#so its a very very indulgent book that contains everything i like

[chocosvt]

HER | part five.

✧✎ synopsis: wonwoo, a heartbroken and burnt out writer nearing the end of his math degree, wants nothing to do with the seemingly perfect, intimidating girl who has everyone under her thumb. you. unfortunately, his literary talent has got him shoved him between a rock and a hard place when you want to write a book and require his expertise. you two are the furthest from compatible. wonwoo can’t see this going well. at all.

pairing: wonwoo x fem!reader word count: 23.8k genres/tropes: writer!wonwoo, university!au, plug!vernon + boyfriend!mingyu as prominent side characters, SLOWBURN (i am not fucking around this is my slowest burn yet), relationship drama, soul searching, strong angst/hurt (i’m coming for the jugular), comfort, romance, smut, a smoothie of every emotion on earth.

(!) warnings: drug use (weed, cocaine, ecstasy), wonwoo has anxiety + anxiety attacks + fairly dark thoughts, prescribed medication, gambling, intense language, infidelity, throwing up.

✧✎ a/n: just some quick things i want to make apparent!

the fic is told from wonwoo’s pov, not the reader’s! 

all major timeline events are organized through chronological dates

any smut or potentially triggering scenes are NOT MARKED bc the content is already quite mature, so just plz be aware of that! 

bolded and italicized text implies the characters are conversing in korean, tho it doesn’t happen often!

the fic in its entirety is 140k, so it has been split into 6 parts.

posting a bit earlier tn since i've got work tmo morning! i can't believe there is only one part left after this one!! :o

last chapter was angst up to the eyeballs so hopefully this one mends some of that heartache <3 still, much has yet to happen! this chapter contains one of my fave scenes teehee.

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

—AUGUST 3RD.

The last time Wonwoo had been at your apartment to help you write, it was around the evening, into supper. He remembered the scent from the three-wick candles lit up in the kitchen—bonfire and vanilla—which you insisted was a necessity because it was the perfect way to relax your tense mind. Deciding not to cook, you had ordered Chinese takeout instead, and the entirety of the evening was spent sitting criss-cross on the comfortable rug splayed across the living room floor, indulging in warm food, writing, and letting the TV flick through a random season of your favourite drama show.

It was perfect.

Even now, as he sat on the bench across the street from your apartment complex, Wonwoo could still recall all the infinitesimal details—the fried crunch to every vegetable-filled spring roll, how the candles softly crackled when you blew them out at the end of the night, your small and very sleepy voice bidding him goodbye as you walked Wonwoo downstairs into the lobby—each memory sprung alive with such vividness. Wonwoo wished he could be poised outside your apartment knowing everything was the same; undamaged and intact. But that was an outcome too blissful for reality to maintain.

You had a specific nightly routine, particularly on Thursdays, after work: showering, followed by having a quickly thrown together dinner, applying a face mask, and then a movie before bed. He found himself memorizing a lot of your patterns over the months.

Wonwoo hadn’t texted you—he was doing this completely unprompted, without an inkling of his arrival. Maybe that was a terrible idea which should be discarded for something gentler and less likely to explode in his face, but that would only lead to more ruminating and more ruminating meant less doing.

The thing was, it was nearing eight o’clock. Wonwoo had been sitting on the bench for almost a half hour while the sun gradually sank, watching the occasional green leaf flutter down from the chestnut oaks adorning and shading the parkway behind him. The longer he waited, the further the shadows of the trees stretched, until he was completely engulfed and framed alone underneath their dark, cool silhouettes. Light still spilled across the street, igniting the space where everyone else was strolling, each person steadfast in their pace to be somewhere that wasn’t a sunset orange city street.

Breathing out slowly, Wonwoo glanced down at his hands.

It was like the first time he met you.

Just suck it up. Go do it.

He walked between the trimmed hedges that led to the complex door. The lobby area was exactly as he remembered it, though Wonwoo had come to learn those little complimentary desserts and cucumber waters set out the first day he visited you were no longer a thing, which you had vehemently complained to him about during a brief promenade through the park—another one of your palate cleansing ideas.

“Oh! Those pastries, by the way—they stopped doing them! I heard about it from my neighbour when I went down to get the mail. I was pissed, pissed, pissed! Apparently, there’s a lady who made them specifically for our complex because her grandson lived there. Well, he’s moved out now, so we all got fucked! If I don’t get my cute little lemon square with the raspberry on top and the powdered confectionary sugar all placed in a decorative doily, I will legit kill myself. Something has to be done… hey—can you bake, at all?”

Hence your immeasurable disappointment when Wonwoo revealed to you that he wasn’t notably talented at baking. Still, the incident provoked him to spend at least an hour a night researching different recipes for lemon squares that he could manage to pull off if given enough time and a handful of supplemental trial and error.

Wonwoo pushed the button to the elevator.

The heartbeat heavied in his chest while waiting for the doors to pull apart, the anticipation and nervousness coming down hard like thick snow flurries. A commercial ding at last echoed throughout the vacant lobby. Wonwoo immediately stepped into the small, confined space, feeling his breaths begin to drag, becoming almost audible in his desire for more oxygen.

Without a doubt, this was probably the hardest thing Wonwoo had ever done in his life. Even moving away from the comfortability and closeness of his family in Changwon—no matter their disagreements or quarrels—couldn’t compare to the emotion so palpably tugging within him akin to an ocean tide under a full moon.

He felt every twinge, but he was still doing well to maintain his composure, though Wonwoo couldn’t help himself from fearing that the control might leave him in the cold wind of seeing you again.

To look into your eyes could feel quite dissecting and Wonwoo didn’t know if he was yet strong enough to stomach the scrutinization despite how warranted it was. The best he could do was to expect nothing—this wasn’t about gaining closure, or basking in the liberation from righting a wrong—it was about the effort of accepting a profoundly hurtful problem he caused. You were hit front and centre by the shrapnel and you deserved to hear acknowledgement.

At the moment of reaching your floor, he didn't knock straight away.

Wonwoo stood outside the unit for a moment, removing his glasses and pulling at the sleeve to his large black hoodie, massaging away a smudge from the lens. After fitting the frames back to his face, he knocked. Each breath was fluttery. He tried so damn hard to soothe himself because life was unfortunately not a loop of constant aid and permanent reassurance and sometimes there was no other option but to be discomforted. At least he had his own company.

There was no movement from behind the door.

Swallowing very dryly, Wonwoo knocked again.

Nerves twisted in his stomach and turned his complexion pallid, though it was just on the edge of manageable and Wonwoo would have otherwise been quite proud if not for the lock suddenly clicking and the gentle, slow twisting of the doorknob. His fist clenched, the blunt nail on his index finger picking at his scarred cuticle.

Even when he saw you—Her—for the first time in over a month, accompanying the liminal doorway, staring back at him with an expression that he could use an entire pencil detailing, Wonwoo was able to sustain his control. Still, his heart was fucking racing.

Your eyes were wide, glassy, though somewhat veiled by the dip in your brows that began to gradually furl deeper in their recognition of his presence. He felt his stomach drop faster than lightspeed when a frown twitched into your lips, distorting the surprise in your face to anger, while the fingers at your leg curled into a rigid fist. There was a dewiness to your bare cheeks and a sweetened aroma from your skin that suggested you had gotten out from the shower not too long ago.

Wonwoo relaxed his hands.

“Hey.”

Expectantly, you said nothing.

There was a rolling, emotional sea unabashed to your face, continuously morphing between every shade of wrath within the sticky silence. Wonwoo worried you might slam the door shut.

He needed to say something fast.

“I know what you want to do—you want to close me out. I get that. I can see it all over your body. And, believe me, I understand.”

Your hand grabbed the edge of the door. That initial glassiness in your eyes only grew glimmerier; the frown tacked onto your mouth somehow threaded with even more fulgurant rage. He could see that you were going to snuff him into nothing, like grabbing onto a candle wick with your fingers despite the hot wax and flame.

But it couldn’t end so abruptly.

Wonwoo held up his hands, baring his palms in defense.

“Just—okay. Her, I hurt you. Hurt is even too weak of a word to use. I know that. I promise I do. I know what I did… and… and I know that I must have some fucking gal to come here unannounced after everything I said, but I've got an explanation. I swear.”

There was notable uplift in his chest, watching your grip loosen on the door, fall down to the handle, losing the hostility. Wonwoo paused to catch his breath, ensuring his eyes never wavered.

 “And… if you decide to listen to me… and you still really don’t want me in your life… I-I can respect that. If all you want is for me to disappear and never bother you again… I can respect that…” he felt sick just voicing it, like he could faint at the prospect. “It might be such a stupid fucking thing for me to say, considering how I treated you, but I genuinely want to do whatever will make you happiest.”

Was it good enough? Feasible, even marginally?

Wonwoo didn’t know. He could only stand in place and study the metamorphosis of your face—from deep-seeded anger, to something pained and unintelligible, and now, contemplation. The inner monologue in your head was probably running on overdrive.

Your fingernails carved into the door.

He kept quiet, waiting, until you quickly wiped something from your cheek and swallowed the lump in your throat.

“… Fine,” you uttered in a raspy, weak tone.

Relief struck him like a breeze during a heatwave.

“Thank yo—”

“But if I say I want you to leave, then you will leave, and you will not say one word on your way out my door or spare me one glance, even if it’s from the corner of your fucking eye.”

Wonwoo was staring straight into your gaze, then shifting to the pointed finger sticking in his face. You were deadly serious.

He nodded.

Finally, however, you stepped aside to let him in.

Wonwoo didn’t know if he should sit or stand. If he should grab a stool at the marbled kitchen island or come to fit himself at the edge of the cream sofa. The interior was pretty much identical to his previous visit, though he realized that a few potted plants you once kept by the elegant floor-length windows were missing—he’d assumed they’d died—it was probably somehow his fault.

“Um, where should we—where do you want to—”

“Kitchen.”

With your arms folded stiff, you walked behind the island.

He stood on the opposite side, knowing it was likely not a coincidence that you opted to put a barrier between yourselves.

It was a foolish idea and he would certainly not extrapolate, but Wonwoo wanted to ask about you. He wanted to know how your work was going at the beauty salon, if you had any more obnoxious dinner parties with your parents—were you still writing? To even look at you from across the hard countertop, captured in the quiet dimness of your kitchen, with your soft and bare face and those cute silk pyjamas, was enough to stop his heart if he allowed it.

Wonwoo pushed up his glasses, sighing.

“Before I explain anything… I just want to say—”

“I don’t care about that,” you interrupted without hesitation, eyes scalding and sharp, “I know you’re sorry. It’s the least you could feel after everything you said to me. I don’t care.”

“R-Right…” he trailed off, sensing the heat from the overhead lights as though they were shining directly into his face. Wonwoo pulled at the sleeves of his hoodie, gulping, “I guess you want to know—"

“Why. I want to know why you did what you did.”

“Why?” He echoed dumbly.

“Yes, why. Pull out an entire script and apologize—I don’t want that. Acknowledge what you did—good for you. I’m glad you can see how fucked up it was, all while I had to cope with your analysis on why I’m such a god-awful person. People say sorry all the time. I know it can be genuine. I just don’t care. Sorry doesn’t help me understand. Sorry doesn’t take away the weeks I lost, tearing myself apart. Sorry doesn’t mean fucking anything to me if all you’re apologizing for is something I already lived and breathed.”

“No, that—yeah, it makes sense...”

His fingers suddenly gripped the edge of the island, knuckles ivory white. Your intensity was more disorienting than a drug, but Wonwoo knew he needed to stay calm. Breathe. Listen.

“Okay, so?” You shrugged. “Tell me, then.”

“Why I did what I did…” Wonwoo exhaled, staring at his reflection in the marble while his mind twitched into complete blankness. “Well... I-I guess I was feeling… there was a lot I was feeling and... fuck.”

At the last second, he scraped everything he was going to say.

Wonwoo then looked up at you, who was so cold and reluctant.

“You know, um… before I met you, I had a girlfriend. I know I've never mentioned it. But her name was Jeanie. I met her at the university, actually. She worked in the Morrison library—like, the big stone building that looks like a castle, almost. Anyway. I met her because I needed to sign out a textbook for this elective I was taking and she helped me find it… Jeanie. Yeah. I don’t know if you ever saw her or—she was really shy. But I felt like she listened well, no matter what you were saying, or what you were talking about. She would give you her full attention. And… I just remember thinking… I could tell you anything, Jeanie. I could tell you I fucking pushed someone in front of a bus and you would wait and listen and hear me out until the end. She would make you feel… normal… human.

But—the thing is—I’m sort of laughing because I’m saying all this now, but… at the time, even despite my love for her, and how much I trusted her… I just… I kept her out. I didn’t think it was a bad thing. She knew I had anxiety, but never knew how bad. I never told her I stopped taking my pills. I never told her my actual feelings about anything… like, despite having this perfect person in my life, I still couldn’t open up. I didn’t think there was much harm to it, either. It would cause tension. Things would get… uncomfortable… but as long as she was there, I was like—I can get away with this. I don’t need to really discuss anything. She will always be here.

And then… one day… she just… wasn’t… uh—ahem—sorry, just—something in my throat, b-but, uh… yeah. She was gone. All her clothes, all her belongings: toothbrush, makeup, clothes, stuffed toys, notebooks, mugs, house decorations. It was all gone. I remember coming home to an apartment that was stripped bare. Like a skeleton. She took every part of herself from it. And all I could do was dumbly stand there and look at the bones.

Her number was disconnected, too. There was no one I could get a hold of that would tell me anything until I got this weird, vague email from her mom. ‘My daughter won’t be seeing you anymore. She’s safe. No need to worry.’  Those words picked themselves into my brain. I would go to sleep seeing them. I would repeat them in my head all night, and wake up with them still chiming. And I thought to myself, with all the weight in my heart… how could she do this? How could she leave and take everything and erase me without a word? It had to be her and it had to be the world just proving my point: being vulnerable, trusting, expressive—it isn’t worth it.

I really, truly believed it. I mean, I held onto it. I always looked at her as the one with the issue, but—fuck—it was me. I was the fucking issue. I… I must have made her feel so unimportant. I probably confused her, destroyed our trust, fucked up her concept of love. Like… I made her feel so trapped… that she felt the best thing to do was disappear, because there was no other way out… I made her feel that way. Me. It was me the entire time. And… I never really processed that until you were six feet away, screaming at me, cursing me up and down in the same living room I came home to that day, all emptied out. I had it out with you, the way I never had with Jeanie…

And the truth is, Her… I kind of… I always sort of knew I had that problem. I lived without ever wanting to acknowledge it. But I never really… I-I basically… I didn’t care about fixing it until I met you.”

Wonwoo tilted his head and stared at your quivering bottom lip, the shininess to your razor-sharp eyes, the manner in which your fingernails were sinching indents upon the skin of your biceps.

He paused, chuckling.

“I know I already told you… but you used to terrify me. I didn’t think we would ever mesh. Whenever I looked at you, I saw someone who knew herself, and I was so severely the opposite. But miraculously, I guess, you ended up being the person I feel the most comfortable with… when I see someone strong like you unravel, it makes me want to unravel, too. The trust I had for you was infinite.”

From across the island, Wonwoo noted how your eyes momentarily drifted down. A lump was sitting square at the base of your throat and it took a very dense swallow for you to even speak.

“… Had?” You whispered with a sniffle, hugging yourself.

Rolling out his shoulders, Wonwoo frowned.

“It was the party, Her. If you remember us talking in the guest bedroom… I told you that story about my brother and I, about my decision to move from Changwon… you’d nearly grappled Bells down to the ground an hour before. You apologized to me because you thought it ruined my night, but I promised you that it was fine, that I would always be here for you. And then we split ways. And you… you were… well, there’s really no clean way to say it but—”

“I had sex with Mingyu.”

“Uh, well… yeah.”

You shook your head. “He’s my boyfriend, Wonwoo.”

“I know, I know. It makes it sound stupid but—”

“No—wait. You’re pissed at me because I chose to have sex with my boyfriend? Are you—are you hearing yourself?”

“Her, please, listen—”

“I went through all of your bullshit because of that!”

“Can I just—”

“Are you fucking kidding me?!”

“It was because I liked you!”

Wonwoo’s heart was thumping almost audibly against his chest while his veins soared with adrenaline. Your fists were sitting, balled, on the kitchen island, though they began to unfurl as the weight cupping his confession—which was a mild version of what he truly meant to say—hung in the air like the plumes from a wildfire.

“I liked you, a lot," he admitted, watching your eyes slim with confusion, "and I’m sorry if that ruins us even more… but it’s true.”

“Wha—what—no. What do you mean you liked me? You liked me as in what? You liked me in a crushy silly way that’s just for fun, o-or you liked me in a serious way, that’s like, you want to… you want…”

Your mouth hung open, shoulders hunching.

His teeth gritted. “I thought I could… I wanted to…”

“Please just spit it out.”

“I wanted to be with you. I wanted to be your boyfriend.”

Flares of heat melted slow across his face. Wonwoo could feel his temperature climatically rising. Still, it wasn’t the entire truth. His likeness wasn’t just that—it was a fully blossomed and unshakeable love. Though, he figured it might be too much, too suddenly.

“O-Oh…” you stuttered, “… and, you thought that…”

“Maybe you felt the way I did. Not that I’m going to ask if you did or didn’t. I mean, this was over a month ago. I’ve had lots of time to myself. I’ve been thinking plenty… the point is, I let those feelings affect my clarity and that’s why I felt so hurt. I felt like I was so open and candour just to kinda have it… thrown back in my face. But it just seems like every relationship I have, I sabotage it somehow… I didn’t go about us in the right way—not at all. It blew up into something terrible. I wish every day that I would have handled it differently. But I didn’t. I kept my mouth shut when I should have just talked to you.”

“Oh… god, Wonwoo.”

“I-I don’t know. It was late, and I was high—you were off a line of coke for fuck’s sake—I just—in that moment, didn’t it feel… like we were something? More than friends? Maybe you don’t remember everything. Some of it’s a blur, even to me. Like some fever dream.”

“No… I do remember some of it. I remember the spare bedroom. I remember how fucking comfortable that bed was. You were there… you were… helping me… and we... I know at some point we were lying down together but I don’t remember what I was thinking or everything I said… it’s just—it’s a lot… too much, almost.”

A groan reverberated from within your deepest cavity and he could only watch through the warm kitchen light as you leaned forward into your hands, your body slumped against the countertop and radiating with agony. Wonwoo didn’t know what to make of the spectacle, though he chose to let you swim in whatever sentiment was swallowing you whole, your head beginning to shake back and forth.

“Wonwoo… listen… I get that—I get what you’re saying, okay? I get that you have this fucking problem with vulnerability, and trust, and the—the, um—the self-sabotaging. I know. I have that, too. And I can understand that it was possible to misinterpret us…”

That word was like a decommissioning punch to his gut—misinterpret—as though it was merely wishful, ditzy thinking and it was him and him alone living inside the delusion despite the fact you were snuggling up against him. However, Wonwoo bit his tongue and simply listened. He didn’t need his bruised heart getting in the way.

“But that night was just—it was irresponsible, okay? On both our parts. I have a boyfriend who I very much l-like, and… and we’re just—you and I, I mean—we’re good at being friends. And you said it yourself that you’ve had time to think and get past it, so…”

“… Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

Wonwoo didn’t need his love to be reciprocated nor did he want to know if you actually harboured any feelings toward him back then. All he desired was for you to get what you had plainly wanted—the why. Perhaps it was unsatisfactory, lacklustre, or maybe it was beyond ridiculous and too inconceivable for words.

He was grateful that he’d even made it this far.

With a heavy, laboured sigh, you managed to push yourself from the marbled counter. A hand then propped onto your hip.

Your nails clicked once against the island.

“So… that’s it, huh?” There was a nasally tone to your voice.

Biting his lip, Wonwoo adjusted his glasses, nodding. “Mmhm.”

Your head tilted straight back, like you were attempting to stop a runny trail of tears from escaping down your cheeks. You suckled in a breath, pressed your lips together firmly.

And then, abruptly, you laughed, pinching at your nose while your eyes squeezed shut. It was an exhausted, humourless laugh.

“Fuck… fuck, fuck, fuck.”

He didn’t exactly know what it was you were cursing, whether it be the realization of what the fight actually meant, or a reaction to his timid, but expired, confession. It could be that the information was too daunting and you were left with no instinct of how to manage it. Wonwoo chewed down on his tongue, keeping silent.

When your eyes opened again, they fell toward the fridge.

“Um… wasn’t it your birthday? Back in July?” You asked with a wet sniffle, brushing a wrist underneath your nose.

“Yeah… July seventeenth.”

Not bothering to speak, you walked over to the fridge and pulled the door open, pale light emanating from inside as you rifled around, moving containers and cartons and fresh produce. It was then that you revealed a cardboard box. Returning to the counter, you set the box in the very centre, and with trembling hands, you began unsticking the corners in order to reveal the surprise inside—a decent sized cupcake, frosted high with thick, white icing.

You sniffed again, turning to grab something from a utensil drawer, and then another item or two out the cupboard.

“It’s from Terra Cotta—it’s just a red velvet cupcake with cream cheese icing—which I ordered as a dessert when I ate out with Princess the other night. But I was too full to eat it after stuffing my face with pasta, unfortunately. So, I got it packaged up. Stuck it in the fridge. Forgot about its existence until now.”

A butter knife fell onto the island, followed by a lighter and a single pink candle. You sighed, eyes turning waterier by the minute, and Wonwoo felt a twinge in his chest that ached like hell.

“Do you like red velvet cake?”

Wonwoo huffed, shrugging. “Um, I’m not sure. Never had it.”

You picked up the candle. “Want to?”

He smiled. “Sure.”

Rather than keeping the cupcake inside the box, you moved the dessert delicately onto a clean porcelain plate and proceeded to shut the lights off. The orange sunset that painted the streets had bled out all its lurid colour. Wonwoo was just beginning to realize how dark it was in the apartment. You propped the pink candle into the expertly piped cream cheese frosting and ignited the tiny wick. A shivering halo of fire reflected in the marble countertop as the flame wriggled and the wax burnt.

Honestly, he didn’t know what the moment signified—if it was a mere gesture of forgiveness, or just a simple means to release all the tension—Wonwoo had not a clue. He thought he should be looking at the cupcake but Wonwoo was looking at you and the lambent glow flickering across your very upset, still face.

Sniffling again, you picked up the butter knife.

“Okay… hurry up and make a wish, please.”

“Really?” Wonwoo chuckled. “You want me to make a wish?”

“Uh… yes. That’s what people do when it’s their birthday.”

“It’s not my birthday.”

“Well—fuck—the spirit of your birthday, then.”

“You're asking a lot of me, you know. All this pressure.”

“Oh my god—it's just one ditsy little wish. I'm not asking you to write out your will, or solve world hunger. It's one stupid, tiny wish. For the sake of the moment. Hurry up before the wax drips on the icing.”

“I think you can just peel the wax off once it hardens—”

“Fuck! I don’t care, Wonwoo! God! Just—” he watched with a satisfactory smirk as you leaned forward and impatiently blew out the candle for him, “—there! Now, you don’t even get the opportunity to make a wish. Hope it was worth it.”

“So, you made a wish in my place, right?”

“Shut up. I’m cutting you the smaller half.”

“You didn't answer my question, though.”

“You didn't answer my question, though.”

“Hey, I don’t sound like that.”

“No, I didn't make a wish in your place—here.”

“Thank you.”

“… How does it taste?”

“Uh, it’s good. A little firm. The icing is really rich, but I suppose that’s typical of cream cheese stuff. But overall, I like it.”

“I really love red velvet. Especially in cupcake form.”

“Hm. Didn’t know that.”

“I wonder if I could get a dozen ordered for my birthday...”

“We’re celebrating my birthday and you’re already thinking of your own? Can you at least wait until I’m out the fucking door?”

“You said it doesn’t matter!”

“Now, that’s not what I said.”

“Don't act like such a smart ass.”

Wonwoo knew he missed your quippy retorts, but he hadn’t realized he’d missed it this much. It was filling a pitted crater within his chest that had remained empty and stone cold ever since the argument.

As you turned the kitchen light back on, Wonwoo stuffed the rest of the frosted cupcake into his mouth and dusted his hands clean.

He didn’t know what was supposed to happen now.

Stubbornly, Wonwoo didn’t want to leave your apartment. It had been too long since he’d last seen your beautiful face, and half his summer was already wasted to lamenting the relationship he’d ungraciously snipped in half like a fresh garden rose. If you wanted him to leave, then he would oblige, because Wonwoo could never go back on his word to abide by the choices that might make you the happiest. That was what he cared about most, anyway.

From the opposite side of the island, you began to cross your arms again, fingers digging tight into your ribs. Wonwoo could see that the hues of grief and melancholy hadn’t really abandoned your face since his arrival, and the tears that had earlier welled up in your eyes were steadily returning, glinting along your bottom lashes as though they were dew droplets. Feeling his throat turn dry and sensing the air become dampened with your sadness, Wonwoo knew what you were going to ask—he braced himself quick.

“So… um…” you began pulling at the short sleeve of your silk-buttoned top, rolling the fabric between uneasy fingers, “it’s getting a little bit late and I just t-think you should go now, Wonwoo…”

He nodded, pushing at his glasses. “Yeah… of course.”

There was such an evident somberness about the way his feet dragged toward the door. You had walked him over, and now that the space between you was significantly less, Wonwoo had never battled so hard with his self-control to keep himself from touching you—even if it was just a slight, chaste brush of his fingers against yours—the simplicity and feel of your strawberry-scented skin would appease his constant aching. He glanced at you, saw that your arms were still crossed and your eyes trained to muse over the floorboards.

Wonwoo scraped against the cuticle of his thumb.

Does he just… leave?

It felt too abrupt.

He smiled at you, keeping it soft and mindful.

“Thank you for listening to me… I mean it… you didn’t have to but you did anyway and… uh, I don’t know. Just—thank you.”

“Mmhm…”

You were squeezing at your ribs even tighter now, pressing in your fingers so unnaturally deep. In fact, Wonwoo was beginning to feel worried, especially when he noticed the quivering in your frame and the hard bite you were sinking into your lower lip—how there were tears streaking one by one down the slope of your cheeks.

Wonwoo’s hand had been lingering on the doorknob, though it slipped off absentmindedly. He wanted to reach for your shoulder and give it a comfortable, warm massage, but he was still too fearful.

“Her… are you alright?”

After a cautious step closer, Wonwoo paused, attempting to peer at your face despite its pointed direction toward the floor. The question was worthless, he realized. You were crying and choking up.

“Do you… should I go?”

God—what an even more stupid question to ask—the thing he wanted to do least was leave when you were this hurt. But Wonwoo needed to know if it was his presence that was disturbing you.

