#the slowest of slowburns these two
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/wakes up from a long, deep slumber/ hhhhhhh
#revalink#project rewild#loz#rewild revali#rewild link#thefaeriecreekart#this has been in my wips for way too long#underlighting is so hard to make not look weird and creepy this is supposed to be tender and sweet aslkdfj;#the anxiety has been bad today but at least these two can bring me joy in these hard times#the slowest of slowburns these two#for some reason link's scar didn't show up very well. i also forgot the scar running up his arm too ;woiejfa;o
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my farmer ash! 🤠😈🔮😼
alex / his husband here !
#people who have multiple farms on sdv how do y'all do it bc ive been attached to this guy solely for five years...#still only just got to ginger island tho I genuinely dk what ive been doing this entire time#sdv farmer#stardew valley farmer#stardew farmer#stardew valley oc#original character#artists on tumblr#stardew valley 1.6#stardew valley fanart#stardew valley#sdv#him and alex were the slowest slowburn to ever slowburn#but now they have two kids yippee#ash kumar#akash kumar#sdv oc#my art#isagaiia#fanart#csp#stardew headshots
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if I started mullin/rackam infodumping here I think the brainworms would take over
#《 captain speaking! 》#[holding back piles of google docs falling over] so. um. symbolism haha#<- very normal about these two idiots who have the slowest of slowburn#yes they kiss in the epilogue. no they arent in a relationship
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can you steal from a romcom plot to try and help your situation? nothing a dose of fake dating can't fix
oh i actually thought about that. we will be moving in together you see (another good idea but you see we are best friends), and i was wondering if pretending to be partners would show us in a better light for potential landlords
#i don't know if this is the slowest slowburn of history or if i need to get brainwashed fr#asks#psyfi#alcohol will make me feel better surely#i already cant speak properly i wrote the same thing twice in two posts
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HER | part one.
✧✎ 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: 23.5k 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, coke, 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
potentially triggering scenes within the fic are NOT MARKED in advance
the content is already quite mature, so pls heed the warnings!
bolded and italicized text implies 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
everyone's patience and understanding has been endlessly appreciated! you have no idea ;_; i give you all shining stars 🌟
⇢ part two | part three | part four | part five | part six ⇢ soundtrack for those curious! ⇢ read at ur own pace! :)
—MARCH 19TH.
“I have a relatively big favour to ask of you.”
No. Wonwoo didn’t want anything to do with favours.
The fact that Seokmin had actively picked out his presence in the coffee shop like he was some shiny contortion of plastic had actually offended Wonwoo. He came here for two things: to not be bothered, which his friend knew, and to work on the book he was halfway through typing and had been halfway through typing for the past six months. Call it writer’s block, or an inspiration drought, or an absolutely depressing lack of drive—it had been hanging over the writer with an annoying persistence and it seemed that no number of lemony scones or cold coffees were going to make it vanish.
“Uh, Wonwoo?”
“Sorry… what?” He forced his gaze to shift from the blank page on his laptop to Seokmin’s apologetic, softly expressional face, slightly flushed from his time outdoors in the chilled March weather.
“I was just wondering if you’d be up for a favour—a pretty big one—and I know this is your special creativity spot, but she’s been like, breathing down my neck about it and I can’t put it off again.”
“Whose been breathing down your neck?”
At first, Seokmin didn’t say a word, or even make a sound. His lips twitched for a moment, but then he pressed them together and his chest visibly sucked in with a breath. God, Wonwoo hated the suspense and he hated Seokmin for interrupting him when he had been so stupidly close to putting a sentence down that he probably would have back-spaced in frustration a minute later.
“Y’know…” he trailed off, “Her.”
Her.
No, not her, you.
But most people—if not everyone—referred to you by an alias that had seemed to stick so well the majority believed it actually was your name. When people said her they meant Her, and so in a confusing mess of finger-pointing they really meant you. Come to think of it, Wonwoo had no idea where the nickname even came from or who gave it to you or what it even meant.
And he was perfectly fine with never knowing.
“What?” Wonwoo deadpanned. “What on earth could she want to do with me? She doesn’t even know me.” He slid down in his chair, fingers pulling at his circle-lensed glasses so they tilted uncomfortably across his nose bridge. “Or, is this a joke?”
“Oh—no! Absolutely not!” His friend was insistent on proclaiming, vigorously shaking his head. “I’m being serious.”
“Why don’t I believe you then?”
“Okay, well, if you let me explain everything, it’ll all make sense. I said I know someone who writes really well—”
“Meaning me?”
“Yes, meaning you. And the only reason that was even brought up is because she wants to write a book.”
Wonwoo couldn’t help it. He laughed a very short disbelieving laugh that flashed a transient smile to his face as he readjusted his crooked glasses. You were the last person he would ever envision wanting to write a book. He then navigated the trackpad on his laptop, deciding to close the document simply titled, 01, that harboured the fleet of pages to his own current work in progress.
“Yeah,” Wonwoo disregarded, “sounds like bullshit.”
“I’m telling you the truth!” Seokmin exclaimed, gripping onto the metal back of the café chair like he was squeezing someone’s taunt shoulders. “She won’t tell me about what, okay? Just that she’s been thinking the idea for a while now. It’s not like I didn’t try to get details. But she refused—said the only person who can know is whoever’s going to help her. Look, y’have to understand, she was pestering me about it nonstop. And you’re my only writer friend!”
“Well, you’re about to have none.” He answered, reaching for his coffee cup but stopping it just short of his lips. “How serious is she about this, anyway?” Wonwoo sighed. “Do you know how much fucking time you need to dedicate to writing a book?”
He stomached a slow, somewhat grimacing sip as he tasted the coffee’s coldness, meanwhile Seokmin swallowed heavily, and at last pulled out the chair he’d been white-knuckling to take a seat.
“Yes, I’m aware it takes time. I know that. And she is serious or else I wouldn’t be here, bothering you. She takes everything seriously.” The boy began unbuttoning his sleek black jacket. “Really, who knows what’ll happen? Maybe you’ll meet her once and she’ll decide she can’t stand you, and then you’re off the hook for life.”
“Yeah, well have you ever considered what might happen if I can’t stand her? Are my feelings even being considered? Minutely?”
“Minutely, they are being considered.”
“Liar.”
It wasn’t that Wonwoo disliked you.
In actuality, you scared him more than anything. But to be associated with you was to be drawn into your life and caught like a firefly in a glass jelly jar. The proof was right in front of him—to Wonwoo’s eyes, Seokmin was basically your little mailman that scrambled around in hectic nature to do your bidding, because most tasks apparently weren’t worth the time or effort.
“I can’t believe you’re trying to rope me into this. You know I can hardly write my own shit, right?” Wonwoo said bitterly, wishing it was the opposite, “my mind is a desolate, blank canvas of fuck-all and if she thinks I’m writing it then she needs a reality check.”
“No, no—of course you won’t write it!” Seokmin reassured him with his big, opalescent smile. “Really, you’re just giving tips, maybe guiding her process, helping with the planning… you know, this could be facilitated so much easier if you spoke to Her yourself!”
“So, my nightmare?” Wonwoo huffed, shaking his leg.
In an instant, Seokmin had whipped out his phone, tapping around the screen quickly using his thin pointer finger.
“I’m just going to pull up her schedule. It’s always pretty packed, but more into the summer break, it thins out a little. “
Wonwoo exhaled, staring off into the warm, afternoon sunlight that hailed in through the windows, striking all the shimmering flecks and pieces of dust afloat in the café air. When he breathed in again, he could smell the luxurious coffees brewing in their rich and distinctive notes. It was such a beautiful day—still chilly as the snow outdoors began to thaw—but pleasant nonetheless.
“This is such a fucking waste.”
And Wonwoo spent it being miserable.
“No, it’ll be useful. Trust.” Seokmin chirped.
“You’re trying to dip me in your optimism gloss again.”
His friend smiled affectionately, tilting his head.
“This will be good. You’ve been a hermit since I’ve known you.”
“Yeah,” Wonwoo scoffed, “so you think it’s a good idea to shove me with the person I relate to least on the entire planet?”
“Really? The least? So, what you’re saying is, you relate more to serial killers? Or animal abusers? Or like, literal fasc—”
“Stop.”
“You want to do this. I can see it in your eyes. I’ll set you up.”
A part of Wonwoo knew there might be no wriggling out of the situation, especially with Seokmin sitting across from him, characteristically eager and brightly pushy as always, like a goddamn salesman. For now, it could be easier to let himself get cuffed.
“Can I at least have some time to think it over?”
“Uh… well… the thing is… the thing with that is—”
“You’ve cornered me?”
“I wouldn’t word it like that.”
“… Okay.” Wonwoo removed his glasses, shoved his knuckles tender but deep into his eye sockets, massaging through flashes of white as he came to accept a fate he didn’t know even existed in his astrology. “Just, I don’t know—fuck—schedule me in wherever.”
“Ha! It doesn’t exactly work like that.”
“I really don’t give a damn how it works, Seokmin.”
“Right,” his friend laughed nervously, “I promise that I’ll get back to you pronto. Sorry for the disturbance. And, uh, good luck.”
“With what part?” Wonwoo grumbled, fixing his spectacles back on to clarify Seokmin’s sympathetic face, the light bouncing off his head of brassy hair like a disco ball. “My incapability to write a goddamn thing or the fact I have to help your perfectionist friend who’s probably going to chew me up and spit me out?”
“Both parts.” Seokmin grinned. “It can only go up from here.”
Wonwoo had one very distinct memory of you: creative writing with Mr. T. It had been an elective class he took amongst all his compulsory maths, and at the time it was a much appreciated break when Wonwoo grew apathetically bored from looking at matrices and confidence intervals and equations that engulfed the length of his notebook. Professor T was late one day in the fall.
And that’s when Wonwoo remembered you walking in.
There was a sort of sharpness about your presence that pulled everyone’s spines straight. People tended to angle themselves away from you, though they did it subtly, feigning an adjustment in their seat or a plunge into their bookbag for something that wasn’t even there. Wonwoo lacked the words to describe you. To be honest, he most likely could if he put that infinitely expanding lexicon of his to work, but even then, he feared that everything would fall flat.
Some scruffy looking guy had made the mistake of sitting in your seat—someone who probably skipped most lectures and only happened to find himself near Gildan Hall purely by chance.
It was the seat squat in the middle of the small auditorium.
He remembered the hand propped on your hip as you sashayed up to him—you always sashayed places. Wonwoo found it funny, like there were paparazzi stuffed behind potted plants and vending machines waiting to spring out with their blinding flares, just to capture you picking up a half-empty bag of flavourless popcorn.
“Oh no. Oh no no no no no no no.”
“Hm?”
“Excuse me? Yes, hello. You—can you get up please?”
“Up...? Why?”
“Who are you?”
“I’m sorry… what’s this about?”
“Are you a first-year or something? Never bothered going to class until now? All the moshing and beer pong and ending up in some random basement of a friend of a friend of a friend is done so you’re deciding to actually get your money’s worth? Well, let me tell you this—I’ve been showing up to class punctually, and this is my seat. I always sit here. It’s my unofficially-assigned-assigned seat, which seems to be a known fact to everyone in this room except for you. Everyone has one. Everyone knows you’re not supposed to sit in other people’s seats. I don't care who you are. You could be my own mother. You could be my best friend, even. President of the universe. That doesn't make it okay, 'cause it’s a respect thing. It's one of those assumed societal rules and you just fucking kicked dirt all over it.”
Whoever he was, he never came back to another lecture.
Since then, Wonwoo had dually made it his mission to never cross paths with you, look at you, or even so much as huff one single carbon-dioxide filled breath in your general direction, just in case that was some degree of unbeknownst personal law he might violate.
Seokmin had royally screwed it up for him.
What could you possibly want to write a book about, anyway?
—MARCH 26TH.
Wonwoo didn’t know how he was expected to find you in this gigantic mall. As he brushed through the streamlines of people, bumping their shoulders and mumbling the driest, most insincere apologies, he couldn’t stop looking at his phone. Seokmin had given him your number with the instruction that he could find you, here, on a busy Saturday afternoon. So far, Wonwoo had sent you four texts, none prompting a response or the grey-dotted bubble, even. Fuck, why did he agree to this? He couldn’t stop thinking it.
Why did he agree to help you, whom he was beginning to not even like, or want to be aquatinted with, write a book, when he’d been struggling to fill the same page of his own story for months?
Squeezing the phone tighter in his fingers, Wonwoo’s broad shoulder then smacked into someone else while he was busy steeping in his misfortune. It earned him a wildly disgusted look.
“Maybe watch where you’re going," the stranger grumbled, some man with an engrained scowl and big, bewildered eyes.
But Wonwoo ignored him.
He didn’t fucking care, and he was sick of wandering through this mall. It made him feel overstimulated, like his clothes were sticking to his skin differently, like the back of his head was swelling, and like all the smells in his nose were somehow making him warmer.
The stranger just stared at Wonwoo as he walked away.
Ding!
A text, but not from you—Seokmin, instead. Apparently, you were in some clothing store on the second floor. Wonwoo stepped onto the escalator, pressing himself into the barrier to make room for the especially speedy people who couldn’t simply stand and wait. He felt a random touch on the back of his head. Scrunching up the glasses on his nose and turning around, Wonwoo stared at the downward escalator, locking eyes with a pretty dark-haired girl he’d never seen before. She wiggled her fingers at him with a flirtatious smile, the scent of her perfume still lingering. Fresh roses, he thought.
He blinked at her once, twice, then turned back around.
Never in a million years.
It was funny, though.
Once Wonwoo stopped outside the clothing store you were supposedly inside, he felt the myriad of distractions and scents and noises dampen behind him. The irritability he couldn’t shake was slowly transforming into nerves. He’d never met you before, unless half-glances controlled by fear from across the small, basement auditorium that hosted creative writing counted.
Focusing on one breath, and then another, followed by a deep, self-soothing inhale, Wonwoo attempted to convince himself that he was in control, not the emotions quivering at his fingertips.
He cracked his neck and walked in.
After a minute or two of confused isle-pacing, Wonwoo rounded a corner, his eyes immediately fixating on a girl who was picking through a neatly assorted dress rack, her head tilted elegantly and her lipstick glimmering under the sterileness of the lights—you.
He gulped. Just suck it up.
She can’t be that bad. You can’t be that bad.
“Uh, sorry to bother you. I’m Wonwoo. I know we have a mutual friend in Seokmin. Lee Seokmin. He’s in one of your seminar classes or something, and, uh…. anyway. I believe I’m supposed to help you with a book you’re interested in writing… that’s what I was told, at the very least. And… I know we’ve never met but… um… I guess…” he trailed off upon noting your lack of acknowledgement.
Suddenly, he was taking a step back, letting you progress further along the clothing rack, your fingers hopping between each hanger and your eyes scanning their corresponding fabrics.
Wonwoo jerked on the inside with panic. He hated the situation already, though he somehow found the resounding courage, or perhaps, humility, to address you again, even if he’d rather die.
“So, I’m not sure if you—”
“Can you move, please? Over here or something? I want this dress.”
He kept his mouth shut in order to avoid spilling out any obtuse nonsense, instead watching with a nervous, analyzing gaze as you removed the hanger and shook out the purple, wine-coloured fabric, its sparkles rippling when you stroked your hand along it.
“Woah. This is too pretty.”
Wonwoo cleared his throat, unsure if you were speaking to him directly. You already had a bundle of dresses tossed over your arm. Why would you meet up with him when you were clearly busy?
“Hey, what did you say your name was?”
“Me?” He found himself echoing.
“No, the mannequin wearing that hideous plaid mini skirt. Of course I’m talking to you. Should I get you a q-tip or something?”
“No... I don't need a q-tip. It’s Wonwoo.”
“Wonwoo?” You exercised the name slowly on your tongue.
“Yeah.”
“Okay, well, just so you’re aware, it’s 11:35. You were supposed to meet me outside the boutique at 11:30. I can see you’re not very punctual, so that’s noted…” for a moment, you stood back, and the searing line of your gaze judgmentally raked him from top to bottom. “Anyway… you’ll have to assist me with some things now, thanks to your big delay. I got all bored waiting for you, so I decided to do a little self-indulgent shopping."
It could have been wiser to continue biting his tongue, but even Wonwoo, who had practically vowed to avoid you for all eternity due to his fear, felt compelled to challenge your unorthodox logic.
“Big delay? I don’t mean to be rude, but I did take the bus to get here, and their timing is never right. I feel like five minutes is a reasonable time to wait. Not that I’m saying you’re impatient.”
“Well, here’s the thing…” your back turned to him as you took a few slow steps down the clothing rack, probing between the different, pricy materials for anything exuberant you might have missed. “That is what you said, isn’t it? That I’m impatient? I mean—jeez—why bother dancing around it when you can just say it?”
He watched you face him again, except he was keeping perfectly silent, clutching his hand into an anxious, balled fist.
“Well, I suspect you lack urgency, making you apathetic, so therefore you have no sense of initiative. I’m sure you’re already aware, anyway. I can be slow, too, with certain things. Like, when I’m icing a cake. Or painting my nails. But I don’t walk slow, ever. That’s for unmotivated, pointless people who will probably go nowhere in life.”
“… Pardon?”
“Hold this, please.”
Suddenly, you draped the wine-coloured dress over Wonwoo’s shoulder. And he left it there for a second, still gobsmacked, chest shuddering from the pressure of his pumping heart, and wondered how you were even a real person. Once you began walking elsewhere in the store, Wonwoo questioned a very understandable escape toward the exit, though, for some reason, he snapped from his stupor and quickly paced after you, now folding the dress more straightly over his arm. He realized he was too afraid to surrender.
“I’m supposed to help you write a book,” he stated, feeling his lungs dig deep for air, “Seokmin said you needed help.”
“Okay, I’m tired of holding these two. Here—” you again blanketed the dresses into his arms, “—please keep this olive one in good shape, no crinkles. I have yet to find this colour anywhere else.”
Swinging back around, you began heading toward the change rooms, your uncomfortably tall looking heels clicking with each step. Wonwoo stuttered, and he couldn’t stop doing it—just, absolutely baffled by you and your consuming sense of worth. He didn’t know what to say, he could only follow, producing bits and pieces of sentences that you were either ignoring or genuinely hadn’t heard in comparison to the monologues in your own head.
“At what point will we discuss why I’m here?”
Finally, he spat out something coherent.
You paused, and for a fleeting moment, flicked your very intense eyes up and down in an examination of Wonwoo, who felt like he was being intrusively picked apart under a microscope.
He swallowed tautly, “I’m just wondering… that’s all.”
You pressed your wallet against the top of his shoulder, guiding him to sit down on the white leather stool placed just outside the fitting rooms. He sat, too, fighting the urge to wipe his clammy palms on his jeans—even worse, the dresses you’d dumped on him.
“Let’s talk after I try these on, ‘kay?”
There was something different about your voice. It fell lower, sweeter, and he shivered with the thought that you had quite possibly just hypnotized him. He looked up at you, nodding his head.
“Good. Everyone calls me Her, by the way.”
“I know.”
He held his breath as you reached out to take a dress, the wine-coloured one, which was more like a dark, nightly amethyst now that Wonwoo was observing the fabric up close. So, what the hell was he supposed to do? Just sit there, twiddling his thumbs and shaking his knee while you busied yourself with fitting into all those wildly sumptuous dresses? There was a plethora of other things he’d rather be doing—too many to name, in fact. But he wasn’t going to bother slithering away now, chiefly because you petrified him too much and he wasn’t in the mood to be further guilt-tripped by Seokmin.
Throwing his head back, he blew out a tired huff and looked at the ceiling. Why the fuck was he doing this? He just couldn’t stop thinking it. What on earth could he possibly gain from being terrorized by your weird authority.
“Hey, I’ve been there, for sure.”
Wonwoo noticed an older man waltzing past him, probably in his early thirties or so, who’d spoken in a sympathetic tone. He seemed very polished and clean-cut, made apparent by his sleek suit, and as a university student who was routinely on the verge of going broke after most rents, Wonwoo knew money when he saw it.
“Pardon?”
The man stopped and smiled.
“Waiting for your girlfriend, aren’t you?”
“Oh, no. I’m just—”
He was interrupted by the squeak of the change room door.
“Be honest. How does this look?”
You had stepped out to examine your silhouette in the large, full-body mirrors against the wall, taking advantage of the heavier lighting to scrutinize every divot and ruffle that textured the amethyst dress. Wonwoo wasn’t sure what to say in the moment, and the man he was explaining himself to had wandered off into another aisle to answer a phone call. He watched your fingers pick and pull at the material so it could be readjusted in certain places, your bottom lip pursed as you angled your hips and tensed a leg to make a pose.
There were at least three other dresses strewn in his lap, and you were most definitely going to make him sit there and judge each one. Now, he could be honest. The dress was glittery yet sophisticated, something like a gloaming, purple-stained sky and its first emergent stars encapsulated into fabric, though he wasn’t completely sold on it. But he also wanted to leave the mall as quick as time would allow, so rather than being verbose, he shaved it down.
“It’s pretty, not great. I don’t really know.”
“Hmm…” you mumbled, keeping your eyes fixated on the mirror, “not great? What’s not great about it? The frilly parts?”
“Yeah, the frilly parts.”
God, he wanted to go home so bad. Warm tea would be nice right now. There were crinkle-cut fries in his freezer.
“Ugh, but I love the colour. I’m getting conflicted. Maybe I’ll toss it aside and think about it again later. Yeah, I’ll do that... okay, let me get the white one next. It’s a little short but I can make it work.”
Wonwoo carefully pulled out the white outfit from the bottom of the pile and handed it off to you. The skirt was notably cropped.
Again, you strode back into the change room and softly clicked the door shut behind you. Wonwoo pulled out his phone almost immediately, navigating to his texts with Seokmin. His thumbs blasted against the screen, tapping out literary warfare that expanded into a decent sized paragraph Seokmin would most likely respond to with an apologetic smiley face. It might take a day or two for Wonwoo to cool off, but he always forgave him. Mr. Sunshine.
When he heard the door rattle, Wonwoo quickly hid his phone back in his pants pocket; however, he severely regretted that decision because holy fuck—that vinyl white skirt was indeed short and tight and the winding, crossed straps of the top were just maintaining your cleavage. He needed something to help avert his eyes because Wonwoo felt them itch with the urge to stare at your body despite how uncomfortable he was. The floor tiles—count the floor tiles, or count the lights—something, anything to distract his brain.
“Okay, this is like—if I bend over, I’m flashing someone.”
He prayed you wouldn’t ask him his thoughts.
“But like—okay, I can make this work, right? This has potential. If I stand really straight, and proper, and, just… pull this down a bit here—okay, fuck, that was too much. Don’t look for a second… don’t look…. don’t look… m’kay, fixed it.”
Wonwoo wanted to cradle his head in his hands. And, right when he swore that the situation couldn’t sink much lower, the wealthy, black-suit man returned from his phone call. He paused the second he saw you in the mirror, watching intensely as you fiddled with the vinyl and attempted to adjust the x-shaped top a little higher over your cleavage. Except he wasn’t exactly modest about his gaze. It was drinking you in like some sort of insatiable alcohol.
“This is tough,” you huffed, pressing your hands against your chest, “the top is super sexy. I love how open the back is. But it’s such little fabric considering the price. It sucks that I look so hot in it.”
