yet. "Find me on a Sunday and you can look at my cuts with careful supervision." Won and Yohan would meet later that day to talk about their ailments. Won's cuts and the thing festering up Yohan, and anyone passing by their table would either think they were mad or very frustrated poets trying to make a living out of the arts. Whichever one was correct if put into perspective. No innuendos at the table but just two men comprehending the bittersweet treat called life. The waiter makes a round at their table and Yohan smiles. The waiter comes with two plates of lemon cake and sets it over Won's side and then over Yohan's. A treat for Won's cuts to heal and one feed the monster living inside Yohan's gut. "To the great adventures of Wonnie and Hannie."

[iamwon]

🎎

Instilled with a sense of pride from birth, Won is not one to beg, plead and over-explain, but walking into an empty movie theatre halfway through the rolling trailers provokes something deep within him. Premature embarrassment is an understatement. Not a single soul is occupying the dimly lit dungeon they've wandered into. It’s a small space anyway, the highest row is H, and that’s the row they choose. The silent hike up to the summit is almost more than he can bear and, conveniently, the flickering screen light always seems to catch his inflamed cheeks. Without a bucket of popcorn to hide behind or a jug of soda to quench the dry feel in his mouth, he sits bang in the middle of the silent row.

"You'll like it, it's a good movie I promise,” he whispers as he descends into a cradle of red cushioning, volume low to keep to a level of etiquette and decorum despite the distinct lack of observers to disturb. 

At a first glance his physique is similar to Wenhan’s: they’re around the same height when both sitting and standing; they boast the same leg to torso ratio; they are both lean and lightly chiselled. At a second glance, the two have completely different bodies. 

Won’s limbs flow from one state to another, like liquid, like water. The main side effect of daily acrobatics is effortless extension and retraction, easily fitting and squeezing into every small space as well as overflowing and streaming out of it without pause. He sinks into the worn velvet recliner, his legs almost touch his chest and then they spill forward all at once to find a cosy resting state. 

Wenhan is tight and controlled, close, compact and condensed. Every bone and every muscle is in its right place at the right time, and there is no room for compromise. His movements are swift and purposeful, efficient in their execution even when no-one is watching. 

Won is watching. Curiosity is the basis of their unlikely pairing, and of course Won longs to be accepted. Heliotropic in nature, those overflowing and highly malleable limbs tip forward and onto a soul identified as a resting spot. His knee rests for a warm and brief moment before it is quickly retracted. A series of quiet apologies takes its place as the start up sequence commences. “Sorry. Accident...” A drawn out pause. “Can I?"

Silence would be more comfortable than the perky background noise of a show tune. Won keeps his head forward, glancing in his peripheral vision for the answer. 

Wenhan’s hand covers his mouth. He hides a smile that could only be directed at the absurdity of the set up. 

And then he slowly nods. 

Liquid against rock, their knees rest.

[iamwon]

Tutu Kilzade, The table.

[iamwon]

🎀

"Are you asleep yet?"

It's a miracle you hear the murmur, unique in its candid phrasing and shy volume, syruped with all the care a four word sentence can possibly carry. Maybe that's why his voice is so low - it's weighted with affection, and something else.

The compact studio, warm with candlelight and comforters, hosts a snug cloud of slumber that waltzes around, and up and down. Iljo is long gone, his head resting in his paws, his paws resting on a pillow. The television is in sleep mode. Won is next. He can almost see the sheet of drowsiness descending upon him when he squints his eyes, leans into the supportive haze.

His hands say all the words he's afraid to voice aloud, lest it disturb the dreamless sleep he knows you aren't usually privy to. Your locks are loose from an hour or so of caress; there isn't a single tangle or uncombed hair. Won isn't too gentle - he knows that's the secret. A scoop, a grasp, a sweet swift tug of release and then repeat. The repetition itself is soothing, to the recipient and the administrator.

Your scent is embedded in his fingertips.