You shook your head, sniffled up all the wet, runny congestion in your nose. He watched the teeth free from your lip as you gasped.

“I-I don’t know… I’m really, really sad, Wonwoo.”

He thought he might panic in the midst of your crumbling, however, there was too much guilt and heartache inside him.

“I know…” he murmured.

Somehow, it felt so criminal to just stand there and watch you weep, hearing every desperate attempt for a breath as you could only clutch onto yourself harder and let the tears helplessly fall.

Wonwoo swallowed, feeling his throat burn.

“Can I comfort you for a bit?”

You hiccupped, and your face pinched up in complete misery, the response struggling to escape through the large sob you cried out.

“Please.”

Immediately, his hands braced against the edges of your very warm, wet face. The heat was radiating like a summer blacktop, and the tears were quick to pool against his fingers as he did his darndest to softly clean and wipe them from your skin—though, Wonwoo came to accept that it might be futile—and he opted to cup your cheeks for just a brief moment, staring into your damp lashes and puffy eyes.

“Still such a gorgeous girl, even when you’re crying.”

You huffed at him, grasping onto his hoodie and tugging it.

“I need you closer, please.”

Waddling into his arms, your face smushed right against his shoulder. In the dim august dusk that meekly glowed through the windows of your downtown, sumptuous apartment, Wonwoo cradled you, coaxing a hand nice and gentle along your trembling head while his arm kept you secured firm into his body. As wonderful as it felt to hold you in the way he always dreamt of, Wonwoo knew that those tears wrinkling his clothes were mostly driven by him.

Your arms dug into his chest. It seemed like you wanted to burrow impossibly closer, into his ribs if you could, but the desire frustratingly couldn’t be fulfilled. To compensate, Wonwoo attempted to squeeze you even more, though he was somewhat afraid of cracking you in half. Maybe that’s what you were craving.

But he liked you very much alive.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into your hair, still damp from the shower and rife with the scent of fragrant blossoms, “I know you don’t want me to apologize, but I have to. Everything I said to you… it was just stupid, pent-up rage from my own shortcomings… so much was building inside me and I made such a dumb fucking mistake—taking our situation and using it as a target—it was all bullshit..." inhaling a breath, Wonwoo sighed. "I shouldn’t have let you walk out that door… but I don’t think you would have wanted to listen, anyway... you probably would have just told me again to go fuck myself… you know, that was actually the first time I’ve ever been told that?”

Your cheek nuzzled against his shoulder. The breath you proceeded to cough out made it sound like you were terribly ill.

“T-That’s hard to believe…”

Wonwoo smiled, smoothing a hand down your back. “You think so?”

Threading your fingers deeper into his hoodie, you nodded.

Stopping to contemplate, Wonwoo ended up agreeing, “hm… yeah... you’re right. There were probably a lot of times in my life where I deserved to hear that. But you’re the first, anyway.”

“Y-You… you deserve to hear it again… I mean, what were you thinking, Wonwoo?” Raising your head from his shoulder and sucking in a much-needed breath, you rubbed at the glisten iridescent to your face. “I didn’t know… I was just trying to t-tal-talk to you…”

Wonwoo unstuck some small, matted hairs from your forehead, guiding them away with the daintiest movements.

“I know you were...” he answered, keeping his voice quiet.

“And then, in the car… I-I just sat there and cried for so long that the sky got dark. I didn’t know what to do—like, I thought I might call Mingyu but he was at work a-and I had no idea what I would even say to him... and then, I called Princess. And she said I could come over and I legit couldn’t get one fucking word out to her.”

Meanwhile focusing on your choked, heavy sentiments, Wonwoo continued to clean the tears from your face. A warm hand had grabbed onto his wrist, not stopping him—just gently holding—as though you needed the contact to ground yourself, even a little bit.

“The shitty part was… even when I was at my angriest… I still couldn’t get myself to hate you. But I wanted it so bad, Wonwoo. I stayed up almost every night, trying to convince myself that you were the worst person I ever met, a-and that I would be better off without you—that you were a poison to me and everything about you is just a ruse to hurt people. No matter what I told myself, nothing would ever work… because I would—I-I don’t fucking know—I would think about how fucking good you make me feel inside. H-How happy I am when I’m with you. You listen to me, a-and you care about my thoughts and my interests and you’re just—you—you fucking live inside me somehow and I want you out so bad but there’s nothing I can do.”

Wonwoo had removed his hands from your face.

They slid down to your hips. He squeezed them tight, digging his thumbs into your flesh and bone over the silken shorts.

“You live inside me, too.”

Rubbing off your nose, you shook your head angrily.

“It can’t be like that.”

His throat twisted up.

“Why?”

“B-Because it—it can’t. You know I have Mingyu…”

“I only think about you. It’s always you. I don’t want it to change.” Wonwoo pleaded, hanging onto every word—trying to search for your eyes despite the adamant refusal to meet his gaze. 

“But I just—I can’t do it.”

“Why?”

“Because!” You pushed at his broad chest, forcing him away as the anguished, grief-stricken shout reverberated between the high ceilings. Gripping at your head, you started to cry again. “I-I’m still so fucking angry at you, Wonwoo. I hate holding onto it and I hate that it’s been over a month and I’m still processing everything, but I can’t just move on from those feelings! I have to see it through. ”

The air was ice cold against him.

He just wanted your perfect body back in his arms.

“O-Okay… okay. I get it.”

“You do? Because I can’t keep reliving this. I just can’t.”

Wonwoo sighed, curling his fingers in and out.

“No, I—I hear you. I promise.”

You still needed time. You weren’t ready to forgive him. That was okay, and he wasn’t the least bit vexated by it. If he had to wait an entire year, then he would wait. Nothing would shake him from you.

Slapping a palm against your cheek, you shoved away the further tears which were seeming to become an annoyance. Wonwoo wanted desperately to be the one to wipe your pretty face and kiss away the salty taste of your sadness, but he knew not to push his luck.

Beyond the windowpanes, the sky was nearly pitch black, pinpricked by all the distant lights from the city buildings.

“I’ll go now, okay?” Wonwoo murmured.

Folding your arms, you sniffled a little, nodding.

“Okay...”

He wanted to say goodnight to you, but then he thought of that rule you had proclaimed during your late-night phone conversation many moons ago—you had to say it first as courtesy.

Except, you were silent.

Nonetheless, Wonwoo had liked to think it was sitting right on the tip of your tongue, just as it was sitting on his.

—SEPTEMBER 8TH.

When he thought back on his summer, Wonwoo couldn’t believe the quickness with which it had flown by, especially considering how nauseously slow some parts moved while he existed, trapped, inside them. Still, it was probably Wonwoo’s most eventful summer since his move from Korea, in more ways than one. Now, it was back to university for his final year as a maths student, and Wonwoo actually couldn’t be happier for the introduction of routine and the opportunity to test all the inner workings he’d accomplished.

Just last week, Vernon had thrown together a small party in the backyard of his friend’s rental home. He was housesitting, and though Wonwoo wasn’t sure why the friend in question would pick a promiscuous drug dealer for hospitality upkeep, the party was apparently approved and Wonwoo had made the effort to attend.

It gave him the chance to reunite with Seungcheol and Seokmin who he’d unintentionally given the cold shoulder. He was just thankful they were relaxed about everything. The night was spent swapping stories from their summer by the makeshift firepit, drinking cold beers, and watching the fireflies twinkle in the dry backyard brush. Vernon had spent all his time sweet-talking some new girl he’d invited from the club, and when they disappeared inside for about half an hour, Wonwoo prayed his bladder could hold out.

Wonwoo had also invited Sierra.

He figured she was just too warm and amicable and he knew she would get along seamlessly with everyone there.

Since they last spoke downstairs in the pottery shop during late July, Sierra had gotten herself a girlfriend—a patron of the Honeymoon who worked up the courage to ask Sierra out after admiring her bartending skills, as he’d heard it—and Wonwoo was more than happy to extend the invite. Seungcheol had predictably brought along Princess, though Wonwoo hadn’t been too worried. They seemed to be on good terms despite the chip in the relationship.

If you had been in town at the time, Wonwoo would have invited you, too. But you weren’t, instead accompanying your mother on a three-day venture outside the city for some publisher’s trip.

But he kept you in mind the entire night. He saw you in the wide, bright moon sitting squarely above the crackling fire, and he felt you in the colder breezes that whispered the beginnings of a soft, fresh autumn. You were everywhere inside him, just like his blood.

Wonwoo had liked to think he’d done it right. All those conversations he shared with you over the phone since the reunion at your apartment seemed promising—even when they flared and ached like a broken bone—Wonwoo had just wanted to hear your voice and know your heart. Though, the conclusion had dipped him in a strange, confusing predicament he still struggled to reason.

“I think we work best as friends… we’ll always be friends.”

The moment was followed by the most intense silence, and then Wonwoo had shifted the phone against his ear, spreading on an audible smile that couldn’t have looked any faker in person.

“Yeah… I see that, too.”

But he didn’t.

He was still in love with you.

And now Wonwoo didn’t know what to do.

You had come to an agreement that he should no longer help you with the book as it had been a point of contention since the start. Plus, you were now confident enough in your skills to finish it.

Surprisingly, Wonwoo was okay with that.

Nonetheless, he did offer his help if you ever needed it.

In fact, as Wonwoo sat in the small auditorium for his newest elective—the continuation to last year’s creative writing—he was scrolling through an old document you had sent him months ago, containing a litany of the same messily written paragraph, just rehashed as you attempted to find the best wording for it. Wonwoo couldn’t help but smile against the palm squishing at his chin.

Your mind always did seem to work in twelve different ways.

Since he’d shown up early to the lecture, Wonwoo was able to pick a good seat in the middle. He recognized a few faces from last year as more students began to trickle in. Wonwoo kept his bookbag on the chair to his right because he liked the extra space, though he began fearing he might have to move it when the lecture hall filled to a degree past his expectations. Since when did all these people take the class last year? Was it because of the new professor? He spun a pen between his fingers, observing everyone rather judgementally.

“Hey—are you saving a seat for your non-existent friend, or are you leaving your bag here to make sure no one else would sit beside you? Not that anyone would want to with the way you’re begrudgingly staring down every single person who walks in here.”

Wonwoo grinned, the pen stilling into his hand.

He knew your attitude like the ducks on his aunt’s shower curtain.

“If it’s such a big deal to you, you can move it.”

“Oh, can I? Do I get the pleasure of moving your bookbag, Wonwoo? Are you really that kind as to save such a life-changing, personal, and intimate experience, just for me?”

Smirking up at you, Wonwoo dropped his bag onto the floor.

He was promptly greeted by a very shiny smile.

“That’s what I thought,” you said matter-of-factly, setting your iconic cream purse onto your lap after sliding into the chair.

“So,” Wonwoo huffed, leaning back and casting you a curious glance, “you didn’t tell me you were going to take creative writing.”

Pulling out some chapstick, you laughed. “Uh—you didn’t tell me, either,” the comment was wry and muttered through the obstacle of moisturizing your lips.

Scratching his temple, Wonwoo chuckled, “fair.”

“Gosh, there’s so many people in here. Way more than I was expecting. I mean, who even are these goddamn people? I hardly recognize any of them—oh my gosh, do you think it’s because of the new professor? I looked her up, you know. She’s published three books—they’ve all got crazy good accolades—and one of them was even made into a movie! That has to be why. Should I try to get face time with her after class? No—actually, I won’t. Then I look totally desperate. I’ll play it cool. I’ll wait until, like, three classes from now.”

“Well, you’re never short of making an impression.”

“Meaning what?”

“Fuck,” Wonwoo laughed, “what the fuck do you think it means? It’s not like I’m talking in morse code. You make an impression.”

You smacked a hand down on his knee. “Well, how do I know if you mean good or bad! And don't curse at me like that.”

“Okay, okay. You're right. I'm sorry.”

“Are you?”

“Yes,” he replied, softening his voice, “I am very extremely sorry.”

That little smile you gave him was enchanting.

Wonwoo cleared his throat. “And I meant good, obviously.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. If you say anything to her, she’ll love you.”

“That’s a bit extreme.”

“She’ll keep you reasonably in her thoughts?”

“Hm. Yes. I like that better,” you agreed.

While you busied yourself with removing the laptop from your purse and taking an extra minute to inspect your face with a small, compact mirror, Wonwoo glanced around the room again. A few people standing by the professor’s podium at the front were looking at you, their mouths moving in conversation, though Wonwoo could hear none of it from the general chatter. He supposed you were used to getting those dissecting, curious, maybe even sometimes hurtful stares. There was always a light shining on you, wanted or not.

As Wonwoo pulled open the class syllabus on his laptop, he felt a tap against his shoulder. Slightly turning his head, he spotted someone shuffling by in the cramped row behind him, waving.

“Hey, Wonwoo,” the stranger said quickly in passing.

Squinting at him through his glasses, Wonwoo nodded. “Uh, hey.”

You quirked an eyebrow. “Who was that?”

He shrugged. “No idea. Someone from last year, I guess.”

“I see. Mr. Popular. Taking names and breaking hearts.”

Wonwoo laughed, shaking his head. “The opposite, actually.”

You giggled so lightly at his response, and for a very slow moment, Wonwoo saw and felt the heat of your eyes stilling in focus upon his face. He squirmed somewhat in his seat, fingers picking at the rough, dark blue material upholstered over the chair’s arm. But then you resumed staring back at yourself in the compact mirror while applying another layer of lip balm, and Wonwoo had to subtly breathe out all the butterflies that fluttered up from his stomach.

With a satisfying snap, you’d shut the mirror, stuffing it back into the purse that was sitting atop his bag on the floor. He wanted to ask you how the book was coming along, how much progress you had made since he last proofread anything, if you were still engaging in those messily long sentences or had you since learned to clean them up.

But it was hard for Wonwoo to ask.

He studied the nervous hands in his lap.

“So… are you free after class?”

You tilted your head in thought. “Uh, I think so? This is my only class today, actually. No more SSA. I’m beyond happy. No one else seemed to take it well but me. I don’t care, though.”

“No, you made the right choice.”

“So, why do you ask?” Angling your body toward him, you smiled, and Wonwoo felt this pool of warmth expand in his chest.

“Do you want to stop at the café on Sunnyside?”

“Maybe. Is it good? I’ve never actually ate there.”

“I think it’s good,” he said, bouncing his knee. “I used to sit in there all the time. I don’t as much anymore, but it’s a cute place to visit. About a ten-minute walk from here. Plus, it’s nice outside.”

You nodded. “I’ll think it over.”

Knowing that class was starting soon, Wonwoo moved the phone sitting on the edge of his tabletop into his back pocket.

“Actually, can I ask you something?”

He stiffened in his seat, hardly managing a nod. That always seemed to be a weighted question, especially in your hands, and the fact that you were biting the skin of your bottom lip only stirred forth more worry. Wonwoo folded his arms and nodded, feeling his heart beat.

“Well, it’s just—there’s no exact date yet, okay? But sometime in very late September my family is having another dinner party.”

Wonwoo’s fingers dug into his arms.  “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah…” you trailed off, continuing to bite your lip, “and, I basically—I-I’ve kind of been blabbing to my mom and stuff. You’ve definitely come up in some conversations. She made a comment that I could invite you and even though I disagree with her on, like, millions of things, I thought it might be a good idea…” your eyes flashed at him doubtfully. “So, like, I’m not gonna force you or anything. I’ve ranted to you about these dinner parties before so I’m sure you know how awful they can be. But… I don’t know… I mean, you don’t even have to stay the entire time. You could just pop by, o-or, or something like that. I just… I think seeing you before will help calm me down.”

Out of everything you could have asked, Wonwoo was least expecting the dinner party question. It seemed to have a very routine structure and Wonwoo couldn’t help but think that his presence there might throw everything off-kilter and the last—the very fucking last—thing he wanted was for your parents to absolutely loathe him. You always complained about them. Even with Mingyu and Seokmin there to accompany you, it seemed never to be enough. However, Wonwoo would hate to leave you hanging so dryly out in the open.

Even if he dreaded it, you mattered more to him than any awkward or nervous sentiments he harboured about the situation.

“Uh… okay. Yeah. I can go.”

You straightened up like a hair standing on end. “Really?!”

He nodded, pushing up his glasses. “Yeah.”

“Oh my gosh! You’re the best!”

Leaning over the chair rest, you bracketed your arms around Wonwoo’s neck, squeezing him into a quick hug that left his heart racing. Your sweet smell lingered in his nose as you slipped away.

“That’s such a relief… and—yes—for as much as I complain about it, I promise I’ll do my absolute best to keep everything on the rails. I’ll get you out of anything awkward or uncomfortable. And if you feel like it’s too much, I’ll be right there. I promise.”

Wonwoo smiled bashfully, shaking his head.

“Don’t put so much pressure on yourself. I can manage a few shit conversations and uncomfortable silences. I’ve got my own problematic parents. I appreciate the thought, though. Means a lot.”

It would be another matter to anxiously dwell over until it actually happened, but Wonwoo was okay with it knowing how receptive you had become to his mood. More than anything, he didn’t know how to deal with Mingyu. The party had been decent. There were multiple people to bounce off and uplift the weight, substances to mellow the tension and distract the mind. But this felt very different. This would be more intimate. Less room for error in the form of lasting, arduous glances and short but gentle touches.

All he hoped for is that it might end better than the party.

—SEPTEMBER 29TH.

“So, I’ll come pick you up, okay? Just gotta text me.”

“… Yeah, that works. Okay.”

“Take a breath, Glasses. If anyone’s got this, it’s you, alright? No negative Nina shit. You’re lookin’ gorgeous, even more than me.”

“It’s Nancy.”

“What?”

“It’s—never mind.”

“Who’s Nancy?”

“I said never mind.”

“Okay, okay. Jeez… make sure you drop the attitude when you get in there. It’s not very cute of you, yeah?”

Wonwoo felt Vernon’s hand grip onto his shoulder, bestowing him a confident shake that somehow only served to reveal how jellied and weak he’d become. But Wonwoo also knew he couldn’t sit inside the mint-scented interior of his friend’s vanilla Camry the entire night, waiting for some lightning bolt to strike him with the energy he blatantly needed. Consequently, his attitude had gotten a bit snappy.

Vernon was right, though. Wonwoo had to find it within himself to relax, take a breath, and realize the time would fly once he was past the initial haze. Besides, you were there. That was all he really cared about. It made the most impossible things possible.

Looking down at the sleek, unwrinkled material of his black suit jacket, Wonwoo gave it a final and deciding tug. He then reached for the gift bag sitting by his feet. Inhaling, his lungs filled deep with air and Wonwoo was clicking his fist against Vernon’s.

“You’ve got this, playboy.”

“See you on the other side, I guess.”

Exiting the vehicle, Wonwoo spared one last hopeful glance at his face-studded friend before slamming the door shut, now caught outside underneath the moon’s shimmer. Late nights in September always seemed to be somewhat dewy and cold, with golden, ruby, and amber leaves slicked against the streets like flowers pressed into paper. Wonwoo shivered, smelling the earthiness in the atmosphere.

After tightening his fingers around the straps of the gift bag, he began making his way up the smoothly paved driveway, toward the welcoming and aglow ambiance that beamed from your family house.

He grabbed the rung at the door, slamming it a few times.

The anxious breath slowly flowed from his mouth as Wonwoo’s mind raced with who would be the one to answer. Feeling his circled glasses slip, Wonwoo pushed them back up using his finger. At the same time, the front door swung open, and in the clarity, relief washed over him like the caress of that autumn wind.

“Fuck! You’re here!”

Before Wonwoo could get a word out, your arms were already thrown around his neck. The hug was fleeting. As quickly as your body was pressed flush against his, it was gone a second later.

“Uh, yeah. Just got dropped off.”

“Oh my gosh. Come in, come in,” you chirped like an excited bird, pulling at his elbow, “I’m legit so happy you’re here. Don’t worry about taking off your shoes. I know I’m barefoot at the moment but I’ve been so freaking scatterbrained that I haven’t even picked out a pair of heels yet. You look amazing. I’ve never seen you dressed up!”

His face began to burn at the compliment.

“I don’t attend many things that require fancy clothes.”

“Well, there’s a first for everything.”

Smiling, Wonwoo realized that he hadn’t really marvelled your dress, but there was something awfully familiar about it—the shiny olive-green colour, the elegant, revealing slit at the right thigh, the thin yet simple straps draped along the open, lowcut back—he then remembered it was the final dress you had tried on from that expensive boutique in the mall. Somehow, the material looked even more stunning on you now than it did before.

His face grew warmer, sizzling almost.

“That dress has always looked perfect on you.”

There was so much more he could spew in the moment, some cloying, sweet thoughts and some very impure ones, too. But Wonwoo wasn’t trying to cross boundaries and he had to respect your wishes of staying as friends, even if it tore him up inside beyond words.

Fiddling with your fingers, you gave him a soft smile. “I’m glad you recognized it.”

The hallway suddenly got very quiet. You were both just standing there, staring at each other, biting lips and scratching skin.

“So, um, I guess I can show you arou—”

“Oh, there they are! Honey, they’re out here!”

Wonwoo’s tender gaze had suddenly snapped toward a woman barging out from an illuminated doorway, a wine glass poised in her hand while the largest, most bedazzled necklace he had ever seen weighed down to her chest. Weathered heels beat the floorboards, echoing between the walls as she stalked toward him.

“You must be Wonwoo!” 

Her hand was gripping onto his wrist and Wonwoo could only prompt a weak smile that was indicative of his racing, feeble heart.

“Yeah, correct. Pleased to finally meet you.”

 “Oh, charmer. Pleasure’s all mine, sunshine. Okay, but—let me get a good look at you. Don’t feel like you have to stand by the doorway, all polite-like. Come a bit more into the light, over here.”

“Mom, don’t pull him,” you warned between clenched teeth.

“Ah, it’s alright, it’s alright. Don’t fret so much. Sheesh.”

Standing beneath the warm and yellow glow from the hallway chandelier, there was notable heaviness in Wonwoo’s chest as your mother’s dilated, intensive gaze wracked along his every feature, as though she were the reading the fine print to one of her catalogues.

“You’re certainly gorgeous,” she complimented, “and that voice! So soothing. How do you not have a lovely lady on your arm?”

Wonwoo’s eyes skipped to you in complete and utter panic.

Grabbing onto her shoulder, you gently guided her away.

“Mom, come on. You’re smothering him, alright? Remember the thing with Mingyu? I told you not to do that anymore. He just got here and I want him to actually enjoy himself. Don’t be so… pouncey.”

“Okay. I got it,” the mom said, lifting her hand and wine glass in submission, seeming serious for no less a few seconds. “The princess of the house, FYI. She always gets what she wants.”

You knocked her touch away as she wriggled your chin, very poorly veiling your annoyance through a grumble, “it’s not like that.”

“Didn’t I call in your father? What’s taking so long?”

“I don’t know. He’s probably hiding in his office.”

“Is that where he is? Really? When I asked him to set the table? Jeez. You spend all day cooking a meal, chopping and dicing and braising and frying, and the man just can’t be bothered to put out some knives and forks. This is why I opened the wine early, y’know.”

Your arms folded, and you appeared so much smaller.

“Seokmin set the table already.”

“Oh! What—he—he did? I didn't even notice!”

“Yes, like an hour ago.”

“Oh my gosh! That boy’s an angel. Raised so well, wasn’t he? You know Seokmin, right, Wonwoo? You’re all friends?”

Awkwardly shifting in his place, Wonwoo nodded. He couldn’t help but wonder where Seokmin or Mingyu were. There was dulled music echoing softly from a distant room in the house. Down the hallway corridor, it seemed to open up into a big living space.

Suddenly, your mom began to wiggle her finger at the bag he was holding limp in his hand, and for a moment, Wonwoo had even forgot it existed. She sipped from her gradually disappearing wine again, her words sounding muffled as they fogged up the glass.

“Is that a gift I spot in your hand, dear?”

“Oh, yeah,” he answered.

Flattening a palm over the intricate jewel necklace glittering down her chest, your mother fawned adoringly, and Wonwoo’s stomach immediately dropped knowing it wasn’t her gift at all.

“Gosh! You shouldn’t’ve!”

“Uh, a-actually, it’s not—it was—I got this for your daughter.”

His gut twisted, watching the excitement and gleam drain from your mother’s face, her smile wiped away like an eraser to a penciled drawing. At least you had brightened up, though it wasn’t without caution, and Wonwoo wasn’t entirely sure what to say.

Straightening her spine, a grin then twitched unnaturally to her mouth. She was directly back into the wine for another drink.

“Well, that’s certainly thoughtful.” Wiping off her lips, she unnervingly held Wonwoo’s gaze for a brief moment, her eyes harder than diamonds. She then turned toward you, proceeding to gesture in a swirling motion with her finger at your face. “Sweetheart, if you don’t mind, could you take a few minutes to just fix your makeup?”

Your expression faltered, shoulders sagging.

“My makeup? What’s wrong with it?”

“Well, the lashes are lifting a bit. It’s not too noticeable in this dusky hallway but out in the proper light, everyone will be able to tell. And I wouldn’t use that shade of lipstick. Remember the tip I gave you? When we take photos that colour is not going to show well.”

“I do remember, yes. But I thought it could match with—”

“No but’s. These dinners are important for us, alright? Go fix.”

Wonwoo held his breath. In all his time spent getting to know you—your likes and dislikes, your pet peeves and oddly specific rules about the way things should work—the one cardinal sin was to never interrupt you. Even when he was fighting tooth and nail against you in his apartment, aching with hurt and bitterness, he didn’t cut you off once to get his word over yours. He doubted Mingyu had ever done it, and he was positive Seokmin hadn’t, either. To actually witness it felt somewhat like a crime requiring swift punishment.

Though, for all that Wonwoo was expecting in response to the rage that had just rippled across your face, there was nothing.

Because you’d choked it down like foul cough syrup.

He watched the fist unclench at your side.

“Okay,” you stated in surprising simplicity, “I’ll go fix it,” still with a sprinkle of attitude that your mother opted to ignore as she announced her trip into the kitchen to check the food.

The second she was obscured from view, a noticeable glisten of tears and exhaustion glimmered in your eyes, though you sucked all the emotions back with a deep, deep breath.

“Do you want to come with me, upstairs for a second?” You asked in a tight, shaky voice. “Unless you want to find Seokmin.”

Wonwoo shook his head. “No, I’ll see him later. Of course I’ll come with you,” he answered, smiling at you with all his tenderness.

He proceeded to follow you up a dimly lit staircase draped in a chocolate brown rug. The house looked quite small from the outside, hidden almost, by the inky night, but as Wonwoo accompanied you at the robust, wooden dresser kept against the corridor wall, he realized just how long the house actually was.