Horrendously, Wonwoo noticed a jewel bracelet slip off your wrist onto the tiled floor. Even more horrendously, he watched in the tensest position possible as you began to bend over and grab it.
No. No, no, no, no way.
The last two dresses spilled in a silk and cotton heap off his lap, nearly tripping him during his rush toward you. He managed to cover your backside in the most heart-hammering nick of time, his hands accidentally brushing in static sparks against yours to help you pull the tight fabric back down your hips. Knowing the man was still watching in the mirror, Wonwoo clasped onto your arm and dragged you back toward the fitting room, his cheeks turned to rubies.
“Fuck, you need to be more careful,” he rasped, “the skirt is too short for you to bending over like that, alright?”
“I’m not leaving a gifted two-hundred-dollar bracelet on the fucking ground. Should I have just kicked it into the change room?”
“Gosh…” Wonwoo rubbed along his neck with tire and lowered his voice. “Bending over in a skirt that short, especially when there’s a fucking weirdo watching you, is not the best procedure.”
“So, it’s my fault he’s a creep?”
“Okay—that wasn’t what I—um—”
“Do you even like this outfit?” You deadpanned.
Wonwoo chuckled in disbelief, “I’m not answering that.”
“This is useless." Your eyes agitatedly rolled. “I’m changing.”
“Great, whatever. Do that.”
He gently pushed you further into the change room and closed the door with a smooth, loud shutter. His heart was still racing.
“Yeah, I wouldn’t let my girlfriend wear that either.”
“She’s not my girlfriend.” Wonwoo didn’t care that his tone was snappish and clearly tired as he collapsed back onto the stool, making a point to ignore the perverted bastard until he left.
“Wonwoo!” You called his name after a few minutes of silence from the fitting room, “please bring me the green one!”
He wanted to utterly vanish, have the building collapse and crush him in a pile of dust plumes and rubble. Sliding the dress through the small gap in the changeroom door, Wonwoo found himself pausing.
“Why don’t I just hand all these to you?”
“Because, I’m using the hangers in here for my clothes.”
“Why can’t you just pu—”
“Thank you!”
Impatiently, you nabbed the dress and shut the door.
However, that dress was the last one you tried on, and Wonwoo couldn’t have been any more relieved. Talking to you seemed like it might give him heartburn or a hemorrhage.
He thought the shiny colour of olive green suited you best.
The dress was silken and long, slightly form-fitting, with a slit cut far up the right thigh and thin spaghetti straps at the shoulders.
You picked the first three dresses to take home, and left the last shimmery one on the rack.
“We’re leaving now?” Wonwoo asked, cracking his fingers.
“Yes, after I pay. Don’t seem so eager.”
“With all due respect, this place isn't really my scene.”
“Your attitude isn't really my scene.” You swiftly corrected him.
He stood next to you at the counter, observing as you zipped open your small black wallet to pull out a credit card. If you were shopping at a store like this, you must be making bank. But Wonwoo was somewhat nosey, and when you set the card on the countertop, he glanced at its embossed name. It definitely wasn’t your name.
Kim Mingyu.
It was your boyfriend’s.
[ Wonwoo | 1:15 pm ]: Goddammit Seokmin answer me
[ Wonwoo | 1:15 pm]: I’ve sent you at least ten texts
[ Wonwoo | 1:16 pm ]: Truly how do you do anything with this girl? I feel like she’s somewhat psychotic and you just fucking had to flash your sad mopey eyes at me in that café so I would break and help her write her book. I’m sitting here with dresses in my lap, pretty much acting as her unpaid personal assistant. Why the fuck is she asking me about dresses, anyway? Did you help her orchestrate this bullshit? I’m actually pissed at you. I want an entire paid lunch.
He wasn’t all that surprised you made him carry the matte silver shopping bag (with these twine handles that he absolutely hated because of how they suffocated around his fingers), and by a certain point, Wonwoo just didn’t give a damn any more. What little social battery he’d maintained since leaving his apartment had officially depleted, for he could feel it weighing in the plaza air around him like an imperceptible mist. Unfortunately, you weren’t lying about being a fast walker. He’d never seen someone stalk with such vigor.
It was nearly an endurance test to keep at your swaying hip, and the few times he fell behind, you would pause and beckon for him.
But Wonwoo discovered that even you needed to stop, to eat and drink like a normal human rather than the disguised cyborg he fleetingly speculated you were. Your touch was so abrupt—a hand had curled around his bicep and suddenly Wonwoo found himself being jerked into a café on the bottom floor of the mall. Of course, you had to pick the most expensive place to buy food in the entire fucking vicinity, and since Wonwoo was penny pinching at the moment, he opted to stand back and let you order.
But then he saw you flick open your wallet, waving Mingyu’s sleek yet flashy credit card between your fingers with blatant enticement.
“I can pay for you.”
He shook his head, muttering a careless, “no thanks.”
“Don't BS me. What do you want to eat?”
Wonwoo couldn’t stop staring at the credit card.
“What’s the limit on that thing?”
“Enough.”
“You haven’t burned through it already?”
“These openly snide comments you’re making aren’t appreciated, you know. Now, please give me an answer before I break off the temples to your glasses so I can use them to stir my drink.”
“… What?” Wonwoo mumbled, completely lost.
“Pick something!”
“Okay, fuck. I’ll just get a coffee, then.”
He took a step forward to examine the menu boards that the employees were wildly scuttling around underneath, browsing down their chalk-written cold brews until he picked one at random.
That was all Wonwoo asked for.
You bought a lemonade and some sandwich he didn’t catch the name of, toasted on panini bread. It felt amazing to sit down. Wonwoo let the silver bag slide completely off his arm and hit the floor, to which he could sense your gaze stinging over him in disapproval. He should have gotten a sandwich himself, but Wonwoo still wasn’t sure how he felt about using the money on your boyfriend’s credit card.
Wonwoo relaxed in his chair, angling a glance down at his phone that he kept below the table, checking for any Seokmin texts.
None. He was supposed to be Wonwoo’s stupid life preserver in this situation with you, and so far, he’d been left for dead. Taking a lengthy sip from his drink was the only way he could stomach it.
“You should put your phone on the table. Screen down.”
“For what reason?” Wonwoo responded in a dull tone, quickly checking his social media with impatient swipes of his thumb.
“So we can have a conversation.”
At that, he almost gagged, slapping down the coffee cup he’d just picked up.
“Now?” Wonwoo laughed, his deep voice reverberating louder than he intended around the café, “you want to talk now?”
“Uh, yes,” you answered, picking up one half of your sandwich and readying it before your mouth, “why is that shocking?”
“Because—you—ah, whatever.”
“You seem crabby. Is that your normal shtick or are you just hangry? Are you sure you don’t want anything to eat?”
He was in a worse mood than usual, but that could be blamed entirely on the mall and how exhausted it made him feel—everything about its environment sucked out his soul. It was most likely the reason he was even daring to act so impatient. You took another bite as you waited for him to answer, and the delicious crackling sound of the toasted bread managed to fissure something inside him.
“Your eyes tell all. Here’s the other half.” You offered.
Finally, he’d experienced his first flares of contentment that day, though he wasn’t expecting it to be from a panini sandwich with what he could taste to be lettuce, mayonnaise, tomato, and different types of melted cheese.
“Thanks.”
“Well, I’ll at least give us time to finish eating.”
[ Seokmin | 2:30pm ]: I can do one paid lunch :)
[ Seokmin | 2:30 pm ]: Her’s not psychotic she’s just uhh
[ Seokmin | 2:31 pm ]: She probs did it to mess with you
[ Wonwoo | 2:37 pm ]: She thinks being 5 mins late warrants putting me through one of the worst experiences in my life.
[ Seokmin | 2:37 pm ]: Awwww
[ Seokmin | 2:37 pm ]: Who doesn’t like a little shopping??
[ Wonwoo | 2:39 pm ]: It wasn’t shopping it was torture. You owe me so much more than a fucking lunch.
—MARCH 29TH.
Unfortunately, Wonwoo never got the opportunity to discuss your book that Saturday. In the middle of eating, your phone buzzed with a brief call that had interrupted your peculiarly passionate rant on the different cup sizes at the movie theatre (Wonwoo had listened without saying anything, mostly because he dreaded the circumstances that may come from peeping a word when you were so fixated on explaining that ‘the medium is too much but the small is too little and they’re both obnoxiously priced’).
He then watched cluelessly as you launched up from the table, collecting every little belonging between your fingers, babbling about some wax appointment that had escaped you.
It was just that simple—you were gone.
In the beginning moments of your absence, Wonwoo had sat there without much inclination of what to do next.
He’d worried it was another test, and that he was supposed to dutifully follow you to said wax appointment and continue bending to your every endeavour with no retaliation throughout the day. He had also found the silence across from him unsettling, in a way.
Nonetheless, if you weren’t there, then Wonwoo figured he didn’t need to be there either. So he left, taking the fifty-six back to his apartment, and you hadn’t contacted him since.
Wonwoo actually knew his landlord quite well.
Her building was comprised of four apartments, which sat above her pottery shop on the ground floor. She wasn’t a very bothersome landlord and it was fairly easy to connect with her whenever something broke or caused problems.
When he first moved in three years ago, Wonwoo had ardently adored living there, constantly studying the shelves of shiny glazed vases in addition to the beautiful water colour paintings that were created by his landlord or her students. It had been an inspiration supernova in terms of his personal literature, and he was able to start writing his book. Though, at the time, Wonwoo hadn’t been living alone in his apartment, and it was an inescapable fact that the only reason he began writing his book was with the hope of eventually presenting it to his old girlfriend-slash-roommate.
Now, it was just him.
And as Wonwoo pushed up from his grave of rumpled bedsheets, feeling lethargic and empty, he tried concerningly hard to pinch those thoughts from his mind. It was nearly lunch. He knew damn well he shouldn’t have allowed himself to rot that long in bed, but the other half of himself, the self-sabotaging kind, just couldn’t be bothered to fucking care. Wonwoo reached for his glasses that lay half-opened on the nightstand, raking them onto his face while brushing the hair from his eyes. The first thing he properly saw was his tall, skinny, orange bottle of venlafaxine. No. He was ignoring it.
Wonwoo had been ignoring it for the past few months.
Whenever he got particularly sick of staring at the bottle, he’d shove it in his drawer, making sure to bury it deep under old, amply-scribbled notepads and inkless pens that he’d worn to the bone. At last getting up from the bed, Wonwoo experienced his entire body sway and he caught the room spinning at the distant edges of his peripheral. But he walked through it without a care in the world, utterly too used to the feeling of imminent nausea even without his medication. He decided on a shower, then dressing himself, one Poptart, a swig of water from the kitchen tap, and almost walked out the apartment door with the minty toothbrush still in his mouth.
After walking three blocks down from his apartment, Wonwoo stepped across the dead, spiky grass and into the lacklustre parking lot behind the bowling alley that always smelled like stale pizza.
He knew the vanilla Camry well enough to identify it—stalled smack and centre amongst the emptiness—the licence plate being chiselled into his head like his old locker combination from high school (16-12-24, because Wonwoo for some reason liked fixating on prehistoric details that were glaringly useless in his present).
Early two-thousands R&B was blasting from inside the outdated-looking car, though it was thankfully turned down once Wonwoo threw the door open and shimmied inside.
The odor permeated Wonwoo’s lungs in a heartbeat.
“I thought you were getting this dry-cleaned,” he sighed to his friend, Vernon, who was busy rifling through a backpack.
“Uh, didn’t happen. Didn’t wanna pay all that. M’gonna find someone else to do it that’s not taxin’ my ass. Air fresheners are all dried n’shit so you’re gonna have to deal. My bad, Glasses.”
Glasses. That nickname had always made Wonwoo huff a little half-chuckle, and almost instinctively, he pushed the glasses a bit higher back up his nose. He was introduced to Vernon at a New Year’s Eve party he was forced to attend back in December, though it had been difficult to speak with him because he was blitzed out of his fucking mind—not to mention the choking pain of ignoring the girl who had been sliding her hands along the divots of his shoulders and chest from behind, kissing at his neck.
But Vernon was branded in tattoos, and had all kinds of metal in his face, and was blessed with concupiscent, honey-burnish eyes magnetized every woman in the vicinity straight to him.
Somehow, Vernon had become Wonwoo’s plug in the mix.
“Now, what are you gettin’, Glasses? The usual quarter ounce, right?” Vernon’s tongue poked between his blistered lips as he dug a heavily-inked hand further into the backpack seated in his lap.
“Yeah, quarter ounce.”
“Oh, fuck yeah. Found it. This one.” Vernon exchanged the plastic-bagged ounces of weed with Wonwoo’s cash. “Gimme, gimme. I know it’s all here, but let me check… “ he flaked out the tinted bills with a satisfied head nod. “Prettier than a princess. You’re golden.”
“Did you just say princess?”
“Yeah. That’s what I said… what?”
“I’ve never heard that.”
“It’s not princess?”
“It’s picture, isn’t it? Prettier than a picture.”
“Really? Oh. That’s not how I remember—why the fuck are we even talkin’ about this? Doesn’t fuckin’ matter. Now, that’s gonna last you if you’re cute,” he said, throwing his notorious bag into the seat behind him, then tapping at his busted radio with a thick strip of tape across it, the next song rasping through the speakers, “don’t go crazy on it with your meds and shit. Do you still got enough papers?”
Wonwoo scoffed dryly at Vernon’s assumption while he hid the plastic bag within an inside pouch on his navy-blue jacket. A second later and his phone buzzed with a text message.
“Fuck the meds, honestly,” Wonwoo grunted, shifting his hips up in the seat to remove the phone from his back pocket.
Vernon itched his dark eyebrow. “Alright. Just askin’.”
Wonwoo opted to say nothing as he checked the text message without much expectation, and he was thankful that Vernon was the type to drop a subject easily. Instead his friend transitioned into a different conversation, something about another tattoo that he’d been debating, but in the kindest way possible, Wonwoo wasn’t listening to a goddamn word. You had texted him. Finally. For the first time. After three days of radio silence. And Wonwoo didn’t know why he’d suddenly exploded into such a fidgety, heart-pounding mess. You wanted to meet up again in order to discuss the book’s details.
“Who the fuck is that? Jesus Christ?”
“No,” Wonwoo laughed, clasping his right hand into an anxious fist, “um, I dunno. Just—Seokmin’s got me doing this thing with a friend of his. She’s trying to write a book and he kinda threw me into helping her. We’re supposed to meet up and talk about it.”
“Oh,” Vernon answered, leaning his elbow against the window and sweeping a hand through his black tresses, “do I know the chick?”
“Maybe?”
“She got any social media? An Instagram?”
“Yeah.”
“Ou, let me see.”
Wonwoo wasn’t following you. Then again, he was hardly following anyone. His Instagram had remained completely empty since his girlfriend left him, which had prompted Wonwoo to archive every single picture and delete all the ones that contained her, even the ones that captured mere traces of her in beaded bracelets and hair ties and white socks left on the carpet.
Wonwoo used Seokmin’s account to find you. Honestly, he hadn’t ever looked at your Instagram before. Without gleaning a single photo, Wonwoo thrust his phone at Vernon.
“Oh, yeah, I do know this chick,” Vernon chuckled, thumbing through your profile with a growing smirk, “Her, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Mm, yeah. Know her. Tried to fuck her. Didn’t work at all.”
Snapping his head to look at Vernon, Wonwoo gaped, “what?”
“Yeah, I mean—” Vernon adjusted himself in his seat, pulling up his knee to rest a tattoo-coated arm across it, “—ran into the chick at a party that some rich dude at your university threw. Sweet-talked her for a bit until I realized she had a stupid boyfriend. She told me a million different ways to kill myself. Yeah, she’s somethin’, for sure.”
“You’re lying.”
“Ha—a little. She didn’t tell me to kill myself, just scolded me for about ten minutes. God, she was wired as fuck though. Her boyfriend—fuckin’, Mingyu, or whatever—he gets her coke. I’ve seen her take a line like it’s pixie dust, man. This was like, over a year ago, though. Dunno if she’s still that loopy. I don’t care. She’s pretty hot.”
Vernon then flashed him a picture from your account, a full body picture of you sprawled across sparkling white sand in a bikini, meanwhile Wonwoo could only stare at it with the blankest possible expression as his brain splattered with computing Vernon’s story.
“Is she still with him?” Vernon asked.
Wonwoo cleared his throat and sat with his spine rigid against the leather, nearly forgetting where he was and what he was doing.
“With who?”
“Lady Liberty. Mingyu.”
“Oh… yeah. They’re dating, still.”
“No fuckin’ way,” his friend lamented while he continuously plunged further into your pictures, thumb pressed to his chin, eyes glimmering, “you coulda flipped this book thing on its head and actually got some fuckin’ head, especially with that deep ass voice you got there. I know it’s gotta feel good. I mean, look at her lips—”
“You’re being gross as fuck,” Wonwoo groaned, swiping his phone back and stuffing it away, “get a girlfriend yourself, man.”
“I’m tryin’ to clean up my act a bit before I do that.”
“That’s definitely a work in progress, I’m assuming.”
“Asshole,” Vernon’s voice was gritty as he coughed into a fist, slipping his knee back under the steering wheel and proceeding to crank his stereo until the music was practically suffocating Wonwoo, “now get the fuck out. You’re not my only deal today. Sorry, Glasses.”
“Later.”
Wonwoo pushed open the door and stepped outside into the cold afternoon breeze. He sucked in a long, relieving breath. At times the fresh air disgusted him, especially when he cozied into one of his mental ruts and everything in the world seemed so grey it was soul-crushing, but Vernon’s car smelled like straight fucking cannabis.
Fresh air was heavenly.
“Don’t forget to text your girl!” Vernon laughed just before Wonwoo slammed the door shut to swallow up the melodic lyrics.
He wanted to make a snap comment before the boy drove off to his next endeavour, but he didn’t care enough to think of one.
[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 1:35 pm ]: hey wonwoo, it’s her. I think we should finally settle a date to talk about this book thing. let me attach a pic of my schedule and you can pick any open slots
[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 1:35 pm ]: 145_348.JPG
[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 1:35 pm ]: seokmin isn’t going to be our communicator anymore, so u can stop complaining to him about it
[ Wonwoo | 1:45 pm ]: Okay, thanks.
[ Wonwoo | 1:45 pm]: I’ll take a look soon.
[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 1:45 pm ]: I’m excited to see you again
[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 1:50 pm ]: no likewise?!
[ Wonwoo | 1:50 pm ]: Likewise.
[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 1:50 pm ]: ugh. thx
—APRIL 1ST.
It was around six in the evening and Wonwoo was seated in the SRX building, the sky rolling with lambent, hazy-toned pastures of peach in the windows behind him. He had arrived about an hour ago, taking the staircase up to the third floor. It was much quieter there, making it easier for Wonwoo to endlessly stare with glazed, void eyes at his laptop screen and the cursed document he couldn’t finish. After tapping his fingernails in a bored, repetitious pattern against the shiny white table, he felt the urge to delete each and every paragraph as if he hadn’t poured months of earnest love into them.
You would be meeting him soon.
He could still remember looking at your schedule, pinching into the screen and examining all the different colour-coded blocks: dinner parties, SSA meetings, gym sessions, errands—how the fuck you managed to juggle those things and more left him marvelled yet terrified. You were pretty on point regarding your arrival time, to which Wonwoo could immediately identify you before even seeing your face due to the heel clicking and the sounds of tapping jewelry on your bag.
Emerging onto the floor with a very intense scowl and a notably crushing grip on your drink, you were to say the least, angry. Wonwoo gnawed slightly on his tongue as you sat down.
Your purse clunked like a cinderblock onto the table.
He watched you inhale a slow, shaky breath, raising your hand with the expansion of your chest in order to calm down.
“I’m going to kill myself.”
Wonwoo leaned back in the chair, subtly trying to establish more distance between you. He flicked a glance at his laptop.
“Damn. Why is that?”
“Because of stupid, incompetent people.”
“Yeah?”
“I just—I don’t get it!” You laughed, though it wasn’t a particularly jovial sound and more than anything it seemed like you were going to start smashing glass. “I don’t get how people are unable to understand that we don’t do walk-ins unless one of the stylists are free—” you dug a hand into your purse, pulling out a straw, “—which in the salon’s case, is almost never! I tell them we can’t in my very sweet, established customer service voice: ‘I’m sorry, but the only way to receive a chair is to book online.'”
Wonwoo tilted his head, grinning a little.
“Blah, blah. I tell them the entire story in the kindest way I can, even though I want to grab them by their fucking neck and drag them over the counter to show them our website.” You slipped out your laptop next, accidentally dragging out a lanyard along with it that you agitatedly shoved back into the purse. “And then, they get all uptight and pissy when we can’t wriggle them in! Sorry, our makeup artists are busy! Working with people who made scheduled fucking appointments! The world doesn’t fucking revolve around you!”
You scraped the drink toward you, slamming the straw straight through the plastic film lid with such force that several people ended up turning their heads. After taking a long sip, you gulped and glared until they probably realized it was you and pretended not to care.
For a moment, Wonwoo didn’t know what to say, so he’d folded his arms instead. Considering that Wonwoo worked the late shift stocking shelves at the pharmacy department, your predicament sounded like an entirely new world to him.
“Ugh, I’m sorry to bring all this negativity with me,” you apologized, still exasperated, “I don’t need this fucking tea—I need straight vodka. I’m seriously frazzled.”
“Seriously frazzled?” Wonwoo repeated, finding your choice of words funny as he resumed leaning forward, arms still crossed.
“Very, seriously frazzled.”
“I’m sorry about your day.”
Again, you sighed deeply while removing your long, warm jacket to drape over the chair’s spine—it was a rather elegant reveal of the strapless pearl dress underneath, tinted by the evening light, peach-pink as it rained from the ceiling length windows and framed your body like you were some sort of resurrected angel. Tension at last started escaping your shoulders. Wonwoo quickly realized that he'd been staring, and his fingers curled into a nervous fist.
“You’re actually such a good listener.”
Wonwoo cleared his throat. “Um, thank you.”
“I like that you don’t interrupt me.”
Settling his elbows on the table and ruffling the back of his messy black locks, Wonwoo felt himself panic a little on the inside.
“Well,” he heaved in, “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“I know," you chirped, posturing yourself confidently, “anyway, the book. We need to talk about it.”
“Table’s yours.”
Wonwoo’s knuckles pressed softly into his cheek while he waited for you to prepare your laptop. His own document was glowing at him, and he swore the emptiness of the page made the screen brighter (in the absolute worst, most mocking way).
“Okay, I’ve got my ideas and such pulled up.”
He expected you to continue and introduce the concept, but you had suddenly stopped, and Wonwoo thought you appeared almost smitten and somewhat timorous. It was strange, because from what he’d known and gauged so far, you were nothing akin to that.
“Well, promise that you won’t think it’s ridiculous.”
“I don’t even know what it is.”
“That’s why I want you to promise!”
Wonwoo pushed up his glasses and sighed, “I will need to be honest at some points you know, depending on what kind of help you want from me. Not that I’m going to be a straight-up dick.”
You scoured at him from over your laptop.
“Whatever.”
“I’ll promise if it makes you feel better.”
“Just—shut up." You wiggled your hand at him dismissively and proceeded to tug the laptop closer. “I don’t even care anymore.”