He sighs as he sinks forward and rests a cheek against your head that's propped up in his lap. And with that the reliable, scoop, grasp, tug motion comes to a natural pause. There isn't immediate protest, but the second the curtains start to close on Won's eyes, a raspy voice interrupts––

"Don't stop, not yet."

The smile that spreads from cheek to cheek is automatic. You can probably feel it on your hairline, like a message briefly stamped into sand. It's washed away as he resumes with his fingers, swishing and swirling at the roots, curling the very tips and ends.

"Alright. Not yet."

[iamwon]

Soft Affection

Send in an icon for my muse to: 

🎀 Play with your muse’s hair

✋ brush fingers/hold hands

👉 Gently poke or prod yours

💐 give a gift

🎎 sit close enough to brush knees/lean against yours

🛌 take a nap with yours

🖐 tracing fingers against your muse’ skin or over a scar/other

🍫 quietly hand over a treat/food item

☺ stroke your muse’s cheek/face

🧥 be found wearing your muse’s sweater/coat/article of clothing

✨+ add your own

🐱 to reverse

[iamwon]

@iamwon Antero Koivisto AU + "Is this how you flirt with everyone?"

Ant had found himself enjoying life, lately. It was a curious thing, considering he’d lost someone important to him. But maybe that was why he was so much more boisterous and ballsy. Kintaro had left him with an important lesson; enjoy it while you have it. It was what he planned on living by, now, considering he had nothing to lose yet everything to gain.

It was why he enjoyed spending time with Won in particular. They were very different in all regards. Ant, an ex-religious-cultist, who was deeply rooted in the closet, compared to Won, who was a little more flamboyant and open about their sexual preferences. It made him see things from a completely new perspective, the way the other was so fluid and easy-going. It made liking him all the more easier.

They were walking along the Han river, the Jamsil railway bridge walk, the breeze cool on their warm, flushed faces from the drinks they’d had earlier. Won seemed to be enjoying himself, swaying a little as he hummed a tune that Ant wouldn’t have a clue about, hair falling by his face in waves as he moved along. The strands had been pulled free at some point in the night

“Ant, there’s Hangang park just over the bridge, should we go?” He asks, tone light and sweet as he speaks over his shoulder. It’s a sight to behold, Ant thinks, the way Won’s long hair, much like his own, is flowing with the glint of lights behind his head. It’s a little biblical and if he were one to take photos, he would have loved to have immortalised the image.

“You’re very beautiful.” Ant says, suddenly, and a hand comes up to tuck a strand of Won’s hair behind a pierced ear. “Sorry. I’m kind of drunk, what did you say?” It’s a casual save, and he’s thankful for the alcohol in his system that allows him to say such a thing with the amount of gusto that he did.

“Ah, is this flirty Ant coming out? Is this how you flirt with everyone, hm?” Won teases, his own hand coming up to push back the locks that fell into Ant’s own face with the breeze. the touch is tender; he can’t help but lean into it.

“I didn’t know how to flirt until you showed me, I think.” He smiles, genuinely, one that Won was able to provoke with ease, one that said something like I’m fond of you.

“Now you’re flattering me. Give yourself more credit, Ant.” There’s a hand in his own, warm and soft as Won continues on, with a mischievous glance over his shoulder at the younger, leading them both off into a night of God only knew what. And even then, Ant was looking forward to it.

[iamwon]

I would sweat to show you my hard work but I have no water in me, no tears, no spit, and my copper heart is broken, all my beauties stolen away. (…) my heart is too greedy, too grasping, it burns as it longs.

Amal El-Mohtar, from The Honey Month; “Day 9: Zambian Honey”

[iamwon]

🧡 walkies pt. 1

The plan is simple, the route is easy. 