Your lower back pressed against the dresser, hands gripping the edges and fingers scraping the underside of the chestnut.

Wonwoo left the gift bag sitting next to an amorphous, black metallic sculpture that he couldn’t even begin to understand, then dusting off his palms and watching you shake your head.

“I mean, you’ve only been here for five minutes, and I’m already breaking out my seams,” you laughed, dabbing at a tear travelling too far down your cheek. “I’m sorry. I didn’t intend for it to be like this so soon and I’m not gonna force you to stay.”

“Stop saying that,” Wonwoo urged, tucking his hands into his pockets, “I told you I would come. I’m not going to abandon you.”

You paused, biting the swollen skin of your bottom lip.

“… Okay.” Looking down at the ground, you wiped your damp face again before hugging yourself. “She always does this… she always has something to point out. Nothing can ever be perfect for her. I’ve spent, like, all day, preparing myself, because that’s what she wants, and it’s still not enough. I don’t get it. I feel—” you sucked in a needy breath, pinching at your nose, “—I feel like I’m just some stupid doll she’s trying to perfect, but I never came perfect in the first place, so it’s all a big waste, and somehow, it’s my fault… I know I’m unloading and I’m sorry for that, too. This day has just been—I hate it. I hate these dinners. I fucking hate everything about them. I want to bang my head against the wall.”

Wonwoo smiled at you.

He untucked a hand from his pocket and reached for the clenched fist at your hip, spreading apart your fingers into his.

“Don’t worry about that. I’m listening, okay?”

Though your eyes were misty with tears and tiredness, you managed to return a frail little grin that was deeply sincere. Your hand tightened in his for a moment, and then you were stepping into him like he was a fresh blanket straight from the laundry. Fingers bunched up his suit jacket and your face was warm against his neck.

“I think it’ll be a little better tonight,” you whispered. “You’re the only one here who doesn’t make me feel like I’m going insane.”

Wonwoo passed up and down your bare back with his hand, admiring the softness to your pampered skin and the luscious scent of your hair, though he knew you had probably hated every moment trapped in the hot shower, exfoliating and shaving and scrubbing your body clean. He felt you squeeze onto him harder.

“Can I see what your gift is?”

“Oh, yeah…” he muttered, pulling apart from your heat, “it’s kind of a two-in-one thing. It’ll make sense once I explain.”

“That seems exciting,” you answered, returning to your lean against the chestnut dresser, folding your arms and smiling.

“So, um—if you remember the poker game—I owed you a pretty big lump of cash,” Wonwoo said, reaching inside the bag to grab a smooth, matte box, “and then there was the day at the museum, of course. Running home in the rain. You lost a shoe.”

“Oh my gosh, yeah…” you giggled fondly at the memory.

“I was at the mall—and, yes, I know. Why would I be at the mall when I hate the place?  But I was getting my laptop fixed at that tech store on the third floor, and I also needed wires for my—okay. Never mind the rambling. Fuck, I’m turning into you now. Anyway, I walked past that one store you love and get pretty much all your clothes from. They had these heels in the window. The white ones, which you said to me are actually not white, but a very specific shade of ivory that I couldn’t see and still fail to see, to be honest. And they had that little bit of gold in the straps… but the point is—I got them for you.”

You glitched for a second, and it wasn’t until Wonwoo was basically pushing the box into your chest that you seemed to realize.

“Wait… you actually went to Rosette?”

He nodded matter-of-factly. “Yes.”

“Are you fucking serious?” Immediately, you flipped the box open and began flicking away the neatly trimmed cover of glittered tissue paper. “You got me the Gold Crystal Rope-Strapped and Ivory Ankle four-inch from Mirabella? Wonwoo! I-I was just talking when I saw them in the mall! I mean, you didn't have to actually get them!”

“I know,” Wonwoo answered, helping you pick the heels out from their imprints, “you’re always just talking, though.”

“Unnecessary.”

“To you.”

He was thankful you were too enraptured by the shoes to bother retaliating. Under regular circumstances, Wonwoo wouldn’t ever have been able to make such an expensive decision, but he still had some leftovers from winning the other poker matches at the party, in addition to a work bonus, and he knew that he still needed to repay you those favours even if they weren’t being held against him.

“They’re so freaking gorgeous,” you fawned, inspecting each heel like a jeweller would to their collection, “I can’t tell if I want to hit you or jump on you in happiness. I love them so much.”

“Well, I’m glad.”

“Oh my gosh, can you help me put them on? Pretty please?”

“Uh—yeah, ‘course.”

You gripped the edges of the dresser, slightly sitting on the surface as Wonwoo squatted down to your bare feet. He collected the first ivory heel and loosened the anklet buckle, proceeding to help slide the shoe on until it was fit perfectly. As he busied himself with loosening the buckle to the other heel, Wonwoo felt the ghost of your fingertips brush through his hair. In a spilt second, he froze, staring up at you, who was grinning back in utmost beauty.

“Just fixing your hair a little,” you stated innocently.

Wonwoo readjusted his glasses, nodding. “O-Okay.”

The action hadn’t felt that innocent, and as Wonwoo swallowed tight and continued sliding your ankle through the heel, he was overwhelmed with the most blaring, vivid, heart-hammering thoughts of smoothing his hands along each your soft thighs, pinning up the slippery silk to your olive-green dress, tugging aside your thin panties, burying his face and tongue so hot and heavy into your—

“Dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes!”

“Fuck,” you groaned, lolling your head back while Wonwoo finished settling the heel onto your foot, “just in case you didn’t connect the dots, that means we need to get downstairs.”

He returned to height, straightening out the sleeves to his suit jacket. For some reason, there was such an intense disappointment burning in his chest, as though his carnal thoughts were not just thoughts but an actual intent to pleasure you—which was completely ludacris given your friendship and the fact your boyfriend was probably downstairs—that had now been ripped away from him by the shrill pitch of your mother’s beckoning voice.

“Should I take the box—”

“It doesn’t matter.”

You grabbed onto his hand, tugging him toward the staircase.

“C’mon. Let’s get this shit over with.”

And Wonwoo followed, though he couldn’t help but note how you carefully dropped his hand upon rounding the corner into the kitchen, where Seokmin and Mingyu were standing about.

“Hey!” Seokmin exclaimed, pointing toward him. “Wonwoo!”

Expectantly, Seokmin looked like he belonged in a suit. That dark cherry red colour was rather fitting and only served to amplify the glow of his indestructible enthusiasm. Wonwoo awkwardly sauntered over to them, playing with the threads in his pockets.

Mingyu’s suit was more charcoal in tone, with his hair expertly gelled and combed. He mirrored a suave movie star as he leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping from his partly-filled wine glass.

“Uh, hey guys.”

You were hovering at the stove alongside your mother, talking in a hushed manner, while she stirred a large and bubbling pot of aromatic sauce, smelling like rosemary and perhaps cooked off vodka or some other alcohol. There was food everywhere—warm bread plates and fresh salad bowls and artistically painted casserole dishes covered by tinfoil. A window had been cracked open to help alleviate the heat swarming the kitchen, which Wonwoo could feel a little too uncomfortably in the air.

Seokmin grabbed at a couple crackers and cubed cheese organized onto a charcuterie board behind him.

“Don’t you clean up well?” He complimented with a big grin.

Wonwoo shook his head. “Not that well.”

“Hey—” Seokmin suddenly grabbed onto Wonwoo’s shoulder and pointed a finger at him, “—you’re here, alright? That’s an honour.”

Mingyu brushed the cracker crumbs off Seokmin’s suit.

“Don’t snack too much. She hates when you can’t eat.”

“Uh—I made this stupid board. I get to eat from it whenever I want. I’ll be fine, anyway. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

Mingyu stopped tidying Seokmin’s suit, instead grabbing his wine glass off the countertop, sighing aloud, “that was a stupid idea…”

From the dreariness to his words and the slouch pulling down his shoulders, Mingyu didn’t seem to be all that excited or even half as chipper as Seokmin, though Wonwoo suspected that he knew the dinner parties to be a complete trainwreck. If Mingyu could hardly stomach a night with your parents despite all the stunning food and drink, then Wonwoo had no idea as to how he’d survive.

“So, um…” Seokmin lowered his voice, tipping his head close to Mingyu’s ear, “should we give him the rulebook?”

“Rulebook?” Wonwoo echoed.

“Uh,” Mingyu sipped quickly from his wine, “yeah, guess we can do that. Not in here, though. Let Her talk to her mom.”

“Easy peasy lemon squeezy.” Seokmin smiled, flashing a sly wink at Mingyu. “Hey, we’re gonna give Wonwoo a quick tour, alright!” He then called, his hand wrapping around the boy’s bicep, already beginning to tug him toward the hallway. “It won’t take too long; we’ll just show the bottom floor! Be back in a few!”

“Oh, uh, I guess that’s fine,” your mother replied while grabbing onto the pot handles with two tea towels, moving the sauce from the element, “but please do be quick! And, Seokmin—do you mind fetching the hubby from his office after you’re done?”

“I can do that, for sure,” he answered, smiling bright.

“Thank you, dear. I appreciate you so much.”

He was escorted out the muggy kitchen and down the corridor, flanked by Mingyu and Seokmin until they reached the living area where the piano music had been coming from.

Before he could issue even one question, Wonwoo was pressed down onto the red, very large-cushioned couch. Seokmin sat on the marble coffee table while Mingyu fixed himself onto the arm of a sturdy leather chair, crossing an ankle over his knee. Neither boy spoke for a moment and Wonwoo couldn’t help but feel a bit frightened as he listened to the elegant, soft piano tune fill the space.

“So… what’s the rulebook?”

“Well, it’s not an actual rulebook,” Seokmin corrected, “that was just for dramatics, allure, etcetera. But that’s what we call it.”

“We? You and Mingyu, you mean.”

Shifting in his place, Seokmin nodded, and his voice dropped an octave lower, "play the game long enough, you learn the rules.” 

Mingyu’s chuckle dampened into the wine glass. “And there a lot of fuckin’ rules, that’s for damn sure,” he said with a scary smirk.

“But—we’ll just give you the crash course for now, as to lessen the overwhelmingness of what it takes to endure a dinner party.”

“Um, does Her know—”

“There are three principal rules; I’ll give them to you quick, so listen good,” Seokmin interrupted, leaning further into Wonwoo’s space, speaking quietly. “Rule one: do whatever the mom says, even if she doesn’t say it directly, or scarcely alludes to it. Makes everything ten times smoother, and gets her to like you, which is very important. Rule two: there is a guaranteed argument between Her’s mom and Her every fucking time—you stay out of it—never pick sides.

If you do get roped into whatever petty, passive-aggressive shame-fest they rake up, insert a compliment. Example: this steak is so tender and perfectly cooked! FYI—we’re not eating steak, so think of your own thing—and rule three: Her is like a freshly shaken can of carbonated soda and she can explode at any given moment. As her dear friends, and boyfriend, we have to make sure that doesn’t happen or else you’ll want to axe yourself.”

Wonwoo furrowed his brow heavily at Seokmin, noting a few crumbs left on his cherry suit from the cheese and crackers.

“How do we stop that?” He asked genuinely.

Mingyu proceeded to lower the nearly emptied wine glass against his knee, clearing his throat, “you don’t stop it.”

“But I thought—”

“It happens every time, without fail,” Seokmin answered, shaking his head, “but you can prolong it. You know, like cracking open the cap and letting out some air instead of the bottle fizzling into obliteration right away. The explosion’s not as big then. It’s easy. You just keep the conversation pushing. Don’t leave any space for bickering. Mingyu sometimes takes Her downstairs, or outside. To be fair, you don’t really have to worry about the last part.”

“Yeah,” Mingyu huffed, hardly amused, “lucky you, huh?”

“What happens if that fails?” Wonwoo asked.

Seokmin leaned back, tipping his head to the side. “Last year Her’s mom spent six hours braising these honey-garlic barbeque ribs with asparagus and stuffed potatoes. Guess where the food ended up by the end of the night? Because it wasn’t my starving mouth.”

“I don’t think I want to know,” Wonwoo sighed.

Bobbing his head approvingly, Seokmin smiled. “Exactly.”

“If these dinners are always such a mess, why do they keep happening? I mean, it doesn’t seem like anybody enjoys them.”

Fiddling with the thick folded cuff of his dress shirt, Seokmin shrugged. “I don’t know, to be honest. They used to a be a lot bigger in the past. Way more relatives and family friends. Just get-together's with a lot of food and drink and intoxicatedness. A way to maintain community and repore or something. But it’s shrunk down over the years. I still can’t tell if that makes it better or worse.”

Mingyu rubbed tiresomely down his neck, somewhat wincing as he massaged a sore spot. “It definitely makes it worse.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Seokmin agreed, “it puts more pressure on the rest of us… anyway, I should grab ‘the hubby’ as per request.”

Snickering, Mingyu flashed his pointed canine teeth and raised the wine back to his lips. “Makes your skin crawl, doesn’t it?”

With an uneased laugh, Seokmin smirked. “Every time.”

As the boy disappeared down a dark hallway to the right of the large living area, Wonwoo assumed he and Mingyu might return to the kitchen as it was probably not the best idea—leaving you alone for too long with your nitpicking mother—but when Wonwoo began lifting himself from the plump couch cushions he was sunken into, Mingyu’s hand touched at his shoulder to stop him.

In an instant, trepidation surged throughout his body.

Wonwoo’s face had most certainly gone white, though the lighting in the living room was too warm and orangey to tell.

“I just wanna talk to you about something real quick,” Mingyu said, stretching forward to leave his empty glass on the marbled table.

“Oh—um, okay.”

When he thought about the past few months, Wonwoo realized he hadn’t even spoke to Mingyu since the blowout party back in June. So much had happened since then, good and bad. Wonwoo could only suspect that he was about to hear the worst talking-to in his life, though he attempted to feign the terror for casualness.

Mingyu swooped a hand behind his ear, brushing back his perfectly styled hair, and looked to Wonwoo almost… forgivingly?

“I know you and I haven’t seen each other since the party at Seungcheol’s. I know some shit went down between you and Her and that it really blew up and you guys weren’t talking for a bit. She said, like, it was something to do with the book she’s writing and you were having differences about the direction and it kinda exploded.”

Wonwoo prayed it was imperceptible, the gigantic breath of relief he fought to exhale without too much giveaway, knowing that you hadn’t told Mingyu the truth to the argument. He was happy about your work-around, though he didn’t know if it was… morally right… that you opted not to tell your boyfriend—the person you supposedly trusted most—one of your biggest miseries.

“Oh… yeah,” Wonwoo exhaled, “it got pretty ugly.”

Mingyu nodded. “I honestly don’t even know if she’s still working on it. She doesn’t tell me about it. I don’t get why it’s so fuckin’ important to her but… I digress. Anyway, like Seokmin said, you’re here now, so you two obviously hashed it out. She seems to really appreciate you as a friend. And—hey—it helps takes some of the weight off my shoulders, y’know? Girl’s a fuckin’ handful sometimes.”

Wonwoo swallowed, feeling increasingly uncomfortable with the conversation and the alcohol he was beginning to smell from the boy’s clothes. He understood the situation was stressful for Mingyu, that he might be teetering between things absentmindedly, yet he nonetheless questioned what Mingyu’s intentions even were with you.

“Well, uh… I really enjoy spending time with her, too,” he murmured as Mingyu reclaimed his emptied wine glass.

There was a strong grip on his shoulder, shaking it.

“You’re a good person, man. Seriously.”

Using Wonwoo as a support crutch, Mingyu heaved onto his feet, then proceeded to straighten out his charcoal suit jacket.

“M’kay, I’m going back to the kitchen. We’re probably gonna eat soon so don’t spend too long losing your head out here.”

“Yeah, got it.”

He watched Mingyu amble down the long and subtly aglow corridor, carrying his wine glass low at the hip until reaching the threshold to the kitchen. You had suddenly popped out, stumbling into him with a smile and some hushed words that were impossible to comprehend as Wonwoo sat alone, listening to the jazzy piano tunes from the record player. After nipping a quick kiss against your boyfriend’s lips, you entered the living room with a crooked head.

“What’chya doing out here?” You inquired, pressing a hand against the grand, wooden frame adorning the entry way.

Wonwoo grabbed at his knees while pulling himself up.

“Just a quick pep talk. And a fly-by of some rules.”

“Oh,” you chuckled, “Seokmin’s crash course, was it?”

“Yeah.”

“Sometimes I call him John Green just to piss him off.”

Wonwoo smiled, stepping around the marble coffee table. “I feel like that might serve to stroke Seokmin’s ego above all.”

“No, it starts to irritate him after a while. You should know at this point I can piss off just about anybody. Even Seokmin. It’s a talent. Though I don’t think it’s enough for me anymore. I want to start pushing people to rock bottom or I haven’t done enough.”

There was a teasing sparkle in your eye as Wonwoo approached you. He could smell all that deliciously cooked food from down the corridor and his stomach was certainly responding to it.

“I can get you there,” Wonwoo said. “Don’t stress.”

“Forgot to fix my makeup. Want to come with me?”

He agreed, and you began to guide him across the living room, swathed in all its expensive mahogany fabrics, obtuse looking vases, and jade-green lamp shades that reminded him of late-night study sessions at the campus library. You pulled him past a wide shelf that was organized with much smaller, glazed sculptures that caught his attention as they lowly glimmered in the mellow light.

“Woah,” he gripped at your wrist, stopping your swift walk, “someone in your family loves ceramics, I’m guessing?”

You ricocheted back into his side, then taking a few seconds to adjust some invisible flaws in your hair before responding.

“That’s just some pottery I did when I was younger.”

Wonwoo squinted at you. “Really?”

“Mmhm.”

“You took classes?”

Shrugging, you muttered a simple, “yeah.”

“Is that why you were so interested in that vase back at my apartment?” When you continued to stare at him blankly, Wonwoo cleared his throat and reiterated, “the red one? It was really round at the bottom, but the stem was tall and skinny. You really liked it.”

“Oh—yeah—sorry, it’s been a while since I’ve last been to your apartment. I don’t know if that’s why I liked it. Probably.”

He smiled at you inquisitively. “I’m surprised you never mentioned that to me, considering my landlord is a ceramics teacher. I mean, as you know.”

Your eyes seemed reminiscent and adrift, glancing from sculpture to sculpture—lopsided teapots, poorly shaped toadstools, crooked little spoons—there were a plethora of your small creations laid across the shelf, gathering dust and appearing untended to.

Wonwoo cleared his throat, hands buried in his pockets. “I just didn’t peg you as someone who liked getting their hands dirty. I suppose it’s different when you’re younger, though.”

Pursing your lip, you nodded. “Things are always different when you’re young. My mom used to use the spoons I made to scoop sugar into her coffees. But she doesn’t drink coffee anymore. Just wine.”

“Well, it’s nice she appreciated your effort.”

There was a beat of silence. Your expression twitched.

“I had to beg to take those classes, y’know?”

Wonwoo raised an eyebrow at you. “How come?”

Your arms folded, and you shrugged again. “My parents honestly saw it as a distraction. I mean, why let your daughter play with some clay when she can hardly pass her math tests. But there was this super artsy girl in our recreational class who always made the best teacups from the clay, and she would paint them so beautifully… I wanted to be able to do what she did. So I asked my parents again and again and again until they fucking gave up and found a pottery class to enroll me in. Although, I'm pretty sure they supposed I would drop it sooner or later. Like it was just an itch I had to scratch. It was in this little art shop that looked similar to your landlord's.”

He smiled at you. “Was your instructor a polish lady?”

“No, she was not polish,” your head shook as you swept some dust from the black shelf, rubbing your fingers together, “I remember that much, but I don’t remember her name. It was after a flower, though. Something too complicated for my eleven-year-old brain to retain.”

“Probably Chrysanthemum or some shit,” Wonwoo muttered.

You laughed at his comment, “probably.”

“… Well, you must have liked it. You made so much stuff.”

“Oh, I loved it. I mean, looking at some of this stuff now, it’s not that great. But I didn’t really care that much at the time.”

“Considering you were a child, it’s pretty damn good.”

Wonwoo felt your elbow dig shallowly into his ribs. “Don’t try to flatter eleven-year-old me,” you warned him. “If you would have seen the other girl’s creations, mine would turn from pretty damn good to: well, at least she tried something new!”

“No,” Wonwoo chuckled, “that’s dumb.”

“Honestly, there was so much stuff that I made. More than half of it’s not even on this shelf. There wouldn’t be enough space.”

“Shit. What happened to it?”

You pinched at the olive fabric of your dress, massaging the silk between your fingertips for a moment while examining each and every sculpture moulded and grooved by your tiny childhood hands.

“My favourite part was destroying it,” you answered.

Wonwoo narrowed his brow, “I don’t think I could do that to something I spent so much effort and time creating.”

“Yeah, and that’s all good and fine,” you reasoned, adjusting your shoulders, “but I just didn’t see it like that, I guess...”

Intrigued, Wonwoo smiled at you. “How did you see it, then?”

For a moment, you thought, staring off into space.

 “Well, I just don’t understand why people are so afraid of things being ephemeral. When you’re an artist, or a writer, or a musician, I feel like you want to make something that will last forever, transcend eras, touch people for a lifetime, or, I don’t know—you want it to stay preserved, like when they embalm things. But I feel like there’s just as much worth and importance to the things that hardly last at all. I feel like there’s so much freedom and self-assurance in building something up and then crushing it down.

That’s what I loved about it. When the clay would explode from between my fingers and stick into the lines of my palms because I was squeezing it so hard—it just felt good. Like it was supposed to happen. Like I was letting go. It doesn’t have to mean I… failed. It doesn’t have to mean I’m good at it either… I guess I just want to enjoy things without the burden of having to prove I deserve to enjoy them. Why can't I just do it? Why can't it just be between me and myself, you know? Why can't I decide what to take from it?"

Wonwoo nodded at you.

Contrarily, that was the opposite to his own beliefs surrounding his art, and maybe even his life. Wonwoo could never let things go, nor was he sure when that quality had permanently wedged its way into his human nature. For some reason, Wonwoo saw the past memory where his older brother had scampered away into the bushes surrounding the public pool during that game of Lifeguard all those hot summers ago, leaving an adolescent Wonwoo to get dragged from the water and thrown onto the sun-scorched concrete as everyone watched.

He saw the fuzzy, white glow that beamed from his laptop left open in the darkness, sitting still with all those pages he wrote, and yet to be filled with the words that he could never string together.

Unlike you, Wonwoo had never figured out the mechanism to letting things go. Instead, he held everything—between his fingers, across his shoulders, on his tongue, under his skin, deep inside his chest. Hence, for a split second, he was incredibly jealous that it seemed you could live without weight. You were just a breeze.

And just like everyone else, you were still discovering yourself.

“Anyway. That’s my take on it."

"Why'd you stop? This seemed like such a big part of you."

You flicked your eyes around, shrugging. "Things got in the way."

Wonwoo wondered what things, though he didn't ask.

"But we should hurry. Dinner will be ready soon and my mom will flip if we’re not at the table in time. She interprets it as ‘we don’t care’ and that will open a can of worms nobody wants to see.”

You sighed, then grabbing onto Wonwoo’s arm to pull him down another mysterious, long corridor in your maze of a house.

“Oh, Mingyu, that’s brilliant! I’m so glad the interview went well! I had him slip in a good word for you, too. But I’m sure you put the nail in the coffin. Walking straight into a promotion, you know, that’s something so hard to come by. You’ll settle just perfectly.”

“Yeah, thanks. To you as well. That word went a long way.”

“Making the right connections is certainly key.”

“It is. But I’m just lucky, is all. Your daughter is the real key. She’s given me so much—you all have—I just wanna let you know how grateful I am. Seriously. You’re some of the kindest people.”

“Shush! Before I give you a lash from this towel. It’s been sitting under the potato tray so it’s nice and hot… I’m so excited for your future together. A real power-couple! That’s for sure.”

“Hm. Yeah.”

Wonwoo was pressed flush to the wall just outside the kitchen, simultaneously holding his breath while listening to the conversation between your mother and Mingyu as everyone was presumably sat around the dressed table. Your fingers were hurriedly ruffling out some wrinkles in his tie while you repeatedly cursed at both your tardiness, and he simply let you do what you pleased. After a half-second adjustment made to his collar, you wasted not an instant more—Wonwoo was suddenly thrust into the warm kitchen with you impatiently in tow.

As expected, everyone was sat and waiting. Even your father had been at last pulled from his study, and he was positioned at the head of the long dinner table while twiddling a fork around in his fingers.

Your mother had an elbow propped on Mingyu’s chair.

She was the only one standing.

“Quick,” you whispered into Wonwoo’s ear, practically shoving him down into the empty seat beside Seokmin, “sit there.”

Upon the nervous side-eye that his friend shot at Wonwoo, he suspected that he may have just wriggled his way into an unfortunate ticket straight to hell. You held up the flowy, billowing silk of your olive dress while making your way to the seat across from him and beside a very unenthused-looking Mingyu, who was evidently chewing on his inner cheek. Wonwoo caught Mingyu’s stare for no less than a second, and there was nearly enough electricity in the glance to make a crackle.

A few more dishes had been squeezed onto the table since he was last in the kitchen. Despite the fact there was only six people eating, nearly every corner and crevice of the table was occupied. Your mother had cooked enough to feed an entire party, unless she was planning on sending everyone home with tupperwares full of leftovers.

“Looks super delicious,” Seokmin complimented.

Mingyu nodded in agreement. “Smells even better.”

Wonwoo didn’t know if he was also supposed to throw out some off-the-tongue compliment and keep the train chugging. The atmosphere was just so heavy—everything felt like an extreme effort—he could hardly breathe without the sensation of his lungs itching, as though they were adorned in cobwebs. Unconsciously, he’d started picking at his thumb, his appetite disappearing by the second in place of dread.

“You boys are so lovely, thank you,” your mother commented, straightening out the orange tea towel in her hand while continuing to lean into the side of Mingyu’s chair. “This was all a labour of love.”

Seokmin flashed a picturesque smile that Wonwoo had seen many times before. “Well, I’m feeling the love. That’s for sure. Are we ready to dig in all?” Still, there was a bit of anxious haste in his actions. 

“One moment, first,” your mother stated, pausing Seokmin in his reach for a large casserole spoon. Wonwoo clasped his hands together even tighter as she said, “we’re going to wait a few minutes more.”

You had pulled out your chair, but you didn’t sit.

“Mom, I was just fixing my makeup. That’s what you asked me to do. There’s no reason to make everyone keep waiting.” You removed the towel from her hand and laced it through the oven handlebar. “Just take a seat, okay? I’ll start making everyone’s plates if they pass them.”

She smiled at you. “Well, that’s a very sweet gesture. But it doesn’t take long to fix an unstuck lash or change a lipstick. You’ve got yourself a makeup chair. You should know better than anyone, my love.”