Once you spent a moment affirming the document to yourself, you looked up at him and smiled. “I’m going to write a book for Mingyu. Our fifth anniversary is coming up in the winter—it’s actually on Christmas Eve—the day he officially asked me to be his girlfriend. I just want to write him a little memoire thingy that tells our story. I want it to walk through the events of our lives, and how I remember them. First encounter, first date, first kiss, stuff like that. I’ve already collected some good memories to include. I have… somewhat of an outline? But my problem is the writing. I can spew nonsense from my mouth at a million miles an hour, but when I try to actually write? It’s crickets.”
You sat back, a hand poised thoughtfully at your cheek while one leg folded over the other. Wonwoo knew you were granting him the space to speak and at least offer a slice of his thoughts, yet, in that moment, he found himself to be drowning. He didn’t believe in fate or destiny or anything of the delusional like; however, hearing you explain the exact premise of a story that he had been successfully writing until a certain breakup—it had shaken him, and Wonwoo felt like the universe was smearing salt fresh into his unsewn wounds.
“So…” your head cocked to the side. “Can I at least an ‘okay’ or a head nod or some sign of life? Or are you just too disgusted?”
What could he say? What was he supposed to say?
Wonwoo was genuinely clueless on how to help you write a story that he’d been utterly failing at writing himself. And, sure, maybe Wonwoo should just give up completely. His ex-girlfriend had ripped out his heart without a single indication that it would happen, and then exited his life in the blink of an eye, disappearing so fucking abruptly that Wonwoo could have said she was a shadow that he imagined in pure lunacy. But he hadn’t dropped the story because there was this very stubborn, unwilling part of his being that could not move on from her—her, who had been his love, and breath, and bones.
He’d decided to finish the story as a manner of easing into closure. If that closure never came, then so be it.
“Are you seriously fucking ignoring me right now?”
His silence had promptly disturbed your peace, and now you were glaring at him with the beginning licks of fire and hell in your eyes.
“I don’t think I can help you.”
“What?” You pronounced sharply. “Are you kidding?”
“No, I’m sorry,” Wonwoo said while closing his laptop and sliding it back into his shoulder-sling bag, “I just—I’m not the right person to help you. I’m not, and you’ll have to take my word for it.”
“Seokmin told me you could write fucking anything. He made it out like you were some literature God with a golden quill. And—great, you’re just packing up fucking everything. Are you serious? Am I even allowed more of an explanation or are you gonna leave it at that? Wonwoo, you couldn’t have told me this at a worse time.”
“I didn’t plan for it to be like that.” He could hardly push the syllables up his diaphragm. “It can’t be me. I’m sorry.”
You didn’t lift a finger to stop him from leaving, though the wavelength of your incinerating stare was felt like a hot, melting scratch down his neck. This was terrible, he was terrible—Wonwoo already knew that about himself. He wanted to go home. He wanted to shut himself away in his room and sink straight through the sheets until he was swallowed. His anxiety was webbing around him. It was pulling him down into the soil and earth like he belonged there.
He truly hated this part of himself.
More than anything, he truly hated when other people saw it.
Especially people like you.
—APRIL 8TH.
Wonwoo didn’t think you would ever speak to him again, in person or over text message. In retrospect, he was fine with it. You were rather overwhelming and especially tiring for someone like Wonwoo who would be perfectly fine never seeing another human in his lifetime. Not to mention he was freed from helping you with your book, which he learned was a technical love letter to your boyfriend in addition to a romance he wanted a nonexistent part in. Going down that path once was already excruciating enough, and given his anxiety attack that saw him locked in a cold washroom stall last week, it was best you just forget about him. He assumed you already had, anyway.
After he stocked the last red bottle of sinus medicine onto the shelf, Wonwoo used his boxcutter to break down the cardboard package and fold it flat with the others he’d opened. It was time for his break, and then he would only have one more hour until the pharmacy section closed for the night. Once it hit ten o’clock, the store was automatically still and hardly anyone came in—minus the few student couples whom Wonwoo had to point in the direction of pregnancy tests or plan b. But it was a Tuesday night. He was at the bare minimum appeased he didn’t have to console a sobbing, snotty-nosed eighteen-year-old girl imploring for a First Response.
When he collapsed down at his favourite seat in the breakroom, Wonwoo pulled out his phone. He had sent Seokmin a text yesterday evening about going studying at the SRX building for their upcoming math midterm, though Seokmin had yet to respond and Wonwoo couldn’t evade wondering if you were pulling some strings behind the curtain.
He opened his bottle of juice and spent the remainder of his fifteen listening to music and jittering his knee.
Wonwoo took his earbuds with him back onto the floor, sneaking the wires under his shirt to pull out his collar. There were only a few boxes left on his cart that required stocking, and whatever didn’t fit would have to be scanned into storage. That shouldn't take long. Wonwoo could almost taste the crisp atmosphere of the night air and feel the gentle chilliness soon to ghost against his face.
However, halfway into shelving the cough drops there had been a polite tap on his shoulder, and Wonwoo wanted to wither up and lose his head right there on the tiles like a sundried rose.
He didn’t know who to expect when he turned around, pulling out a single earbud while the other continued to blast his music.
“Oh, shit—I didn’t know you worked here.”
Fuck. He wanted to kill himself.
“Yeah, started a couple months ago, actually.”
Mingyu.
It’s not that Wonwoo didn’t like speaking with him, because they had definitely exchanged cordial conversations in the past, particularly when they both took that Probability Poker elective last semester and Wonwoo learned that Mingyu was a pretty decent bluffer. Unfortunately, Mingyu’s belief that he was a great bluffer was actually the one indication that he was indeed bluffing. It showed in his overly confident eyes before a twitch of the lips or a subtly shifted foot, meanwhile Wonwoo was able to sit there the entire time like he was an Easter Island statue incarnate.
Put simply, Wonwoo had always preferred to avoid Mingyu because he was your boyfriend, and per routine, he attempted to slip around most people that were associated with you.
“Cool.” Mingyu smiled and the flashes of his pointed teeth caught the light. “Stuff’s got switched around in here again.”
“New mods came out last week,” Wonwoo answered, placing the last cough drop box onto the shelf and facing it straight.
“Well, don’t know what the fuck that means,” his tone was brassy as he laughed, “I just came to ask where the plan b is now.”
“Two aisles down, check the endcap.”
“Appreciate it, thanks—oh, condoms?”
“Next aisle.”
“Got it.”
“Just come get me when you’re done,” Wonwoo said, grabbing his boxcutter and running the blade along the taped seam of the cardboard to satisfyingly slice it open, “I’m the only one in pharmacy right now, so I have to ring you up.”
As soon as Mingyu disappeared around the corner, Wonwoo tossed the flattened cardboard onto his cart with the loudest, most life-draining sigh that could be harboured. He wasn’t the kind of person to cultivate those racing, panicky thoughts that consumed his brain like a merciless hurricane, rather it was typically one single thought that was an eternal black space to swallow him. But Wonwoo had to admit that seeing Mingyu had triggered something of the latter, and now he was feeling sick with the fact you possibly told Mingyu about his episode at the SRX building last week. To Wonwoo it had been the shackles of his anxiety, though it probably came across as a very ill-mannered, abrupt rejection from your perspective.
Mingyu didn’t take long picking out his items. It was clearly a run of the mill routine for him at this point—a mere grab and go.
At the register, Wonwoo mentally questioned why Mingyu had grabbed such a plethora of condoms. He didn’t mean to be vulgar in his thinking, but how often were you getting fucking railed?
Either that, or Mingyu preferred being well stocked.
Vernon would be bruising his knuckles on his steering wheel right now, considering how devotedly he attempted to seduce you.
As payment, Mingyu pulled out that godforsaken credit card that you had borrowed during the dress shopping. Wonwoo felt nauseous just looking at the damn thing. He swiped all of the items into a small plastic bag which he then handed to Mingyu with a notable impatience, wanting to whisk the boy out as quick as possible.
“G’night, man. Thanks for the help.”
“Night,” he answered in a deep, tired sigh, watching Mingyu’s head of thick and bouncy black hair disappear toward the aglow exit.
Well, clearly you weren’t wasting anytime thinking about him despite the dramatics pertaining to the situation last week, not even in the most marginal fraction. Mingyu must rail it out of you every night—not that Wonwoo would be surprised to learn such a thing considering the tall boy’s physique and your openly lascivious nature.
Well, good luck to you both, he supposed.
At least it was closing time.
Wonwoo had always suspected there was something ever so slightly off kilter about his body, especially in the way it reacted to certain situations and emotions. He knew it probably wasn’t the most mundane, ordinary act—locking himself in his aunt’s washroom the day of his sixteenth birthday, sliding down onto the cold, hard tiles, feeling his heart jolt, punch, and thump again his chest like a battering ram. There had been a pattern of rubber ducks on her eggshell blue shower curtain, and Wonwoo remembered counting them row by row, over and over, until his breath managed to steady.
Twenty-four ducks. He could still recall the number.
A doctor’s visit about three weeks later had granted him the diagnosis and a scribbled venlafaxine prescription. Wonwoo was already collecting his sweater off the tissue sheet bed, ready to leave.
In the beginning, he was strict about his medication. He organized them into pill cartridges and set alarms and always ate them with cooked, warm meals. Understandably, his habits dwindled every now and again, however, Wonwoo was quite pious to the routine for a good couple years. But then he met his most recent girlfriend in university. She was shy and reserved. All about the books.
Cute as buttons.
He fell in love.
And it was all such a rush of rose petals and sweet symphonies that Wonwoo became distracted from his healthy habits.
Of course, everything crashed and burned once she abandoned him. He capitulated in an instant, and the sight of the orange bottle made him paler than winter moonlight. It’s not like he wanted to suffer, or despise the way his body put him through a neural hell beyond his own control. The fact of the matter was that Wonwoo just couldn’t do it. He couldn’t take those stupid pills.
It was a mountain. Every. Single. Time.
And for the third time that week, Wonwoo found himself awake at an ungodly hour, rifling through the black lunchbox he kept in his closet with his glasses about to slip off the fine point of his nose.
He pulled out the baggie filled with the quarter-ounce, his silver grinder, and his rolling papers. Moving to his desk, Wonwoo clicked on the small overhead lamp to illuminate his space, in which he tapped some of the weed into his grinder and began twisting the lid until he was satisfied. He liked preparing joints to smoke on the roof. It wasn’t particularly hard to access, anyway. Right outside his bedroom window was a balcony with a short ladder attached to the brick, and once Wonwoo had discovered it, he made a habit of climbing up to spark his joints so that their pungent aroma could be carried away by the fresh winds usually stirred up at gloaming.
Honestly, it was the only thing he enjoyed.
Just before he slipped out the window, Wonwoo grabbed a pair of black jeans he’d worn earlier in the week, discovering the lighter he’d accidentally left in the back pocket.
The ladder shuddered slightly when Wonwoo gripped it, though if he were being candour, he didn’t care whatsoever if all the bolts suddenly loosened and he were to splatter against the sidewalk like an uncooked pancake. In fact, the fall probably wasn’t enough to kill him. Maybe a few broken bones and scrapes, some blood staining the street akin to little patterns of rain, bruises that signatured violets into his skin, but Wonwoo would still be painfully, vividly alive, enough to see the stars if the glasses didn’t snap off his face.
It was a colder night, so Wonwoo made sure to tuck on his beanie and huddle into his thicker-sized coat. He sat with one leg dangling over the building’s edge, feeling the wind whiplash against his back and crawl in these chilly, indecipherable whispers from his shoulders to his neck, almost tickling him, like it had missed him.
An orange flicker popped to life from the butane of his lighter, which he used to lightly singe the joint perched at his lips. Wonwoo then tilted his head back, blowing the cloud and its loose, airy curls straight into the sky’s deepest purples.
He loved being alone.
Even when his ex-girlfriend had moved in with him all those months ago, there was an unyielding part of him that hadn’t been ready to forfeit all his space and privacy.
But, over time, his love surmounted the sacrifice.
He would wake up to her sleeping face, and with thoughtful nudges, clear the hairs off her cheeks. He would spend an hour working on his homework or writing his story while waiting for her to stir so messily in the sheets that it became graceful. He would tease her with his cold hands as she boiled up tea in the kitchen, pinching at her hips with the utmost softness and giggling huskily into her neck when she would twist in the arms that bracketed her body against his chest. He would trap her between the counter, sunshine striking the room aglow in these nearly blinding seas of light, mouthing at her throat and tugging at her shorts and hitching his fingers so deep into her heat because all Wonwoo wanted to do was make her feel good.
Opening his eyes again, Wonwoo saw the stars rather than her face. The high was disseminating past his lungs and mingling with the pain that festered in his heart, concocting something that hurt so wonderfully, in all the right places, in all the right spots.
He was a fucking mess.
It wasn’t sustainable. But he didn’t care enough to fix himself.
—APRIL 15TH.
Why did Wonwoo keep coming back to that café? The number of times he’d sat down with conviction that today would be fruitful—today, the eloquence would flow from his fingertips like perfectly pitched music notes and the symphony would read as beautiful and mellifluous as it sounded in his mind. Today, he was going to write.
Except, he accomplished nothing of the sort.
Repeatedly tapping his index finger against the space bar, he waited for the right adjective or phrase to leap out—to grasp him in a headlock even—whatever it took, Wonwoo was willing to sit there all afternoon until one fucking word conjured in the infinite blankness that was his imagination. He reached for his drink, only to take a sip of dry air that smelled like his earlier cocoa. Wonwoo realized the cup was empty. Had he wasted this much time already?
It pricked similarly to a bee sting. His passions felt impossible. A sigh upheaved from his chest and fingers curled into his hair, musing up the already disarrayed strands and slowly warping himself to look more and more like a mad scientist. Wonwoo removed his glasses and slumped back in the chair, rubbing at the reddish prints left on his nose. Writing had soaked itself in agony and he was going to remain in the storm of it until the bitter, ungratifying end.
‘Till death do us part.
And then, something struck.
Though it wasn’t what Wonwoo had hoped for.
Literally—it was your hand hitting the glass of the café window, which had jerked Wonwoo out from his self-pitying.
He scrambled to fix his glasses back on, your face clarifying in an instant. You smiled at him with your glossed lips, and he didn’t like the nuance of your countenance one bit. Watching you enter the café was jarring and uncomfortable and his fist immediately clenched, his index nail picking at the ruined cuticle of his thumb. Two weeks ago—that was the last time you had spoken. At the SRX building.
“Hey!” You sounded friendly. “Can I sit here?”
“Well, uh—”
“Great, thank you.”
You pulled out the chair across from him, then set your bag delicately on the windowsill. Wonwoo watched with nervous, fluttering eyes as you smoothed out your cropped skirt before sitting down, ensuring it was tucked under yourself appropriately.
“How are you?”
Gulp.
“Fine.”
“Good. That’s really good. I’m glad.” Your nails drummed once against the table. “I actually didn’t plan on coming here, but I saw you as I was crossing the street, and I thought, ‘I should stop by and check in on him’ because, y’know, we haven’t been talking.”
Wonwoo furrowed his brow. “Do you always do that?”
“Do what?”
“Slap your hand against windows to get people’s attention.”
You swept something off the table with your palm, and this sunshine-like laugh turned your entire face to sweetness, but it wasn’t entirely earnest, and Wonwoo bit into his lip because you fucking terrified him. He caught your sparkling eye and wanted to melt.
“Did I scare you? I’m so sorry.”
“No, you’re good.”
“What are you working on?”
“A paper.”
Obviously, he was going to lie. Whether or not you could pick up on his lie was beyond Wonwoo’s control at that point. He didn’t know what you wanted, or why you were interrupting the flow of your very organized scheduling system to seemingly toy with him.
You didn’t respond to his paper comment. There was a thick silence between you despite the distant clattering of dishes, bubbling coffee machines, and conversations that coalesced into one big buzz.
Wonwoo bit the bullet.
“Something you want from me, yeah?”
“Not… exactly… I mean, after you left me at the SRX building, I wanted to get very angry about the whole situation. My day was terrible, and you responding to my idea with that sickly look on your face didn’t help. But I thought about it. You said no. I can’t ask anything more of you, y’know? I have to respect what you said.”
“Oh.” Wonwoo unclenched his fist, stretched out his long legs a bit more. “Yeah, sure. I get it. Thanks for understanding.”
“I just didn’t think my idea was that bad.”
“Well… no. It’s not bad. It’s not bad at all.”
A twitch to your lip suggested you didn’t believe him. Wanting to clear the air a bit, Wonwoo stopped slouching. He sat straighter and lowered the lid of his laptop, inviting the space between you.
His mouth opened, and then closed.
Fuck, just breathe you idiot—he cursed at himself.
You did that little head tilt thing, half-smiling at him, looking radiant underneath the café sunlight and so oddly patient with his tied-tongue that Wonwoo was miraculously able to find his words.
“There is nothing wrong with your idea. I made it seem like there was. I’m sorry. I just don’t want to help you write a romance story, for personal reasons that would be useless explaining. But you seem very confident in everything you do. I’m sure you’ll be fine.”
“Hm, well, thank you for believing in me. Romance can be a touchy subject—I didn’t think of that, and I get it… I guess I felt more insecure about your reaction because writing is the one thing I can’t ace. I do need help with my story, even if I don’t want it. Well, it’s just the truth, isn’t it? There are some things I can’t do!”
You chuckled at yourself, and Wonwoo thought it to be actually endearing. All your hard edges softened in that moment.
“So, I haven’t made any progress in my story, which sucks because I’m operating by deadline—” reaching into your bag, you unveiled a small, compact mirror, using it to remove something invisible from your eyelash, “—do you have any writer friends that would help me?”
Wonwoo scratched his nose.
“Uh, with the book?”
“Yes.”
“None.”
“What?” The mirror snapped shut as you gagged at him. “How do you have no writer friends? Isn’t that your major? Literature? Do you even have friends that aren’t Seokmin?”
“I’m a math major for fucks sake.”
“You’re fucking joking, Wonwoo. Please, tell me it’s a joke.”
He leaned back, folding his arms and propping an ankle onto his knee. You were still gaping at him, and he wanted to smirk.
“What’s wrong with math?”
“Nothing. Math is… math,” you gritted, shoving the mirror back into your expensive-looking, gold-buckled bag, “but why math? Why straight math? I thought you wanted to be a writer.”
“Man, Seokmin really didn’t tell you fucking anything, did he?” Wonwoo chuckled. Or, maybe you had only heard the things you wanted to hear, which was what Wonwoo assumed.
“Like I have space in my brain to remember the multiverse of information that constantly comes out of his mouth.”
“So what is there space for then?”
“You're toeing a dangerous line.”
“Well, I like math and writing.”
"And what kind of papers would you be required to work on as a math major? Did you stumble across some quintessential theorem that nobody else really cares about except for you and all the other pocket-protector wearers out there? Or is this a Good Will Hunting scenario? Even better—are you waiting for someone to walk by behind you and see all that really complicated mumbo-jumbo on your screen and think to themselves, 'woah, this guy is really smart. He's working on a paper with numbers, and I only work on papers with words. Where did I go wrong in my life?' so you can develop some sort of alternative complex that writing just isn't giving you?"
Wonwoo cocked his head at you, perplexed.
“What the absolute fuck are you talking about?” He felt a laugh in his chest, but he pushed it down. Wonwoo had never met anyone like you before. “You made up everything you just said.”
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“I go on tangents. It’s just something I do.”
“Damn. I can tell.” Wonwoo rubbed at the corner of his eye and slipped the ankle off his knee, further spreading his legs. “You like hearing the sound of your own voice, yeah?”
He always hated when people bothered him at the café, especially when he was trying to write. Today, it was different.
“Well, that’s true.” You beamed at him so matter-of-factly, like it was obvious. “The most beautiful sound in the world, isn’t it?”
“Mm.”
“Thought so. Ugh, I just can’t believe you have no writer friends to hook me up with.” He watched you slouch forward, slapping your arms across the table. “I’ll have to go wait outside Gildan Hall and start ambushing all the smart-looking literature majors.”
Wonwoo found himself examining your perfect nail polish.
“Good luck with that.”
“Can you at least try to sound more sympathetic?”
“You don’t seem like a person who appreciates sympathy.”
“Pft. According to who? I like being comforted when the time is right, and you’re not being very comforting.” You groaned into the table.
“You like being comforted?” He scoffed.
Your head popped up, and you were pouting. “At certain times, yes. Most times, no. It’s a complicated system. No one’s really cared enough to learn it except for Mingyu, and that was by force, and I think even he hates it. But I’m not asking for the moon. Just a reasonably sized chunk of it. I have to be worth something, right?”
“What’s life without someone catering to your every whim at the drop of a hat, huh?” He couldn’t help but mutter with sarcasm.
“Yes, exactly! See—you read my mind.”
Wonwoo bit his tongue.
“Ugh, now where’s my stupid phone?”
It was in your purse. Immediately, your eyes lit up.
“Jesus Christ. I’m gonna be late to my electrolysis!”
Like a burst of lightning, you shot up from your seat and quickly fixed the cream-white purse back over your shoulder. It reminded him of that time at the mall. One second you were engrained into a tangent, and the next you were scrambling about, attempting to recover the lost time in your meticulous schedule.
“If you think of anyone, please text me!”
Wonwoo nodded his head.
Now, there was a vacant seat before him, left slightly tugged from the table due to your hectic departure. For a moment, he just sighed, feeling the breath emerge from somewhere so deep in his chest that it ached. That was the thing about you—in a confusing turmoil, you managed to fill him up when he felt empty, but then empty him once he felt full.
He didn’t know what kind of person you were.
But there was an odd thrill to it that Wonwoo couldn’t articulate.
—APRIL 18TH.
Sat with Seokmin at the boy’s dining room table, Wonwoo popped a purple grape into his mouth while flipping a pencil between his fingers. The two had been staring plainly at their last problem from the math homework, but the question was horribly long, and his handwriting had morphed from legible penmanship to the most slurred hieroglyphics. Wonwoo wanted to dump a ramen packet into some boiling water and call it a night. He’d devoured a whole stem of grapes. His head was pounding and his stomach growled for a meal.
“Oh! You see—this is what gets me every time!” Seokmin exclaimed, leaned over his scattered papers, shoulders hunched with strain, “I mess up one multiplication in a matrix, and it screws me all up! Now I have to go over—uh! My fucking pencil just snapped.”
“Good,” Wonwoo mumbled, pressing a hand along the groove of his stiff neck, cracking it, “take it as a sign to give up.”
“We’re so close.”
Scooting the chair back to stretch his legs, Wonwoo then snatched his phone off the table. It was nearly ten at night.
“I’m hungry, and I don’t care anymore.”
Seokmin sighed, “are you going to eat now?”
“Yeah. Any ramen left?”
“It’s in the box sitting on top of the fridge. Soup broth is in the cupboard beside the microwave. I think there’s some eggs, too.”
Wonwoo easily grabbed the noodle packet off the fridge. He asked his friend if he wanted a bowl as well, and Seokmin agreed, abandoning their math homework after his defeating pencil-snapping incident. While they waited for the water to start bubbling over the stovetop, Seokmin had joined Wonwoo in the kitchen, though he leaned against the counter, holding his phone six inches or so from his face. Wonwoo had never seen anyone text that fast.
Gosh—he didn’t even need to ask who it was.
Noticing a few smudges on his glasses, Wonwoo lowered them down to the hem of shirt, beginning to massage the marks away.
“Our math final is the twenty-eighth, right?” Seokmin asked.
“Should be, yeah.”
“Thanks. If it’s on the twenty-eighth then I can definitely go.”