It’s for makgeolli fed limbs, heavy and full of liquid the body rejects. It’s for times like today, when lifting a single toe feels like lugging a rotten, dead-weight corpse across an upturned battlefield. For bone dry hair that won’t stay flat the day after a night of self destruction. For fermented breath and dense eyelids. For the love of God. It’s a discreet and inconspicuous route, designed to be refreshing.

Takanaka’s Star Wars samba sends his mobile phone into a frenzied shimmy as he’s halfway out of the door. 

Iljo barks in unison with the tropical drum beat. 

Won almost completely misses the call by the time he’s sufficiently calmed his comrade in tow. Sufficiently meaning quiet enough to avoid a noise complaint, loud enough to tell everyone in a 5 mile radius he’s in good company. 

It’s a hectic start to the route but nothing that he can’t handle: his phone is on 11%, it won’t be long.  

“Yeah, hi mom... No, no, just doing a morning walk with Iljo. He says hi.” Naturally, the phone is wedged between his ear and shoulder, water in one hand, leash in the other. A couple of pitches higher than usual to hide a hangover, his ‘Mom Voice’ is grating to his own ears. Thankfully, his mother fills in the self-conscious gaps of silence with her own endless questions circling around the same subject matter. 

“No no, it’s not early, it’s like 6am it’s fine. I’m not planning on running anyway... No, no, haven’t eaten yet, it’s too early, it’s 6am.”

Rocks assault the arches of his feet as Iljo refuses to adhere to the pace his owner desperately tries to set. Bounce, bounce, shuffle as he tugs on the leash, bounce. Won hates that he can feel himself getting winded, and hates even more that his mother asks him more than once, with her loaded innocence, if he’s alright. The sorcery that stretches a 4 question (at best) conversation into twenty minutes, he’ll never understand. 

The kicker is the final inquisitorial query after a long period of wretched panting: “Darling, have you changed your mind and decided to run after all?” 

With an especially egregious wheeze, her loving son promises to call her back at a later date, hums a quick goodbye, and tucks the dying phone into his pocket. It feels like he just ran a marathon, physically and mentally. But it’s not over until it’s over. 

Mildly stressed feet did not process Won’s autopilot request and Iljo did not take Geography as an elective. 

Establishing roots in novel neighbourhoods is a treasured past time of WonJo. There’s always something to explore and gems to find. But at half six in the morning, there are hardly any locals to meet nor sights to explore in their new neck of the woods. Being lost doesn’t bode well when there isn’t much of a recollection to retrace footsteps; they’ve forged a foot path through an alleyway or two, past a field, over a bridge. Pacing around the upper outskirts of Seoul like it’s a large living room. Won’s working memory of the map is hazy, fogged by the dregs of beer still circulating around his system and a berating assessment disguised as concern. 

Sweaty palm to warm forehead, he presses down hard, scrunches his eyes until he sees stars and exhales. Bites the inside of his mouth until the bitter taste of bile, blood and skin salt assaults his senses. Without exercise or alcohol to distract his brain, it starts whispering at him again. Brain sounds a bit like Mom when it suggests, never outright tells, that he might be a fuck up. Wonders if he’s thought about how bloated his face looks that morning - brain definitely caught a glimpse in the mirrors his eyes were avoiding. Brain asks why he can’t multitask like everyone else? Just a question: how hard is it to talk on the phone and keep track of where you’re going at the same time? 

Iljo, unapologetically loud, whines and whimpers. If it’s after a second, minute or hour is irrelevant. Dog moans do manage to cut through the head noise eventually. 

“It’s alright, it’s okay, boy. Yes, you’re the best boy, I promise.” Won crouches to get to eye level, scratching underneath Iljo’s chin where it always feels like the softest patch of grass. The warmest slice of reassurance. “It’s fun. Yes. We’re on a fun walk. This really is the perfect way to wake up. It’s nature’s hangover cure. Yes. We’ll figure it out. You know I'm always here. By your side.” 

[iamwon]

Is it so strange to walk back home, I wouldn’t listen, for what it’s worth, Watching my time wrinkle alone