Wonwoo hated this—he hated the way your mother’s criticizing was buttered up nice with a practiced, insincere smile and a crooning voice. He hated the way Mingyu was pushing fingers against the knot in his stiff eyebrow like something horrible was about to happen. He hated the way your father was uncomfortably mute, sitting only with a pursed lip and folded arms in complete disinterest, like he’d rather be anywhere else. He hated that Seokmin was continuing to beam his signature-watt smile even though the air was dense enough to crush everyone flat.

You picked up Mingyu’s plate, presumably because it was the closest to you, and started slopping some hot casserole onto it. Every movement was autopilot, thoughtless, as the steam from the breached casserole rolled up into the air and shrouded you.

“I was only trying to make it perfect,” you muttered.

“Make it what?” Your mother questioned, staring you down.

“Perfe—”

“Stop mumbling, my love. I can’t hear you.”

Mingyu’s messy plate was collapsed back onto its placemat with a very loud thud, and you looked to your mother with utmost annoyance.

“I was trying to make it per-fect.”

She quirked her head. “And you needed Wonwoo to do that?”

Just as he ruminated—the universe had a fearsome penchant for whirlpooling him into the centre of everything and anything horrible, like his name was written in the water. Though, Wonwoo couldn’t say he was expecting to survive the dinner party unscathed. He tried to remember the quick spiel of rules Seokmin had relayed to him—was it better to get involved or just shut the fuck up? Wasn’t Mingyu supposed to do something? Wasn’t Seokmin supposed to keep the conversation pushing?

“Mom, please, just—I was showing him around, okay? He’s the guest. He’s never been over before. Wonwoo has nothing to do with us being a few minutes late to dinner. So just leave him be.” You removed the tinfoil from another bowl. Grabbing a wooden spoon, you started slapping creamy mashed potatoes onto Mingyu’s plate. “Trying to make something out of nothing… why can’t we just eat for once?”

“Honey, we could be eating, but you’re choosing to sulk.”

“I’m not sulking! I’m trying to help!”

“No, no, no. Mingyu’s plate looks like an animal that got squashed by a car. If you can’t even properly fix your future husband a nice-looking plate of food without pooling all your anger into it, then there’s an issue, there.” She shook her head. “A very big issue.”

Wonwoo could see your eyes burning.

Mingyu had then sighed, removing the wooden spoon that was clenched up in your hand like a weapon and slipping it back into the mashed potato bowl. The boy tugged a few times at your wrist, keeping his tired voice as soft as possible while imploring you to sit down.

“It’s alright, everything’s fine,” he said, probably to soothe himself more than anything, “all the food goes straight into my mouth, anyway. Same goes for all of us. Sit down, Her, alright? Please?”

“No,” you snapped your wrist free, “I don’t want to sit.”

In a desperate hope to experience some sort of consolidation amongst the tension, Wonwoo angled a glance toward Seokmin. When his friend wouldn’t look back and merely opted to keep biting his blistering lip, Wonwoo quite literally felt a meteor sink into his stomach.

Slicking a hand along his shiny hair, Mingyu sighed even deeper. “Please just sit. You know what’ll happen. Please.”

Again stepping away from Mingyu’s attempted touch, you began to shout, and Wonwoo’s breath froze as your voice echoed around the kitchen in a hauntingly similar manner to the quarrel at his apartment.

“I already said no!”

From the head of the table, your father pushed out his chair. His voice was oddly gruff when he spoke, like he hadn’t said a word all day and his throat was hoarse by consequence.

“Don’t shout,” was all he warned.

Your mother shook her head. “She will raise her voice when she doesn’t get what she wants.”

Wonwoo couldn’t help but feel the cut from her disappointed eyes even though she wasn’t even looking at him.

“I’m raising my voice because you’re not listening! You haven’t listened to me all fucking day! Oh my god! It’s eating me alive!”

In an instant, Mingyu was to his feet, almost trying to court you into the corner by the open window with his hands that you battered away. Wonwoo gripped onto his knees. He couldn’t choke out a damn word and Seokmin seemed to have become stiller than stone.

“Calm down,” Mingyu urged, “take some breaths.”

“You still won’t listen!”

“I’ll listen later, I promise.”

“Mingyu, do you even hear yourself?!”

“Just—you’re blowing this out of proportion again.”

“Stop trying to control me!”

“Calm down and—hey!”

With a frustrated groan, you squirmed away from Mingyu and rushed back to the dinner table where your mother continued to stare at you with such conflict in her expression, as though it was mentally taxing her to compute how such a seemingly perfect, established daughter could simultaneously appear so unraveled and incomplete before her. For a second, Wonwoo thought you might take the mashed potatoes or casserole and just completely drench the wall in their remnants.

But you didn’t do anything. Instead, you looked across the organized table—the vibrant food, sparkling drinking glasses, and expensive, unpopped bottles of alcohol—at Wonwoo, who had admittedly felt pretty useless and paralyzed throughout the ordeal. You looked straight into his eyes and he could see that you were almost physically begging him for an out. And, if he could see himself as an outsider, it was probably the same damn look he was giving you.

Wonwoo hadn’t even noticed the silence in the room.

Your father coughed, retrieving his utensils, ready to sweep the argument and very obvious hostility under the rug—put a small little bandage on a gigantic wound that had been festering for years.

“Same dance every time. Come sit, Mingyu. Let’s just eat.”

That would be nice, if Wonwoo had any appetite.

That would be nice if he wasn’t pushing out his chair, getting up from the table, keeping his gaze level and connected with yours, watching you swallow hard, hold back your tears, anxiously flex your fingers in a momentary contemplation and then—unprompted—run. Just run.

Wonwoo fled into the corridor with you right behind him, your hands kneading against his lower back as he threw open the door to the quiet, dimly lit front porch where that damp and black September night was ready to breathe him in and whisk you two away. He heard the very confused shouting from the kitchen, but there wasn’t any time to waste.

Wonwoo flew down the wood steps and splashed through a shallow puddle reflecting the moonlight, running toward the long street drifted in thinly strewn mist. He continued to run, only stopping for a brief moment to turn around and observe you quickly fling off your heels before scooping them up while everyone crowded onto the porch, yelling.

In your bare feet and a smile so pearlescent, you sprinted straight into Wonwoo’s outstretched arms, giggling aloud while he gripped your body firm and spun you in a circle that saw your dress twirl like a ribbon and your legs brush through the alive air.

Mingyu began stalking down the driveway, visibly angry, his face twisted into a snarl that might see Wonwoo getting split in his nose.

“Fuck, fuck!” You cursed, squeezing your fingers into his. He was suddenly being tugged down the empty, dark street, as though there was some invisible curtain for you to magically disappear behind. “Let’s go!”

Wonwoo didn’t mind one bit. Indefinitely, he would let you tug him over a cliff if it meant you two could fall together. The street was long and wet but the air was so fresh. Every breath he took was pure.

He didn’t know where you were going.

But he didn’t need to.

“Be careful. I don’t want you to step on something sharp.”

“I think I already did.”

Wonwoo pulled tight on your warm hand, stopping you.

“Seriously? Let me look.”

You made a slight huffing noise while sitting down on a large boulder, not caring that the surface was sandy and damp, forming a dark imprint against your olive dress. Wonwoo squatted down, looking at the dirty underside to one bare foot, and then the other, realizing there weren’t any cuts. He then used the cuff to his suit jacket, brushing off the small pieces of grit stuck into the skin in case he missed anything.

In all honesty, Wonwoo had no idea where you two were. After running far down the fancy Hillcrest Street until your family house was completely obscured into mist and memory, you led Wonwoo off onto a separate footpath by the treeline. Your fingers were slotted into each other’s. This was the first time Wonwoo had let go of your hand since running away, and the chilled air felt like prickles on his palm.

Removing the phone from his pocket to shine a light, he wasn’t at all surprised to see the missed calls and texts that had collected minute by minute from Seokmin earlier. You didn’t even have your phone. The only thing you carried was the ivory heels that Wonwoo gifted you at the start of the evening, which were still clutched in your hand.

“No blood. No lacerations. Just dirt,” Wonwoo said. “If you did cut yourself, you might not even feel it with all that adrenaline.”

You smiled at him. “Your phone a graveyard of Seokmin texts?”

He smirked, flicking through them all. “Precisely, yeah.”

Leaning backward on the boulder, you at last let go of the heels and stretched your arms out behind you, staring up at the moonlight patterning between the forest trees, their branches more barren as the autumn leaves came loose in the breeze. They fell down one by one, rustling softly whenever they hit the ground. He heard you sigh.

“Everyone there can go fuck themselves.”

Putting his phone away, Wonwoo smiled. “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“That line’s a classic, coming from you.”

He attempted to sit beside you on the boulder, ignoring how uneven and rough it felt under his butt. Wherever you were along the footpath, it was perfectly hushed, almost felt hidden. The tree branches above him had framed the moon akin to a picture—except, he felt like he was the one painted, and that it was the moon who was watching him.

“I’m sorry.”

Wonwoo began to look at you rather than the night sky.

“Don’t apologize.”

You stared at him deeply, licking your lips and shaking your head. His eyes were now well adjusted to the scarce light. Just the silver through the trees was enough to read and inspect your pretty face.

“It went off the rails.”

He shrugged, staring back. “It seemed like it needed to.”

“I made you part of it.”

“I made myself part of it.”

“But, I mean—just—if you… if you never…”

Wonwoo raised his eyebrow. “If I never what? Met you?”

Puffing out a long breath, you looked down, picking at something on the boulder with a manicured nail. “… Yeah.”

“No,” Wonwoo was firm to correct, continuing to stare at you intensely even if you couldn’t face him in the turmoil of processing all the emotion and chaos, “you’re the best thing to ever happen to me.”

You lolled out your tongue, smiling and sheepish. “Blah.”

He laughed, “I mean it.”

Sighing again, you glanced back at Wonwoo, your eyes flickering along his every detail in the dewy night. Your hand reached out to his collar, making another brief, probably unnecessary adjustment to it before sliding the gentle fingers down his chest. Wonwoo’s mouth ran disgustingly dry in that moment, to the point that he was relieved when you removed your hand because you might have felt how fast his heart was beating and thought him to be quite pathetic.

Tightly swallowing, he brushed an itch off his nose and opened his mouth with a question, his gaze catching yours. Although, at the last second, he weened himself from speaking when the doubt found and froze him. A breeze tickled through his hair and Wonwoo shivered.

Your brow furrowed.

“What?” You urged him.

Wonwoo chuckled. “Fuck. Nothing.”

“Not nothing. Please. What is it?”

You were leaning closer into him, enthralling him with those earnest, gleaming eyes. He swore the nighttime wind was pushing your sweet, blossomy scent against him—was pushing you against him—because now your thigh was squished right beside his and your shoulders were warm together. Wonwoo adjusted his glasses, cleared his throat.

“Who are you?” He paused, but didn’t falter. “Actually?”

Your forehead wrinkled. “What do you mean?”

Wonwoo examined every aspect of your face that he had come to know so well over the months—the face he gradually couldn’t stop thinking about, to the point you would appear in his dreams. The face he was once completely disinterested in, because you were not someone that should have any reason to be in his life, just as he had no reason to be in yours. He felt his body move closer into your inviting warmth.

In fact, you two were so close that if he moved even an inch or few forward, then his lips might find themselves pressing to yours and his hand might settle and smooth up along your thigh to your cheek. Then, it would be impossible to leave the footpath without digging into you right then and there, kissing and tasting from you everywhere.

“What’s your name?”

It sounded like an obvious, warranted question that just about anyone would ask given the opportunity. But Wonwoo had never found himself wondering it. The things he wondered about you were much different and more character-driven, yet Wonwoo had come to realize that your name was just as important and precious and intact with your identity as everything else. He almost felt like it was the very last piece of you that he hadn’t shifted into place—his last chapter in a very long, complicated, topsy-turvy, seemingly-never-ending book.

Wonwoo thought you might laugh at him.

Tell him, “Wouldn’t you like to know?” in that very smug tone of voice he’d hear from time to time while smiling hot with your secret.

Instead, however, you just stayed silent.

His hand touched with fragile softness at the edge of your face, a thumb then stroking along the space before your ear as you swallowed.

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” he whispered, hearing the leaves rustle above him, “it’s fine either—”

“No, one second.”

Wonwoo bit his tongue, opting to watch you lean back while digging fingers into the cleavage of your dress. From somewhere—he could only surmise—you had pulled out a thin tube with a cherry lid.

“Was that the lip stuff you put on?” He snorted.

“Lip liner. With a sticky patch on it right here. Figured I should keep it close. You know, in case a crumb managed to remove a single spec of it. Can't have my mother passing out from shame.”

“Clever thinking.”

“Give me your hand.”

Stretching out his fingers, he let his hand sit in your lap while you pulled the lid off with your teeth, then gripping his wrist and halfway leaning down to push the tip of the lip applicator against his palm. The sensation was cool and smooth. He felt each letter you traced, though he refused to let himself guess until you were done.

Under the moonlight, Wonwoo raised the calligraphed hand to his face, pushing up his glasses as he realized—at last—the complete gist of who you were. And with your name came the understanding of what you were, in fact, doing in his very meaningless life.

Wonwoo kept staring fondly at his hand. But, as he was staring, you suddenly reached forth and smeared your thumb across the neat letters until they were lost. A memory made, and then covered.

Only between you.

When Wonwoo looked to you again, he saw everything about you so clearly that it was almost shining. Every decision you made, every word you said, the way you walked and dressed and flourished so openly before crashing so hard—Wonwoo could snap all those pieces into place.

“Can I ask you something?” You said.

He blinked at you absentmindedly, too caught up in his daze.

“Wonwoo?”

“Sorry—yeah?”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

Pressing your knees together, the wind fluttered the fabric of your silky olive dress, and he could tell you were getting cold.

“When you were at my apartment, apologizing to me about our fight, that was the first and only time I ever heard you mention your ex-girlfriend.” Clicking your nervous feet, you looked over his shadowy face and the moonlight dancing in his glasses, “was she your first love?”

Crushing his hands tight into each other, Wonwoo bit his lip. “Yeah.”

Keeping your eyeline steady, you nodded. “Was she… like… what did you love about her?”

He almost couldn’t breathe. “Everything.”

You frowned. “Even the bad stuff?”

“Yeah…” he mumbled, “even the bad stuff.”

It was very quiet for a moment, with you simply sitting in reflection and staring into the dark silhouettes of the trees. He was sure you already knew the answer to your initial question, although he understood that hearing him say it was different than infinitely assuming about a past that wasn’t yours. Wonwoo had been in love before, and then heartbroken down into little fragments of himself that he spent months soullessly dusting around. And somehow, he was in love again—a new love that felt so much different but still fit him so right.

“Hm…” you hummed.

Wonwoo placed his hand on your bare back, beginning to sweep his fingers up and down, sensing your skin quiver in response.

“It’s late,” he whispered, nudging his knee into yours and warming your ear with his breath, “I know you don’t want to go home, and that’s alright. I get it. But we should figure something out before my phone battery dies, yeah?” He proceeded to grab your hand and squeeze it. “I don’t wanna leave a pretty girl like you out in the cold and wet.”

When you looked at him, you were pouting, exhaustion shining on your face like the dew in the moonlit leaves. “I don’t want to go anywhere without you.” Your fingers gripped his impossibly tighter.

“Do you want to stay the night at my place?”

You snuggled your head into the crook between his jaw and shoulder, wrapping your arms around his elbow to hold him close. “Yes.”

“Well, I’ve got one call,” Wonwoo sighed, fishing out his phone and squinting against its lurid light, “better hope he fucking answers.”

Vernon was confused to say the least, beckoned down a random street at near midnight when he could be in bed with the girl he was happily feeling up just half an hour ago, until a certain phone call ruined it. Wonwoo could tell from the manner in which his friend’s heavily furrowed brow remained creased when he opened the vanilla Camry’s back door, allowing you to slide in first with your heels in hand while Wonwoo followed. Tugging the door shut, Wonwoo could then only smile at poor, disgruntled, face-studded Vernon who was continuing to inquisitively stare him down through the rear-view mirror as though there was something smeared across his cheek or stuck in his hair.

Perhaps it was the patches of dampness and dirt on Wonwoo’s suit and your once very elegant dress, but it didn’t matter anymore.

“So… uh… dinner went well, then?” Vernon asked in a big huff after no one offered to break the silence, slightly turning his head to analyze the backseat using his busted, buzzing ceiling light.

Wonwoo and you were pressed together. Both unreceptive.

“Woah. Stop talking over each other, guys,” he joked dryly.

“Couldn’t have gone better,” Wonwoo decided to say.

“… M’kay…” Vernon replied, still perplexed but probably sensing it was best to save all the questions for later. “Music?”

Wonwoo nodded and turned off the ceiling light. “Sure.”

That was the beginning and end of the conversation.

Vernon pulled out from Hillcrest, keeping his elbow against the half-opened window during the drive, meanwhile you were allowing your heavy eyes to at last flutter shut. Leaning your head against Wonwoo’s broad shoulder, he noticed that your fingers were playing with his—you had gently grabbed his thumb and started rubbing his pigmented scar in absent circles, massaging into all the weathered years spent scratching himself until his anxiety would peddle away. The lip liner was still smudged against his palm in a cherry-tinted blur that he never wanted to wash off.

Smiling, Wonwoo let his cheek sit atop your hair, sensing the delightful breeze from Vernon's window flow into the backseat.

He was glad he went to the dinner party.

“Here are the keys. This copper one here is for the shop. This blue one is my apartment key. Go inside and get warmed up. I’ll join you in a few, alright? Promise… be careful on the steps,” Wonwoo instructed after opening the car door, proceeding to wrap his keychain in your fingers once you had emerged into the wind and sodden air.

With the white heels strung through your arm, you nodded at him sleepily and walked up the three little stairs to the pottery shop.

After you disappeared inside, Wonwoo turned around and opened the passenger seat door, climbing back into his friend’s Camry kept stalled but running at the curb. At first, there was silence between them. They both gazed down through the illumination of the headlights washing out the empty street. Vernon then slid his hand off the steering wheel, letting it cascade through his messy black hair instead.

“Do I even wanna know what fuckin’ happened?” His friend asked, his head clunking back against the upholstered seat.

Wonwoo blinked down at his lap. He started to smile, feeling it creep along his mouth even though he knew how suspect it looked.

Then, Wonwoo chuckled.

“We ran out.”

He finally looked to Vernon, who was staring back with highly quirked eyebrows and a dropped jaw. After exchanging an incredulous glance with each other, the two boys were laughing and ripping apart the silence. Vernon crossed his arms, sunk further down in his seat.

“Never would I picture you doin’ that…” he said through a lazy grin, “runnin’ out with another dude’s girl is insane, can’t lie.”

Wonwoo rubbed a palm along his cheek, still fucking smiling. “Think he’s gonna beat my ass?”

Vernon stared at him, deadpanned in his expression. “Is that even a question, Glasses? I’d beat your ass. I don’t even have a girl.”

“I don’t care.”

“If he beats your ass?”

“Yeah.”

Suddenly, a hand was pushing against Wonwoo’s shoulder. Vernon was smirking at him hard, teething over his bottom lip.

“Damn. She’s got you by the scruff, huh?”

Wonwoo shrugged, beginning to shake his head. “You should see the way he treats her… there’s some weird ties between him and her family. I think he’s playing the long game… getting what we can while he can and then parading her around as a trophy or something. But she's miserable with him.” Running a thumb along his knuckles, Wonwoo grinned. “He can beat my ass if he wants to.”

Vernon clicked his tongue. “Well, just to float the idea, I’m s—”

“No,” quickly laughing away his friend’s questionable response, Wonwoo merely rubbed under his glasses and refused. “I’m not trying to get locked away for first degree murder. And neither are you.”

“I’m just tryin’ to say I’ve got you is all,” Vernon said with his usual nonchalance, as laid back as an ironing board, “but—you’re right. Save that for when I’m an actual drug lord. He’s not gettin’ anything from me. Not even a Flintstone gummy.”

“Well, I appreciate the favour. Sorry to interrupt.”

“Nah, I could tell it was somethin’ important,” Vernon excused, giving Wonwoo a comfortable smile, “s’not like I can’t ever get brain again. Your situation seemed like a once-in-a-lifetime thing.”

Looking back at the pottery shop and the single light within keeping everything aglow, Wonwoo wondered if you made it into his apartment okay. He was worried about leaving you on your own for too long, especially when taking into consideration the extremities of the dinner party (that hadn’t really been a dinner or a party when he thought about it). Rolling out his shoulders, he turned to Vernon again.

“She needs to eat something. I’ll order food. You want any?”

Vernon scrunched his face. “What—you’re askin’ me to come inside with you two? I’m not on real good terms with her, y’know that, right? Just ‘cause she’s fuckin’ with you doesn’t mean that for me."

“It won’t be like that.”

“How do y’know? You guys gossip about me?”

Wonwoo smiled, pushing up his glasses. “I just know.”

Vernon paused to think for a moment, his hand returned back to the steering wheel while sharp teeth pulled at the skin along his bottom lip. With just the edge to his face streaked in yellow light from the outside street lamp, it was difficult to interpret his mindset, although Wonwoo knew it was a done deal when Vernon removed the glittering keys from the ignition and the rumbling car at last went silent along the empty midnight street.

Besides, Wonwoo would pay for it all, anyway.

Vernon quietly trailed behind Wonwoo into the apartment, the front door left unlocked and the living area bathed by the warm-coloured light fixture but absent of your presence. His friend placed the car keys onto the coffee table with an uncharacteristic softness, and Wonwoo figured that Vernon was probably still feeling uncertain about spending time with you—which made sense—the last time Vernon had spoken to you (spoken probably wasn’t an accurate word) was the confrontation at the gas station where he feared you might light his hair on fire.

Though, when Wonwoo poked open his ajar bedroom door, he found you standing near his desk, peering across the walled corkboard and all its pinned photos from his life back in South Korea.

He flicked on the light, pulling out the deep blue darkness from the air, and smiled at you.

“Everything alright?”

With your arms folded, you seemed smaller than usual. “Yeah—sorry that I came in here without permission.”

He was quick to shake his head. “No big deal—you don’t need permission.”

You were silent for a few seconds, grinning to yourself, and then gestured to one of the glossy developed photos stuck to the cork.

“That’s Bohyuk?”

Wonwoo nodded, “yeah.”

He realized you hadn’t spent much time in his room over the months that you’d known each other. For the most part, Wonwoo would always be at your apartment, or some unique location necessary to your story-telling when he was still helping with the book. At one point it would have perturbed him to see you gazing along the finer details of his room so curiously. Now, however, he welcomed it.

Stuffing hands into his pockets, Wonwoo let you observe the corkboard, watching you with a very amorous, kind smile that he hadn’t even processed until his cheeks started flaring with a heated ache.

“Wonwoo?”

“Yeah?”

“… I’m hungry.”

Unable to flatten out his smile, Wonwoo walked over to you and smoothed his hand along the side of your face, then caressing his thumb underneath your twinkling eye and against your cheekbone.

“I know,” he murmured, “I’ll order food.”

“Chinese?”

“If that’s what you want, then I’ll make it happen.”

Delighted to see your expression brighten, Wonwoo at last removed his hand from your skin. He knew he shouldn’t touch you or look so fucking pathetically in-love into your eyes, but he didn’t care.

“Do you think I can shower? I want to take all this makeup off.”

“Yeah, of course. Go for—”

Suddenly, from the living room, there was a loud bang that distinctly sounded like Vernon plowing straight into something heavy.

“What was that?” You asked, covering your mouth.

Wonwoo chuckled, “Vernon. Hey—you alright?!”

“All good!!” His friend shouted back. “Just—how ‘bout don’t keep your fuckin’ weights right beside the couch, yeah? Almost broke my fuckin’ foot!”

“Oops.” Wonwoo shrugged very unapologetically, staring into your amused eyes and giggling together. “He’s gonna eat with us… he did a big favour coming down to get us and everything, you know?”

“That’s okay,” you answered, “I just want to shower.”

“Yeah, that’s fine. I’ll give you the room. Wear whatever you want. I’ll just take the keys so I can lock up downstairs.” He was nearly on his way out, but stopped abruptly. “Should we… uh… should I at least text Seokmin and tell him you’re safe? I mean, just in case—”

“Sure,” the response was quick and muttered with little care, “I’m sure they can surmise where I am, but you can do that, too.”

“Yeah, okay… well, I’ll leave you be. Food will probably be here by the time you’re out and dried off. I’ll make sure it doesn’t get cold.”

Finally, Wonwoo clicked his bedroom door shut. Keys in hand, he re-entered the living room to find Vernon plumped down on the couch with a pillow in his lap, all spread out like he owned the damn place, texting away on his phone. Wonwoo laughed as he walked by.

“Writing out your apology letter?”

“Somethin’ like that…” his friend mumbled, clearly more focused on his pixeled screen, “I might not be gettin’ that head after all.”

“Life’s all about sacrifices,” Wonwoo sighed while opening the front door, pausing briefly to mention, “we’re getting Chinese food by the way. She didn’t care that you’re staying. Anything you want?”

Vernon smiled while keeping his eyes trained to the phone. “No way. That’s a relief… n’yeah—I like the chicken balls with the sweet and sour sauce. Pork-fried rice is good, too. I’m not picky.”

“Noted.”

“So—wait—I have to ask, and you can tell me to fuck off if you want, but how did you become a drug dealer? Like, at what point did you even realize that was your… I don’t know… calling?”

Sitting cross-legged on the carpet with a carton of noodles in hand and a napkin splayed upon your bare lap, pointed chopsticks were being angled at Vernon from across the coffee table. He took a sip from his can of bright red soda, placing it back onto the coaster with a thud.

“Uh, fuck,” Vernon coughed, smiling subtly while beginning to pick through his own personal container of pork-fried rice, “well, I can answer it, I guess… do I get to ask a question in return?”

You grabbed the napkin, wiping off the sauce from your mouth.

“I’ll allow it.”

“Fair enough,” his friend answered.

Wonwoo had heard the story only once before during a smoke session on the apartment rooftop, though he doubted Vernon would trudge through all the details. Despite seeming like an open book who couldn't care less, there really were some sweet spots he didn’t like having prodded. Nonetheless, Wonwoo thought it was a good, earnest opening between the two of you, so he opted to stay silent while pulling the meat off his ribs with his teeth.

“Uh, I was a stubborn kid, let’s say that. Tried my hand at school but I could never get the hang of it. Could never keep a job long. My parents caught me usin’ once, weed and ecstasy, and they said if it happened again, I’m out.” Vernon fed himself another forkful of rice, taking a moment to swallow while you listened intently. “I thought I could keep it straight, but no luck. Yeah. They had no tolerance for it. I was out the next day. My mom was the most pissed, but she tries to reach out every now and then. I dunno... I feel done with ‘em, if I'm bein' honest. I’ve got somethin’ that works so I just run with it. The money speaks for itself so I can’t complain.”