Wonwoo slid the glasses back onto his nose.
“Go to what?
Taptaptaptap—Seokmin’s fingers were practically electric.
“Uh, this thing that Her is having… at her parents’ house… like… a big dinner party… I’m helping her plan it… just need to make sure… I’m free those days… there! Okay, all settled.”
At last, Seokmin had clicked off his phone and slid the device back into the pocket on his sweatpants. Wonwoo folded his arms, staring at his friend with a deeply furrowed yet confused brow.
He sucked in a helpless breath.
“I don’t get you, Seokmin.”
“What—why?”
A few hot droplets of water had leapt from the pot, slightly scalding Wonwoo’s arm. He promptly ripped open the ramen packet and submerged the noodle brick, poking at it with chopsticks.
Wonwoo cleared his throat, “are you obsessed with her?”
Seokmin laughed, sounding astounded.
“No, I’m not obsessed. I’m just helping. We’re friends.”
“Right.”
“You don’t believe me?”
Setting the chopsticks beside the stove, Wonwoo turned around again, habitually crossing his arms low along the chest.
“I guess I don’t understand what you get out of that relationship.” He admitted. “Why can’t she do shit herself?”
“Ha!—That’s an interesting question.”
“You don’t want to talk about it?”
“No, it’s not that.” Seokmin lifted himself onto the kitchen counter, his head thumping back against the wooden cupboard. “I just wasn’t expecting you to ask that. And—I meant it’s interesting to see your interpretation of it. Like, my friendship with Her.”
Wonwoo nodded. He wasn’t going to coax anything out of his friend that he wasn’t already willing to say. In fact, Wonwoo had only begun talking to Seokmin back in the early, rainy days of September, since they ended up in the same discrete mathematics course and happened to choose seats right next to each other. Their bond had formed fairly quick, but they never really conversed about topics more intimate than school work and their own interests.
“I’m sorry,” Wonwoo said, “I shouldn’t have asked.”
“No, don’t apologize. I mean, I totally get why you’re curious.”
Seokmin glanced down at his knees, scratched his chin.
“Uh—well, what did you say, anyway? Why can’t her do shit herself? I mean, her life is super busy. Her mom’s a writer and editor for that popular fashion and beauty magazine you always see at all those glamour stores—Stunning Monthly—something like that. Her’s dad is this business tycoon guy. He works with my dad, actually. I’ve known Her since high school. Our families are close, so naturally we’ve spent a lot of time together. Her family picked up all their stuff and moved into Hillcrest on account of her dad needing to relocate for work.”
Wonwoo remained silent at the revelation, even though he was urged by curiosity to badger Seokmin with questions.
“But, uh—without all my non-essential rambling—the relationship with her parents is tumultuous. Who doesn't have a shaky relationship with their parents, though? A few lucky souls, probably. But they've set things up for her quite well, in my opinion. Her mom got her a job at the Milestone—that fancy beauty place down Bank Street? She has a makeup chair from time to time and works reception. She’s definitely gonna graduate Cum Laude with some big fancy scholarship. Not to mention the little power couple thing she’s got going on with Mingyu. She just tends to be…” Seokmin winced, massaging his shoulder, “she’s just a bit unpredictable. It would be way too easy for things to start falling all over the place. She’s a busy girl so I figure it’s nice to help her out. Keep things organized.”
Wonwoo bobbed his head, thinking.
“I guess I’m curious about the book thing. I mean, if everything is so perfectly laid out for her, and she’s so busy all the time…. why write a book? That takes months, extreme dedication, planning out the ass… it’s loving everything you’ve written and then hating it so atrociously… I don’t know,” he sighed, shrugging with confusion, “if I were her, writing a book would be the last thing on my mind.”
Folding his arms, Seokmin leaned back against the cupboards and agreed. “I know. But sometimes she just lurches onto random things out of nowhere. One year she practically turned her entire living room into a freakin’ art studio and I slipped on an open tube of paint on the floor—nearly popped out my tail bone. To be fair, her passion projects never last long. She never has the time, as you said… I know you’re not helping her anymore. She’ll probably drop it without help.”
“Really? Just like that?”
“Yeah,” Seokmin answered, smiling, “just like that.”
For some reason, Wonwoo gritted his teeth. He would hate for you to discard the feat so readily, just because he couldn’t pitch in as initially planned. Yes, writing was not always a fruitful cherry blossom tree and sometimes chalking down one sentence was equivalent to a month of effort and squeezing out all the creative fibres in one’s brain, but there was so much worth and occulted beauty to it at the same time. It was the art of expression.
Wonwoo thought it was quite cruel to deprive oneself of the ability to express and articulate things as they coursed through the fragile skin and the warm veins, and chiefly, the heart.
“Anyway, maybe I didn’t really answer your question,” Seokmin laughed, “but, y’know, don’t worry too much about turning down the book. You’re right. She’s got more important things to focus on, as I was telling her over and over, and—oh! Fuck, the ramen’s bubbling!”
Wonwoo quickly twisted around as the water began spilling over the edge and sizzling like fried meat. He lifted the pot off the piping hot, orange element, to which Seokmin joined him, twisting the stove dial to a much lower heat. Blowing at the white froth, Wonwoo waited a precautionary minute before returning the pot.
Once dinner was ready, they gathered back at the dining table, entwining the noodles with their chopsticks and hardly allowing a second for the ramen to cool before they were shovelling in burning mouthful after mouthful. The bite in Wonwoo’s stomach was gradually appeased. He soon felt warm, and full, and less tempered.
“Seokmin.”
“Hm?” His friend glanced up from his phone.
“So…” Wonwoo leaned back in the chair, his fist clenched. “I guess what—from what I understand—if I don’t help Her, or if she doesn’t find someone who can, then the book just won’t happen ”
At his observation, Seokmin nodded, seeming unbothered.
“Uh, yeah. Pretty much.”
“That’s sad.”
“Hey, you two just aren’t destined for each other,” he replied, slurping his noodles, “you were right back at the café.”
Picking up the white and blue patterned bowl, Wonwoo prepared to drink the broth, feeling the delicious heat fan back against his face. Once he finished eating and helping Seokmin with the dishes, he planned to catch a late-night bus back to his apartment above the quaint pottery shop. He didn’t know if he would sleep or not.
Maybe, however, that would give him time to rethink some choices, even if he shouldn’t trust the musings his brain happened to curate past nine at night. Especially any musings concerning you.
[ Wonwoo | 11:45 pm ]: Sorry to message you this late.
[ Wonwoo | 11:45 pm ]: I’ll keep it brief: I’ve given your book idea some thought, and if the offer still stands, I’d like to help you write it. Though, I understand if you want someone else’s help.
[ Wonwoo | 11:50 pm ]: Goodnight.
[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 6:35 am ]: AHHHHHHHHHHH
[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 6:35 am ]: good morninggg
[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 6:35 am ]: no that’s so perfect
[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 6:37 am ]: okay. OMG. there’s just so much we have to sort out. I’m trying not to overwhelm myself lol
[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 6:37 am ]: thank u for giving it more thought. I’m excited to plan everything and see u again ofc :)
[ Wonwoo | 12:55 pm ]: Likewise.
—APRIL 24TH.
Since last November, Wonwoo hadn’t invited many guests to his apartment—not even his older brother, who had never stepped foot into the building after Wonwoo originally signed the lease. Seokmin visited once or twice, but everything was curt, and while there had been one time that Vernon slept overnight on the couch, it was hardly notable.
Knowing that you were going to be at his apartment in a few hours was a very daunting thought. Consequently, Wonwoo had done something he hadn’t properly completed in months: clean.
It wasn’t like he just threw out the garbage and wiped down the kitchen counter either. He legitimately cleaned, picking over his apartment with a fine-tooth comb, not allowing one coffee cup or coaster to seem even vaguely incongruous. He fluffed out the couch pillows and vacuumed the floors. He went through his entire room, tidying up piles of clothes on the floor and aligning every book on his shelf. For the first time in months, Wonwoo threw open his heavy curtains, pure sunlight engulfing the space in such a bright glare that his eyes stung and he hardly recognized his own bedroom. Most importantly, he remembered to hide the pill bottle in his nightstand.
After all the anxiety-driven cleaning was done, Wonwoo collapsed onto the couch and stared plainly at the ceiling, the reality of what he just accomplished beginning to sink into his pores.
What the fuck?
He doubted you would care even microscopically if his apartment wasn’t perfectly swept and polished and artistic like a photo from an interior design catalogue. But at the same time, it would have been impossible for him to leave it alone. The burst of productivity undoubtedly left Wonwoo rather hot and sweaty, so he opted to take a shower before you arrived. Standing beneath the cool water and taking slow, languid breaths helped ease his nerves.
And, for the first time in what he imaged to be—months, Wonwoo dried himself off with this feeling that everything was okay.
Not good. Definitely not great. But okay.
While he buttoned up a pair of blue jeans, Wonwoo heard his phone ding from his desk. Reaching over, he tapped the screen.
[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 12:05 pm ]: hi, I’m almost there
His chest fucking lurched.
Roughly jerking open his drawer, Wonwoo pulled out the first shirt he saw, tugging the white long-sleeve over his head before he wiggled his feet into a fresh pair of socks. Once Wonwoo found his glasses, he sat on the edge of his bed with his phone.
[ Wonwoo | 12:08 pm ]: Okay.
[ Wonwoo | 12:08 pm ]: Would you like me to come down?
God—he felt like his stomach was going to collapse.
[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 12:08 pm ]: no that’s okay :)
[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 12:09 pm ]: it’s really pretty down here
[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 12:12 pm]: sorry I was looking at some of the pottery / painting stuff. it’s the staircase down the hall, right?
[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 12:12 pm ]: unit 102?
[ Wonwoo | 12:12 pm ]: Yes.
He reminded himself to breathe. Calm and slow and lifting the pressure that dug so bluntly into his lungs. The webs began to burn away. It had been a narrow escape, but it was successful.
[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 12:13 pm ]: heyy, I’m outside
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Wonwoo walked to the front door. His fingers brushed the knob in a flash of doubt, though his mind had already committed and now the door was pulled open and you were there, just as you said.
“Well, hello.”
He nodded at you, and then gestured for you to enter.
“Where should I take off my shoes?”
“There’s good,” Wonwoo answered, pointing to a textured mat in the corner that you proceeded to leave your simplistic heels on.
How absurd was this? Never in his life would Wonwoo imagine you at his apartment of all places—the one girl whom he adamantly tried to avoid because you were his gleaming opposite, and everything that you were, certain and in control, scared him. You were gazing around with your hands politely clasped together, ignited in the fulgurant sunlight, a small smile on your mouth.
“Wow, you’re very clean.”
Wonwoo stepped after you, maintaining a shy distance.
“It doesn’t normally look this neat,” he admitted, watching you readjust the strap of your tote bag, “I did clean for you.”
You turned to face him, and your laughter filled the space with a refreshing, long lost tone that made everything brighter. His fist clenched up anxiously and he knew his cheeks were pinkening.
“Um, cleaned or power-washed?”
He merely stared at you. Why couldn’t he fucking speak?
“Jeez, don’t look so afraid. I’m joking. And I obviously appreciate the effort.” You spun back around, continuing to walk past the coffee table and toward the kitchen. “It’s a lovely place, and it’s definitely got your personal touch. Oh—this is a cute mug.”
He breathed out, unfurling his hand and stretching his fingers until the air in his knuckles popped. You began wandering in the natural direction of the bedroom, and so Wonwoo followed, his eyes drifting up the jeans that hugged your legs and your sashaying hips, to back of your delicious-smelling hair. What was that scent, anyway?
Manuka honey?
But it was just a trivial glance, really.
Nothing meaningful.
“Is this your room?” You asked, stopping at the doorframe.
“It is.”
Biting your lip, you peaked inside and started to grin.
“Do you care if I go in?”
“No.”
He tried not to crumble right there on the floor. Wonwoo’s room was his sanctuary, a fortress, something that barred out everyone but himself and granted him the freedom to do whatever he pleased (whether it was self-detrimental or not). The thought of others in his room was a gash in that perfect sanctuary, in which he could see the walls bleed out all their comfort and familiarity. His ex was the last person to be in his room, typically sprawled across the bed with a good novel in her hand.
It was a sour, sour reminder.
“Oh, and there’s the bookshelf,” you pointed out, “how fitting.” That penetrating gaze of yours roamed his desk and his bed and all his knickknacks in between. “Hey, why’s there a balcony outside?” You then asked, settling your hands onto the window frame and leaning out, the wind fluttering minimally through the layered curtains.
“Just a remodelling error,” Wonwoo explained, “it was supposed to be removed, I think. Never happened.”
Allured by curiosity, you leaned further out, examining the ladder that led up to the building’s roof. He looked at you again, specifically the arch in your back and the way your arms were planted so firm at the windowsill. He looked at the sunlight rippling on your cheek and your lips that appeared to sparkle, like you had kissed glitter.
“You definitely go up there, right?”
“Yeah.”
Half-shutting the window as to keep the breeze flowing, you chuckled. “I figured… so, I guess we should stop dawdling and get to the meat and potatoes. Is here a good spot? Or do you want to go back to the living room?”
“We’re in my room anyways,” Wonwoo commented, pulling out his desk chair and promptly sitting down, “so, why not.”
“Cool. Let me get my laptop.”
You slipped the tote bag off your arm and sat on the edge of his freshly made bed, being careful not to rumple the sheets.
“Okay!” Your hands echoed a series of soft claps. “I’m all ready now. I’ll try my best not to ramble—oh, and please, please don’t interrupt me until I’m done. I’m going to be very pissed if I lose my train of thought and I’d like this meeting to remain pleasant.”
Wonwoo nodded. “I know.”
You flashed him a brief smile.
“So, as you know, Mingyu and I’s fifth year anniversary is coming up in December. My gift to him is this so far nonexistent book. We’ve been through a lot as a couple, and as individuals, and I want the book to fully capture this journey we’ve been on and how much I… appreciate him. Also, I’m going to introduce a second, special element—” a hand plunged into your tote bag and suddenly a video camera was revealed, “—I want to record some of our brain sessions, and, like, our voyage of figuring this shit out. I like mementos. I hope that’s okay.”
“… Do I answer?”
“Yes.”
“Oh. Then, yeah. I’m okay with it.”
“Secondlyyy—” you lilted while scrolling a little ways down the notepad on your laptop, the video camera stuffed back into your flower-and-honeybee-patterned tote, “—there are a few places we’ll need to visit—not the actual places that Mingyu and I went to since we grew up nowhere near here—but places that more so have a strong resemblance to the ones in my memory. I feel like it will help me with visual aspects of the writing. I’m a very visual person. Y’know, setting up the scene and technical things like that. I like touching and feeling and seeing and breathing everything in. I want all my senses on fire, basically. Like… the way your lips feel after eating insanely hot noodles.”
“Yeah, that’s fine.”
Wonwoo didn’t really care. He just agreed.
“Lastly, I want to make a schedule for us. So, I’m kindly asking you to set up a schedule of your own—work shifts, doctor’s appointments, tests—the like, so I can incorporate them into my own hectic life and make us one colourful, super writing schedule.”
And then, with a big, winded sigh, you shut your laptop.
“That’s it. Done. Thoughts?”
Honestly, the entire premise didn’t sound all that terrible. He had braced himself for the worst, but you were unsurprisingly organized and had pinpointed all your desires quite clearly. Of course, he knew it was going to be sheer hell—flames up to his knees and desert sun beating on his skin like a hot skillet frying butter. You were structured and dedicated and Wonwoo was none of those things.
No doubt, Wonwoo would have to learn to deal with you.
You would either be his trigger or his pulse.
But, even worse, you would have to learn to deal with him.
“I’m just following your lead on this,” Wonwoo announced, lacklustre of much interest, resting his hands against his stomach while he rotated back and forth in the swivel chair, “whatever you want me to do, I’ll do it. How soon do you want the schedule thing?”
“Like, as soon as possible.”
“Okay.”
“Do you really have no questions?”
Wonwoo scratched the side of his head.
“Uh, have you got anything written down yet?”
“Yes,” you propped open your laptop again, “an intro.”
“Oh, really?”
“Don’t question me. It was already difficult enough to write it, and I agonized over it for hours.” You pouted, slumping slightly.
He shifted up straighter in the desk chair.
“I’m sorry. I was just wondering. It’s good you started.”
“Oh. Thank you.”
Wonwoo tilted his head at you. “Do I get to read it?”
Your feet crossed and twirled together. He didn’t think you had any nervous ticks, but that was something easy to pick up on.
“Um, not yet. Not until we officially start.”
“Okay.” He answered with a gentle voice, noticing your swaying feet still again and a bit of rigidity dissipate from your body.
Well, he didn’t really know what to do at this point. Wonwoo suspected you were constrained by more tasks for today and your time with him was limited. It’s not that you were sitting in an awkward, stifling silence, but he would rather occupy himself with something rather than nothing, because nothing left his heart to race.
“Are you hungry?” He asked.
Glancing up from the laptop, you shook your head. “I ate before I came here.”
“Are you going to be leaving soon?”
At that, your face crinkled with laughter. “Sick of me already?”
Wonwoo crossed his arms. “No. Just asking.”
“Well, I have a wax appointment soon. I’ll be leaving in ten minutes or so.” Finally, you looked up, and your eyes clicked with his in a way that made the fine hairs along his neck prickle coolly. “Does that answer your question?” A subtle grin pulled at your soft lips.
“It does, yes.”
“You don’t like having people in your room, do you?”
He huffed at the observation and delved a hand through his black hair, feeling the dampness slide against his fingers. “Not particularly.”
“You should have just said that.” Rising off his bed, you closed the laptop and shoved it back into the tote bag.
Wonwoo’s entire chest jerked. It felt like a ten-story drop.
“Are you leaving?”
“Mm, I don’t want to intrude.”
“You’re not intruding.”
Why did his throat close up just then? Why did his vocal cords abruptly feel so coarse and tight? Why was his heart hammering? He didn’t mean to project the wrong impression. He didn’t hate you in his room. It just felt misplaced, and new. Like picking up a puzzle piece from the box and attempting to jam it into a different puzzle.
“It’s fine. Seriously. I should be early, anyway.”
Wonwoo stood up, realizing he needed to breathe. “Um… would you like me to walk you down?”
You stopped on your way out, faced him with a pretty smile.
“That’s okay.”
But then you did something rather strange; your hand sank into his firm upper arm and suddenly you were leaning into him, so carelessly close that he could feel the fanning, light warmth of your breath against his neck. Wonwoo’s head started to spin, and he thought a cloud had enveloped the room because his vision fuzzed.
“Sorry,” you took a step back, removing your hand, “you just smell really good. Like an ocean or something. It reminds me of this beach in Puta Cana. But your hair’s all damp and fluffy so that’s probably why. That was weird. I’m sorry.” Again, you laughed.
Why the fuck did you do that? He was almost angry. But not at you. At himself. For reacting in such a giddy, stupid way. Your touch and breath had burned him and there was this sharp, cutting flare inside Wonwoo that didn’t want to let you leave.
“All good…” he mumbled, sounding groggy and slow.
“I’ll see myself out then. Bye!”
And with a final chirp, you left, the front door closing in the distance while he could only stand there, shuddering and strangely hot and beyond confused. Wonwoo moved to swing the heavy curtains shut, the entire room succumbing into its usual shadiness. He sat on the edge of his very neat bed, removed his glasses, and buckled over while rubbing his veiny, pale hands through his hair.
The feeling was so lost and suppressed to his memory.
Wonwoo didn’t even know what it was.
He was relieved you were gone, but he also wished that you were still there, leaning out his open window with the wind and sunshine in your face. It was a sight so sweet and equally intimate.
Who are you?
What are you doing in his meaningless life?
—APRIL 28TH.
Wonwoo had finished his math final with half an hour to generously spare, and now, he was sitting, bored, sketching his pencil against the last page of the thick packet. The professor wouldn’t care.
Hopefully.
On one hand, Wonwoo knew he should really just stand up and hand the damn thing in, but on the other hand, he hated—no, abhorred being the first person to return a test, especially an exam at that. Wonwoo was pretty smart. He knew that about himself and he never bothered to maintain the guise he wasn’t. Still, Wonwoo wasn’t pretentious. If he had to wait until the final fucking minute to hand the packet in, solely to avoid being the first student up, then so be it.
Besides, there wasn’t anything too pressing that required his immediate attention—minus the pertinent schedule he was supposed to make and have sent to you approximately three days ago. You had called him last night, to which the phone crackled with a loud, static bark of his name as you admonished him for his lateness.
“I told you three days ago I wanted the schedule! Three days! I can’t believe this. What’s so hard about making a schedule? Beep boop, you press some buttons on your laptop and it’s done. It would take ten minutes tops! Ugh, I’m so done with you, Wonwoo. In fact, don’t call me back—don’t even text me until you have the schedule!”
And then the line had collapsed, leaving Wonwoo to stare rather expressionlessly at his phone screen, the boy huffing out a breath of tendrilled smoke while he relaxed on the apartment roof. That had been his first experience sat on the receiving end of your seasoned quips, and it left him with this very profound emptiness, like his insides had been scooped out and the shell of his body was nothing but a wooden nesting doll. It had been such a long time since he genuinely cared about disappointing someone. Wonwoo had grown far too complacent with the feeling of disappointing himself.
That would never motivate him to do anything.
But you were different. In the sense that Wonwoo mostly remained proactive out of fear you might bite his head off.
From somewhere near the back of the room, Wonwoo heard chair legs scraping, and he eagerly flexed his fingers while observing a girl with the slickest ponytail he’d ever seen march past him to the professor’s desk. She set her packet down. He thanked her. She left.
Jesus Christ. Finally.
“All finished, Wonwoo?” His professor mumbled in a tone that hardly escaped his own lips, glancing up at the boy expectantly.
Pushing up his glasses, Wonwoo nodded.
“I suppose it’s harder for you to sit there and wait than it is to write the actual exam, isn’t it?” The professor noted with an almost undetectable smirk as he slid the test packet inside a tan-coloured folder, to which Wonwoo turned January cold.
“I don’t know.” Wonwoo shrugged, pretending to feel unbothered when in reality his skin was slithering like a snake pit at the thought of being even marginally perceived. “Maybe.”
“You have a good summer, alright?”
“Thanks. You too.”
Wonwoo swept a quick glance over the classroom right before he left, noticing that Seokmin was sat beside the wall, one hand tangled tight into his black, ruffled tresses as his pencil scribbled all over the paper like he was writing pure nonsense. He probably was.
And Wonwoo meant that in a nice-this isn’t really your sweet spot, but you’ll manage nonetheless-way. After leaving the classroom, Wonwoo thought he might go home and plunge head first into his oasis of bedsheets and flat, foam pillows that he loved so much, and permit himself to decay until it was physically impossible to lie down any longer. But he decided against it at the last minute, turning up at the café instead with his shoulder-strung book bag and the timely urge for a scone. He then sat down at his favourite table.
Pulled out his laptop.
Opened the document he was at incessant war with.
The last scene he’d written was breakfast.
“Uh, okay. Orange juice… or orange juice?”
“Did you say orange juice?”
“I did.”
“So… chocolate milk?”
“Ha! Funny... is there any sort of correlation between being a complete nerd and making such well-woven jokes?”
“Not sure. But I’ll get back to you when I find out… thanks. Your tea is sitting on the island, by the way.”
“Thank you, Won. Oh—you even put it in my Woodstock mug!”
“Yes, why are you so surprised that I remember?”
“Because it’s always hidden at the back of our cupboard, behind ten other mugs that we certainly don’t need and all our plates. I mean, I guess it’s my fault. Half of them are from my mom.”
“It’s sweet.”
“It takes up too much space. But I can’t tell her no.”
“That, you’ve got to work on.”
“The Christmas thing isn’t happening anymore, if that helps. I think the thought of having to cram all my family into our living room for a night was what motivated me the most. My mom said she’ll send us poinsettias instead. I think that’s way easier.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yes. Believe it or not, I can assert myself. Sometimes.”
“No, no. I do believe you. I’m proud. Okay—bottoms up.”
“How’s the combination of venlafaxine and orange juice?”
“I don’t know. Juicy?”
“Better juicy than anxious?”
“You could say that.”
Right, back when Wonwoo actually had the willpower to make himself breakfast rather than slapping a mixed berry Poptart into the toaster or worse, nothing at all. Back when he could wake up before noon without feeling nauseous enough to curl into a ball and drape the sheets over his aching head. Back when he actually took his medicine. Her face beaming at him from across their table had always been like a glass of sunlight and citrus. She had been his own vitamin.
Wonwoo knew he wasn’t going to write. He was just going to stare and mope and ensnare himself in the pinwheel of memories that blew over him whenever he had the gall to reread his past literature.
The Woodstock mug. She’d taken that with her.
He decided it was strange and sometimes irritating how love, broken or not, could suture itself into even the most mundane things. Orange juice was just that—juice—the carton he used to pick up and impetuously drop into his grocery cart every so often. Now, it wasn’t juice at all, but slow mornings, steaming tea kettles, and reading together on the couch with legs all tangled up until lunch time.
Now, Wonwoo couldn’t drink it at all.
Breaking the lemon raspberry scone in half, Wonwoo dropped a flaky piece into his mouth before it got too cold, and then proceeded to close the document. There was no way in hell he would write, and while he loved drowning in his own misery in order to snuff any glimpse of productivity more than the average individual, he thought it might be worthwhile to finally start that schedule.
[ Wonwoo | 8:20 pm ]: schedule.pdf
[ Her | 8:56 pm ]: thanks
[ Her | 8:56 pm ]: don’t piss me off again
—APRIL 30TH.
For an April morning, it was surprisingly bright. The sun was out in full and glistering warmth by the time Wonwoo stepped onto the sidewalk and began pacing down to the park, practically needing to squint the entire way. He almost hated it. Early mornings were not his friend, nor were the blades of light cutting across his glasses. But today was his first writing session with you and Wonwoo knew it was more than crucial that he was the furthest thing from tardy—it would be akin to willingly setting his hands inside a burning fire if not.
You agreed to meet at the park since it was roughly equal distance between Wonwoo’s apartment and some breakfast place you wanted to stop at. He thought it was uncharacteristically thoughtful of you to shoot him a text asking if he wanted anything, though Wonwoo declined nonetheless. It was damn near impossible for him to eat a bite of food until lunch time, hence his expression softening in confusion when he at last climbed into the passenger seat of your sleek silver car and was greeted by you passing him a cold tea.
“Am I… holding this for you?” He wondered, sitting still.
You shook your head. “No. It’s yours.”
“I didn’t ask for anything.”
“Yes, I realize that. I can read, thank you.”
Wonwoo wasn’t going to argue. He simply shut his mouth, clicked on his seatbelt, and set the tea into the cup holder. He then began looking around at your car’s interior. Everything was exceptionally clean and smelled sugary, like iced gingerbread.
The thing was, Wonwoo still wasn’t very sure how to talk to you, and most often there was the stiffest frog in his throat whenever he sat around you in silence for too long. Your thumbs were tapping against your phone at light speed. It reminded him of how Seokmin was texting you back at the boy’s apartment when they were studying for finals. Wonwoo couldn’t help but wonder if Seokmin was naturally more inclined to respond to you out of friendship or fear. Maybe even a pinch of both if that was possible. Another quiet minute passed by.
“Okay, fuck, sorry,” you suddenly spluttered at random, quickly slotting your phone into the GPS holder, “just some shit with my mom. Um, okay. Yeah. We can get going.”
“All good," Wonwoo answered.
“You know where we’re off to?”
“Vaguely. The track by Caldwell High School.”
He watched you flit him a smile. “That’s the place. I’ll explain more once we get there. And, by the way, I am expecting you to drink that tea. It’s not anything crazy. It’s oolong. Only a bit of caffeine.”
“I drink coffee, you know.”
“Yes, and it probably makes you jittery and insufferable.”
Wonwoo preferred not to comment.
The car ride wasn’t too long. Actually, Wonwoo did love a good car ride. He remembered the long trips he used to take with his family to the water park when he was a child, the sensation of the breeze blowing into his face and how different shades of green would scatter in through the windows as the sun hit the tree leaves like emeralds. There was something so limerent and sadly distant about the memory that Wonwoo felt his chest hurt. Even if he were to take that same road, and smell the same breeze, and see his skin glow with the same hues of the forest, he doubted it would feel the same.
His mouth had gone awfully dry. Wonwoo then reached for the cold tea sitting in the cup holder and took a sip, suddenly very appreciative that you had thought to get him something, anyway.
And while he couldn’t be too certain, Wonwoo wanted to think that maybe this would be a good memory, too.
After the half-hour long car ride, Wonwoo made sure to stretch when he stepped out into the empty parking lot. It was cloudier now, a bit more of a breeze to help counteract the warmth that remained in the air. You came around to join him, twisting out a cramp in your leg while adjusting the purse over your shoulder.
The walk to the track field wasn’t long, no more than a few minutes, and Wonwoo obediently trailed at your side until he witnessed the bleachers slowly coming into view. It resurfaced memories from his own high school days in PE, which Wonwoo had actually been quite successful at despite his distaste for sports and their atmosphere in general. He remembered liking kickball the best.
You sighed in a wistful tone while staring across the marked asphalt and fresh April grass. “All high school tracks look the same, don’t they?” Then, you carefully set your purse onto the bleachers.
Wonwoo rolled his shoulders, taking a more observant look around. It wasn’t strikingly different from the track at his high school.
“Sure. I guess.”
“I mean, there are some differences. We had ditches by our track. Come to think of it, I honestly believe they put them there for kids to hurl in from heat stroke or over-exertion… that’s what I did, anyway. It was right before I had to do triple jump. I hated it because you had to really build up speed. I didn’t want to run. So, even if I hadn’t thrown up from heat stroke, I probably would’ve made myself throw up some other way. Straight to the nurse. She gave me a popsicle.”
He glanced at you sideways. “Seriously?”
“Mmhm.”
“You’d rather throw up than hop, like, three times?”
“I said it was the running part I didn’t like.”
Wonwoo couldn’t imagine purposefully making himself upchuck in order to get out of something. If his anxiety was terrible enough, then he wouldn’t even have to worry about it, really.
That was its own mechanism of disaster.
“Running is eighty-percent of Activity Days," Wonwoo said.
You clicked your tongue at him. “Exactly. And I’d do anything to never run. I tried to sit in one time with the seventh graders. They were in their art block and they were doing painting under the trees; birdhouses or something. But their teacher kicked me out. And she didn’t even let me take the fucking birdhouse that I was painting.”
“The nerve,” Wonwoo answered, scratching his temple.
He proceeded to take a seat on the metal bench, rubbing his hands together. He still didn’t know how Mingyu fit into everything.
“So… what’s your plan, here?”
You sat next to him, folding one leg over your thigh and proceeding to reveal a journal that you had stuffed inside your expensive bag. The tips of your fingers skimmed through a few fluttering pages, until you stopped on one in particular that was ink-abused with cursive scribbles. Wonwoo assumed you did most of your planning on a laptop, hence his surprise to learn that you actually used a journal. He had a journal himself, though it hadn’t been touched in months. It mostly contained small poetic excerpts.
Next, you pulled out a pen.
“This is how I first ran into Mingyu. At my school’s track field. He was new and good at all the activities. I swear, his name spread like wildfire. Anyways, I haven’t figured out all the bits and bobs. I want to really soak in the feeling of—oh!” Suddenly, you grasped the journal back onto your lap, the pen hitting the paper in a cursive ribbon that Wonwoo could hardly read. “I just thought of a great line. His eyes, I wanted to soak in them, like an oasis.”
You stabbed the paper again to make a period.
“Not bad,” Wonwoo commented.
“Okay, here it is!” A black case was pulled from your purse, and once you unzipped it, Wonwoo realized it was the video camera that you had initially shown him at his apartment. “Okay, I want you to film some stuff. The field, obviously. I need it from different perspectives. It will help me with setting the scene later on.”
“Why do I have to film it?”
“Because, Seokmin told me you’re quite handy with film equipment stuff, and I don’t want to drop it. So just do it, please?”
Accepting the video camera from your hand, Wonwoo sighed in agreement. Flipping open the side-screen of the camera, Wonwoo began clicking some buttons and adjusting the focus. Luckily, he was familiar with the particular camcorder thanks to a film education course he’d taken outside of school.
While you busied yourself at the bleachers with starting up your laptop, Wonwoo began collecting footage, slowly panning the camera across the vast length of the gravel track and the grassy soccer fields situated beyond. He kept a concentrated eye on the side-screen to ensure the lighting wouldn’t change too drastically. A wind had picked up from over the forest, and he could see how the clouds were consequently being pushed along like herded sheep in the sky.
Once he brushed back the floppy, black hair that kept tickling his face, Wonwoo lowered the camera and turned to you.
“So, where else should I film?”
You were typing something, and didn’t bother looking up.
“Go across the field. Film from the other side.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah.”
“I have to go all the way over there?”
“Yes. Walk, crawl. Skip, hop. I don’t care. Just do it, please.”
“Jesus Christ,” he huffed out, feeling tired and yearning to go home, “I hate how seriously you’re taking this, y’know that?”
Your fingers continued blitzing against the keyboard.
“Nobody likes a complainer.”
Ironic, he thought, but obviously kept to himself.
There wasn’t a point in expecting any sympathy from you—that, he already knew—which engendered Wonwoo’s long, trudging walk from one side of the track to the other, the wind irritably blowing his grown-out locks over his glasses every time he attempted sweeping them back. Hoisting the camera back up, Wonwoo adjusted the side-screen and began his same ritual of steadily panning the camera along the landscape.
You appeared in the view, still sat on the bleachers, though nothing about your face or figure was too discernible. It felt like you were a background character in a painting, just a little glob of acrylic.
“All done?”
Finally, you had glanced up at him with a smile.
Wonwoo nodded. “Unless you need anything else filmed?”
“No, that should be enough. The track is most important.”
“Right.”
He tried giving back the camera.
“Actually, do you mind keeping it?”
“Um, okay. But how will you look at the footage?
“Dropbox. We’ll share one. Upload the clips there.”
Wonwoo plopped himself back down on the bench, fitting the camcorder into its black case. He pulled the zipper along the seam.
“How much longer do we need to be here?”
“Not that much. Just let me finish this paragraph.”
There was a dull pain throbbing at the front of his skull, edging down to his temples—across his nose bridge where his glasses pressed in more tightly than usual. He closed his eyes for a moment and inhaled a deep breath, trying to escape the feeling, the nausea, the chills that were beginning to seep up his neck as the wind blew turbulently against him. It would be embarrassing if this happened here, right in front of you. The hard lump had suddenly lurched forward in Wonwoo’s throat but he leaned his head down last minute and swallowed it despite the roughness. No, everything was okay.
“Hey, what’s wrong?”
Wonwoo opened his eyes, staring down at the trembling hands buried in his lap. Subtly, he pulled the sleeves of his cardigan over them. He assumed his face was reflecting a sheer, sickly opacity.
“Nothing.”
“Uh, sure. Now look me in the eyes and say that.”
Again, Wonwoo swallowed, but he managed nonetheless.
“Nothing’s wrong. I get headaches sometimes. That’s all.”
“… Oh. Well, I’m basically done here. I was gonna ask if you wanted to walk a lap around the track with me, but maybe we should just go home. I mean, how bad is it? Your headache?”
Yes, yes. Home. Wonwoo wanted to go home. He had only been away from his apartment for a solid two hours, and yet all his mind and body’s energy had completely drained. He felt dried out, withered, fragile as tempered glass. Going home sounded cosmic.
“It’s getting better. I wouldn’t mind walking with you.”
“Oh! Cool. If it gets really bad, just tell me.” You then spent a minute collecting your belongings back into the cream purse.
Wonwoo immediately looked the other way, dragging a frustrated hand through his hair, mouthing a string of guttural curse words directed at his discombobulated head. Because what the hell was he doing? All his relief and peace had just suckled itself down an invisible drain. Why on earth did he agree? Why?
“I think this will help me, too," you said, having left the shiny bleachers behind, instead kicking the pebbles at your feet, “if we walk the entire track, then it’s like we did the four-hundred meter.”
“You’re supposed to run the four-hundred meter.”
“Well, I know that.”
“I’m surprised you hate running. I mean, you walk so fucking quickly sometimes.”
He heard you snort, clearly amused by his observation.
“It’s because I’ve mastered the art of sashaying. To have a perfect sashay, you can’t walk too slow, but you also can’t walk too fast. It’s like a strut. You need to have confidence while you do it. It lets people know that you’re serious and professional. I’m not dragging my feet, but I’m also not in a rush. It’s the perfect pace.”
Wonwoo sniffled and scrunched the glasses up his nose, continuing alongside you at a pace that was rather aimless.
“I didn’t realize there was a science behind sashaying.”
“Now you know,” you declared.
Wonwoo’s upper lip quirked slightly, and a small grin appeared on his face, which was starting to dapple with colour.
“I don’t sashay, do I?”
At that, you laughed, “no, you amble.”
“Yeah, I’m an ambler… which basically means I’m an unmotivated, pointless person who will probably go nowhere in life.”
For a moment, you stopped walking, and you merely furrowed your brow at him while your forehead creased with thought. Wonwoo stopped as well. He raked back his fluttering, windswept hair and smirked, flashing his teeth. The behaviour was uncharacteristically snide and a bit of a dig at your bluntness, but he couldn’t help it.
“Don’t remember, huh?”
“No… but it sounds familiar.”
“You told me that, the day I met you—that people who walk slowly are unmotivated and pointless. Their life is a waste, basically.”
He noticed your eyes shift up toward the right, as though you were pulling the memory forward from the intricate files of your brain. And then you started to smile, and it made Wonwoo smile, too.
“Oh, I do believe I said that.” You started walking again, and he followed. “Ha! Wow, you’re right. I said that. I’m so funny. I mean, I was right. You only walk slow when you have nowhere to be.”
“I did have somewhere to be. I was going to meet you.”
“Well, then you just didn’t care.” He felt your elbow press shallowly into his rib. “See what I mean? Unmotivated and pointless. And, honestly, I would have taken your apathy as more of an insult if it wasn’t for the fact that you seem to treat most things like that.”
“So, I’m just supposed to accept that you’re calling me a loser? How do people normally react when you say things like that?”
“Things like what? They’re just my observations about the world. You are a person in this world. I was making an observation about you. Albeit, it came across strongly. But I don’t know. No one ever cared about being gentle or sugar-coating with me. Gives you tough skin, y’know? Metaphorically, of course! I always moisturize.”
Wonwoo scoffed, smiling at your nonchalance. “The way you word things is honestly fascinating.”
“Psh. How do you even remember that?”
“I don’t know. Doesn’t seem that hard to remember. It was a pretty memorable, somewhat awful experience, to be fair.”
“Awful?” You retaliated in unprecedented disbelief, pushing into his arm until he allowed his tall frame to stumble. “Try again.”
“Interesting?” Wonwoo substituted, his heart thumping.
Your eyes were narrowed at him, glimmering with a sharpness that made his fingers clench into anxious fists.
“… That’s a little better.”
He exhaled a soft breath of relief.
As you began nearing the full circle, Wonwoo realized his head had eased from its horrible aching and the chills dampening down his neck were gone. Everything didn’t feel as awful compared to before. He was still tired, and his energy was sputtering in tiny, dying sparks, but at least his desire to crawl under the earth and degrade to his bare bones had subsided into something less morose.
“I heard you were having a get together next week,” Wonwoo decided to ask, rounding the last bend in the track.
“Oh, the dinner party?”
“Yeah. Seokmin’s helping you plan it, right?”
“He is. Which I appreciate. My mom is usually the one in charge of everything, and she loathes it. But, I mean, when we try to help her, she just ends up fretting even more—says we’re basically getting in the way and ruining it. I don’t know. She’s such a snappy perfectionist. Seokmin can have fun dealing with that.”
Wonwoo almost made a thoughtless comment in response to your story—he’s probably had eons of practice with you—though the pieces connected just in time and his mouth sealed shut.
“Your dad can’t help either?” He questioned instead.
“Ha! No way. My dad helping is a recipe for fucking disaster if I’ve ever seen it. He’s painfully bad at decorating, can hardly be trusted to cook or invite anyone from the guest list. The most my mom allows him to do is set the table.” You then scoffed, shooting a pebble forward with the tip of your shoe. “I swear, he knows exactly how to push my mom’s buttons. The faster he does it, the quicker she kicks him out and he’s absolved of all chores. What a cheat, huh?”
“Hm, yeah… is Mingyu going?”
“Of course.” You smiled. “He always goes.”
At that point, you had circled back to the bleachers. Adjusting the bag strewn over your shoulder, you heaved out a longing sigh.
“Well, that’s four-hundred meters in the books.”
“Is it everything you hoped and dreamed it would be?”
You cackled, “not even close. I think I was right to avoid it.”
—MAY 3RD.
Wonwoo slid his pharmacy badge through the time-machine until he heard the beep. After an eight-hour shift, he was hungry and tired, but Wonwoo also knew the second that he got home, his urge to eat and desire to sleep would be gone. Instead, he would spend his midnight staring up at the ceiling, thinking. About anything and everything, and nothing at all. When the first cracks of dawn light would spill in from under his curtain, then he would close his eyes.
It was all very typical.
He stood outside the store, phone in hand, waiting for Vernon to pick him up because Wonwoo hadn’t felt like walking home despite the softness of the nighttime wind and the alabaster moon’s shining ambiance. The mirage was pretty and he enjoyed it, but his feet were too sore to inch him another step. Luckily, Vernon didn’t take long.
Luckily, he was the only one of Wonwoo’s few friends with a sleep schedule just as horridly fucked up as his. It was eleven at night, but on a weekday? The dead, empty street testified for him.
“Heyy, Glasses,” Vernon sang in his throaty voice as Wonwoo climbed into the passenger seat, “you look like a prostitute standin’ there, waitin’ for me to come get your ass. But a sophisticated one.”
The interior didn’t smell heavily of weed, he noted. Thank fucking god, Vernon had finally paid someone to dry clean it. Either that, or he took the initiative into his own hands.
“I highly doubt you have ever seen a prostitute in your entire life. And the fact you think they’d be standing outside a pharmacy at one of the quietest parts on this block attests to that.”
“God, I hate when you get all technical n’ shit. Such a stiff.”
“I’m tired.”
“Yeah, well. You’re always tired. N’ for the record, I have seen a prostitute, outside Room 319. It was a week before Christmas; she had this huge coat on, walkin’ up to people in her pink heels and this crazy eyeshadow that made her eyes pop. I bet she’s a nice girl.”
“Mhm. I bet she was.”
“Oh, you’re a cunt, yeah? You don’t believe me.”
“Does it matter?”
“I’ll take you one day. Room 319’s got a table with your name on it. They’ve got this one shot, the Stabilizer— it’ll put you down like a fuckin’ sick dog but it gets you the best drunk of your life. Maybe we’ll even run into Pink Heels lady. She’s our Halley’s Comet.”
“Halley’s Comet only comes once every seventy-five years. “
“You know what the fuck I meant.”
“Not interested.”
Vernon blinked at him for a moment in the dull light, and then he sighed, forfeiting. He placed the tip of the key in the ignition, but he quickly removed it as though he remembered something.
“Wait, I’ve gotta ask—how’s it going with Her?”
Biting down on the inside of his cheek, Wonwoo reached for the seatbelt and pulled it slowly across his chest, debating how intelligent of an idea it would be to entertain Vernon’s curiosity. But he could also understand the allure. You were like this enigmatic myth that people craved to know about, even if it frightened them.
Wonwoo’s head collapsed back against the seat.
“It’s going well.”
Vernon spat out a boisterous laugh, a hand slapping down on his knee. “Jesus Christ. You’re so dry, man. That’s it?”
“I mean, it’s true. We’ve started the book. Or, she has.”
“Okay, and?” Vernon attempted to engage him further.
“And, what?”
“What’s she like, obviously? Is she actually a fuckin’ psychopath? Is she normal? Can she walk on her hands? I dunno!”
Wonwoo rubbed underneath his glasses. He didn’t really want to talk about you when you weren’t there. It felt like a Bloody Mary situation, where you’d magically conjure in the backseat to sinch your cold hands around his neck and wrangle him limp and lifeless. But then there were Vernon’s shimmeringly prying eyes that just wouldn’t stop burning Wonwoo no matter how hard he bit his tongue.
“I have nothing to say. She’s cool.”
“Oh my fuckin’ God.” Vernon slacked back into his seat, clutching at his steering wheel. “You just don’t wanna talk about it… oh! Shit. I just remembered. She’s having a dinner party tonight, isn’t she? In Hill Crest. Or as I like to call it, Rich People Neighbourhood.”
“Yeah, that’s where her parents live… how do you know that?”
“Shit!” Vernon immediately shuffled up in his seat and delivered a hard smack into Wonwoo’s shoulder. “We should drive down and check it out! Right fuckin’ now!” He was lit up with excitement, even though Wonwoo considered it a terrible idea.
“No. Absolutely not. And answer my question.”
“Was sittin’ behind Seokmin at Solar Pop, he talks really loud, happened to overhear some things—doesn’t matter. I think we should go! C’mon, allow some spontaneity into your life! Why not?”
“What the fuck do you mean, why? It’s a family party. With some close friends, which—in case you haven’t noticed—neither of us are. You can’t fucking crash a family dinner party. Who does that? Not to mention the fact that it's eleven at night. They're probably washing up. Sending people home. By the time we get there, it's lights out."
“Aren’t you her friend?”
“No. I’m just someone who’s doing her a favour.”
“Favours are from friends.”
“We’re. Not. Friends.”
“Okay—fuck, Glasses. Fine. We won’t crash the stupid dinner party. But don’t you wanna go for a drive or something? I’m tellin’ you, the houses are insane. Last time I went down there, it was for a big fuckin’ party some dude at your university threw. I think I ran this by you already, when I talked about tryin’ to chat up Her. I stopped by with my old friend—y’know, Dots, the guy that died from the overdose and everything. That party was crazy. It was in a mansion.”
“Vernon,” Wonwoo had just finished massaging the throbs at his warm temples, “we are not going to Hill Crest.”
His friend swung his head in disapproval, making a tsking sound with his teeth. “Such a fuckin’ stiff.” He started the car. “It’s the fact I know you have jack shit to do tonight, or tomorrow.”
“I’m not gonna do some stalker drive-by on her house.”
“You don’t wanna do Room 319. You don’t wanna judge a bunch of richies sittin’ up in their ivory towers. I mean, it’s not like we’re eggin’ them or spray painting fuckin’ curse words on their eight-door garages. What do you wanna do?”