As Wonwoo expected, it was the heavily watered-down version of everything that happened between Vernon and his family, however, it was enough to paint the picture. Taking a moment to slurp up some spicy noodles, you soon set the carton down and patted along your gradually swelling lips. The crumpled napkin was placed on the table.

“Yeah, I bet the money speaks for itself. You’ve got a bunch of stupidly rich university students on your roster. They go through just about everything they can get their hands on. It’s fucking insane.”

Vernon propped his elbows onto his knees, gathering more rice onto the plastic white fork while smirking at you knowingly.

“You’ve got that coke sniff, y’know?”

Wonwoo widened his eyes at Vernon, suspecting a wildfire.

But you merely shrugged, quite honest in your response.

“I know. I did it once with Mingyu, some friends, and I thought never again…” with a sigh, you massaged at your shoulder, staring off into a random spot that Wonwoo couldn’t pinpoint. “Mingyu was getting it for me at almost every party we went to. I don’t know. I thought, since he paid for it, since it’s right here, I might as well do it.”

Slipping the fork out from his mouth, Vernon grinned. “Coked-up sex is crazy. Especially when you've got the right cut. It hits.”

“Vernon,” Wonwoo immediately chirped at him while setting down his emptied container of food, his voice sounding particularly stern, like he was scolding a child for making an ignorant comment.

“What?” His friend laughed, raking a tattooed hand through his loose and shiny black hair. “It is. Feels like you’re on another planet.”

“Yeah, whatever. Just think a little before you speak, please.”

Again, Wonwoo was surprised to see your nonchalance.

“It’s okay. I know what you’re saying. I think… like… Mingyu only wanted me to have it for that reason—I’m making it sound like some non-consensual, pressured shit—it’s not,” you muttered, waving around your hand in dismissal, “I just… the thing is I don’t like how I feel afterward. But it was never enough for me to say that I didn’t want it. I liked that it would take me out of my head for a bit. My mind would stop running on overdrive.” Then, you pulled your knees up to your chest, wrapping your arms around them. “The last time I did anything like that was the party at Seungcheol’s, though.”

Whenever the party was mentioned, Wonwoo would always bite down on his lip and tightly curl his fingers. He had discussed it with you in the past, beyond the summer evening spent at your apartment with a red velvet cupcake in between you and a painful, aching hug he could still feel all the warmth and regret to.

There were long, long phone conversations. And somewhere, stuffed in his mind, was the memory of you and Mingyu behind the door as he listened to every little sound—skin hitting skin, the desperation in your voice, wood smacking the wall.

“Yeah, is what it is,” Vernon replied. He pulled a toothpick out from his pocket and stuck it in his mouth. “Do I get my question now?”

“Uh… sure.”

Wonwoo had almost missed you staring at him. There was a concernedness to it, but when he smiled back you seemed to breathe.

“Still think I’m a gigantic fuckin’ tool?”

Immediately, you started laughing. Wonwoo followed suit, on the brink of embarrassingly blowing out the soda he just sipped from in a big spray. He was actually quite relived that Vernon had picked a more light-hearted question rather than something intimate. His friend swirled the toothpick around with his tongue, continuing to smirk in confidence.

“Giggle away. I’m curious, is all.”

Kissing your teeth, you held Vernon’s coppery, honey eyes. “You are a tool, one-hundred percent… but, I think you know that about yourself. And, um, you’re a good friend to Wonwoo. So… I guess my opinions about you have shifted. Appearances are deceiving.”

Pleased with your candour, Vernon grabbed his drink, leaned against the recliner behind him, and nodded his head approvingly.

“That tickles my fancy well enough.”

"Don't you think you'll want to settle down eventually?" You asked.

Vernon scrunched his eyebrow. "What?"

"Like, what if you find a girl. A really nice girl who could change your perspective. Do you think you'd want to settle down?"

With a quick laugh, Vernon shook his head. "Nice girls don't use half their last pay check to buy drugs. It's business at the end of the day."

Seeming skeptical, your eyes narrowed. "Right..."

"Vernon has his mind set on very specific things," Wonwoo smiled.

Straightening out the large shirt that draped around your frame—another garment belonging to Wonwoo that you had pulled from his dresser—you glanced between each boy and smiled.

“So... now I'm curious. How did this unlikely pairing meet?”

As Vernon was busy with navigating his toothpick, Wonwoo decided to tell the story, prompting him to sit up straight and alleviate his spine from being crooked against the hard bottom of the couch.

“I was convinced into attending a little New Year’s Eve party thing by these guys I don’t talk to anymore. Spent about half an hour wandering the halls, doing aimless laps, hating every second of it, debating if I should just take off. Not like anyone would notice. Then I bump into this guy—” Wonwoo nodded at Vernon, “—who was all tattooed and pierced up with this girl all over him. She was on the kitchen counter, one hand gripping his bicep while she was laying hickies to his fucking neck from behind.”

You snorted, rolling your eyes. “Who was that?”

Wonwoo shrugged. “Fuck if I know. Vernon?”

“Uh—I don’t know if I remember, honestly. She used to buy poppers off me like every damn week so I called her Poppy. That’s not her real name, though. She’s long gone. Moved cities months ago.”

“Yeah, well, he told me I looked like a lost ghost. Asked if I wanted a swisher. I agreed for some reason, and we went out back.”

Brushing a hand down your neck, you giggled. “A lost ghost?”

Vernon nodded, folding his arms.

“Yeah. Glasses always used to have that look to him. Dead man walkin’ kinda thing. Just wanderin’ around with no purpose.”

Wonwoo hoarsely chuckled at his friend, “jeez—thanks.”

“You can’t deny it.”

“I know. But to be fair, I was fucking going through something.”

“Mmhm, that’s why I took you under my wing,” Vernon sang, his eyes swimming with their usual gold-tinted mischief, “I could just tell you needed some guidance. Gave him the swisher of eternal friendship.”

“Is that what you call it?” Wonwoo huffed sarcastically.

“I call it many different things.”

You smiled sweetly at Wonwoo while your fingers played with the long cuff on the borrowed t-shirt. “Whatever it was, I guess it turned into something pretty good... and, Vernon, I am sorry for how I acted at the gas station. There was just a lot going through my mind.”

True to his casual, untroubled nature, Vernon swung his head dismissively while letting an arm collapse across his knee, the toothpick now in his hand and being spun between his ringed fingers. “No, you’re good. Don't worry 'bout it. It was just ‘cause you care n' shit. I get that.” Quirking his expression in an endearing manner, he proceeded to flash you a solid grin. “You didn’t singe my hair off so, I’ve got no grudge.”

You laughed, “I wouldn’t have actually done anything to you.”

“Eh, it’s hard to tell, isn’t it?” Vernon answered in a smirk.

Reaching for your drink, you sipped from it and then snuggled the can between your criss-crossed legs. Wonwoo examined that very intriguing smile opening its way across your mouth like a spring blossom, wanting to know the exact moment that sparked it.

A quiet pause passed, and then you were sighing with bliss behind it—that relaxed kind of sigh when everything seemed to click.

“It’s nice hanging out with you guys…” you murmured, staring across the coffee table scattered with ripped-open sauce packets, empty cardboard containers, wood chopsticks, and unfurling napkins. “It just feels lighter… I don’t know… making friends has always been so tough for me. The right friends, I mean. Friends that actually feel like friends.”

Wonwoo pinched his lip in his teeth.

“It can take a while before you hit the right people.”

Vernon shrugged, concealing a burp that had him rubbing down his broad chest. “If we’re all friends, then we’ve gotta be the weirdest fuckin’ collaboration of people I’ve ever seen.”

You snickered into your hands while Wonwoo lounged an elbow onto the couch to help prop up his head, rolling his eyes toward Vernon.

Though, Wonwoo could easily understand what Vernon was getting at. You, a popular and high-fashion campus honorary who at first glance seemed to have very little patience for anyone but yourself, followed by the guttural and unbothered drug dealer without a care in the world, beside an anxiety-ridden hermit just trying to exist and somehow not turn to a puddle in the process. Vernon was right—it was a strange grouping of people suckled together despite their completely different paths and choices. Somewhere, somehow, though, there was a connection.

Like a fated string weaving everything into a knot.

Since Wonwoo had already ordered the Chinese food fairly late, it was quite difficult to find an ice cream place in the area that was open past midnight. Vernon and his sudden craving for cookie dough had offered the idea, and you easily caved, which led Wonwoo on a spiral of searching through his phone. Unfortunately, the only ice cream they could order was vanilla soft-serve cones from a twenty-four-hour fast-food chain which arrived to his apartment dripping. But no one really cared, and Wonwoo threw on the television for some background noise.

The conversations lasted until about two in the morning.

Vernon had not so gracefully taken up the entire couch, his face shoved into the embroidered pillow, an arm left dangling limp over the edge, and a smear of soft-serve dried to his cheek. You and Wonwoo were sitting side by side on the floor, a blanket spread around your shoulders with your knee spilled onto his lap, attempting to finish up the random movie that he couldn’t even remember playing. When the credits began rolling, it took him a moment to process that the drama flick was even over. Your head was tucked against his shoulder, eyes shut but still twitching against the dull, meek light flooding from the screen.

He placed his hand on your bare thigh, fingers stretching eager over the warm and soft skin to carefully grip it and give you a squeeze.

Then, with his lips feathering at your forehead, he mumbled your name to get you awake. Wonwoo did feel somewhat guilty about stirring you, but he’d rather you have a comfortable sleep on his bed than the living room floor. He continued to rub your thigh nice and slow, watching your eyelids flicker open and squint at him through the dark room. There was a shallow grin that you gave him, full of contentment.

“You’re all fuzzy…” you yawned, proceeding to rub at your eye.

“It’s late,” he answered quietly, almost whispering, “I think I should get you to bed. You’ll be much comfier in my room.”

“Is Vernon asleep?”

“Mmhm.”

Turning back to glance at the couch, you yawned again.

“… Oh… so, we’re going to your room?”

“Yeah… c’mon, I’ll help you up.”

Wonwoo didn’t turn on the light in his bedroom since there was already a small separation in the curtains, allowing just the right amount of moonlight through to outline everything around him in bluish-silver.

You sat down on his bed, letting your fingers travel along the sheets to feel all the slight rumples and divots, only to look up at Wonwoo with a tired smile and sincere, blinking, gorgeous eyes that felt akin to a gut punch. As much as he wanted it—needed it—Wonwoo knew that he couldn’t sleep next to you. He couldn’t trust himself. He couldn’t fathom having you so fucking close in the intimate, cocooning darkness and not being able to squeeze his cold hands along every perfect part of you.

But you weren’t making it easy.

In fact, you were making it excruciatingly hard.

“Are you not going to lie down with me?”

Wonwoo felt the twig snap in his chest. You wouldn’t stop staring up at him through those wispy eyelashes and nibbling on your lip.

“I’ve got the recliner in the living room…” he could hardly choke it out. There was so much heat in his body that he could melt.

“Why sleep there? The bed is big enough.”

His deep voice twisted into a laugh he couldn’t avoid. “Yeah, the bed’s not the issue… uh, it’s fine, though. The recliner’s nice.”

He took a step back, but then you had grabbed his wrist.

“Wonwoo,” you said his name in a tender, breathy, desperate sort of way that sent his heart shattering to his feet, your eyes glistening through the sparse light like two comets, “I don’t want to sleep alone.”

Fuck—it was all he could think—fuck, fuck, fuck.

With your fingers still wrapped to his wrist, Wonwoo pushed his hand gently against the side of your face. He was closer to you now, applying a soft pressure to angle your head up at him. You were breathing thick per every second that passed, holding his eye contact without one fracture, smiling arch. Wonwoo wanted to drink you.

Leaning into his palm, you swallowed and squeaked, “please?”

His thumb was on your chin. Right under your bottom lip.

“Fuck, you can't look at me like that…” Wonwoo rasped in a low, hushed voice that was struggling not to crack.

Truly, he meant it.

Your hand slid further along his wrist, almost tickling him.

“Ple—”

Immediately, Wonwoo pressed his thumb past your bottom lip and onto the ridge of your lower teeth, stifling that dangerous little word before it could hit his ear the wrong way and render him spineless.

“No more, okay?” He murmured, slowly sliding the digit from your warm, damp mouth, feigning obliviousness to your thighs clamping together and the manner in which your fingernails dug at his skin.

There was another moment of intense, humid silence while he wiped the wetness against the edge of your jaw.

“Seriously,” Wonwoo firmed up his voice, “no more.”

When you at last seemed compliant, nodding, Wonwoo let his hand drift from your heated-up face. You stayed in place, quiet as ever, on the edge of his bed, watching him disappear through the doorway.

As he collapsed onto the recliner and pulled the blanket once pooled on the floor over his body, Wonwoo didn’t even bother shutting his eyes or removing his glasses. Instead, he stared up at the popcorn ceiling, letting his heart thump, thump, thump and his mind wander until he naturally couldn’t fight the imminent feeling of sleep.

It certainly didn’t help that you had wandered into his dreams—dreams that he should probably keep to himself, warped fully by desire and longing.

—END OF PART FIVE.

[etaindelaserna]

Can I ask from this ask game : https://www.tumblr.com/toomanyfandomsthings/749729499738996736/send-me-a-ship-and-a-number-and-ill-tell-you?source=share

No. 2, 10, 11, 12, 15 for Dramione, KakaSaku and SukuIta....Thanks 🌻

Dramione

No 2. Draco's love letters are written on the best pergament one can buy with gold. In addition he has made an effort to charm them to smell like freshly mown grass, because he knows how much Hermione adores the smell. His impeccable handwriting and phrasing are meant to turn these letters into literary pieces of grandeur about the nature of love and how obessed he his with Hermione and when she is finally going to marry him BUT in reality they are discussions about charm and potion theories, books they think the other should read and A LOT OF arguing about the practical application of said theories. There is still a lot of flirting and teasing on Draco's part, which never fails to either make Hermione almost explode or smile with the hint of a blush on her face. Hermione takes her responses very seriously and thus they are always too long, which in return causes Draco to point out, that she had made her point already 3 pages earlier. Since Hermione doesn't really get the hint that Draco is indulging her with these discussions, he at one point had started to include book pressed flowers with his letters. He even extended that to her most read books in the library.

No. 10. They are united by their love for adventure and fantasy shows that have either a certain storytelling or entertainment quality to them. They watched Game of Thrones, Vampire Diaries (of course comparing these vampires and werewolves to the real deal), Westworld, The Walking Dead (but only till season 5), Once Upon a Time (they're both intrigued by how mystical magic is portrayed), Stranger Things, Charmed, Buffy The Vampire Slayer, True Blood, Xena, The Witcher and American Gods. They tried to watch Outlander but Draco was annoyed that Hermione seems to get awefully quiet every time Jamie smiled or smirked or was shirtless, so Hermione watched Outlander, Spartacus and Rome on her own. Draco on the other hand was hiding from her Band of Brothers, Homeland, House of Cards and The Pacific.

No. 11. Draco's first impression of Hermione was, that she seems to be just as snotty and aristocratic in the way she carries herself as he was but without the name or reputation to back it up. She thought too highly of herself, her opinions and seemed to think she was better than anyone else. She seemed to only help others if it benefited her. Hermione thought Draco to be just another rich brat, who thinks Daddy's money is going to solve all of his problems instead of working hard.

No. 12. They don't talk about it, athough Draco is dropping hints and he wants to negotiate what they are going to do for their anniversary, but Hermione says, she's too busy and whatnot. In the end Draco kidnaps her. They are visiting Versailles and the Louvre and he schedules an interview with one of Hermiones favourite authors. Hermione feels guilty for not realizing how much this day means to him and allwos him to take her to a fancy restaurant. Afterwards they take a walk along the Seine and they dance and laugh and drink a bottle of wine. She tells him, she loves him and kisses him and in response he asks her if they now can start working on "Project Baby".

No. 15. Sometimes Hermione whised Draco wasn't so high and mighty but then he wouldn't be Draco and she wouldn't be able to tease him about it. Draco sometimes whished Hermione wasn't so god damn selfless all the time, he whished she would take more care of herself instead of sacrificing everything for everyone.

KakaSaku

No. 2. Kakashi's love letters are basically just post-its or random torn-off pieces of paper which Sakura finds EVERYWHERE: on her desk, her drawer, the fridge, among her medical supplies, sailing out of her clothes or stuck to her backpack. They mostly contain one or two sentences, sometimes just a word or a doodle. But the most emportant thing: they always make her smile. Sakura's love letters are at least two pages long and contain detailed reports about a new medical jutsu she has mastered, a new food item she has tried or the complete mystery of why all of her plants keep on dying. In between she slips sentences about what he would have said or done in these situations. One of Kakashi's ninken has been put on mail duty and is to stay with her until Sakura has finished her reply.

No. 10. Sakura would never admit it but she actually enjoys watching rom coms, period drama or soap operas with Kakashi. Not because she wants to use them as ammo to tease him about it but because they are lighthearted entertainment with some analysis or commentary about the hardships of relationships sprinkled in every now and then. They ease her mind and she adores how invested Kakashi is. It's kinda cute. They watched Bridgerton, How I met your Mother, Ugly Betty, My Secret Romance, True Beauty, Downton Abbey, Poldark, Tudors and Outlander. The more teenage-targeted shows like Vampire Diaries, Never Have I Ever, Reign, Riverdale, Smallville and One Tree Hill she keeps to herself. Kakashi doesn't watch anything if it's not with Sakura.

No 11. Kakashi's first impression of Sakura was that she is just another kid who hasn't figured out life yet and who is still too focused on herself and on superficial things that won't matter in the long run. He tries not to judge her too harshly for her perspective because just like all genin, she'll have to grow up faster then she thinks. Sakura had a hard time believing that this man really was an elite shinobi with a widespread reputation that makes him known, respected and even feared by s-class criminals. He seemed too goofy, yet bored to be their teacher and not really interested in teaching, which enraged her.

No. 12. Sakura debated with herself for a long time whether she should bring up the "anniverseries" topic at all with Kakashi. Not because she thought he was indifferent to it. The contrary: she knew him to be a hopeless romantic. So she felt a lot of pressure to deliver something profound. Kakashi noticed within a week what it was that put Sakura under this much stress and decided to plan little things for them before the actual date: they tried the new ice cream flavor in Konoha's one and only gelato shop, he bought a new board game for Saturday nights, they went to take pictures of them with silly little hats and mustaches, they took a dance class together and tried to paint a portray of each other, which caused Sakura to laugh so hard, she almost peed herself. It made Sakura realise that they didn't have to do anything super extraordinary. So when their anniversary came around, they spent the better part of it assembling a new kitchen cupboard. Sakura cooked Kakashi's favourite dish and in the afternoon they went to the book shop and challenged each other to find the funniest romcom title books. They read them out aloud and whoever laughed first, lost. Sakura lost and Kakashi decided to drag her to a karaoke bar. Afterwards they sat down in the park and watched the stars together.

No. 15. There are times when Kakashi wished Sakura had abandoned Sasuke earlier. Not from her life but from her heart. A lot of her training and strength was a result of not wanting to put the burden of dealing with Sasuke on Naruto alone. Some of her heart was broken and it took a long time to fix the damage. Sakura wished Kakashi wouldn’t try to handle everything by himself all the time.

SukuIta

No 2. Yuuji loves to write love letters. He spends hours deciding on the perfect paper and what kind of colours Sukuna likes or doesn't like. When it comes down to the actual writing, Yuuji isn't a man of huge or many words. He likes to ask Sukuna silly questions such as "Would you still love me if I was a worm?" or "Do you want to be my boyfriend? Yes, No, Please don't check both". Yuuji decorates the letters with little hearts or flowers, sometimes slipping in one of the fotos he's taken of Sukuna while eating or napping with a commentary on the back of it. Sukuna would rather die than admitting that he kind of adores Yuuji's innocent, silly displays of attachment. He still thinks they're a waste of time. If he didn't like the brat, the brat would know. But he doesn't want to be an asshole so he either writes Yuuji beautiful poems or paints something in return. But he never answers Yuuji's letters, which bothered Yuuji at first, but then he read the first poem and still tries to recover from that.

No. 10. Yuuji always thought it would be such a headache to persuade Sukuna to watch ANYTHING with him, let alone comedy horror, body horror or horror with some romance or strong friendships sprinkled in it, but no. Sukuna does complain a lot about the nonsensical plotlines or the lack of gore at times but for the most part he was down to watch What We Do In The Shadwos, Ash Vs. Evil Dead, Buffy The Vampire Slayer, The Last of Us and The Walking Dead. Since Sukuna wanted a little bit more suspense and psychological horror he blackmailed Yuuji into watching American Horror Stories, The Hounting of Hill House and Hannibal. Ulterior motive here being to make Yuuji snuggle up to him. Sukuna doesn't bother watching anything without Yuuji but Yuuji tries to hide the fact that he likes to watch Jane The Virgin, Sex Education and Young Royals when he feels down.

No 11. Sukuna's first impression of Yuuji was that he thought him to be weak and overly concerned with the safety of others to the point of it being not entertaining anymore. Just an annoying brat who lets himself be easily manipulated and who would break under the slightest pressure. And yet said brat was able to control him, which angered Sukuna beyond measure. At least his vessel had a great physique if nothing else. Yuuji on the other hand felt indifferent about Sukuna at first. He didn't know who or what he was only that he wasn't about to surrender his body to him.

No 12. Yuuji thinks anniversaries are important because it’s important to make new memories and also to remember the old ones. Sukuna couldn’t care less but let’s the brat do whatever he likes to do for an anniversary. So they end up in the ice cream shop from where they kissed for the first time and eat ice cream until they feel ill. Afterwards Yuuji drags Sukuna into a nearby park to watch the clouds together. Sukuna thinks it’s silly but he is indulging Yuuji and at least he gets to cuddle with him.

No 15. Yuuji wished Sukuna would stop thinking that Yuuji only likes him for his power. This and that he has zero empathy for everybody else. Sukuna wished Yuuji would finally use his power for selfish reasons and unleash his full potential. That’s something he wouldn’t be able to forgive him.

[historia-vitae-magistras]

If I remember correctly you said that baby Jack had to be held a lot because he was so clumsy. Would Matt have been big enough to do the same when he first meets him. You could get the family tradition of older siblings carrying their younger ones around everywhere. Let Matt get adorable little germlins to carry.

I did! And I've actually thought about this. The little things that carry from person to person. If Australia is a consequence of the American revolution, he also saw the turn of Matt from younger brother to older brother. What Matt knows about any concept of family, he learned at Alfred's elbow. Peak indulgence for Matt is when it was cold and Matt was small, Alfred would heft him up and carry him places. So picking up Jack? Hell yeah. Jack was very sturdy even for a young child but Matt was in his early teens in the regency era. Wee Jack gave him anxiety. All children are little shits, bouncing off and into mischief and being clumsy but even by that standard Jack is chaotic. Where Matt was a very self contained child who could be put into the corner and given books or blocks or even nothing and he'd occupy himself, Jack is a curious wee thing. He always has questions, he always wants to hear music, he always wants to chat, and play and move. Baby's first labour strike was protesting until the turnspit dog gets friends. He liberated the chicken's Matt's in charge of, let the goats loose and set the parlour on fire because he got bored and tried to figure out how the oil lamps worked. He broke so many priceless antiques that Arthur may or may not have stolen.

In early 19th century Georgian society where childhood is newly important but Jack's still a third rate penal colony at the end of the world, he's kind of miserable and everyone would want to indulge him, stuck half the world away from everything and everyone he's ever known in the miserable libertine environment that is regency England, It's a strange thing, for Matt to be a brother again, much less with one that will be so briefly this wriggly and adorable before shooting up within a century to end up about 20 kilos bulkier than him.

The image of Matt as his anxious but fairly normal 1805 self popping Jack up onto a hip he doesn't have enough of to keep him there and then doing the same thing in 10 years when he's gone back to setting fire and committing war crimes against Americans is so fitting. Like it doesn't matter what anyone thinks, they're stuck together. Also its so goddamn funny to think of Matt like "I just set the White House on fire, I am not in the mood for children." And Jack and Zee don't give a flying fuck, they have a book for him to read and the aren't leaving him be until he fucken reads it. He's grumpy about it, even though he knows he'll prize those memories long after the relationships themselves have been resigned too history.

[fragrantpines]

One part ginger, one part ginseng root, two part wolfberries

Those were the ingredients Tusu Elixir used to cure the headache of the villagers.

It was a simple remedy that any old doctor would have been able to make up, yet being able to see the light in their eyes slowly return back was a type of happiness that he quietly indulged in. Although his usual comments about people not taking care of their health were as snide as ever, observant patients would always notice how he seemed very pleased whenever he was able to cure a patient, regardless of what ailment they had been inflicted with.

One part spring water, two parts daisies, three parts freshly bloomed plum blossoms

It was supposed to be an easy to make medicine. However, the cold winter breeze that knocked against his window taunted him, whispering about how this little girl was going to die in front of his eyes if he didn't do anything.

"Please doctor, you have to save her!"

The begging eyes of the single mother tore his heart apart.

That night, the mother and daughter duo reunite happily, thanking the doctor profusely for bringing the little girl back the life. The doctor listened to everything they had to say before shooing them away, telling them to get out of his sight which they happily did.

The moment they left, the doctor locked the doors before looking down at his feet, a heavy sigh exhaled from his lips as he watches his feet fade in and out of existence.

Ah well, all well ends well.

Two parts parsley, two parts mushrooms, mix it all together in a bowl with freshly brewed wine

That was the "medicine" he forced himself to drink to regenerate his energy every so often.

Rumours of a doctor that could revive the dead spread like wildfire while the wine that brought him to existence was slowly becoming a forgotten tradition of the past.

By the time he was found by you, it was obvious that he was already on the brink of death. His pale skin looked ghostly underneath the candlelight, while his frail body was supported by a wheelchair that was covered with various medicinal herbs and flowers, blooming healthily in contrast to the sickly food soul who summoned them.

Although his words were akin to poisonous needles, that didn't stop you from noticing the blanket that covered his legs; and in a moment of impulse, you grabbed it and lifted it up.

"......."

At that moment, a heavy silence befell onto the both of you.

"Who did this to you?"

Your hands shook as you reached out to touch his legs-- at least, where his legs should have been. However, there was nothing to imply its existence except for its shadow that faded in and out of existence, following the movements of his upper body that froze the moment you lifted the blanket off his legs.

Instantly, the man slapped your hand away, glaring down at you.

"It's none of your business."