Wonwoo rolled down the window and leaned his face toward the moonlight, to which he could feel the wind brush up against his skin in feathery strokes, as though it were caressing him. He knew that Vernon meant in a general sense rather than in the heat of the moment. But in a general sense, Wonwoo would rather not be anywhere at all. He would rather do nothing, or even exist.
“Can you just take me home? Please?”
Vernon exhaled a defeated gust of breath and began to angle his tires away from the curb, the pharmacy lights pulled behind them.
“Yeah, ‘course. Mr. Boring.”
—01:49
Wonwoo hadn’t been able to fall asleep since Vernon dropped him off a couple hours ago. He’d anticipated that. Usually, Wonwoo wouldn’t do anything. He wouldn’t toss or turn, or pace circles around his bedroom, or count down from one-hundred, because even if he did, none of it would work. His mind would still be wide awake.
Hence Wonwoo’s decision to grab his phone. Staring at a lurid screen definitely wasn’t going to help, though he wasn’t trying to sleep, anyway. That conversation with Vernon was repeating in his head like a chattering bird, pushing him, pushing him, pushing him to find your Instagram and dig into your pictures because now Wonwoo was thinking of your dinner party and how vehemently you seemed to hate it. He saw that you had posted something quite recently, around the same time Wonwoo had left the pharmacy.
For a moment, his thumb hovered over the post.
He didn’t want to press it because he didn’t care.
Or, maybe he did.
There were multiple pictures in the set, and Wonwoo flicked through all of them. Some were of food, close-ups of your jewelry—you even included a picture with Seokmin. But then Wonwoo had settled on the last photo and something in his stomach convulsed.
He recognized the dress like a flash of light—the sapphire one with the glimmering detail that you had modelled for him at the expensive boutique in the mall. Of course, that arm hanging cheekily low around your hip belonged to your boyfriend, Mingyu. He had a champagne glass pressed to his lips, fitted in his black suit with his hair neatly combed and styled into place. The smugness in his face was stifling. Wonwoo rolled onto his stomach, his eyes refusing to drift from the picture for even an instant. He just kept staring.
Staring and thinking. Staring and thinking.
One minute spent staring at your smile.
The next minute at the low placement of Mingyu’s hand.
Another minute staring at your sparkling dress.
The next minute at Mingyu’s brutally cocky expression.
He would switch back and forth.
But Wonwoo didn’t really care. He was just bored.
And alone with his thoughts.
—END OF PART PART ONE.
NOTE! while i truly cherish & adore all comments, pls refrain from remarks such as "pls post part x" "i need part x" "when are you posting part x" while i do understand the sentiment, i find these comments very dismissive & kinda disrespectful! i don't prefer to post series fics and so i don't receive these often, but pls note that if you comment this i will delete the comment!
the fic itself is completely done, so all i have to do is get the parts ready for posting. however, bc this is the first part, i don't have a set posting schedule just yet. i think it will depend on roughly how long those who read the fic take to finish it! but i will be sure to make a post about it or include the schedule in part two once i figure it out!
again, thank u so much your ur patience :3
much luv!! 💕
#seventeen scenarios#wonwoo scenarios#seventeen x reader#wonwoo x reader#svt x reader#seventeen imagines#seventeen fanfic#wonwoo fanfic#svt fanfic#jeon wonwoo#svt scenarios#seventeen fluff#seventeen angst#seventeen smut
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Infatuation ❦
The slowest slowburn that ever burned. (If you can even call this a romance)
When “reaction time of a turtle” and “I say three words a day” meet and they start to admire the other in odd ways you also have to squint to see it
Side note: English isn’t my first language and I’ve never written anything this long before
I know there’s a gazillion ways to portray Dottore but in this he’s pretty calm (and odd)
Gender neutral casual brainrot <3
TW: It’s boring and unreasonably long (almost 7k words man) and I lost the plot like three times
❦
The trip had been way longer than you had expected. You figured: ‘Hey just a few days’ but no, it had been weeks by now and to top it all off you were in a wildly different climate than what you were used to. The warm heavy air stood in stark contrast to the cool clear air back home. And of course there was the stark difference between your usual chillouts at the facility that stood in contrast to the overgrown jungle you were traversing right now.
You had been given a mission. The Doctor had given you the simple task of retrieving something that you could only describe as a “metal thingy”. Said thingy was now sitting neatly in your pocket as you stomped your way back through the dense forest. You wouldn’t call yourself angry. But you wouldn’t consider yourself calm either. Definitely agitated enough to mutter various disagreements to yourself. Laughable of him to call this task “simple”.
If his definition of “simple” was it, to have you follow some dusted old map that showed just enough trees and mountains to somewhat navigate the way to some old dusty ruins, only for you to then fight your way into said ruins, to be then met by various doors with fifehundredsixtyseven puzzle mechanisms to solve, to be then met by more enemies, then yea sure, it was simple indeed.
The whole thing was so hard to overcome that you had even wondered whether or not you were even supposed to come back alive or if he had just used an excuse to send you off to death for the heck of it. Fair guess maybe if you thought about the way your coworkers whispered about the man and his crazy ideas but you did find the metal thingy and it was too strictly guarded for you to take it as something as simple as “send that one to death for fun”. Again. Nothing about this had been simple.
There was nothing you could do about this now though. The job was done and, even though you needed four days for the task instead of two as he had asked of you, you were on your way back to the Port. The probability that someone had watched you during the task was incredibly high too, now that you thought about it. Running was not really an option. Not that you really considered it anyway. Sure, the facility was strange and the vibes felt off sometimes but you kind of faulted your coworkers for you to think that way. They always spun the weirdest stories, similar to teenagers who had just found out that graveyards exist.
You shook the thoughts out of your head and straightened your back to look ahead of yourself. Figuring out how to get back was more important than those tales.
❦
Not only had you reached the Port with no further difficulties, as luck would have it the doctor hadn’t been there ever since you left. If luck chose to stay, then you had a good chance of Dottore not finding out about you exceeding the time limit at all! Not that you necessarily believed every rumor you had heard but that didn't mean that you had to test them yourself.
Instead of worrying about it, you spent your time at the Port in relaxation, leisurely strolling through the streets and eating some local delicacies. You had to admit that Sumeru had started to grow on you. If you ignored the insects and the crushing heat, it had some really pretty plants and buildings.
You also found a talent in befriending strangers and deeming them your new day-travel companions. You had spent the day doing just that and were just in the process of waving your new short-term friend goodbye as he sailed away from the Port and back to his nation. When you could barely make out his blue hair amidst the waves, you figured you could end your day as well. You turned around, only to be met by a person standing right behind you. “Oh” you coughed embarrassed as you glimpsed at their face. It was Dottore, just inches away from you. “You’re back” you choked out in surprise before you bowed your head a little. “Do you have it?” was his one simple question. “Yeah. Yes, it’s in my room”. A sharp “Get it” was all you needed. He was intimidating indeed. With another nod you took a step around him and hurried off to the house that you stayed at. He caught you so off guard that you had found it hard to focus on any other thoughts except the mission now. You were in and out of your room in mere seconds and were already running back to the docks with great speed.
Upon return you couldn’t spot his figure among the docks so you beelined for his ship instead. The scrap was sitting neatly in your hands and you were careful not to drop it.
You walked on board and wasted no time to enter his little office. He was sitting behind his desk, his hands neatly held beneath his chin. For a second you thought about the way he looked a little out of place in all the wood works around him but you shook your head and wasted no further thought on it. You walked towards him and held out your hands to place the thing on his table. “Here it is.” you eyed him with a hint of curiosity. Why was that thing so important to him? He reached out and took the thing into his hand to eye it before he mumbled “It’s a core”. His tone was…condescending. You could tell that he wasn’t impressed by the fact that you did absolutely nothing to understand what it was for in the first place. You coughed up a little air to cover up the embarrassment creeping up on you and nodded. He continued, “Did you run into trouble?”. His head shifted, indicating that he was, probably?, looking at you. “Well” you started, scratching your head, unsure whether or not you should lie about how much you had actually struggled “some here and there. It was pretty guarded.” He simply nodded before he shifted his attention back to the core at hand. “Dismissed.” You did a small courtly bow before turning to leave his office. You took a deep breath as soon as the door closed behind you. That went…okay. Not as bad as you thought it might. You exhaled the air and shook your head.
❦
The past few days had been a blur but the one thing that caught your attention was the way your superior had been switching his demeanor every now and then. He went from being calculated and calm to giggly and a little crazed. It was so weird. The shift was never dramatic but it was enough to make a grown man uncomfortable. And you weren’t the only one who noticed. Sometimes you could hear the soldiers whispering, always wondering and fantasizing about the reason for his behavioral change. Though, they spun the regular odd stories that sounded almost fanatical, so you paid them not much mind.
You were walking around the Docks when you caught a glimpse of the Doctor on his little boat. As if he had sensed your presence his mask matched your gaze and he waved you over immediately. If your eyes weren’t playing tricks on you, he was smiling the smile that graced his features every now and then. An odd grin did he have. You sighed but made a point to not let it show on your expression before you walked towards the bridge. You had stepped foot on it and taken a solid two steps on deck before the boat started to move. Instinctively your hands took hold of the railing. Huh. It seemed like you were done around here. You looked towards the Docks as the ship slowly brought distance between itself and the port. The last thing you saw was a woman dressed in white and a thing floating next to her as they watched you sail away.
❦
The journey had been pretty boring. It was just you, some fatui soldiers and Dottore and no one was doing much for morale. You could’ve sworn that you once read something about pirates and how they always made sure to include entertainment on long journeys to ensure the mental well being of their crew. Well, this boat had no such policy. No one ever said a word and if they did then only in murmurs. Some of the soldiers just seemed on edge by the Doctor's presence, others just seemed uninterested. You were just bored.
It took a few days of being on the boat before you finally managed to convince a few soldiers to play cards with you. The day had been nice, the waves played in calm rythms and while the sun was out it wasn’t grilling you alive. Multiple soldiers had moved to the deck and were actually starting to enjoy themselves. You sat among them, in the midst of three soldiers, playing a round of OOH. The rules were pretty simple. You had to slap cards on the table and if you threw the right one you had to yell OOH. You had trouble remembering who came up with that. The soldier next to you had just slapped his cards on the table and was about to let out a glorious “OOH” when Dottore passed your table. As if on command, all four of you kept still with held breath as he passed by. Not only was it unusual to see the man outside of his quarters, it was also obvious that something wasn’t right. He was emanating a weird aura and it almost looked like he was vibrating. It was so odd..Everyone could tell that something was off. And suddenly, as if someone had struck him, the blue haired man crumbled into pieces adorned by dust.
It felt like everything stood still. Everyone's eyes were focused on the spot the man had been standing in. For a minute not even the waves uttered a word. Then chaos broke out and spread like a wildfire. Every third soldier on deck started yelling and accusing the other of treason. All you could do was stare at the crumbled pieces lying on the floor. What was going on? Did he just evaporate- The only thing that finally pulled you out of your shock was a chair that launched past your head. As if awoken by a splash of cold water you shot up from your seat and ducked away into your cabin while you tried to not get into the punchline of a soldier. You figured someone should stop and calm them down but you also figured that it wasn’t going to be you, so instead you locked your door and sat down on your bed. Blurring out the sound of the fight was easy but figuring out what event had just taken place was a hard one. To you it did look like he…died? And an even bigger question, if he had died, what was the cause of death?
❦
The rest of the trip had been awfully awkward and uncomfortable. Even more so than it had been before. After all, your superior had just disintegrated into thin air, leaving the rest of you without a leader. Of course the soldiers manned up, the fight hadn’t gone on for too long but the tension had been on edge ever since.
After the incident the tales about the Doctor had only grown even more ambiguous and fanatical in spirit. Some soldiers uttered rumors about a hitman, others blamed the gods, a fraction wondered if he simply had a stroke and a really small percentage told verses about his life potion juice running out. You paid no mind to them but did in fact wonder along with many: Who would have to pay for the sin of Dottore vanishing? Returning to his facility and having to say that you lost the second Harbinger sounded awfully insane.
So imagine how surprised you and your fellows had been when the man who welcomed you back at the facility docks had been none other than Dottore himself. He stood there in all of his glory, waiting for everyone to see him before he turned around and went back inside. He didn’t take the time to answer questions and everyone was ordered back to work. So all you could do was return to work, everyone feeling dumbfounded and exhausted. All of that ruckus for nothing.
❦
Days went by quite uneventful. The only thing of note you found out was the fact that it had been a known fact, and not a crazy tale, that the Doctor could, in fact, multiplicate himself. You also learned that he had apparently given those segment things up, so to say, which resulted in his copies “passing away”. No one of the attending boat crew had to die for their sins that day.
You had just thrown on your clothes, ready to face another hard day of making sure everyone was staying hydrated, when you were called into Dottores’ office. You wondered, like any other time it happened, why would he? But you shrugged it off, nodded to the informant and proceeded to make your way to the Doctor’s office (HA).
You knocked on the door. A low “come in” came in response. You opened the door, stepped inside and made sure to close the door before you walked fully into the room. Your eyes landed on the man sitting at his desk. He had one foot placed on his knee and his head placed on his hand while he held something in his free hand.
“Sit” It was a clear order that you followed by taking a seat on the free chair on the opposing side. With less distance between you, you could see that he was holding the core that you had retrieved for him weeks ago. “It’s useless” he said before he slammed the thing on the table. He slid it over to you harshly enough for it to make a nasty squeaking noise. He retracted his hand from the object and leaned back into his chair.
You had your hands in your lap and went stiff in your seat, staring at the core. Were you supposed to give an answer to that? You directed your gaze towards Dottore who was looking at you as if he was waiting for something. You choked down a little spit and answered “Why?”. Clearly you lacked in the thoughtful response department. He let out a sigh “It’s not powered. It doesn’t turn on. It’s useless”. You blinked at him and tried to shoot an apologetic smile “My bad. Is there something I can do to help with that?”. You weren’t sure if you read him right but he seemed to be somewhat satisfied with your answer. Or at the very least it looked like he accepted it as a valid one.
“Nothing you could do right now. I will call for you if that changes.” You nodded but he continued without wasting much time “Get me a coffee”. Taken off guard you let out a surprised “What?”. It took you a long second to remember your place and added “What kind?”. His short lived answer was “Just coffee.” before he waved you out.
You stood up so fast that you almost knocked your knee into the table. But you caught yourself and hurried out of his office and into the kitchen. The whole process of the art of coffee making went past you like a wind. You were used to the task but not to the receiver. Why were you suddenly on coffee duty for the Doctor? It was so odd. Him having an assistant like that had been rare. It was also odd that you had never seen the man as much as you had ever before over the course of the past few weeks. If you had to guess you’d say you’d have seen him like twice a year before that, and that for multiple years. Now you had even seen him die. Well, technically. You took a long exhausted breath while you rubbed your hand on your forehead. It was all so much, especially considering that being Dottores direct assistant probably carried much more weight and consequences with it than just being his subordinate's subordinate. With another deep breath you tried to ground yourself. The thought of having to spend less time with the fanatical workers around you didn’t seem all that bad at least. You took the cup of “just coffee” from the stove and made your way back, careful not to spill any.
He took the coffee without another word, only dismissing you with a wave of his hand.
❦
Ever since that day you had been in and out of Dottores office on a regular basis. At first it was delivering coffee, then it was messages and then it turned into you running medical files from one room to another and sorting through various of his documents. You could say that the job sounded important but most of the things you sorted through looked quite boring. Of course you never looked past page one but still, most of the headlines and titles sounded like they were about various diseases and financials, so really really really boring.
You had just put a ton of medical files into chronological order (the Doctor seemed so tidy and clean, why was it such a mess?) when you heard footsteps approaching. By the way they sounded, you could guess that it was the man himself walking into the room. You had memorized the pattern of his footsteps so well, you guessed right almost all the time. Prepared for the interaction you turned around and greeted the man with a bow of your head. He nodded in return and motioned for you to come with him. Then he turned around and walked out of the room. You, of course, followed suit, by now being used to following his silent orders without question.
You walked with him all the way back to his office, only to be met inside by the man you had mentally deemed the most annoying man you had ever had the displeasure of meeting. Pantalone, the absolute chaotic man of unreasonably high expectations of the world and an unreasonably high drive to start yapping about it. You suppressed an eye roll at the way he greeted you with his fake little smile and his fake little wave and instead greeted him with a fake little smile and a fake little wave of your own. You figured both of you were aware that you detested each other. Dottore paid no mind to the interaction and placed himself behind his desk. He did not sit down but instead stood behind his chair. Pantalone made no move to sit down himself and stood across on the other side of the table, not even glancing at the chair placed before him. You crossed your arms and stood off to the sides. You would've been annoyed at their stupid nonverbal petty fight over who’s cooler, if you hadn’t been wondering about why you were even here in the first place. Sure, Dottore had wild ideas and weird tasks for you but their importance was never as high as listening in on two harbingers.
The man grinned a half crazed grin towards Pantolini and said “Let’s talk business”. And thus the most boring two hours of your life had begun.
Not only did you not understand more than half of the things the two men mentioned and argued about, you had also started to feel your heel painfully pushing into your leg. No matter what, you would never ever get used to standing around for such a long amount of time, especially not when that time was filled with awkward silence on your side and a strong yearning to step outside the room. Dottore had just been muttering down some reasoning when Pantalone cut him off. “This is not a risk worth taking. Think it through some more and then call for me again. As of now, I am not on board.” With those words he turned, gave you a courtesy fakey smile and sauntered out of the room. You watched him close the door with distaste. You did not stare for long as a sigh caught your ear and a loud metal clunking on wood directed your attention back to the Doctor. Your eyes wandered to his face and…you were looking at Dottores face. You were looking at Dottores' face. Yₒᵤ wₑᵣₑ ₗₒₒₖᵢₙg ₐₜ Dₒₜₜₒᵣₑₛ' fₐcₑ. You could not help but let a gasp leave your lips. It took much out of you to close your mouth in an orderly fashion. His eyes met yours. Much too enamored with his eyes and the burning red color of them, you failed to recognize the irritated expression on his features. He was staring daggers into your soul.
You came back to your senses by rapidly blinking the embarrassment off your face.
“He’s insufferable,” he muttered. You nodded in agreement. You didn’t listen enough to know what had bothered him about the man this time but you did overall agree with the statement. “Greedy, greedy, greedy man” he continued to mumble as he slid his mask to the side of the table before he sat down on his chair “Coffee”. You nodded again and hurried off into the kitchen. You were used to getting orders in short sentences now. He knew you knew what he meant seventy percent of the time and he knew that you actually had the courage to ask if you didn’t. Sure, he didn’t hold you to the standards of a genius but he held you to the standard of being honest and.. pretty normal. Which he found had always been hard to find, being the man that he was.
❦
Days had passed and you were seeing less and less of your coworkers. In turn you had spent much more time at the side of Dottore. You were still in your position of being his assistant. Nothing bad had happened to you ever since, contrary to some peoples’ belief, and you were even starting to have some sort of conversations with the blue haired man. It wasn’t all too much compared to general standards but in Dottores’ standards it was quite a lot. Though it was almost never a conversational exchange. Sometimes he just asked you a question that you had time to think about for the entire day and other times you made the mistake of asking him about one little thing he may take interest in only for him to go on a tangent about said thing for hours. He gave you access to so much knowledge and you disregarded half of it. Not that you didn’t care at all. You just couldn’t remember most of the things he said. You would've had to have some sort of degree in math and science to follow most of his monologues. But you liked listening to him. He had a unique voice and you enjoyed the sound of it.
He himself loved to talk about his interests, especially when talking about them made him seem like a smart man. Which it did. Most of the time. Sometimes, when you tried to listen and understand what he was getting at, he sounded so smart and eloquent one second, only for him to throw in some wild theories the next second, all while using the vocabulary of a madman. He was either serious or he enjoyed confusing you on purpose. Neither would surprise you.
You had also learned that, while yes the man seemed somewhat put together, he was indeed a little crazy as people had said. Both intentionally and subconsciously. Most of the time he tried to gaslight you into thinking he was normal but sometimes he couldn’t hide his little grin that reached his eyes in a crazy light whenever he thought a bit too hard about surpassing the gods. Which, oh right, you also found was a fair factor for you to deem him as at least unhinged in spirit. You sometimes thought back to the tales the people had spun about him and while you could see now why they had gained such popularity through the facility, you did not deem them to be fair assumptions about Dottore. He was odd and fairly annoying at times but not creepy. You respected him, of course, but sometimes you felt like you were a rich prince's butler, not the subordinate of a “mad and creepy” genius.
All of these thoughts and more were rushing through your head while you were once again watching Dottore fly around his lab. He was yapping about some nectar (or something?) while he played around with some chemicals. Or as he would call it, “conducted experimental research”. You were just off to the side, watching him swirl around while listening to his voice. Nothing else occupied your mind. Just you, Dottore and your thoughts in one room.
Dottore on the other hand, had sensed that you had been absent minded for a while. After he had started to talk about the process of mashing up cashews into soup, he knew with certainty that you weren’t paying attention to his words anymore. Yet your eyes were fixed on him. He still had your attention and that pleased him enough to keep yapping about whatever came to his mind.
❦
There was one day you remembered vividly. It could’ve easily been a boring day, easy to be forgotten and mushed in memory with all the other days. But the universe and all the stars that resided over you did not like that idea.
You had brought Dottore his seventh cup of coffee that day. A small voice in your head reminded you that more than five cups a day would be too much caffeine for one person but the last time you voiced those thoughts in the Doctors’ presence, he broke a pen. So you figured you wouldn’t do that again. The man had been on edge the entire day, brooding over something he disagreed with. You guessed that it had something to do with Panini but decided not to inquire about it further. You had never been on the receiving end of Dottores’ anger and you liked it to stay that way. His eyes were fixed on his desk and yours were fixed on his. He had stopped wearing his mask around you more frequently. Only when he needed you to focus on something else than his eyes did he put it on. And it worked.
Now he was bare faced and you were busy watching him, sitting on the chair in front of his desk and letting time pass by with great calm when he muttered “What’s the craziest thing you would do?”. So it was one of those days. You were distracted and answered with half of your mind intact. “You.” The questions he asked were always phrased somewhat simple minded but you liked to think about your answₑᵣₛ… Everything in your body stood still for a moment. Even your heart acted still, waiting for you to process your answer. The more the realization came through, the more your eyes widened. “ᵒʰ” the sound that left your lips was barely audible. You looked at Dottore and your eyes met his. He certainly looked pleased with your answer, the anger that had distorted his features before had resided. He looked… well definitely not as offended as you think he could potentially have been.
Initially he figured you’d come up with an interesting answer based on creativity, one that could help him take his mind off of things, not the quick unthoughtful one he had received. He could’ve argued that he didn’t like to be called crazy. But then again, who was he to argue now that you had helped him change the topics that had been plaquing mind?