Who he wanted to save was his problem, and the price he had to pay was his burden to shoulder. So, don't bother him nor try to stop him.

It was for your own good.

One part wisteria, two parts tea leaves, then mix them all in a special bowl that contains....

Your eyes narrowed so hard that they became the size of twigs. No matter how hard you squinted, you weren't able to tell what the last part of the recipe was.

"Don't squint so hard or else you'll be walking around with a pair of windows in front of your eyes. You're not smart enough to pull off that look."

Tusu Elixir not-so-gently dropped a book on top of your head, making you wince before you turned around and pouted. "It's not my fault that Shifu has such bad handwriting. If I wasn't your disciple, I doubt anyone else would be able to read past the first sentence!"

The man furrowed his brows. He rests his elbow on his wheelchair's arm before resting his chin on top of his palm, staring at your face with an irritated look. "Is that so? Well, if you had just paid attention to my lessons while I was teaching you, you wouldn't need to refer to these books at all. So instead of blaming me for your incompetence, how about you stop staying up so late at night and go to bed early so that your lazy brain can absorb more knowledge in the morning."

Before you could protest, he turned his wheelchair around and wheeled his way to the opposite side of the room, ignoring your pleas and cries for help.

After coming to Kongsang, his days had been relatively peaceful. Its power helped stabilise his condition while its fertile soil helped him grow various medical herbs that were hard to obtain in Qingqiu. Since he was also an established doctor, he was able to open a clinic without any problem and had been seeing patients in and out every day just like he used to. The only difference from the past compared to the present was--

"Shifu!!"

The sudden yell snapped him out of memory lane, causing him to whip his head around instantly in the direction of your voice. In his haste, he didn't hear how close your voice was, leading to your faces being so close that your noses would brush against each other if any of you made the slightest of movements.

Ba dump

It was only for a brief second, yet it felt like an eternity to Tusu.

For once, the doctor was rendered speechless, incapable of retorting back any snarky words or comebacks. Instead he sat there as still as a statue, wishing to prolong this moment for as long as he could.

Unfortunately, that wish was shattered the instant you pulled away, putting as much distance between the two of you as you could while apologising in a frantic voice.

"I-I'm sorry, shifu! I just wanted to ask you about this other recipe, but then you just looked so entranced in your writing that I didn't know how else to pull your attention away so--"

You rambled on and on, droning off about some excuses that Tusu could easily refute against-- except he didn't because he was too busy trying to slow down his heart that wouldn't listen to his commands to stop beating so loudly.

Sometimes, he wondered why he agreed to take you as his disciple. Was it out of pity? An act of kindness? A way to keep you by his side longer even though he was so eager to push you away in the past?

Even now, he wasn't sure of the answer. However, whenever the time came for you to leave his clinic (to leave him), there was always one thought that never failed to cross his mind.

When were you coming back?

Two parts fresh snow, three parts ice, all encased inside a bottle that held the air of the coldest winter.

His heart stopped the moment he heard the news.

"Let me see them."

Yangzhou hesitated before shaking his head. "You mustn't, Doctor Tusu. You've used too much of your soul energy trying to heal us. The young master is already being taken care of by Doctor Dumpling, so as soon as you are fit, you'll be able to go see them again."

Tusu gritted his teeth. "It seems that you didn't hear me. I said, Let. Me. See. Them."

Yangzhou bit his lips, taking a glance at the opened window inside of the room before slowly shaking his head again. "The young master was the one who told me to keep you in place if something were to ever happen to them, so--"

"Hah! So that fool already knew what they were doing, what a joke!"

Tusu laughed bitterly, slamming his hand so hard against his wheelchair that veins popped up underneath his skin.

How laughable was it for him to react this way? He would always talk about how taking you under his wing was more trouble than it was worth but as the days went by, your presence in his life became irreplaceable, something that he wished to keep longer by his side without knowing why he longedfor it so desperately.

Now, as his mind turned into a blank, his thoughts shifted to the scene of the battlefield; all the food souls bravely fighting on the front lines while he was in charge of keeping them alive at the back. Out of nowhere, a corrupted food soul came from behind and threw a corrupted blade at him aimed at his heart. By the time he noticed, it was already too late, you were standing in front of him with the blade through your arm.

It was fine, it was fine, it was fine–except it wasn't because the corruption turned out to be extremely poisonous to mortals. Although you were part god, you were still human which meant that you were still vulnerable to this poison. The sole cure to the poison was effective only on food souls so your chances of survival were slim, so slim that all the stars could fall from the sky before you had a chance of survival.

There wasn't enough time, he had to see you now but the resolve in Yangzhou’s gaze told him that he was determined to see through your orders to the bitter end.

Earlier, if he had seen the enemy beforehand, none of this would have happened. If he hadn't exerted himself on spot, he would be well enough to look after you right now. If he had healthy legs, he would be strong enough to push the man away and rush to your side.

Past regrets were the present self's worst enemy. That couldn't be more true as he watched Yangzhou leave the room before standing right outside as a guard.

If only he had the ability to pull down all the stars for you.

Three months of autumn, two weeks of quarantine and one day of visit.

.... Alas, the stars had yet to fall on the night of your passing.

Two parts sunshine collected during the brightest hour of the day, two parts starlight taken from a newly born star, mixed together with water drawn from the Huang Chuan river.

No, it still wasn't good enough.

Perhaps substituting the water with flames from a newly reincarnated phoenix would work better? But there was a chance that the concoction would explode on use, damaging your well-preserved body lying on the bed as silent as stone. 

Maybe using bamboo water collected during the moment of sunrise would help balance it out, but that meant that it wouldn't be strong enough to call back your soul from the underworld.

Were you still in the underworld, waiting in line to drink Meng Po's soup or had you already been reincarnated during the year he used to preserve your body in such a perfect condition?

Something that felt like a sneer escaped past his lips but he was too exhausted to acknowledge it. Instead, he rolled his wheelchair up to the side of the bed and gazed at your face, murmuring under his breath.

"Wake up. You've been sleeping for so long that the god of food had to come back to take over Kongsang."

"He wasn't pleased when he learnt of what happened to you. In fact, he was furious and nearly went to war to avenge your death, but that's to be expected. No parent would ever want their child to die before them, especially in such a cruel way."

"You're a fool to think that sleeping for so long means that you're free from practice. There is so much you still have to learn so don't think of slacking off now. If you wake up now then I might be generous enough to let you off tomorrow."

"Okay, I'll allow you to sleep in for another hour every morning. That should be enough time for you to pull your ditzy head out of the clouds."

"Don't get greedy. I won’t negotiate past an hour. Now open up your eyes or forget about calling yourself my disciple ever again."

"......."

"That was a lie. You're the first and only disciple I'll ever take under my wing. All those times I told you to stay back were excuses for me to keep you by my side longer. You were improving at such a rapid pace that I was scared that you would leave me soon so I purposefully went harsher on you to keep you from improving any quicker."

"I'll admit it. I love you. I loved you the moment you reached your hand out to me. I love so deeply that there’s no curing me, just like how there is no cure that could bring you back to my side again."

"So, wait for me, okay? I'll be joining you soon. Don't you dare to cross over before I find you again, stupid disciple."

[princesssmars]

this is halloween!

a modern!caitvi x reader

you convince your tough girlfriends to go with you to a haunted house

contains: fluff, captain cupcake and blocks with her face being scared. an overdump of background that was not needed but i spiraled

wc: 602

a/n: its october yayyyy. the vi tag is getting more content yayyyy. another poly idea YAYYYYY. i wrote this bc in fics reader is always super scared of horror movies and anything scary and i am the exact opposite so here this is!

one of the things that attracted you to caitlyn and vi was their strength. every day they risked their lives to help people and looked damn good while doing it. from the outside, it seemed like nothing could scare them.

boy were you wrong.

caits favorite holiday was valentines day since she's such a romantic. despite their differences, she admired her parent's love for each other and it was passed down to her. she goes all out, making sure to wear reds, whites, and pinks, even putting up some decorations around the house and her office. she gives the both of you treats and hugs and kisses whenever she can and takes you out to do something nice.

vi’s favorite holiday was christmas. when she was younger it was much smaller and lowkey, given that her parents and vander didn't have much money. but with both, she adored the feeling of being surrounded by the people she loved and cared about. she goes all out as well, becoming almost a christmas-zilla with your home decorations and picking out the perfect presents.

both of the women were surprised to learn your favorite holiday was actually halloween. the decorations, the movies, everything. you could watch horror movies that had them staring at the ceiling at night with a straight face. sometimes you even laughed. but, they loved you and decided to indulge. even if the mini skeleton you put in the kitchen scared them late at night when they went for a quick drink.

you find an ad online talking about some new haunted house/carnival in the area that was all the rage and you just had to book some tickets for all of you. when you told your girlfriends you noticed their faces get paler.

in the days before the event, they are very conflicted. they looked up the place online and watched multiple videos just to see “yes it is that bad.”

but on the other hand, you would squeal and tell them how excited you are to go.

so, on halloween night, (with a full moon in the sky, vi pointed out) you all packed into cait’s nice car and went to the carnival

you pull up and there are already people dressed as crazy people and killer clowns in your face. it's perfect

you recommend getting some snacks before the main event but caitlyn definitely declines in fear of throwing up

once you finally get inside the haunted house, you link arms with the girls but notice them trailing behind??? like they're making you go slower because they are literally dragging

at the first scare, you hear vi let out a shrill scream and you start DYING laughing making her pout and tell you to shut up

there was a part with a dingy medical center with crazed doctors and you swear you heard cait start gagging

vi def starts trying to fight people that get too close nearly getting you kicked out

throughout the whole thing, you're just laughing and theyre like !?!?!?

near the end, cait and vi RUSH to the exit and both breathe a sigh of relief

you're still giggling and start cackling when you move to wrap your arms around their waists and they both yell

both too almost scared to get snacks

almost

as you're all eating your treats you have a bright smile on your face and that's the only thing that makes this better for them

they arent doing this again so don't ask.

[metalhead-brainrot]

[Album of the day] World Eaters - Demo MK-1

Guelph, ON // 2020

[Genres] death metal, war metal

[Themes] In the grim darkness of the far future, there are only riffs...

[FFO] Warhammer 40K*, Bolt Thrower, Chainsword

[Thoughts] You can't traverse the waters of death metal for very long without encountering Warhammer 40K in some form, and I'll confess I count myself a fan.** But you don't need to be a capital-G Gamer to appreciate this ripping demo, a solo project from multi-instrumentalist David Gupta. World Eaters's riffs are as violent as its namesake***, guaranteed to have you itching for the mosh pit. The first two tracks, "Devour" and "Baneblade," will pummel you with energetic rhythm, an auditory siege culminating in the death/doom hellscape of "The Warp" (my very favorite World Eaters song to date).

I picked this demo because I think it's rock-solid, but I'd like to talk about World Eaters's other releases as well. Grinding Advance (2021) is their second EP, doubling down on everything in Demo MK-1. "Armoured Spearhead (Hellhammer)" is six minutes of unbridled energy; "Expedition / Tomb World" is nearly nine minutes, the latter half containing clarinet-infused Nile worship;**** there's even a cover of "Running Up That Hill."

World Eaters's new split, Mothman and the Thunderbirds vs World Eaters, adds two new great tracks to the WE catalogue. It's also the first release without drum programming; joining as the second permanent member, Winter Stomp***** adds ass-kicking blast beats to the bands repertoire. I'm very excited to see more future releases with her style.

Now that Winter Stomp has pledged her gory chainaxe to the sonic blitzkrieg of the World Eaters, the duo have been able to play live. Living outside Ontario I can't say I've been to one of their concerts, but I bet they split skulls; if you live near Guelph, check them out.

Also, I would be remiss for not mentioning that World Eaters has always been very charitable with the profits from their music, leading several donation campaigns for Guelph Pride, an LGBTQ+ nonprofit local to World Eaters's hometown. Winter Stomp has also designed and printed some booty short merch reading, "Be Gay Do Heresy," which tempt me every Bandcamp Friday.******

Thanks for reading the long post today. Keep on killing, maiming, and burning.

o()xxxx[:::::::::::::::::> o()xxxx[:::::::::::::::::> o()xxxx[:::::::::::::::::>

* If you're unfamiliar, Warhammer 40K is a popular tabletop strategy game played with painted miniatures and rolling dice. It's popular with metalheads because the lore is so metal. Indulge me in a quick tl;dr.

It's the 41st century, and the Imperium of Man has spread through the Galaxy under the tutelage of the God Emperor. Though once great, the empire was split 10,000 years prior due to infighting from his übermensch sons, the Primarchs. Now the empire is spread thin across too many star systems, losing the fight against three main threats: the Xenos (other alien civilizations), the Heretics (those who question the authority of a fascist theocracy), and Chaos itself (arcane beings from the Warp, the non-space between wormholes).

The God Emperor sits as a corpse upon his throne on Terra, every ounce of his psychic abilities maintaining the Astronomican, a beacon guiding spaceships throughout the Warp. Every day an increasing number of psychics are sacrificed to fuel his powers, for if the beacon fails, the Imperium collapses and humanity falls.

There are no good guys, and there is no hope. For in the grim darkness of the far future, there is only war.

** Never actually played anything Games Workshop except Necromunda, though I've read a fair few novels. I prefer wargames that won't bleed me for money and bury me in rules, so I mainly play Mantic Games's Kings of War and Firefight. One book for all the rules and force lists at a fraction of the price.

*** The World Eaters are a faction of heretical Space Marines worshipping one of the four Chaos Gods: Khorne, the Blood God, who sits upon a throne made from the skulls of those slain in battle. They are also my favorite faction; he kind of has a Conan-esque backstory of fighting in gladiatorial slave pits. And we all know how much metalheads like Conan.

**** The Egyptian musical themes are themselves referential to the content of the song: Tomb Worlds are the hidden domains of the Necrons, a xenos race that conquered the Galaxy aeons before humanity even gazed at the stars. Annoyed by the emergence of other upstart civilizations, the Dynasties of the Infinite Empire transferred their consciousnesses into mechanical bodies, intending to slumber in hidden tombs until the juvenile races extinguished themselves.

But occasionally something wakes the soulless early, by delving too deep in ancient ruins or experimenting with ancient and unknown tech. And what they find is always ruthless extermination, for the destruction of a Necron's artificial body does not kill a mind capable respawning eternally into an army's worth of mechanical warriors.

***** She's apparently from the Netherlands. Neat.

****** I already have one of their patches on my metal jacket. Very stylish.

o()xxxx[:::::::::::::::::> o()xxxx[:::::::::::::::::> o()xxxx[:::::::::::::::::>

[From the band/label]

Thought for the day: A coward always seeks compromise.

David Gupta: Guitars, Bass, Vocals, Drum Programming Psychic screams from the Immaterium are: Adam Ujhelyi (Teleportise, Hellbreather) Justin Krawczyk (Frank Reynolds, BatBoy) Derek Prince-Cox (Wakeless, Yuzun, ex-Arise and Ruin) Stuart Charlton (First World Famine, Inverted Serpent) Nik Wever (ex-The Story Of..., Time the Destroyer) Recorded, Mixed and, "Mastered" by David Gupta at Doyle House. World Eaters logo and Demo MK-1 artwork by Meytheus Rexy, @meytheusrexy_art

[kolbisneat]

MONTHLY MEDIA: January 2024

I know folks say January feels like a long month but it kinda felt normal to me? I dunno. Anyway this is how I spent the last 31 days.

……….FILM……….

Asteroid City (2023) The artistry is top notch and spoke the loudest but I feel like I'll need to watch it a couple more times to take in the quieter voices. I can't tell if it's me or specifically this film, but it felt...sadder than Anderson's other work?

Saltburn (2023) A lot of false starts, or rather a lot of pivots from what I thought the movie would be. And then also a lot of false endings? I dunno. I found the whole thing...indulgent (take that for what it's worth). A lot of beautiful and memorable imagery.

Spice World (1997) Technically a New Year's Eve watch and a great way to wind down 2023. Truly a wild ride and so many great cameos. And for anyone who doesn't know the Spice Girls I actually think it'd be a pretty great introduction to them.

……….TELEVISION……….

Delicious in Dungeon (Episode 1.01 to 1.04) Digging this adaptation so far! If you haven't heard me ramble on about how great the manga series is, this is your chance to see if you dig the tone and concept.

Daisy Jones & The Six (Episode 1.01 to 1.10) Gotta love the Fleetwood Mac fanfic. Feels both familiar and wholly unique and the brief documentary-style character moments are a lot of fun too. I strive to be Warren the drummer.

Blue Eye Samurai (Episode 1.05 to 1.08) Really great season of television. The last episode stuck the landing in an unexpected way and while I didn't looooove it, I respect it. Still suffers slightly from "just wait til next season" but one misstep amongst a season of perfect steps is okay by me.

The Crown (Episode 6.07 to 6.10) Having not watched the rest of the series (outside of a few eps of the Diana-centred eps this season) I really found the finale...moving. Elizabeth and Philip really do feel like the end of an era.

……….YOUTUBE……….

This Candyman Makes a Wonka-Style Candy Feast | WIRED by Wired Certainly didn't realize how interested I'd be in the process of making candy, but here we are. Really great breakdown and watch it if for no other reason than to learn the backstory behind the "drops" in "lemon drops". VIDEO

How YouTubers Can Avoid Burnout by Extranet Shaquille While specifically talking about YouTubers, this succinctly captures my approach to working in the creative industry: push yourself but not for the sake of exponential growth. Any creative could benefit from hearing this alternative to those pushing the grind mindset. VIDEO

……….READING……….

Full House by Zeke Masters (Complete) Picked this up randomly at a thrift store and it didn't disappoint. Not quite as horny as I expected an "adult western" to be, but that's okay. An easy read and if I see more of "Zeke's" books I'll definitely pick them up.

There Is A Tide by Agatha Christie (Complete) Plenty of twists and I think it all played fair as everything Poirot revealed made me think "oh yeah that was mentioned earlier". Great introduction to Christie's work and excited to pick up more!

Ducks: Two Years in the Oil Sands by Kate Beaton (Complete) Heart-wrenching. Such a deeply personal reflection and perspective on Canada's relationship with oil and the people who take it from the ground. While the entire read is a blend of very fun and deeply sad, I found the written epilogue to contain the biggest gut punch. Should be required reading for anyone who drives a car.

Richard Stark's Parker: The Score by Darwyn Cooke (Complete) It's incredible just how cinematic Cooke's work is. So much style and substance with such little brushwork (and only two colours)! If you haven't read any of the Parker retellings then know each pretty much stands on its own and are all worth checking out.

Delicious in Dungeon Vol. 3 by Ryoko Kui (Complete) Really enjoying this reread while also catching the Netflix series! It's interesting to see the little details peppered in that really shows the whole thing was developed from the beginning. Go watch the show and if you like it well enough then the books are, as cliche as it is, even better.

……….AUDIO……….

God is Dead by Twin Temple (2023) Satanic doo whop? Heck yeah. Their first album was great but something about this follow-up really clicked for me. Maybe it's the the track "Be a Slut (Do What You Want)".

……….GAMING……….

Oz: A Fantasy Role-Playing Setting (Andrews McMeel Publishing) My Tuesday crew is knee-deep in Ozian politics. They're allied with a few different parties and many of those parties are in conflict with each other. Classic. Anyway you can read all about their antics here!

And that's it. See you in February!

[astralartefact]

Griff RoD Story Thoughts dae think war is bad maybe?

This write-up contains a whole lot of pseudo-deep complaining about the theme of Death as Salvation.

Content Warning for related Themes!

Okay, now that everything Griff-related is out I can finally say it:

I don't like Griff and a lot of his costumes look the same to me.

And I tried. Different from Rion and Dimos I actually tried and read all of his stories - which is why I'm writing this out today.

Not to say I can't find anything good in them - the End of his RoD story reminds me of one of the characters in the only book I ever read (Crime & Punishment) who commits suicide because without the eponymous Punishment for his eponymous Crime he couldn't find "Salvation" and therefore his only remaining option was Death to escape his guilt.

But there's only so much "Look at this 'normal' guy and what war did to him!" I can take before going numb and not listening anymore. You need to give me at least something else to latch onto. Like Lars has an existential crisis amount of shit going on that gives his story another layer about how exactly war is bad. Meanwhile Griff is just a guy who had a really fucked up thing happen that one time and he really can't get over it.

And sure. Maybe his stories are just about hammering down how PTSD works. Maybe it intentionally repeats Griff's one drop of guilt in the ocean that is war at nauseam. And maybe I'm just not keyed in to this type of historic fiction enough to understand the nuances. Maybe this is actually a very nuanced portrayal of the PTSD of sole survivors and I'm just not interested enough in this subject matter that I would know something like that.

But seeing as it ends in "the only thing that will save us from our guilt is death" I find that hard to believe. Not that there isn't value in showing the reality of veterans commiting suicide because of PTSD - but I don't think that's what's happening here.

I hate Death as Salvation as a trope. There is nothing valuable about it* and it should be wholly abandoned. (*if it isn't in some way followed up by a rebirth. then it's fine bc obv its not supposed to be real death but i digress) Any affirmation that Dying would in any way absolve you of anything you ever did is absolute garbage. It is a thoughtless and above all else lazy way to think about forgiveness - that anybody would just be better off if the person that harmed them just 'got what's coming for them'.

And Crime and Punishment would probably argue at this point that it's because you can't grow from your mistakes then. That Punishment is not (only) for the victim but for the offender to make amends with the past so they can move forward [without killing themselves]. And Griff's story can be read that way - not only is he never punished for his "Crimes", he is actively celebrated despite them.

But outside of that this Eye for an Eye mentality that a victim would and should get anything out of the misery and/or death of their offender is just another cycle of violence that our society is currently just basking in. It's an annoying itch that we just keep scratching because why not, it feels good right now and I promise I will stop before it gets worse! We all have urges that are 'natural' and yet we still all agree we shouldn't indulge in them - and Revenge should absolutely be one of them.

Forgiveness is a complicated process, both to forgive others and to be forgiven. There is no one way to go through it and there can't be only one since that's just the nature of our myriad unique human connections. But that's also what makes it such a fascinating thing to interrogate. Who is forgiveness for? How do you forgive? How are you forgiven? Do you even need forgiveness?

And I hate that thoughtless writers continue to use Death as a quick way out of it all, that we can just redeem a character by sacrifice because oh, isn't that noble, now what they've done isn't so bad anymore because i guess death is a currency now and this time it bought us a good ending.

But in Real Life Dying only becomes an option when something has gone terribly terribly wrong. An event in which somebody chooses Death is always a tragedy - and yet in fiction writing it is - different from reality - always a consciously constructed tragedy. The writer made this happen so the offender could die for their sins - because I guess there is just no other way that somebody could overcome doing a bad thing. Great news for all of us who ever did something bad!

So the way they went from "Griff talks about it to somebody for the first time and feels a little bit better about it" as if they went for a "Griff gets Group Therapy! You're not alone!"-Message only to still end up with both of them killing themselves is just deeply upsetting to me. If this is in any way supposed to be a story about regret, I feel like this could have been a "You will never get over it but at least you can talk to others so it gets easy enough to still live" story - because even if that's not a particularly groundbreaking narrative anymore either at least it's something actively helpful. But this? What is a veteran reading this story supposed to get out of this? Just die, it never gets better?

then again FF16 did this so much worse than Griff. at least reinkane has CrimePun parallels - and of course the overall framing as a whole is still 'this is what war does to a mf and should never happen' so i guess maybe that's the point? that even a winning war leads to people killing themselves?

Now. This is the point where the plot twists and I say: Okay. But maybe this is - deliberately or not - great writing actually. I didn't see this coming, I just gave what I wrote another read and then this occured to me:

There's just something here. Griff is one of the characters with a seemingly good amount of agency in this game - sure, he isn't a king or a ruler, he doesn't get to decide about this war, but he certainly has more agency than a good chunk of the characters in this game - he literally gets to tell Lars what to do - and yet. He just can't even think about trying anything else. His station just doesn't make it possible for some unpronounced reason. It doesn't even occur to the narrative that maybe he could - I don't know - Run away. Lead a Resistance. Even just interrogate his own actions. He did a bad thing and there's just absolutely nothing he can do about it but kill himself. (And there's something else here about why exactly death is an easier choice for him than anything else but this is already long enough)

Lars' story uncovers a truly wild revelation about this war they're fighting and it just. Doesn't affect Griff's story in the slightest. It doesn't come up once. He just doesn't know. Doesn't even notice. How can he not notice? When suddenly the people he cares so much about are gone and show up standing on the other side of the battlefield?

But you have to understand. This is really hard for Griff. He has to continue fighting because one time his actions killed so many. It's not the war's fault. Not the other army's. Not the bullets of the other soldiers. It's his fault. He did this. So he only has to fix himself. He can't possibly be asked to care about anything else, especially not whatever this fcking war is about.

And I don't know, doesn't that sound like... Ugh. I don't know the word, but it always comes up when people talk about white men. It starts with P I think. It's that word that people use! That you should check every once in a while... Ahh, who cares. I can just end this post about PTSD and war and not think about it any further because I do not have PTSD and the closest war will ever get to me is that maybe they're going to re-institute a draft in my country - but probably not and even if they do I won't have to go! And surely nobody on the world alive right now has a different experience from me. See ya!

also they could have made this story so much better if griff and the eyepatch guy fuc---

also also with how 063y and now griff went i'm so excited for argo. whoever is writing these has a lot of thoughts about men.

[thirstforsalt]

the good omens meta post

this is not going to be very nice, and it will contain all the spoilers

I am a Good Omens book fan. Moreover, I am a Good Omens fandom fan, a fanfiction reader and writer since before the show ever came out. Also, I love Michael Sheen and David Tennant so much that I watched all three series of "Staged."

So when I say I found the show disappointing, I don't just mean as an adaptation, but as a piece of media that has to stand on its own feet. I know, for any viewer who wasn't invested in the Aziraphale/Crowley beats of the first season, it was basically unwatchable. I know because I tried to get a lot of non-shippers to watch, and the only people who could enjoy it at all cared about the love story at its heart. That's okay. It's nice when things are made for us.

The thing I love about shipping culture, and fan culture, is that it's a corner of the internet where soft-hearted people with big feelings and the desire to indulge in those feelings can be together in community. It's a place where we can intellectualize those feelings, or simply scream together. I've been in fandoms for more than two decades, oh my god. It's one of the only places I feel wholly seen, and totally accepted. (I mean, I've been a victim of online bullying, but who hasn't?) I deeply love my fellow fans. We are so creative, so sensitive, so observant. I really love us: what we make. What we do. How we speak. How we interact with media and transform it into something greater than the sum of its parts.