❦
The grin that had plastered itself on Dottores’ features after your simple minded answer followed you into your dreams longer than just one night. The image of it sat deep in your mind and left you to wonder. It didn’t make him look cheerful nor did it make him look intimidating. The first adjective you would plaster on it would’ve been “desirable” but you felt odd just thinking the thought. You shook your head and stared at the ceiling. The only sound that hollowed through the room was an odd whirring noise that could be heard throughout most parts of the building. There was no clock in sight but you didn’t need one to know that you had been lying half awake throughout most of the night again. Which Dottore had been entirely at fault of. His grin was one thing but the man had assigned you to a new room as well. It was closer to his office and further away from the bustle of the facility. He successfully kept you away from the loud bustling of the other workers. In order to keep you focused or whatever. But you needed more time to get accustomed to the lack of voices that had always trailed past your door well past midnight, creating an unwelcome but familiar soundwave to fall asleep to. Without the ruckus outside everything had suddenly been too silent, making way for more room in your head which it could now fill with annoyingly loud thoughts that pestered you through the night. You groaned and pulled your pillow over your face after yet another mental image of that stupid harbinger. “How annoying” you muttered into your pillow before you rolled around to try and find a better sleeping position.
❦
While you had spent your time going through countless sleepless nights, it seemed that Dottore had not been affected at all. You hadn’t really been counting on him losing his shit over your previous comment but it was still a humbling experience to see him so overly calm and collected, no matter how deep of a look he took into your eyes.
Honestly, nothing had changed at all. Except for your eye bags of course but you had only yourself to blame for that. Neither your job nor Dottores’ attitude had changed.
Not until you had entered his lab one day, not without invitation of course, only to see him assemble something that looked like a…marionette? You figured that’s what it had been based on his older clones. You never knew the difference before the incident on the boat but since then you had once caught a glimpse of one singular unfinished clone lying around the lab. You hadn’t taken a closer look at it but the vague image of it still resided in your memory and it fit the image of the half assembled doll you had laid your eyes on that day. The Doctor, who had been standing next to the marionette, waved you over. Once you came close, he immediately put you to work, shoving various body parts and limbs into your arms before informing you about all the places you needed to attach them to.
While you had hardly been able to keep up with his instructions, you didn’t fail to notice that the doll did not look much like Dottore. Of course, it had no head but still you were sure it carried little to no resemblance. No, the doll did not resemble Dottore at all, you just couldn’t figure out who it it looked like instead. It seemed awfully familiar but you couldn’t put your finger on who exactly it reminded you of.
Nontheless you focused on your work, assembling the limbs with great caution.
Not once did you question his intentions. Any and all information you received, he had laid out on his own accord. And while yes, some might argue that that came from a lack of intelligence on your end, he felt like it came from a place of trust instead. You did not question his intentions because they did not seem a threat to you. All they were to you was just another task, another part of being his assistant.
He used to think he’d appreciate it if you had a more curious nature but after some time had passed the little curiosity you exhibited had been more than enough for him. You only asked questions when you were curious, never just to fill the silence. Sure, it had been disappointing to see you not take interest in his creations at all but he enjoyed knowing that you didn’t care. He enjoyed the authenticity. He had craved it ever since he was young, ever since people had started lying to him. But you never did. You never lied.
❦
More time had passed, although you had no way of telling how much time it had been exactly. You had quickly lost count of the days and never cared enough to ask. You had not seen any coworkers at all ever since you moved rooms but you honestly could barely care less. The last time you had crossed paths with one, it was a woman, one of those fanatics, she had whispered warnings to you. Warnings about the Doctor and his weird habits. You had half a mind to agree with her that, yes, the man had the oddest habits indeed, but you had mentally clocked out once she had started to mention his unstoppable desire to peel off the first layers of fat his victims carried under their skin as, according to her, that was what had granted him immortality. After that revelation you figured that you did not care if you would never come across any of your coworkers ever again. You understood why they were thrown off by their superior. Of course you did, you had spent most of your time with him by now, he was odd for sure. But you would never get used to their spooky tales about his person. Safe to say, you would gladly live without them.
The more you grew accustomed to your new life, the more satisfaction he experienced. He enjoyed watching you settle into your new life and he enjoyed your willingness to solve whatever problem he threw your way. Of course he would have to be careful not to overstep the line of using your talents to his advantage but weirdly enough he didn’t feel the need to do so. Your presence made him feel pleased enough as it was. To his surprise, he found that he did not want to jinx that. He liked having you close, without having to use an ounce of force for once.
You stayed out of your own will and he found peace in that.
❦
It had been months since he had recruited you into his close vicinity and he hadn’t regretted it once. He found that you were reliable, smart and talented with your hands. One time, it had been a few days ago, he had watched, mask placed on his features, as you carefully knitted another marionettes' limbs together. He found the way you moved your delicate fingers satisfying to watch. When you were done with your stitches he had carefully taken your hand in his own and moved it closer to his face as he inspected it. “Close enough”. He didn’t mean to say it out loud but he figured it didn’t matter. One look at you let him know that you were so distracted by his action, you clearly did not care about anything beyond that. He gave a sly grin as an answer to your awestruck expression. Then he placed a delicate kiss on your fingers before letting go of your hand. He proceeded to not waste more time on more unnecessary gestures and focused on inspecting the marionette instead. You had done excellent work on the limbs, much as he had expected. “Wait in my office” he mumbled the order absent mindedly while he was gazing down at the doll. He watched you leave through the corner of his eyes. Then, when you had finally closed the door of his lab, he picked up the marionette and carried it to a closet that he had kept locked for no one but him to see.
He opened it and placed the marionette next to the other few that had been in there. He hadn’t perfected any of them yet but he knew he was getting closer. Of course, the goal had initially been for him to reach higher levels of humanity but after he had lost all his process he felt inclined to be bored at the thought of doing it all over again with the exact same recipe to follow. But replicating someone else, well you, now that sounded interesting. Analyzing you had been a fun activity for him over the past weeks. You had many good qualities, good morals and a cute face. Which personally he did not care for but it did cross his mind once, so he figured that would be a popular opinion among others as well. Overall he felt that your presence, may it be through more individuals, would not cause as much terror as his own always had.
He closed the closet and locked it tight. Then he took off his mask and stepped towards the door to his office. He had already found out so much about the way you answered and thought about things, yet he felt inclined to find out even more.
You had been standing in his office for a minute or two. It bored you but recently you had found that most things did. After the minutes had passed the door opened and the Doctor came walking in, carrying a sense of purpose in his steps. The door closed easily behind him as he disregarded his mask on a nearby shelf, only for him to step towards you. You didn’t have much time to formulate any coherent thoughts or figure out a reaction to anything, as he had simply waltzed over, cupped your face in his hands and proceeded to place a calculated kiss on your lips.
Ever since that day, all the barriers of distance that may have stood between you two before were gone. Instead you had only spent more time at his side now and he had welcomed that change with a multitude of questions to ask you. Of course, sometimes he still digressed into monologues of his own, but he had found a liking in listening to your thought out answers and views as well. It surprised you but you didn’t mind. The only struggle you found with that had been the lack of stories you had in mind whenever you thought to answer with something from your life. Most of the stories you knew were about him after all and even those you barely remembered.
He seemed pleased with you either way though, so you figured it didn't really matter.
And with that, unbeknownst to you, he had found the perfect subject for his studies. You on the other hand had found solace in your work and his presence now, never wasting a thought on anything that didn't have anything to do with your new routine.
❦ - le fin
I’m thinking their voicelines about each other would be among the lines of like
You about him:
“The Doctor? Oh *ahem*, yes I would consider him a trustworthy companion. Don’t give other peoples’ comments about him much thought. He’s pretty normal, all things considered. I would know, I’ve worked with him for a while now. Anyway, I should take my leave now. Good luck. What?.. Oh no, i can't stay, I'm really busy. I'm sorry. See you”
Him about you:
“Yes, they have been much help to me over the past few years….What? You want to see them? They're busy, try again another time… A message?....No, you can’t take them with you. Find someone else to do your work for you. Now leave.”
#i dont know if i like this or not but im amazed that i managed to pull this many words out of my ass#genshin writing#dottore x reader#dottore writing
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In an alternate timeline, would Constantine and Serenity ever become an official couple?
I love both of their personalities, how different they are, but how well they balance each other out as well. Would Constantine be able to have genuine emotion of love for Serenity, would he ever consider a real future with her?
How would Serenity react if Constantine ever did hint of something more than a close friendship? Would she accept or deny it?
Thanks for reading, I love your work and your characters so much 🥹🫶🏽🫶🏽. Have a fantastic day Kaledya, keep UP the amazing work.
1) in SS AU I have no idea of planning a romance between the two right now, in general I'm really trying to build a good friendship between them right now
//. But even if there's no romance between them There is a part where Constantin creates the illusion of 1940s New orleans to give as a gift to serenity and takes her there. (he wanted to give a gift that no one else could give) And in this way, he took Serenity to a place from which she could never return again, even if only for a short time,And plus he invented such a comprehensive illusion magic himself for this)
I really love this scene and find it sweet because before Constantine casts this spell, he asks Serenity to think about the place where her best memories are located.And when this illusion begins, Serenity appears in human form again, as does Constantine. They are seriously having fun and in the last scene, Serenity even goes to a place where her old house is (The spell is about creating a place with the memories of the targeted user, so the world they are in is Shaped according to Serenity's memories) I want to draw this scene. Serenity's reaction to what she saw in the beginning was very sweet. //.
But in another scenario, if Constantine were looking for a romantic partner, it would probably be Serenity. Currently, even in SSAU, And the only person who can understand what Constantine is going through is Serenity, and Serenity had similar experiences like Constantine when she was still alive. (I was even planning make a animatic with Loser Baby for them with changing the lyrics a bit )
And on the other hand, no matter how different they are, two people can understand each other. In general, I liken their relationship to Sherlock and Watson, or Marvel's Loki and Mobius, these two characters really complement each other.
Extra: And I'm really enjoying the dynamic of the two In fact, these days I am planning a orginal story about Crime(Detective) and adventure, not as an AU, but with Serenity and Constantine as the main characters. Maybe I can do some world building in terms of magic too. Idk
2) Hmmm, that's a really good question.If I were to think of such a scenario.Seriously, after so long of knowing each other(slowest slowburn) If Constantine realizes that what he feels is something more than friendship. He might try talking to Serenity about this. But I can already imagine Constantine seriously failing at the romance thing. (Ask this man the most difficult questions and he will give you the right answers without any hesitation or thinking too much about it. But ask this Man to tell you about his feelings and a knife event won't open his mouth)
Likewise, if there is friendship and trust between them, Serenity accepts the offer. And say something about it
"We were already like an old married couple, you just made it official."
It was my pleasure to answer your question!❤️❤️
And I'm very happy that you like my work.I wish you a fantastic day too🌟
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i put off playing A’s route for the longest time bc the memes made it look so agonizingly angsty but like omg,, how have i not played it sooner the SLOWBURN? THE GENTLE TOUCHES?? THE SMALL SMILES???? THE FIREWORKS SCENE????? IVE DIED AND GONE TO HEAVEN A U SILLY GOOSE IM GONNA MARRY U
A's is the slowest of slow burns I've ever written, as well as the one step forward, two steps forward feel, which is also difficult when you just want to write the progression you know is coming, hehe! :D
I'm so glad you're enjoying it though!
Things are certainly coming to a head in that romance soon...
Thank you so much for the encouraging message! <3
#the wayhaven chronicles#asks#interactive fiction#adam du mortain#ava du mortain#slow burn#relationship
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Fanfic Couples*/Relationships Ask Game
*note that when I say "couple", this does not have to indicate a romantic couple, it's just the most concise way to refer to a pair of characters. These can be any two characters, romantic or not.
Of the ones you've written, which romantic relationship has developed the fastest? How fast is it?
Of the ones you've written, what's your slowest slowburn? How slow is it?
Have you ever written a soulmate AU? If you haven't, why would/wouldn't you write one?
What's the fastest you've reached a romantic couple's first kiss (in words/scenes/chapters)? First "I love you"? Other landmarks?
Do you have any works where you refuse to reach a certain relationship landmark, for one reason or another?
Have you ever started to write a relationship and had it develop differently than you expected? How so?
Have you written any romantic couples that you think would be better off as friends? Or even enemies?
Have you ever written any friendships that could've easily become romantic relationships? How did you navigate it?
When you write, do you plan out the stages of a relationship, or just let it flow? Do you have any works where the characters seem to "write themselves"?
[Couple] has just been struck by a magic spell, and now they're mortal enemies! What happens now?
[Couple] has just stumbled into a fairy ring, and they've forgotten they ever knew each other! What happens now?
[Couple] has just found an interdimensional portal, and one of them just walked in! Does the other go after them?
Are there any consistent trends when you write a budding relationship, or does it vary by character? If there are trends, what are they?
Are there any relationship dynamics/tropes you want to write in the future, but haven't yet?
Are there any relationship dynamics/tropes you would never write?
Are there any relationship dynamics/tropes you enjoy reading about, but wouldn't want to write yourself? Vice versa?
Did you base [couple] on any existing relationships that you've seen? This can be anything: TV characters, books, even people you've known in real life.
Pick a few characters you've written for (or, for a fun twist, asker chooses). Tell me about their relationship in three sentences or less.
Pick a work/fandom you've written for. If your couple didn't end up together, who would they get close with with instead?
Has a character ever felt pulled in two directions as you wrote them? How did you resolve this?
Not all relationships are romantic. What's your favorite non-romantic relationship that you've written about?
Have you ever written a break-up scene? How did it go? Was it a permanent split?
Do you think you idealize relationships in fiction, or are your depictions grounded in reality? How often do your characters make mistakes?
When you write, do you focus more on the romantic relationships or the non-romantic ones?
How important to you is the inclusion of sex in writing a romantic couple? Do you have any asexual characters?
Do you have any characters that are arospec or otherwise wouldn't enter a romantic relationship? How do they interact with the story?
Do you have any characters who are hopeless romantics? How do they interact with the story?
Have you ever written a tragic romance? How did it turn out?
What's the most interesting friendship that you've written?
What's the most interesting familial relationship that you've written? Found family counts.
Are there any songs that remind you of [couple]? Are there any songs that remind them of each other?
Do you find it more fun to write soft, domestic romances, or dramatic thrillers?
Are there any canon romantic couples, in any media, that you just can't stand?
Are there any well-known fanon relationships (not canon), that you just can't stand?
Are there any canon non-romantic relationships you can't stand?
Have you ever overwritten a canon romance in favor of a different character/OC? Did you write a full breakup or just ignore the canon relationship?
Who's the Barbie and who's the Ken? Who's the Allan?
Who's the Romeo and who's the Juliet? Who's the Rosaline?
Who's the Prince Charming and who's the Damsel in Distress? Who's the dragon?
Pick a relationship (not necessarily romantic). What tropes apply to this relationship? What tropes does this relationship subvert?
Who's your most repressed/oblivious character? Who's your most aware character? What makes them different?
As an author, are you gentle to your characters?
How do you feel about unhappy endings? Unrequited love? Major character death?
What's your favorite type of relationship to write? What makes it most fun for you?
What type of relationship do you struggle most to write? Why is it difficult for you?
Are there any character dynamics that you've found yourself stepping outside your comfort zone to write? How so?
What's the most self-indulgent relationship you've written? Are there any particular moments/scenes that you wrote just for you?
Are there any relationships you've lost passion for writing? Are there any relationships that started slow but gained momentum over time?
What's your favorite relationship dynamic that you've seen in another work of fiction? Has this influenced your writing at all?
Free space! Brag on yourself! Advertise your writing! What are you most proud of recently?
#i tried to make these aroace friendly. there's some that are romance-focused but i tried to leave most of them open#ask game#writing ask game#oc ask game#character ask game#ask meme#oc asks#writer asks#author asks#fanfic asks#fanfic ask game#new ask game
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At this point I'm gonna post this now before I go insane and start to throw bricks around the house like a damn monkey
Anyway, self indulgent sketches of my fan character and Ludwig I made a day or two ago because fuck cringe culture I wanna have fun babyyyyyy!!!
all the other sketches are under the cut so I can keep this post short (and not bother those who are not interested)
look at them, they're about to throw hands at each other (Naaaaw, the won't do that!)
Plot is nothing complicated, it's your typical enemies to lovers kind of deal that focuses more on character development 'cause, welp, that's my jam. Oh, I suppose it's the slowest kind of slowburn because I like suffering. The chick's name is Elisèe. She's not starving, just very skinny n flexible like a noodle. And she's an artist, she paints cool stuffs, that's why Ludwig keeps commissioning her!
Hope you like miss spaghetti, she's pretty chill (not that she can scream or shout anyway, her vocal chords went brrrr)! Oh, also, those things around her face? It's acne, also she's cross-eyed, that's why she covers half her face. Oh, more sketches!
#koopalings#ludwig#super mario#mario bros#sketch#ludwig von koopa#nintendo#fan character#super mario oc#oc x canon
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❤️👑💌
also!! So obsessed with the last two chapters of SITQ ur the official fanfic queen of slowburn, ty for actually making the built legitimately slow and building up their relationship and chemistry (although it was painful since I just wanted them to get together but it was so worth it). I was wondering if there’s gonna be some sort of pregnancy trope in the story? I’m neither for or against it was more out of curiosity 💃
❤️ What is your favorite line that you’ve written in a fic?
I’ll never be able to pick just one line but rereading this fic has actually been doing me good I forgot how much I loved Xaden in ch 29
“Of course I fucking care!” he shouted, and it was maybe the first time he’d ever raised his voice at her. “Fuck, do you really think I’m such an awful, heartless person that I could take care of you and hold you the way that I have and it means nothing to me? Do you think you mean nothing to me?”
“It’s all been yours since the day you took the crown.” He stepped closer, but he didn’t touch her. “Tell me what you want, Violet, and I’ll make it happen. You want to scream? Want to hit me? Want me to sleep on the floor for the rest of our days? Want me on my knees, begging for your forgiveness even though we both know I wouldn’t mean any apology I made?” He studied her with endless dark eyes. “I can’t apologize for doing what I thought I had to in order to protect my people before I ever knew you, and for doing what I could to protect you once I did. I’m sorry I’ve hurt you, but we have to move forward now. Tell me how.”
“Because I got you.” He lifted a hand to her face, cupped her cheek in his palm like she was something precious and holy. His thumb brushed her cheekbone. “Nothing will ever make me regret meeting you.” He let her go and stepped back. “Go to sleep. I’ll check on you in the morning.”
👑 Do you like writing short fics or long fics?
I want so badly to be a short fic kinda girlie but I like to drag out my slow burn and character development too much lol
💌 Is there a favorite trope you like to write?
Slow burn!!! The slowest of slow!! Other than that forced proximity and enemies to lovers. Basically, sitq is all the things I love
Thank you thank you!!! 🩷🩷 no pregnancy trope around here. I still can’t imagine this version of Xaden and Violet having kids, so I doubt I’ll even do an epilogue or anything including it
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If you have any Natleo thoughts/headcanons, I'd love to hear 'em (I love these goobers so much istg)
Hey Ellie !!
Lmao I love them too, natleo so silly
Personally I like it when as a couple they serve as a direct contrast to Nicoby, but it’s also my guilty pleasure where Nicoby are actually together now and those two are THE SLOWEST SLOWBURN OF ALL SLOWBURNS.
I mean, imagine Nat going to Nico for advice and to ask him on how Leo’s like, then there’s Toby making it his duty to become Leo’s wingman to try and get the two of them together.
Those two are absolute STUPID for each other.
They like each other mutually, but the two of them are too scared to make a move on the other.
I can imagine some convo going like this:
Natalie (internally): What if he thinks I’m weird? What if he gets freaked out by my stitches if I ever tried to kiss him? What if he got grossed out over the whole ‘clock-eye replacement’ thing…? What if his friends think I’m weird and scary and—…!
Leo (suffering, ranting to Toby): What if she thinks I’m a loser?! What if she distances herself from me due to what she’s gone through…?! I mean, I’m just a regular guy! There’s nothing ‘hardcore’ or ‘edgy’ about me like you! There’s nothing special about me compared to her! What could she even see in me?!
Natleo would 100% be more healthier than Leo/Calypso, and I will stand by this wholeheartedly.
AND NAT IS A SERIAL KILLER…!
Okay, now onto headcanons:
Big Spoon Nat
Little Spoon Leo
Nat snores when she sleeps, but Leo doesn’t mind it, he actually finds it adorable and so cute
Nat has a bike, not a motorcycle, but a bike, and one time it broke down and Leo helped Nat with getting it fixed up
Do NOT bring these two idiots to karaoke, it’s even worse if you bring them to karaoke night together
Nat helps teach Leo how to cook, it’s a stress-free habit she picked up a while back, to get her mind off things
Leo drools when he sleeps
Nat finds it hilarious that Leo drools when he sleeps, and secretly, she takes funny photos of him while he’s asleep
Leo is a dog person
Nat is a cat person
Leo learns how to sew and he constantly worried on the chance that he’ll have to sew one of Nat’s injuries if she ever comes back with something like an open wound
Leo and Nat meet out of the blue, they end up getting closer after finding out that they both know Nico and Toby
Leo was HEAD OVER HEELS for Nat when they first met
To Leo’s demise Toby forcibly becomes his wingman, Toby makes it his mission to get Nat and Leo together
Leo helps Nat get over her insecurities
And viceversa
When they first met, Leo had an imaginary rivalry going on with Helen (Bloody Painter) in his head, on the other side of things, Helen had NO IDEA that Leo wanted to punch his lights out when they first met
For context on Leo’s imaginary one-sided rivalry with Helen, for a while, Leo thought that Helen was in love with Nat, due to them being close and all, but nope, he was wrong, those two are just friends thankfully
Leo is the type of guy to try to win Nat prizes and fairs and carnivals yet he fails miserably at it
Nat wins the prizes on her first try
When the rest of the seven/other demigods met Toby and found out about the CreepyPasta’s and what Nico was doing during those months he dipped, Leo was probably the first person to stand up for Nico in that situation.
He kept assuring the other that, yeah Toby’s got issues! But he’s a cool dude! Genuinely! Really funny and smart guy!
And then, when the rest of the seven/other demigods met Nat for the first time, Nico returned Leo the favor, and stood up for him.
These two are so cute together!
I love them.
I love Natleo so much, just like how I love Nicoby!!
#natleo#natalie ouellette x leo valdez#natalie ouellette#clockwork creepypasta#clockwork#leo valdez#leo valdez pjo#leo valdez hoo#creepypasta#creepypasta fandom#nicoby#nico di angelo x ticci toby#nico di angelo x toby erin rogers#ticci toby x nico di angelo#ticci toby#ticci toby creepypasta#toby rogers#toby erin rogers#nico di angelo#nico di angelo pjo#percy jackson#percy jackson and the olympians#the heroes of olympus#heroes of olympus#pjo#hoo#crossover shipping#crossover ships#crossover ship#cross shipping
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MAY YOUR DEATH BE SWIFT
slowburn ellabs fic set four years after santa barbara
early updates on ao3 @ josmarch
chapter 2
Ellie’s head was clouded. No matter which way she looked, she could not see a clear path to the end. Her motivations and desires had felt skewed since her teenage years, but she wasn’t sure she’d had a true vision for the future at any point in her life. No matter how she tried to shape the narrative in her head, she couldn’t see herself as anything more than a burden, a once-useful instrument that had been left to rot. There was no point to any move she ever made, and she was beginning to give up on searching. Her best bet was to head south as she had initially planned, even if that thought felt more and more unreasonable. There was nothing to lose because she had already given everything.
Dressed in comfortable clothes, Ellie felt prepared for the journey ahead. In her jeans, t-shirt, and with her hair pulled back out of her face, she was somehow always reminiscent of the girl she’d once been: just passed through many years of dangerous circumstances and unforeseen tragedies. Grabbing a warm jacket for the nights and leaving her house for the final time, she didn’t linger on the past.