That's how I feel about Good Omens fandom. I think the works this fandom makes-- the art, the fic, the everything-- are overall of a higher quality than the book and the show. And that's okay. Some fandoms are like that. Not everything is eternal art, perfected to the highest aspiration of the medium. It's still valid. It still counts. It still carries a lot of meaning, for me personally and I know for you, if you're reading this.

I say all of this to contextualize why I felt season two was so genuinely mean-spirited. It felt cruel. I am a major fan of fan service, and I love being a fan who gets serviced. But this fan service reminded me of the book "How To Date Men When You Hate Men," in that it might well have been subtitled "How To Service Fans When You Hate Your Fans." It pointedly retconned moments from season one where people had written the most fill-in fics, e.g. having?????? them go???????? to a nightclub?????? AFTER A BLITZ BOMBING?! You know what people in London did after a Blitz bombing?! They hid in their homes or shelters with the blackout curtains on the windows until daybreak! I couldn't help but feel the zombie Nazis plot (what was that?!) was being used to make sure there was no room for the formerly ambiguous night after Aziraphale fell in love. After season one, fic writers had imagined hundreds of little sexy rendezvous after the Blitz bombing scene, but no more. Now, they can't be canon. In fact, nothing set in the past 6,000 years can be canon, now. So much of this season felt engineered to poison the sweet little ambiguities of season one, and you will never convince me it wasn't intentional.

I think it's important to say what we all know: fan activities like fanfiction and fanart are extremely femme-coded behaviors. Regardless of your personal gender identity, fanfic writers are majority female, and the other activities fans perform (making fanart, cosplaying) tend to be gendered (in the media and by outsiders) as somehow female. It's important that we acknowledge this even if it isn't true-- it's similar to the ways that careers like teaching and nursing are feminized, regardless of who actually teaches and nurses. This is also extremely important to acknowledge because women are PAINFULLY underrepresented behind the scenes of television.

Fewer women than men actually get to make the art that eventually inspires fandom. There were no female writers on Good Omens. There were no female directors. The cishet male creators, by which I mean to include both writers and the director (of Sherlock infamy, by the way), have no cinematic or narrative vocabulary for the androphilic gaze. [That's the gaze that sexualizes and objectifies men, a term on loan to me from a non-binary academic friend. It's the gaze we use when we write m/m slash. This is a larger discussion, but the reason you have predominantly femme writers and consumers of m/m erotica is in part because it is a break from the male gaze-- there is no man objectifying a woman in these stories. You might have a queer identity, too, and that might be part of it, but the fact is that one of the appealing functions of m/m erotica is the absence of a woman being objectified. We, the readers, get to do the objectifying-- in complete and utter contrast to most media. It also bears reiterating that regardless of your gender identity and sexual orientation, you exist in a world where Western media is constantly feeding you film and television from the POV of the male gaze. That is why m/m erotica especially, and to some degree f/f erotica, is transgressive, by the way. It's also transgressive to just find more than one man hot, because we're not supposed to.] Anyway, creators like the men who made Good Omens might really think they speak our language, but it will always be a second language to them, and a lot of nuance gets lost. In my opinion, that's why the kiss scene was so devastating. It was joyless.

I know people will say (and have said) that it was joyless and passionless in service of the angst, but fanfic readers know: having even a second of passion followed by the angst makes the pain that much sweeter. It would have made the conflict, and the cliffhanger, even harsher. The writers and director behind that scene do not understand what every fanfiction writer with a vibrator knows. They fundamentally do not understand us. It breaks my heart to say it, because I don't think it has to be true across the board, but I felt it so strongly with Good Omens, season two. I felt so strongly that they were trying to speak our language without having the humility to speak with us, to understand us. They understand us only as viewers and as consumers. They don't understand us as collaborators, because they don't think they have to collaborate with us. But fans are, in a very real sense, collaborators-- collaborators in making meaning, and collaborators in making other people money. Understanding that symbiosis is what transformative works are about. This season felt like it was intended to remind us that these characters are not ours. We are welcome to play in our own sandbox, but we are not a part of theirs. And if the show had bothered to hire any femme creatives, there may have been someone above the line to bridge the gap between what they thought they were doing and what we took from it.

I also can't help feeling that we're being held emotionally hostage to get the ransom money of a third season. IMO, the second season was genuinely bad television. Like, sincerely appalling storytelling. I'm talking about everything before the kiss, too. (I can't even discuss the kiss right now.) The so-called "mystery" of Gabriel's memory was nonsensical. We had no reason to care and the "clues" we followed were incoherent until the finale. It wasn't a fun mystery we could follow, and let's be honest, we were all just there for the Aziraphale/Crowley moments. Even those moments were wasted, imo.

What was the purpose of the magic show and the miracle blocker? Was it just for all the sexual double-entendres of giving and receiving and shooting guns? Because, I mean, I love a good dirty joke, but what was its utility in the structure of the season? What did we learn? Did anyone change? Did anyone go on a journey? It failed at every screenwriting 101 lesson I've ever been taught.

Why even have Crowley and Aziraphale setting up the lesbians if the lesbians aren't going to be set up? Why have a monologue about how you can't force two people together just because you want them to be together? That whole storyline felt like subtext (and not particularly subtle subtext) of the author stubbornly wresting narrative control from fans.

And it was FILLED with squandered opportunities. One of my favorite moments was Crowley referencing humans in the rain confessing their love a la Richard Curtis movies. Wow! What a beautiful set-up for his confession later in the-- wait, you're not even going to use that perfect set-up? OK, but you're going to do a set-up, right? Oh, you're not? You're just going to have the lesbians tell Crowley that he and Aziraphale have "never REALLY talked" and think that's a set-up? Girl, I guess!

I don't think on the basis of writing, Good Omens season two earned a third season. I would be very surprised if it got one. And if it doesn't get one, that's frankly justified! No one is going to watch this show who isn't there for Aziraphale/Crowley, which-- again-- are my people. But we are simply not enough, and a good show knows that it has to engage both shippers and casual viewers. My guess is that they don't get a third season, because no one but us hardcore fans will watch that trainwreck again and again, and then Ne*l Ga*man and the actors will do some kind of staged reading of a third season-ish script for charity or something to tie up the loose ends. I'm old-fashioned in that I think you should use the money and time and resources you've been given to tell a story, not just set up a story. I feel like fans are being held emotionally hostage to push Amazon to pay the proverbial ransom of a third season (and it is a ransom, it does line pockets that are not yours or mine). I feel like Ga*man made that explicit in some of his Tumblr posts!

Which is not to say the show might not have been more successful if indeed it had been the pure fan service everyone is saying it is. But also, it wasn't pure fan service. This was not an exercise in giving the people what they want. It was an exercise in asserting narrative control, which to me is the opposite of what fans want, need, and deserve.

[kitausu]

Kit's MM *Spicy* Book Rec List

Because I need basically zero encouragement to make a book rec list, and @thepixiepaige mentioned that a rec list would be appreciated, here is a rec list of some of my favorite MM spicy books that I've read in the last few years.

*Note: Please check content/trigger warnings as needed. Not all, or even most, of these will be everyone's cup of tea. Many contain kink, age gaps, and some contain sibling relationships.*

Cara Dee's The Game series

Forever and always my go to spicy rec. This series has me by the throat and there's just so many of them and they're all amazing! There are currently 16 and counting...

The Game Series is a BDSM series where romance meets the reality of kink. Sometimes we fall for someone we don’t match with, sometimes vanilla business gets in the way of kinky pleasure, and sometimes we have to compromise and push ourselves to overcome trauma and insecurities. No matter what, two things are certain. This is not a perfect world, and life never turns out the way you planned.

Other Cara Dee Books

Nora Phoenix's The White House Men series, Perfect Hands series, and Kinky Boys series

Nora Phoenix is often hit or miss for me. Sometimes I love the books (like the ones pictured here) and sometimes they're a little meh. She writes daddy kink though in a way that consistently hits, so if that's your thing, these three are excellent reads and can be mostly read as standalones (although The White House Men series less so)

Avon Gale's Scoring Chances series

Below is the blurb for the first book. Each series deals with different players on the team. This is my go to hockey romance and I read all of these SO quickly.

Drafted to play for the Jacksonville Sea Storm, an NHL affiliate, twenty-year-old Lane Courtnall’s future looks bright, apart from the awkwardness he feels as a gay man playing on a minor league hockey team. He's put his foot in his mouth a few times and alienated his teammates. Then, during a rivalry game, Lane throws off his gloves against Jared Shore, enforcer for the Savannah Renegades. It’s a strange way to begin a relationship.   Jared’s been playing minor league hockey for most of his career. He’s bisexual and doesn’t care if anyone knows. But he’s determined to avoid another love affair after the last one left him devastated. Out of nowhere a one-nighter with rookie Lane Courtnall gives him second thoughts. Lane reminds Jared why he loves the game and why love might be worth the risk. In turn, Jared hopes to show Lane how to be comfortable with himself on and off the ice. But they’re at different points in their careers, and both men will have to decide what they value most.

N.R. Walker's Thomas Elkin trilogy

Each book is only about 100ish pages, so really this is just one book broken up into three parts. Just very sweet and indulgent and architecture as a setting feels very unusual!

Even the strongest of buildings start out as plans on paper, and every architect knows that sometimes plans need to change. Sometimes, these lessons are learned on the job. A successful New York architect, Thomas Elkin almost has it all. Coming out as gay and ending his marriage before his fortieth birthday, he needed to start living his life. Now, four years later, with his relationship with his son back on track, and after a few short-lived romances, this esteemed traditional draftsman thought he knew everything about architecture, about life. Cooper Jones, twenty-two years old, is about to take the architect world by storm. Talented, professional, driven, and completely infuriating, Cooper is the definition of Generation Y. Starting an internship working with Thomas, Cooper is about to knock Tom’s world off its axis. Tom can teach Cooper about the industry, but Cooper is about to teach Tom a few things about life.

Annabeth Albert's Out of Uniform series

Listen, I wouldn't rec a Navy SEAL series if it wasn't great, and these are GREAT. The blurb here is for the first one, but I loved them all.

After trading the barracks for a fixer-upper rental, navy SEAL Zack Nelson wants peace, not a roommate—especially not Pike, who sees things about Zack he most wants to hide. Pike’s flirting puts virgin Zack on edge. And the questions Pike’s arrival would spark from Zack’s teammates about his own sexuality? Nope. Not going there. But Zack can’t refuse. Pike Reynolds knows there won’t be a warm welcome in his new home. What can he say? He’s an acquired taste. But he needs this chance to get his life together. Also, teasing the uptight SEAL will be hella fun. Still, Pike has to tread carefully; he’s had his fill of tourists in the past, and he can’t risk his heart on another, not even one as hot, as built—and, okay, yeah, as adorable—as Zack. Living with Pike crumbles Zack’s restraint and fuels his curiosity. He discovers how well they fit together in bed…in the shower…in the hallway… He needs Pike more than he could have imagined, yet he doesn’t know how to be the man Pike deserves.

Keira Andrews

Another author who is often hit or miss for me, but these are really fun! She does the age gap romance that I crave.

Specific Books

All of these are standalones, although many are part of a "series," and all of them are kinky and spicy af.

[lucianadjanic]

Film Journal #5: The 1960's - The Hand - 1965

During class we were shown a variety of animations made during the 1960's decade, where themes of political oppression and the fight against communism was at all time even in a medium thats very children catered like animation. The 1950's had a lot of that too, but in the 1960's, a Czech animator by the name of Jiri Trnka's work began to gain major traction.

His work spoke a lot about artistic expression along with the boundaries of freedom which they had been contained in. I wanted to focus in on the short film "The Hand," which was released in 1965. "The Hand’s message is still topical, being symbolic for artists working in oppressive regimes all over the world".

This was actually Trnka's last film and it was a success across the world, even winning awards, however, unsurprisingly enough it was banned across all of Russia as it was anti propaganda and spoke against the government's ideals.

As for the story itself which is told through masterful puppetry, shows us the perspective of a harlequin doll who is a loving artist whom cares deeply about his craft (ceramics) and the creations he makes and who it's provided for (his plants). Everything seems normal and peaceful for the beginning of the film as we see him creating art pieces, however then comes a disturbance in the form of a large gloved white hand. It essentially breaks its way into his house through the door and his windows and crushes his beloved works, and indulges him to create something more fitted to the hand's liking. This continues throughout multiple times where the hand tries to persuade and manipulate through a variety of tactics go get the harlequin doll to make the hand a clay sculpture of a hand. Even brute force is used when things like "praise, money, indoctrination, and erotics" don't even seem to work.

Unfortunately in the end, the harlequin is caught and taken hostage of, being stolen from his home and being trapped into a steel bird cage. He's then forced to work, and he is attached to strings literally being controlled by the hand above him - this time having to sculpt a hand out of stone/marble.

Miracously though, once the sculpture is complete he's able to escape from his prison and return home. When we all think finally there'll be a happy ending as he's safe at home - that where we're wrong. His own plant pot ends up being his demise as he's busy trying to bolt all the doors and windows so that the hand cannot enter - the pot falls onto his head accidentally from one of the cabinets. There he lies, killed by his own creations and given a "state funeral, making him posthumously part of the system".

I understand why this film made such an impact at the time and honestly I think should still be seen all around the world to this day. When I viewed this for the first time it really stuck with me and I was left awestruck not only by the artistry but the symbolism plunged about are so effortlessly done. I love imagery through symbols through hand's, (well of course in this case it was especially relevant as the hand is a symbol of communism), but it is also the perfect image to convey control, power, and manipulation. The hand that controls the strings underneath it, the people of the country. The glove "is a masterstroke. In its facelessness it is as scary as it is symbolic for the invisible hand of totalitarian power". As well as the choice "of not representing a human exponent of communism is effective in truly dehumanizing the movement and exalting its negative tendencies and implications".

https://www.sensesofcinema.com/2013/cteq/the-passion-of-the-peasant-poet-jiri-trnka-a-midsummer-nights-dream-and-the-hand/

[killemwithkawaii]

[This was a submission by @meadow-hearthfire but tumblr doesn't like publishing submissions for some reason 🤡]

Mitch, would you give this video a watch or at least a listen? Emily Artful offers some artist advice in it.

Oh, and before you check out her content, I gotta offer a content warning: Emily Artful is a mom of two kids, so a few of her videos contain pregnancy and some feature her kids, including a vlog of after she just had her first kid. As of submitting this to you, her oldest (nicknamed "Bini") is about five years old and her youngest (nicknamed "Wiggy") is about two.

--------------------------------------

A Note From K.E.W.K.:

>This is a great video. I feel her SO MUCH! I have definitely undertaken HUGE projects that I vastly underestimated the timeframe/workload for and it ended up biting me in the ass. (I think it's something that all artists do tbh) 😓

>Those of you who have been around the blog for a while probably know about my yearly goretober undertaking. Its a self-indulgent passion project and an enormous labor of love that I'm overall pretty proud of, but no matter how hard I work during those times or how well everything turns out, I'm always left super burnt out at the end and HATE what I've created because it never lives up to the unrealistic expectations I had for the project, which leads to me beating myself up about how it should have been better (despite me knowing that I sincerely gave it my all). I have cried during every goretober event (managed to make it until the 26th this year!🥇) and have reached points mid-event where I wanted to say 'fuck it' and stop before it was finished, but I've managed to push through each time because, even if it didn't turn out perfect, I knew it was worth finishing (even if the home stretch was fueled by spite lol). After it's done, I always need to take a big step back, and then I revisit it with a fresh perspective when I'm ready. Even though it might not have ended up like I wanted, I usually end up appreciating my work for what it turned out to be once those negative feelings have calmed a little. After all, the audience can't see the vision in your head, just the work you put out there, so they'll just enjoy it for what it is! ^^

>I also really like that she says that it's okay to feel those negative feelings about projects that 'failed'. Being told/ telling yourself to cheer up and not feel down about something never actually helps you feel better, it just makes you feel bad about feeling bad, which makes it very hard to stop feeling bad! It's much better to feel your feelings so you can process them instead of burying them, even if it's hard at the time. It's also good to remember that, whenever you do something, there is always a chance of 'failure', and the best way to handle that is to look at it as an opportunity to learn what went wrong so you can do better next time. A master had failed more times than a novice has tried (that's the only way to become a master!) ✅

>DO NOT THROW AWAY YOUR '''''BAD'''' ART!! EVER!!! You will look back on it someday and be able to say, 'wow, I sure have come a long way! c:' and you would be surprised how much it might mean to other people. I have boxes of sketch books dating back to when I was a tween, and it's absolutely crazy to see how much improvement I've made over the past 15 years. Hell, I look back at the art I made 3 years ago and think the same thing! But, I don't delete those drawings because I did my very best on them at the time, and despite the flaws I see in them now, they mean a lot to other people, which means a lot to me 🤗💖💖💖

Thanks so much for sharing this with me, Meadow! I really appreciate it :D

[gothesquestory]

The Oval Portrait - Edgar A. Poe

He had been wounded. He has broken into a tiny apartment, taking residence there for the night. The night is filled with luscious sleep, walls draped over in antique tapestries and shields, and quite modern paintings that decorated the walls in a mesmerising, eye-catching way. Before the narrator and his servant take slumber, he took interest to a particular painting. There is a booklet on the bed in this space, containing descriptions of these art pieces. As his acquaintance Pedro falls asleep on the bed, the narrator takes his time to open the booklet with descriptions of the paintings, with his gaze being caught by an oval portrait in a corner. He then concludes courtesy of the books information, that, indeed, it was the painters/writers wife as the subject of the masterpiece. The story was quite upsetting; the painter had an affection for art, seemingly he cared more for art than his own wife. Therefore, she had come to resent the whole art of painting alltogether. Though, she had agreed to pose for her husbands newest work. The room was lit only from above, giving the wife an angelic aesthetic, light dripping off her skin and making her glow in the tiny room. The painter spends multiple, dreadful weeks working on the artwork, without noticing his wife loosing her strength, completely exhausted, as he had looked at the canvas more than his own lover. Eventually, he had finished his artwork, exclaiming; ''this indeed is life itself!'', before noticing that, the subject of the masterpiece, his own wife he had failed to care for, had died.

Now, i think this is quite a vivid and warm poem. As in, Edgar writes this story to come off very haunting, yet describes the room in this eery, yet warm way. The small apartment signifies, in my opinion, how trapped the wife felt, as she loved her husband yet felt like he loved art more than her. The tapestries and shields showed her beauty, how shes a work of art, sort of introducing her to the person who would enter this apartment. They can mean multiple things, however this one sticks out to me the most. It makes the story seem sadder than it already is portrayed as. The painter being obsessed with art occurs to me as perhaps him being so invested in his wifes beauty that he forgets all things that are real, like his wife, and imagines everything as purely imaginary. This is actually proved by two paragraphs that were removed by the first newsletter that published this story, they descibe how the narrator got injured and that he used opium to relieve the pain. These were most likely removed, due to Edgar not wanting the whole ordeal to seem like a hallucination. I think this makes it a lot more interesting, as well.

I would, however, like to focus on one thing in particular. The way Edgar portrays the differences between art and life, just within few pages. His choice of wording, which is always exquisite, just shines in this story. This story would require quite a detailed analysis and summary for all the details he gives out to link together, but it was possible to collect up the main parts of his astonishing storytelling. It is written in narrative form, the narrator sharing a story found in a chateau. Edgar writes in such a way, that you are given a central idea which is explored and detailed, though the way what the difference between the link in life and art is so difficult to analyse. Its almost like its written as a warning not to indulge yourself in something fake. The painter had grown so obsessed with the painting of his own magnificent wife, that he just completely forgot her and eventually, she had died due to his carelessness and lack of love towards her. You could say it is sort of depicted as a 'moralising' story, told by just a passerby, and it is just so agonising that it aches the heart because of the painters grave error of wrapping himself up in fake idealogy that was actually right in front of him the whole time.

[akoumi]

I have to ask--mwad is a pretty dark book, right? what kinda inspired you/made you want to write it? did you kinda go "i wanna see how dark it can get and how ppl fall" or are you still trying to make it hopeful, or like... I'm just curious if there's theoretically anything you would want to see readers getting out of your book

my thought process @ every other fantasy protagonist:

slightly longer answer: i just. really enjoy dark books. they don't even have to have deeper meanings about humanity or people or whatever i just really love violence and evil people. honestly it was inspired by me going "i want to write a high fantasy book", and nah i don't really plan on making it hopeful. i really enjoy how i can be unabashedly gory about it, without having to tone anything down because "my character wouldn't do that".

i guess i just got a little tired of reading fantasy with main characters that could easily be interchanged for each other without changing the story at all, too. they're all naive and goodhearted and plucky orphans with powers too great for them and a heart of gold or whatever, and as much as i love them, sometimes you need a change of pace. it all seems to end the same way too - they defeat the clearly evil king/sorceror/emperor who is ruining the country/city/world and as the new ruler they rule justly and everyone lives happily ever after.

so mwad is kind of my way of exploring how what could very easily be a typical fantasy story can be turned on its head with a completely different main character. which is why i included typical fantasy elements such as a king, a rebellion, a prophecy, and magic. if sascha had been just a bit different, a bit more of a classic fantasy protagonist with different values and belief systems, this could very much be a conventional fantasy story (maybe with the slight advantage of being russian fantasy). in fact, if i chose to make it from the pov of the enemy characters, sascha would VERY much be a typical bad guy character.

instead, as the protagonist, he single-handedly turns the whole archetype onto its head - the main character doesn't believe in saving everyone, he doesn't believe in diplomacy over war, he doesn't believe in fighting honorably, he doesn't believe in loyalty, he very very much believes in the ends justifying the means and the "greater good" (and the greater good means whatever's best for HIM, instead of everyone).

in fact, it's most of the enemy characters that embody traits like loyalty, honor, kindness, sincerity, etc. if these enemies were the main characters rather than sascha, it would be such an archetypical fantasy story - plucky goodhearted teenagers protect the country and their king from an evil rebellion and win and rule happily forever after, but instead, it's the other way around: sascha, with his murdering and lying and cheating and violent genocide ends up winning, killing everyone in his path, and gets to become king. he doesn't learn any wise lesson, he doesn't get any punishments for the terrible things he's done - instead, he gets everything he wants after betraying everyone on his side and killing everyone who isn't. he doesn't face ANY consequences for the things he did.

i didn't really write/create this to push any moral lesson or to impart words of wisdom to anyone who potentially reads mwad. so really, you're free to get whatever you want out of it, but there's really nothing that i want everyone to understand. other than that i modelled sascha after my ideal man and want him to rail me <33

[tuiccim]

Almost Had Me Believing It - Part 4

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader    

Word Count: 1569

Warnings: Mutual pining, smut

Summary: An undercover operation playing Bucky Barnes’ wife is a dream come true. Playing house in the suburbs while trying to take down a drug ring brings you and Bucky closer but a nosy neighbor causes trouble in paradise.

A/N: Divider by @whimsicalrogers​

Almost Had Me Believing It Series Masterlist

A few days later you and Bucky sit at breakfast discussing how to get more information about Frank. 

“Well, we know one way I could get in his house but I’d rather chew glass.” You grouse.

“You, uh, you don’t find him attractive?” Bucky stutters.

“No. I mean, Frank’s a good looking guy, but he’s not a good person. He gives me the creeps, honestly.” You shudder. 

Bucky reins in his smile at hearing that. He hated the idea of you liking any other man. At some point while running through the meadow yesterday, he realized you weren’t afraid of him. He was chasing you and you had this glorious smile on your face. There was no fear or anxiety about you as he tackled you to the ground. You had laughed as he did it and held onto him during the ride as if you felt safe with him. It was nothing short of a miracle in Bucky’s eyes. Very few people in his life watched him approach them without some apprehension in their eyes or tension in their body and nobody looked to him as a refuge of safety but you had. He still didn’t think he deserved it but he was determined to be a safe place and friend to you. 

“He’s not like you.” You say the sentence, pulling Bucky out of his thoughts, while causing butterflies to erupt in your stomach. 

“Like me?” Bucky says in surprise. 

“You’re a good looking guy but you’re also good and sweet and kind. You want to help people, not destroy them, not hurt them. And you don’t give me the creeps.” You laugh lightly hoping to cover the emotions you feel towards the man in front of you. 

Bucky chuckles, “I’m glad I don’t give you the creeps.”

“Not at all.” You smile at him. 

“You’re a peach.” 

You smile at him and then the light bulb goes on over your head, “I have an idea.” You grab a large cup from the cabinet. 

“What are you doing?” Bucky asks. 

“Well, we are out of sugar.”

“No, we’re not. It’s right there on the counter.”

You take the container and dump it out in the trash, “Oops. As I was saying, we’re out of sugar. I’m gonna go borrow a cup from our neighbor.”

“How does that get us more information about him?”

“He’ll invite me in and I’ll plant a bug.” You say as you pull one of the devices out of your pocket.

“I’ll go with you.” Bucky says. 

“That’d look a little strange. Maybe he’ll let his guard down if I’m alone.”

“I don’t like you being alone with him.”

“I’ll be fine, Bucky. If I can take you to the mat I don't think I’ll have a problem with Frank.” You smirk at the supersoldier. Bucky gives you a nod and crosses his arms looking unhappy. “I’ll be back.” You say as you head for the door. 

Frank answers his front door within a couple of minutes and smiles, “Hey. What’s up?”

“I’ve come to beg a favor of a benevolent neighbor.” You repeat the phrase Frank had used a few days ago. 

Frank laughs, “Are you in need of coffee?”

“Sugar. I knocked the container over and lost it all on the floor. Do you have some to spare?” You keep your expression self-deprecating and sweet. 

“Of course. Come on in. I have all kinds of sugar you can have, gorgeous.” 

“I just need the white granulated kind,” you giggle as you slip past him into the house.

You follow Frank to the kitchen. He takes the cup from your hand and goes to the pantry to retrieve the sugar for you. Taking a quick assessment of the available real estate for a bug, you attach it to a space where you hope it can pick up sound in both the kitchen and living room. 

“So, I’ve actually been meaning to talk to you.” Frank says as he emerges. 

“Yeah?” 

“About a job.”

“Oh! Great. Where?” You ask. 

“Do you have any bookkeeping experience?” Frank asks. 

“Yes. I worked for a couple of small offices where I doubled as the office manager as well as nurse. I’m pretty decent at that kind of thing. Where’s the job?”

“Here.”

“What?” You look at him utterly confused. 

“You know I’m a landlord and I have several properties. I need someone to do billing, take the payments, handle utilities, deal with the tenant requests. The accounting side has never been my strong suit and I added three more properties in the past year. It would just be part-time. If you're interested…”

“Part-time is exactly what I’m looking for right now. Do you want me to bring you a resume?”

“I’ll take you at your word.” Frank winks. “Why don’t you come back after lunch and I’ll have everything together for us to look at?”

“Are you sure about this? I don’t want to take advantage of our friendship, Frank.”

“I’m sure, gorgeous.” Frank puts an arm around your shoulders as he walks you to the door. “I’ll see you this afternoon, right?”

“Okay. Thanks, Frank.” You smile as you head back to your house. You find Bucky in the office messing with the receiver. “Is it working?”

“As soon as you attached it, I could hear everything. A job offer, huh?” Bucky raises an eyebrow. 

“Yeah. A lot of access that way.” You smile. 

“A lot of time alone with you.” Bucky grouses. 

“I’ll be okay, Bucky. This is good.” 

--

You had spent the afternoon with Frank going over everything with him touching you nearly constantly. Your skin crawled but you managed to play him off. His books really were a mess and you arranged to work with him for the next few afternoons to get things in order. This would afford you the opportunity to plant more bugs. Hopefully, this would also help you gain Frank’s trust and get him to eventually reveal his not so legal dealings. Bucky was unhappy with your report of the afternoon. He did not like you spending so much time alone with Frank. 

“Come here, Doll.” Bucky beckons to you from the living room.

“What’s up?” You ask. 

Bucky puts his arms around you and his hands grab your ass, “Jump.”

You wrap your arms around Bucky’s neck and jump wrapping your legs around him. Bucky presses you against the wall and you whisper, “Frank watching us?”

“Yup.” Bucky says as he presses his lips to the side of your neck. You arch your neck to give him better access. “Thought he might need another show. Don’t want him getting any ideas that you working for him is gonna get him anywhere.”

“I appreciate that.” You are desperately trying to hold in your moans as Bucky kisses your neck and your hands grasp his hair. Giving in to your own impulse, you pull his head back and meet his lips with your own. Bucky melds his mouth to yours and you feel his hands flex their grasp on your ass. His tongue slides into your mouth and the moan you had been holding in slips out. Your hips shift of their own accord and you can feel Bucky’s erection pressed against you. Bucky pushes away from the wall and carries you down the hallway. He pulls his lips away from yours and gently lowers you to the floor outside your room.

“You okay?” He asks.

“Yeah, you?” 

“Yeah.” He looks at you for a moment. “I hope you didn’t mind. I know I was touching-”

“Bucky. It’s fine. You’re just trying to keep Frank off me. I appreciate that. Plus, you're my husband, right?” You smile. 

“Yeah. I just, I don’t want to take advantage of the situation.” Bucky says. 

“I know you wouldn’t do that, Bucky. Don’t worry, okay? Good night.” You hug him around his torso and scurry into your room. 

Bucky retreats to his room and flops down on the bed. You had reassured him that you knew he wouldn’t take advantage, but that’s exactly what he was doing. He saw an opportunity to touch you again and he couldn’t pass it up. You had felt and tasted just as sweet as the first time he’d touched you a few nights ago. You were the one who’d kissed him though. For a minute, he allowed himself to indulge in the thought that you had wanted it, that you had enjoyed it. That your moan had been real. The kiss had been real. The way you rolled your hips against him was because you wanted him, too. 

Bucky’s hand moved of their own volition and pushed down his sweats. His cock was painfully hard and he had to relieve the pressure. Fisting himself he remembers your sweet whimpers when he had rutted against you the other night, the moans you released as the two of you kissed tonight, and he imagines his hand is you wrapped around him. He thinks of how wet you would be as he presses into you and the breathy little sounds you’d make as he bottomed out inside you. “Fuck.” Bucky whispers as he imagined your face scrunched up in ecstasy. His hand speeds up as he pictures you riding him and he bucks up into his hand. “Fuck.” he whispers one more time as he comes all over his stomach.

Part 5

Masterlist

Permanent: @bubbabarnes​ @badassbaker​ @thefridgeismybestie​ @strangersstranger​ @cherthegoddess​ @buckyluvrs​ @sherlocksmanwatson​ @cap-n-stuff​ @finleyjayne​ @caplanreads​ @connie326​ @daydreamerinadazedworld​ @bugsbucky​ @chrisevanscardigan​ @harrysthiccthighss​ @palaiasaurus64​ @rebekahdawkins​ @maaaaarveeeeel​ @tllynn15​ @learisa​ @jelly-fishy-babie​ @fistmebuckyskywalker​ @nerdy-bookworm-1998​ @liebs82​ @honestly-dontknow​ @a-really-bi-girl​ @saiyanprincessswanie​ @baddie-barnes​ @aikeia​ @paleo-runaway​ @marvelgirl7​ @starlightcrystalline​ @xxloki81xx​ @kcd15​ @slytherinambitious​ @sallycanwait68​ @slytherdorxmd​ @fangirlforever2412​ @rainbowkisses31​ @whisperlullaby​ @thejemersoninferno​ @thehumanistsdiary​ @supraveng​ @dispatchvampire​ @juenenfeu​ @sxbby-barnes​ @allonszassbutt​ @y-napotat​ @reallymagnificentinfluencer​ @is-it-madness​ @harold231​ @buckysbaby32​ @purselover23​ @ene-rene​ @chrisevansbaby​ @rosesanchez12298806​ @xxpapasfritasxx​

Almost had me believing it: @farfromjustordinary​ @iheartsebastianstan @7minutes-tomidnight​ @thechaoticargonaut​ @marylimlp​ @buckybarnesdevotee​ @janaienaae​ @its-a-simply-me-thing @rosalynshields​ @oliviastan17​ @onlyjamesbuchananbarnes​ @fangirl-swagg​ @wrdro​ @vicmc624​ @lokilokilokilokilokiloki​ @fangirl-swagg​ @jonhsrevelation @ivettt​ @detroitobsessed​ @mypoisonedvine​ @thebuckysoldier​ @teenagedreams-bucky​ @chipilerendi​ @bloodyproudpotterhead​ @jaywolf840​ @mysfitdragony564 @disasterbii​ @daddys-minty-princess​ @whatrambles​ @emmabarnes @pitypartycityy​ @srrymydood​ @legendarysuitstudentfan​ @wittyrosebushb @stuckysavedmylive​ @perfectlymaximumphilosopher​ @potatopineappleposts1 @yolandamontezistherealwildcat​ @irishflutiegirl​ @itsaliceheree​ @fictionalhoomanofnowhere​ @thatchickwiththecamera​ @wendyswildwonders​ @empath-bunny​ @the-lake-is-calling​ @thebadassbitchqueen​

Strikethroughs could not be tagged.

[contemplativepancakes]

Geralt is possibly the least interesting vampire in the world. Jaskier is strangely okay with that. 4k, G. read on AO3 here!

for @theamazingbard (:

Geralt holds up two ties in front of the mirror, comparing the fabrics against his suit. By now, he’s used to the headless suit that reflects back at him in the mirror. Geralt’s never been one to overly question things, so he couldn’t tell you why vampires don’t show up in mirrors, but really, that’s fine. A relief, even.

He’s not sure he wants to know what he looks like. He knew once, before he was turned. He wasn’t exactly a looker then, and he highly doubts he is now.

Geralt chooses the black tie with the tiny dots instead of the black tie with the stripes, and clips it on to his suit. What? He can’t be expected to tie a tie every single day. He smooths it down over his chest. Satisfied, he sits down on the bed to tie his dress shoes. Reliable double knots.

He walks down the hall to crouch in front of the refrigerator, pulling out one of the bags of blood he keeps there. He pauses to look at the label. It’s his favorite, AB. He tucks it into his lunchbox, then pauses to rip one open and dump it into his travel mug. He pours some protein powder in it to make the blood coagulate. He can definitely see the appeal of this boba tea the humans have been drinking recently.

As he heads out the door, he darkens a little as he looks at his neighbors’ decorations. He hates Halloween. A time for people to get everything wrong about monsters. They live with them, the least they could do is be a little considerate and do their research.

No, they can’t repel Geralt with garlic. He scowls at the thought.

Geralt’s distracted from his thoughts as a young man runs by him out of seemingly nowhere and falls on the sidewalk just in front of him, his knee splitting open.

Geralt rubs a hand on his neck as the man looks up at him beseechingly.

“Uh. Do you need any help?”

“My, you’re ever so kind,” the man says, extending a hand that Geralt uses to pull him to his feet.

“Probably want to get that cleaned off,” Geralt says. “Make sure it doesn’t get infected.”

“Oh, dear! You’re right. Would it be possible for me to use your sink?” he asks, batting his eyelashes.

Geralt squints. “I...guess?”

“Oh, thank you!”

Geralt unlocks his door and leads the man into his bathroom, graciously pretending not to notice the man looking around the apartment in wide eyed fascination. He must not know that Geralt is a vampire, then, or he wouldn’t be so quick to ask Geralt for help. People around here avoid Geralt for the most part.

“I’m Jaskier,” the man says, as he bends his leg so his knee is right under the faucet. Geralt politely looks away when he notices how the motion makes the material of his pants stretch right across the seat of his ass.

“Geralt,” he replies, watching Jaskier closely for a reaction.

There’s none, so Geralt kneels down and looks under the sink for his hydrogen peroxide. When he finds it, he hands it to Jaskier wordlessly.

Jaskier flashes him a winning smile. “I guess it was my lucky day to run into you, hmm?”

Geralt doesn’t think anyone has ever said that about him before. “Anyone would do what they could to help you avoid infection,” he says dutifully.

Jaskier deflates a bit. “Well, there must be some way I can repay you. How about coffee?”

“Oh. I don’t really...drink coffee.” Geralt waits for Jaskier to get it. It’s not like monsters like him are uncommon, per se.

“How about dinner, then? A steakhouse.”

“Sure,” Geralt says, surprising himself. He blinks. His brothers are always telling him he needs to make more friends. And a steak does sound particularly good. He rarely lets himself indulge in things like that.

Jaskier brightens. “Hey, would you mind putting a band aid on this for me? I can never get it to stay.”

“I’m not sure that applying band aids is exactly rocket science,” Geralt says, but he does it anyway, his nose twitching at the scent of the fresh blood.

Geralt is centuries old, though, so it’s not like a little blood is the end of the world. Maybe when he was a fledgling, but those days are long past him.

He gives Jaskier’s knee a tiny pat. “Looks like those pants are done in for,” he says inanely.

Jaskier shrugs. “A worthy sacrifice.”

Geralt doesn’t respond to that, and Jaskier lets the silence linger. Geralt clears his throat. “I’m going to be late for work.”

Before he leaves, Jaskier insists Geralt give him his number so that he can arrange their dinner. “I’m very much looking forward to it,” Jaskier says with a grin.

Geralt gives him a hesitant smile, looking at the clock. He really does need to get a move on.

Jaskier seems to get the hint and lets Geralt usher him out the door.

In the end, Geralt’s not late, but he is grumpy that he only arrived five minutes early instead of his customary fifteen. It throws his entire day off, and the numbers seem to swim before him on his computer screen like never before.

Geralt scowls. He should have picked the tie with the stripes.

-

Jaskier contains his pout as he walks along the sidewalk, away from Geralt’s house. He practically offered himself up on a platter to be ravished, and Geralt was completely unaffected. There was blood right in front of his nose!

Jaskier doubts his information for a second, but Priscilla was the one who told him in hushed whispers that the word was that Geralt was a vampire. If Valdo had been the one to tell him, then he would have had a few more qualms, but Priscilla wouldn’t lie to him like that.

She knows how the idea of being partners with a monster makes him feel hot under the collar.

Jaskier resolves to be better. If a cut knee wasn’t enough, he’ll just have to step up his game for this dinner. And surely, if Geralt didn’t want to be seduced, he would have sent Jaskier on his merry way after bandaging his knee instead of bandaging it for him, for gods’ sake.

Maybe Geralt wants to be the one being chased after for once. Well, Jaskier is happy to oblige.

-

When Geralt gets home from work, there’s a text waiting for him. How about Friday night for our little get together?

It’s not like Geralt ever has any plans that might get in the way besides his weekly meeting, so it’s not like he has to check his calendar before he replies. Sure.

Great! I’ll pick you up at 8! :D

Geralt frowns. This doesn’t seem right. He hasn’t made a new friend in possibly fifty years, and now one literally falls into his path?

He hums to himself as he does his nightly routine, pushing on the gum above each fang to make it pop out so he can properly brush it. Cleanliness is next to godliness, and all that. Actual dentists that weren’t just going to try to pull out his teeth have only been around for less than the majority of his life, so it’s habit to take good care of them.

Geralt strips off his clothes until he’s left in just his t-shirt and boxers and climbs into bed. No, he doesn’t have a coffin or hang upside down like some sort of bat. Geralt’s not sure where all that nonsense got its roots in the first place.

There’s so many things that humans seem to have no qualms believing about monsters, though, and Geralt frowns as he punches his pillow into a better shape. He’s almost 250. His lumbar health is no joke.

-

His anxiety bleeds into his work, making Excel blink more error messages back at him than he’s ever seen before. Geralt’s boss pulls him aside to ask if he’s okay. Geralt sulks.

He is the consummate professional, and he’s not going to let this dinner get the better of him. Geralt contends anyone would be nervous if they hadn’t made a new friend in decades, too.

Now, he stands in front of his closet. He’s certainly not going to wear a suit, but he rarely wears anything else. It’s not like he goes much of any place besides work and his weekly meetings. Geralt sighs as he pulls a pair of jeans out of his wardrobe.

They’re a lot tighter than he remembers, but this is all he has, so it’ll have to do. He finds a long sleeved shirt that is luckily on the baggier side. He hopes that will make up for his too-close fitting jeans.

Geralt brushes his hair, but he can’t see it in the mirror, so there’s no point in doing anything else with it. He’s more likely to make himself look ridiculous than presentable with whatever he might attempt.

Geralt plants himself on the couch, reaching for his book to read until the clock rolls around to the time Jaskier promised to pick him up. His fingers play with the corners of the pages, bending them in a way that he’s sure would make a librarian displeased.

Geralt huffs when he realizes he’s not going to get any reading done and sets the book down on his side table. He takes a deep breath through his nose. He is ancient; he shouldn’t be getting social anxiety right now.

His phone pings with a text. Outside!

Geralt looks out the window, and indeed, there’s a car there. It’s a lime green slug bug, with rust eating its way up from the undercarriage. Geralt pinches the bridge of his nose. That looks like Jaskier’s car, all right.

-

Jaskier tries not to drool as Geralt walks down his steps. He’s wearing pants that are skin tight, which should frankly be illegal, and his shirt hangs off of him so that it shows his collar bones. Jaskier thought that vampires should be the ones who wanted to bite, but he would really love to get his mouth on one of those.

Geralt gets into the passenger seat with a half smile playing around his lips. “Like my ride?” Jaskier asks.

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

Jaskier claps his hand to his heart in mock offense. “I’m wounded.”

Geralt hums, shifting in his seat as he fastens his seatbelt. Jaskier drums his fingers on the steering wheel, flexing his right arm to draw attention to the bandage he has there. He went and donated blood this afternoon, and if Geralt doesn’t get his hint this time, he is going to pound his head against the nearest wall.

-

Geralt shifts his head to look out the window as Jaskier keeps his arms on shameless display. He knows times have changed, but it’s also always a little dizzying to see so much of everyone’s skin on display all the time, their pulse thrumming invitingly underneath it.

Geralt shakes his head to clear it of its reverie as Jaskier pulls his car into drive. It gives a concerning lurch. Before Geralt can open his mouth to comment, Jaskier is holding up a hand. “I can assure you, we are perfectly safe.”

“Hmm.”

“Hey!” Jaskier protests. “It is. I take care of it.”

“All I said was hmm,” Geralt says with a tiny grin. “That’s why it has so much rust, right?”

Jaskier sighs. “I was going to get around to repaint it, and then I just...other things came up.”

Geralt makes a face at him, laughing at Jaskier’s increased defenses. Some of his anxiety fades away as he realizes this isn’t so bad, after all. Maybe Jaskier needs a new friend just as badly as him.

When they arrive at the restaurant, Jaskier pulls Geralt’s chair out for him. Geralt gives him a polite nod. He can’t say he has a firm grasp on all the recent customs. Lambert’s always telling him he’s stuck in the past.

Geralt crosses his fingers and rests his chin on his hands as he watches Jaskier eat his salad, taking endearingly large bites. Jaskier hasn’t even mentioned anything about vampires yet. Geralt is starting to feel a tiny bit guilty. Would he still want to spend all this time with him if he knew Geralt wasn’t human?

As he’s thinking that, Jaskier takes a big gulp of his water and starts to sputter. Geralt’s across the table in an instant, his hand around Jaskier’s bicep and another hand on his back. “Are you okay?” Geralt murmurs, tense and ready to help if the need arises.

Jaskier coughs and waves him off. “Just went down the wrong pipe.”

Geralt relaxes a bit, but as his hand lingers on Jaskier’s arm, he can’t help but feel how warm it is, such a contrast to his own constantly cool skin. When Jaskier turns his face to look up at him, Geralt quickly drops his arm and beats a hasty retreat back to his seat.

He could swear Jaskier looks disappointed. He must be delusional.

When the main course comes, Geralt cuts neatly into his pink steak, mouth watering as the juices come leaking out of it. He sucks the tip of his finger into his mouth, eyes fluttering shut at the salty taste of it.

He makes himself cut the steak into tiny pieces. He’ll have to tell Jaskier he’s a vampire eventually; he might as well make sure he doesn’t think he’s a barbaric onel. Geralt tries his best to keep his eyes on Jaskier’s face instead of his arms. He can’t help but notice that he has some very nice veins. They’re a striking blue, and a perfect compliment to his eyes.

Geralt bites his lip, flinching when one of his fangs pops out on its own, pressing into his lip.

“One of my uncles is a werewolf,” Jaskier says, apropos of nothing, looking at Geralt meaningfully.

A trickle of sweat runs down Geralt’s back. Does Jaskier think he’s a werewolf? Werewolves are generally regarded better than vampires; at least they’re only monsters one night a month.

“Hmm,” Geralt says, not hearing the rest of Jaskier’s sentence.

Jaskier laughs at his own joke, and Geralt blinks rapidly until he can focus again on what Jaskier’s saying.

When the waiter comes with the check, Jaskier insists on paying for it. Is this what friendship has evolved to since Geralt last had one? He doesn’t know enough about it to argue with Jaskier, so he lets him do what he wants.

-

Outside of Geralt’s house, Jaskier puts a hand on the console between them, making eye contact with Geralt before dropping his gaze down to his lips. Geralt gives him a gentle smile, his eyes crinkling. His white hair looks ethereal in the moonlight, and Jaskier is only a little infatuated.

Geralt’s exterior is stony, but he also had no problems giving Jaskier all sorts of secret smiles throughout the night. Jaskier’s not sure he’s met a better listener than Geralt, and he tends to drone on and on, so that’s somewhat important to him.

Jaskier closes his eyes and starts to lean in when Geralt opens the car door. Jaskier opens his eyes.

“I had a great time, thank you,” Geralt says, one hand on the top of the car.

Jaskier bites his lip, stopping himself from saying what he wants. “Me, too. Let’s do it again some time?”

Geralt nods eagerly, and Jaskier watches him walk away, his gaze fixed on Geralt’s devastating pants and not at all on the way his ass looks in them.

Jaskier rests his head on the steering wheel in despair. He doesn’t know how to be any more heavy handed than this. He went and donated blood! And Geralt let him pay for their meal! He’s not sure how he can get across the point any better that he’s a talking blood bag, and he’s open for business.

Jaskier heaves a gigantic sigh and resolves to go home and plot his next move.

Maybe Geralt’s just shy.

Well. Jaskier can work with that

-

Geralt’s weekend passes in its normal fashion. He goes for a run, drinks some blood out of his supply in the fridge, then crashes on the couch for a whole day while he thinks of anything other than work. Sometimes Eskel lets himself in using his key, but he doesn’t that weekend, and Geralt crosses his arms over his chest as he tortures himself thinking of what Eskel might be doing.

Eskel’s never had problems making friends, unlike Geralt, so he’s sure he’s out having a good time with them.

Geralt used to be good at making friends, gods damn it, before all of them died of old age and he just didn’t see the point anymore. He’s come to suppose that there’s not all that much of a point in immortality if all he does is work, though.

The weekend’s over just as quickly as it began, and on Monday night, he can’t help the smile that creeps across his face when Jaskier texts him about some inane thing he noticed. Was he thinking of Geralt? That’s...nice.

Cautiously, Geralt lets himself hope that something is going to come out of this.

But first, he needs to tell Jaskier he’s a vampire. He wouldn’t be the first person to run away screaming, even though they are much more accepted now than they used to be.

Geralt shudders as he thinks of the industrial revolution. No regard for any monsters then. Humans invent light bulbs, and all of a sudden they think they’re too good for a healthy dash of respect.

Geralt looks back down at his phone, at a music video Jaskier sent him of someone playing a singing saw.

He lets himself focus on that a while.

-

Wednesday creeps around, and with it, Geralt’s weekly meeting.

He takes his spot in his customary chair, and looks around for Lambert, ignoring the look Eskel is trying to burn through the side of his face with.

“Why do I have to be here, again?” Geralt asks, when he gives up on Lambert to come save him.

Eskel rolls his eyes. It’s an argument they’ve had more than once. “If you won’t become a sponsor, you have to at least show them that things get better.”

Geralt huffs a breath out through his nose as he watches the regulars file in. There’s one new person, and Geralt eyes her curiously. She looks a little terrified, and Geralt softens in sympathy.

The meeting starts, and they go around in the circle, the seat beside Geralt still empty in Lambert’s tardiness.

“Hi, I’m Geralt, and I’m a blood addict,” he drones when it’s his turn.

When they’ve moved on to their personal struggles for the week, Lambert finally appears, dropping into his chair.

He elbows Geralt, seemingly unaware of everyone staring at them.

“Hey, what’s got you in such a good mood?”

Geralt firmly fixes a scowl in place and ignores him. He’s not sure why he even wanted Lambert to show up in the first place.

Geralt leans back in his chair, crossing his arms as he listens to everyone else, Eskel being disgustingly reassuring to them all, as per usual. Geralt stamps the jealousy down. It’s not Eskel’s fault he’s so good with people.

The meeting drags by, and when it’s finally over, Lambert doesn’t let Geralt just sneak away. He digs his elbow into his side again, holding Geralt by the shoulder. “You didn’t answer me earlier. What’s got you in such a good mood?”

“I’m not,” Geralt says.

Lambert hums. “You don’t have your usual storm cloud above your head, so I’m going to count it.”

Geralt scowls at him and looks at Eskel for back up, but Eskel just raises his eyebrows at him.

“I hate you both,” Geralt grumbles.

“You love us,” Lambert says.

“Fine. I made a new friend,” he grates out.

Lambert and Eskel exchange an insufferable look.

“What?” Geralt demands.

“You, make a friend? Well, we’re just going to have to hear all about this to believe it.”

Geralt huffs, but he tells them about Jaskier.

“He took you to dinner? And paid? And you think he wants to be just friends?” Lambert asks.

Geralt flaps his hands around and hisses, “Look, I’ve barely been anywhere that isn’t here or work in the last three decades, how am I supposed to keep up with all this human nonsense? And besides, I haven’t even told him I’m a vampire yet. I’ll be lucky if he even wants to be my friend after that.”

Eskel bites his lip. “You know that’s a turn on for some humans, right?”

“What?”

“And you said he scraped his knee the first time he saw you? Geralt, I think he already knows, and he’s just trying to get in your pants.”

Geralt deflates. That makes a twisted sort of sense. “Oh.”

Lambert punches him in the arm. “Hey, lighten up. If anyone can charm him with their stunning personality, it’s you.”

“Fuck off.”

-

It’s difficult to fall asleep that night.

-

A week goes by without him answering any of Jaskier’s texts. He still painstakingly reads and savors each one, but he can’t bring himself to reply. If he was looking for some sort of...fling, he would have gone on one of those apps Eskel keeps telling him about.

As pathetic as it sounds, he could really use a friend. And if sex came later, well, Geralt wouldn’t complain, but he just desperately needs someone who’s going to stick around. He needs someone just for himself, someone outside of Lambert and Eskel who isn’t going to tease him about every little thing.

Geralt sighs. This was at least good practice. Maybe he can try again with someone else.

His heart sinks at the thought. He doesn’t really want someone else. Jaskier wormed his way into his chest in just a week, and Geralt knows he could yank him out with only a little pain if he tried, he doesn’t want to.

Geralt wants to have something nice, for once.

-

Jaskier bites his lip as he peers out the car window at Geralt’s house. He’s half scared there’s not going to be an answer when he knocks, and he doesn’t know what he’ll do then. He thought their date went swimmingly, so he’s not sure why Geralt suddenly stopped answering him unless something happened.

Jaskier has a vision of getting into the house only to find Geralt on the floor, the only way to revive him being letting Geralt drink straight from his neck, obviously leading to Geralt ravishing him against the nearest wall.

Jaskier shakes himself like a dog. Geralt’s given him no interest in anything like that at all. Maybe he needs to lower his expectations. The dude seems lonely, anyway, so maybe he just wants someone to talk to that’s not one of his coworkers.

Geralt told him he’s an actuary, and from the questions he asked of Geralt and Geralt didn’t answer, he’s not convinced that Geralt talks to his coworkers at all.

Jaskier blows out a puff of breath as he unbuckles his seatbelt and opens the door. He’s not sure what he hopes is going to happen when he opens the door.

He walks up the door and knocks.

He waits an agonizing moment before the door swings open, revealing Geralt. He looks even paler than Jaskier remembered him, wearing a pair of sweatpants with a hole in the crotch that he can see Geralt’s plaid boxers through and a t-shirt with a collar that’s outrageously stretched. Jaskier swallows hard.

“Have you considered not oiling the hinges? I think it would do you a world of good to develop a creaky door aesthetic.”

Geralt’s forehead wrinkles adorably. “What?”

“Just, you know. Being a vampire and all.”

Geralt slumps against the door frame. “How long have you known?”

Now it’s Jaskier’s turn to be confused. “Known what?”

“That I’m a vampire!”

“Oh.” Jaskier pauses. “I didn’t think it was a secret.”

Geralt’s hand pauses in its path of trailing the wood grain of the door. “Do you have a...kink?” he spits.

Jaskier raises his hands. “Well, I wouldn’t say that.”

Geralt fixes him with an unconvinced look.

“Look, that might have been part of the initial intrigue, but—”

Geralt raises his eyebrows expectantly.

“But, you’re really fucking hot and also possibly the most boring person I know, but...I’m into it. You know all these weird facts and—gods know I could use a little stability in my life.”

Geralt gives him a bashful smile, and Jaskier wonders if anyone has said anything nice to him at some point this century. “Yeah?”

Jaskier leans across the threshold and cups Geralt’s face with his hands, their mouths a breath apart. “Yeah.”