The trip to Monica’s felt longer than ever, but she didn’t have to walk it now. She started up the pickup truck in her front yard after tossing her backpack into the passenger seat. It had been six weeks since she last trekked through the snow, and the weather was warmer now. Freshly twenty-five years old, Ellie felt nothing more than the sting of her fresh tattoo. Monica had come to her place two weeks earlier, and the healing process was the slowest she’d experienced yet. She wasn’t discouraged, driving on.
When she reached Monica’s, she rounded the house to reach the front porch and knocked on the door. Two taps with her knuckles. The door swung open almost immediately, and Ellie was greeted by the sight of Monica’s husband, Geoff. He looked Ellie up and down as if she was something other than human. “Ellie Williams,” he sighed, shaking his head. “I guess you’re here to see Monica.”
“I guess you’re right,” Ellie said, pushing past Geoff and into the house. She didn’t go very far, looking around the foyer. Geoff was correct, she was waiting for Monica, and she would remain there in that room until his wife appeared. Luckily for Ellie, it didn’t take long.
“Ellie,” said Monica from the top of the stairs. Ellie’s gaze met Monica’s, and there was a nonverbal exchange that neither woman could have ever experienced with a man. “Come around the back, I’ll help you put the gas in the truck.”
Geoff was ever-vacant, watching the women as Ellie headed down the back hallway and Monica descended the stairs. He whispered something to his wife, who brushed him off and continued after Ellie. When Monica reached the garage, Ellie was already standing next to the gas, which was lined up in containers along the back wall.
“Which ones can I take?” Ellie asked, cutting to the chase. Monica gestured to the end.
“Those three, if you think you need that much. We’d be better off if you only took two.” A beat, and she sighed. “But take all three, if you need.”
Ellie nodded and picked up two of them, one in each hand. Then she nodded again, in the direction of the third. “Can you grab that one for me?”
The women, armed with gasoline containers, ventured into the outdoors. The walk to Ellie’s truck was short, because she’d parked around the back by the garage. She’d been prepared for a quick getaway, and Monica noticed. She solemnly loaded the gas she was carrying into the bed of the truck. Ellie followed suit with the two she was carrying. Then she looked at Monica, and both of them were silent, so she opened the driver’s side door.
“Be careful,” Monica called out. Before she could say anything else, Ellie’s lips were on hers. The moment was intense and timid and angry, every emotion either of them could have bottled up. Ellie’s hands lost themselves in Monica’s hair. When Ellie pulled away and the two of them made eye contact, it said more than a thousand conversations. And, at the same time, it said nothing. The empty feeling that had been haunting Ellie never went away, and now was no exception.
“I will,” Ellie said, tucking a strand of hair behind Monica’s ear before turning around. She climbed into the driver’s seat of the truck and pulled the door shut, sticking her left arm out the open window. “I promise. You be careful, now.”
“I promise,” Monica said, and Ellie exchanged one last knowing glance before turning the truck on and pulling away from the scene.
Eight hours later. Ellie was no stranger to the open highway. She’d been there many times before, alone, with that truck or without. She feared no infected nor man that she could cross, knowing she was stronger than either. Why did she lose herself, then?
Monica had asked her if she was still dreaming about her. Ellie had denied the truth, not wanting to admit that she’d been haunted by a ghost that seemed long gone. She’d spent years obsessed over revenge, fascinated by one Abby Anderson, doing nearly anything to drown the visions that plagued her. There was a bottle of whiskey near Ellie nearly all the time now, a surefire way to quench her ruminations. She couldn’t overthink if she was passed out. The bottle sat next to her now, and she took a drink, one eye on the road. It did nothing to wash out the thought of Abby.
The sun was going down, and she was tired of driving. There was nowhere else to go, though, so Ellie pulled over, added more fuel to the tank, and pressed on. As the sun set on the horizon to her right, she searched for a new cassette tape to put in. She found her favorite and pushed it into the proper spot. When the tape refused to play, she ejected it and shook it, then re-inserted it. When it still malfunctioned, she pulled it out again. In a fit of rage, she tossed it into the backseat. Then she sat in somber realization that it was now unreachable, and drove on in silence.
The gas she’d brought didn’t last very long. She made it another two hours before she was running on empty, and she began searching the dark highway ahead of her for any signs of a gas station. Then, as if her luck couldn’t get any better, the truck started making a weird sputtering noise. She pulled off at the next exit and barely rolled the truck into an abandoned gas station.
The moment the vehicle was out of sight of the main road, Ellie turned the engine off. The awful sputtering noise faded out. “Fuck,” she said, tossing the keys somewhere in the passenger seat before getting out of the truck and slamming the door.
A distant but distinct clicking caused her to freeze. “Fuck,” she said again, but much quieter. She was armed, but the backpack was still in the truck, limiting her access to any health supplies or defenses beyond the pistol strapped to her thigh. She cursed under her breath when she reached for her knife but her pocket was empty, and she could remember where she’d accidentally left it in the cupholder. How could she be so stupid?
The sound of the infected individual grew closer, and Ellie found herself surveying the landscape and considering her options. Night was falling, quickly, and the only possible source of light were the headlights that had turned off when she killed the engine on the truck. The moon was no help, either lost behind a cloud or in an unseeable phase (Ellie thought it was the latter). She had no idea how many infected she was up against, and this state was new territory. Leaving the scene wasn’t an option: the truck wasn’t going anywhere, so neither was she. As the intense clicking grew ever closer, Ellie dove under the truck to escape the line of echolocation. Then she reached for her pistol, taking her time to find a good angle, and holding her breath right before she pulled the trigger.
She had good aim. The bullet caught the clicker straight in the head, but it only pissed the creature off. Ellie mumbled other profanities as she crawled out from under the truck just in time to miss a warm welcome from the infected being that was now chasing her. She put some distance between the creature and herself, and turned around, holding up the gun with the hopes of getting some shots in while there was some distance. The same clicking sound rang out from a second voice, this time behind her. Adrenaline surged in her veins, and she shot the first clicker until it fell before breaking into a sprint away from the oncoming enemy. She circled around the truck. Three bullets left. She spent them successfully taking down the second clicker, and waited in silence a moment before allowing herself to breath a sigh of relief. She walked back to the truck and opened the door. She put her knife back in her pocket. She’d acquired it when clearing out an old hunting store in Cheyenne some years back. It had proven to be trustworthy.
Ellie grabbed her backpack and turned on her flashlight, closing the door quietly. Then she made her way to the gas station’s main building. The glass door was already broken, so she approached the scene with caution. She pulled out her knife and crouched down to enter the store, glass crunching under her shoes. She immediately sensed that she wasn’t alone.
Three individuals were aimlessly walking around, muttering incoherently or softly crying, twitching from the disease. Ellie observed their paths before getting to work, slowly taking them all down silently with her knife. She was nearly perfect — nearly.
As she was lowering the third body to the floor, a fourth came out of the hallway that led to the bathroom, and gave a loud cry of awareness before heading in her direction. Ellie almost tripped over an old candy display, backing up and pulling out her rifle. Then her focus was broken by the sound of more infected coming from the hall, and a clicker in the parking lot. Ellie shot the runner that was chasing her first, and then tossed a molotov towards the hallway. An echo of shrieks told her she’d caught at least a few on fire. She threw a second one for good measure, but a remaining few sets of footsteps and voices grew closer.
Back to her rifle. Ellie crouched down and exited the store, finding the clicker she’d heard and using her scope to bring it down in one shot. Then she turned and opened fire on the stragglers from the hallway, some of them still burning. At the end of it all, she scoffed, and went back towards the truck.
Her plan was to sleep in the truck bed, but now she wasn’t sure she’d be able to rest at all. The adrenaline had subsided to anxiety, and it was made worse by another yell from the storefront. Ellie turned around and shot at the runner charging her. Then she was being knocked off her feet by some force from her left.
An infected with early stages of growth on its head was now on top of her, clawing at her aggressively. Ellie couldn’t reach her knife, and she could see the runner she’d wounded getting closer in her peripheral. While she was honed in on the runner, the stalker successfully dug into her shoulder. Adrenaline kicked in again, fueled by rage, and she punched the stalker. That did nearly nothing, but she didn’t give up yet. The runner was here now, reaching towards her.
Then the runner dropped to the ground, dead. It was silent. Ellie didn’t have time to process what she’d seen before she was being crushed by the weight of the stalker, who stopped trying to kill her as it died. Ellie mustered up all her strength and pushed the creature off of her, crawling to her feet with a pained groan. She examined her shoulder and groaned again, this time out of frustration. This was going to leave a mark, and there was no one around to cover it.
Somewhere close, there was a quiet sound of a gun cocking. “Hands up,” said a young man of eighteen.
Ellie turned around. Standing in the dark, nearly invisible, were two people. The taller one was a woman with her hair pulled back, and the shorter one was a boy with a compact bow, drawn and ready to fire at Ellie. The woman held the gun, but it was by her side. Both of them had black masks over their faces, and the woman was also wearing a hat.
“He said hands up,” said the woman when Ellie made no move. “You’re on our territory.”
“I did most of your job for you, you’re welcome,” said Ellie, refusing to comply.
“We could have let you die,” said the young man. “Not that it matters anyway. I should shoot you right here so you don’t have to suffer.”
The woman looked at the boy, who didn’t have to make eye contact with her to understand what she was communicating. Then the woman looked back at Ellie. “We saved your life. The least you can do is put your hands up, so we know you’re not about to kill us.”
“I’m not about to kill you.”
“You’re on our territory. How do we know you’re not an enemy?”
“I’m just passing through. My truck broke down. I don’t have a way out tonight, but I’m leaving in the morning.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
Something in her tone was recognizable. Now that the anxiety of being hunted by infected had settled, Ellie was more coherent in processing the current unfolding events. She sighed and raised her hands. She wished the people were closer, so she could get a better grasp on who they were. The woman seemed to read her mind, stepping closer into the beam of Ellie’s flashlight. The young man circled Ellie slightly to the right, bow still drawn, and when he was seeing her from that angle, he seemed to almost recognize her. He looked at the woman, who didn’t have to make eye contact with him to understand what he was communicating.
“I’ll leave,” Ellie said. “I didn’t know this land had been claimed. I’m just passing through.”
“Where are you headed?” the woman inquired.
Ellie watched the young man, who still had the bow on her. The woman sensed Ellie’s discomfort and motioned for him to lower the weapon. He obeyed. Only then did Ellie look back to the woman, and respond. “Texas. Dallas, I think. I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” the woman pressed. Ellie could see the way she was holding her gun, prepared to defend herself at any moment. Ellie put her hands down, then.
“What’s it to you?” No response, and the moment grew tenser by the second. Ellie drew her pistol and pointed it at the woman, who did the same in return. The young man had his bow up almost immediately, pointed at Ellie again. “Just let me go.”
The woman seemed to be considering her options. Then she motioned towards the young man with her hand. “Lev, it’s fine,” she said. The young man lowered his bow again, and Ellie was racking her brain to remember where that name was familiar. The realization struck her as the woman pulled down her mask, and Ellie froze, staring back into the eyes of Abby Anderson. When she found herself able to speak, she kept her pistol aimed at Abby.
“Just let me go,” she repeated.
“Let you go?” Abby said. “You just said your truck broke down, and you look like shit. Do you really think you’re going to get far?”
“I don’t need your help,” said Ellie.
Abby lowered her gun first, and shrugged. “Fine. Lev, let’s go.” She turned around, headed back into the darkness, and Lev followed suit. Ellie finally lowered her gun, and thought about the night ahead of her.
“Wait,” Ellie called out, before Abby and Lev had gone very far.
“Catch up,” was Abby’s response.
Ellie jogged until she was walking with them, just behind. The stars were visible in the clear sky, and she saw a small flash of light arc overhead as one of them shot away. She looked back at the truck for the last time, as if wishing it goodbye.
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I made a post on tiktok saying that Kit and Ty are the slowest burn ever.
And someone commented no it’s good omens bc they take thousands of years
But you don’t understand
The good omens book has been out for a while and the show only had like four years between s1 and 2. (Which is long for a show but we’re comparing to twp here)
While on the Kit and Ty timeline Kit thought Ty was beautiful and Ty was mesmerized by Kit’s eyes 2016 when Lady Midnight came out!!
(I hadn’t even read TDA till QOAAD came out but point still stands)
Then their relationship progressed in LOS and QOAAD. Where we were left completely hanging.
And the past fives years we’ve been getting tidbits. We still have two years to go and now the seasons of shadowhunters.
Then TWP we hope will be out by 2025.
But we knowww that they will not figure their shit out in the first book.
So all in all I’ll be so proud of them if they are together by the end of the decade.
Which totals to a 14-15 year slowburn 😭
#so by the time the last twp book comes out#kids born when lady midnight came out#might even be shadowhunter fans themselves#slowest of slow burn#the wicked powers#the dark artfices#kit x ty#kit herondale#ty blackthorn#good omens
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HER | teaser.
✧✎ 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 teaser word count: 1.4k actual word count: 140k (yes, u read that correctly) 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 for the full fic: drug use (weed, coke, ecstasy), wonwoo has anxiety + anxiety attacks + fairly dark thoughts, prescribed medication, gambling, intense language, infidelity, throwing up.
✧✎ a/n: as i descend to one knee and cup my hands together at your mercy, i offer a tidbit to the wonwoo fic i have finally completed after two years (lol). i know i ALWAYS say this, but i truly wasn't expecting the fic to be THIS FUCKING LONG! thankfully, i planned it well and although i lost momentum countless times (nervously side eyes the approximate & several 5 month breaks i took in between), my dedication to seeing the characters through & "completing" their growth was smth that i could not leave behind!
not having posted a fic for two years is prob a little much :0 so hopefully the length of this makes up for it (?) usually my writing is just teehee silly little romance agonizing slowburn surface level dilemmas of the self BUT THIS ONE HAS A LITTLE KICK!
so read it if you want! don't read it if you don't want!
hearts & flowers, xoxoxo (me :*)
UPDATE: read the first part here!
—MARCH 19TH.
“I have a relatively big favour to ask of you.”
No. Wonwoo didn’t want anything to do with favours.
The fact that Seokmin had actively picked out his presence in the coffee shop like he was some shiny contortion of plastic had actually offended Wonwoo. He came here for two things: to not be bothered, which his friend knew, and to work on the book he was halfway through typing and had been halfway through typing for the past six months. Call it writer’s block, or an inspiration drought, or an absolutely depressing lack of drive—it had been hanging over the writer with an annoying persistence and it seemed that no number of lemony scones or cold coffees were going to make it vanish.
“Uh, Wonwoo?”
“Sorry… what?” He forced his gaze to shift from the blank page on his laptop to Seokmin’s apologetic, softly expressional face, slightly flushed from his time outdoors in the chilled March weather.
“I was just wondering if you’d be up for a favour—a pretty big one—and I know this is your special creativity spot, but she’s been like, breathing down my neck about it and I can’t put it off again.”
“Whose been breathing down your neck?”
At first, Seokmin didn’t say a word, or even make a sound. His lips twitched for a moment, but then he pressed them together and his chest visibly sucked in with a breath. God, Wonwoo hated the suspense and he hated Seokmin for interrupting him when he had been so stupidly close to putting a sentence down that he probably would have back-spaced in frustration a minute later.
“Y’know…” he trailed off, “Her.”
Her.
No, not her, you.
But most people—if not everyone—referred to you by an alias that had seemed to stick so well the majority believed it actually was your name. When people said her they meant Her, and so in a confusing mess of finger-pointing they really meant you. Come to think of it, Wonwoo had no idea where the nickname even came from or who gave it to you or what it even meant.
And he was perfectly fine with never knowing.
“What?” Wonwoo deadpanned. “What on earth could she want to do with me? She doesn’t even know me.” He slid down in his chair, fingers pulling at his circle-lensed glasses so they tilted uncomfortably across his nose bridge. “Or, is this a joke?”
“Oh—no! Absolutely not!” His friend was insistent on proclaiming, vigorously shaking his head. “I’m being serious.”
“Why don’t I believe you then?”
“Okay, well, if you let me explain everything, it’ll all make sense. I said I know someone who writes really well—”
“Meaning me?”
“Yes, meaning you. And the only reason that was even brought up is because she wants to write a book.”
Wonwoo couldn’t help it. He laughed—a very short, disbelieving laugh that flashed a transient smile to his face as he readjusted his crooked glasses. You were the last person he would ever envision wanting to write a book. He then navigated the trackpad on his laptop, deciding to close the document simply titled, 01, that harboured the fleet of pages to his own current work in progress.
“Yeah,” Wonwoo disregarded, “sounds like bullshit.”
“I’m telling you the truth!” Seokmin exclaimed, gripping onto the metal back of the café chair like he was squeezing someone’s taunt shoulders. “She won’t tell me about what, okay? Just that she’s been thinking the idea for a while now. It’s not like I didn’t try to get details. But she refused—said the only person who can know is whoever’s going to help her. Look, y’have to understand, she was pestering me about it nonstop. And you’re my only writer friend!”
“Well, you’re about to have none.” He answered, reaching for his coffee cup but stopping it just short of his lips. “How serious is she about this, anyway?” Wonwoo sighed. “Do you know how much fucking time you need to dedicate to writing a book?”
He stomached a slow, somewhat grimacing sip as he tasted the coffee’s coldness, meanwhile Seokmin swallowed heavily, and at last pulled out the chair he’d been white-knuckling to take a seat.
“Yes, I’m aware it takes time. I know that. And she is serious or else I wouldn’t be here, bothering you. She takes everything seriously.” The boy began unbuttoning his sleek black jacket. “Really, who knows what’ll happen? Maybe you’ll meet her once and she’ll decide she can’t stand you, and then you’re off the hook for life.”
“Yeah, well have you ever considered what might happen if I can’t stand her? Are my feelings even being considered? Minutely?”
“Minutely, they are being considered.”
“Liar.”
It wasn’t that Wonwoo disliked you.
In actuality, you scared him more than anything. But to be associated with you was to be drawn into your life and caught like a firefly in a glass jelly jar. The proof was right in front of him—to Wonwoo’s eyes, Seokmin was basically your little mailman that scrambled around in hectic nature to do your bidding, because most tasks apparently weren’t worth the time or effort.
“I can’t believe you’re trying to rope me into this. You know I can hardly write my own shit, right?” Wonwoo said bitterly, wishing it was the opposite, “my mind is a desolate, blank canvas of fuck-all and if she thinks I’m writing it then she needs a reality check.”
“No, no—of course you won’t write it!” Seokmin reassured him with his big, opalescent smile. “Really, you’re just giving tips, maybe guiding her process, helping with the planning… you know, this could be facilitated so much easier if you spoke to Her yourself!”
“So, my nightmare?” Wonwoo huffed, shaking his leg.
In an instant, Seokmin had whipped out his phone, tapping around the screen quickly using his thin pointer finger.
“I’m just going to pull up her schedule. It’s always pretty packed, but more into the summer break, it thins out a little. “
Wonwoo exhaled, staring off into the warm, afternoon sunlight that hailed in through the windows, striking all the shimmering flecks and pieces of dust afloat in the café air. When he breathed in again, he could smell the luxurious coffees brewing in their rich and distinctive notes. It was such a beautiful day—still chilly as the snow outdoors began to thaw—but pleasant nonetheless.
“This is such a fucking waste.”
And Wonwoo spent it being miserable.
“No, it’ll be useful. Trust.” Seokmin chirped.
“You’re trying to dip me in your optimism gloss again.”
His friend smiled affectionately, tilting his head.
“This will be good. You’ve been a hermit since I’ve known you.”
“Yeah,” Wonwoo scoffed, “so you think it’s a good idea to shove me with the person I relate to least on the entire planet?”
“Really? The least? So, what you’re saying is, you relate more to serial killers? Or animal abusers? Or like, literal fasc—”
“Stop.”
“You want to do this. I can see it in your eyes. I’ll set you up.”
A part of Wonwoo knew there might be no wriggling out of the situation, especially with Seokmin sitting across from him, characteristically eager and brightly pushy as always, like a goddamn salesman. For now, it could be easier to let himself get cuffed.
“Can I at least have some time to think it over?”
“Uh… well… the thing is… the thing with that is—”
“You’ve cornered me?”
“I wouldn’t word it like that.”
“… Okay.” Wonwoo removed his glasses, shoved his knuckles tender but deep into his eye sockets, massaging through flashes of white as he came to accept a fate he didn’t know even existed in his astrology. “Just, I don’t know—fuck—schedule me in wherever.”
“Ha! It doesn’t exactly work like that.”
“I really don’t give a damn how it works, Seokmin.”
“Right,” his friend laughed nervously, “I promise that I’ll get back to you pronto. Sorry for the disturbance. And, uh, good luck.”
“With what part?” Wonwoo grumbled, fixing his spectacles back on to clarify Seokmin’s sympathetic face, the light bouncing off his head of brassy hair like a disco ball. “My incapability to write a goddamn thing or the fact I have to help your perfectionist friend who’s probably going to chew me up and spit me out?”
“Both parts.” Seokmin grinned. “It can only go up from here.”
✧✎ a/n: tada!
this is the introductory scene! i think i've read it so many times that i could probably recite it from memory at this point ;_; anyway! as i mentioned, i know that it's been a hot minute since i last uploaded any scenarios. but one way or another this monster is getting posted! i did NOT have this lurking on my poor tired macbook causing it to overheat and sputter and spew FOR NOTHING!!
i swear that i don't plan for my works to get this goddamn long. before i hardly planned at all. maybe now i plan too much? i guess i have yet to find a happy medium!! but again, i do hope the size of the fic makes up for all that missed time :_( life has been ruff. but this fic was there as a handy distraction mechanism (when i prob should have been facing reality fhwejfhwk) so i guess it's been a double-edged sword!
also just want to preface that the reader goes by an alias throughout the fic. i'm not sure if this is like... a very huge or popular concept nowadays? so if it hits your reading ear a bit weird at first i apologize! but i swear it has purpose!! *chekhovs rule* *winkwink*
ANYWAY! no more rambling!
i'm pondering the idea of adding a taglist for those who are interested, just as i did with honey boy :3 so if that tickles ur fancy then feel free to each out!
BUT PLZ HEED THE FOLLOWING:
the fic in its entirety will be split across 6 parts
the word count of each part ranges from 22-24k!
i do not YET have a set posting schedule, simply bc i am unsure of how long it will take ppl to get through each part
(so that would be smth i'd have to gauge afterward)
REVISIT THE WARNINGS!!
i will not be flagging mature/nsfw/triggering scenes throughout the fic as the fic itself already has a heavy nature to it
so pls read the warnings!
if there's any additional questions i encourage u to swing by :3
*deep breath*
THANK YOU!!!!!
#seventeen scenarios#wonwoo scenarios#seventeen x reader#wonwoo x reader#svt fanfic#wonwoo fanfic#seventeen fanfic#jeon wonwoo#seventeen angst#seventeen fluff#seventeen smut#svt scenarios
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On a scale of least to most slowburn, where do all of the ROs lie? Can you tag this question with #slowburn, please?
From least to most slowburn:
Az -> Laz -> Os -> Ash -> Vez
The first two are pretty low on slowburn; Os is slowish until their feelings grow too much; the last two are the slowest. But even Ash & Vez are not too slow because TAS will have only one book and so there's not much time to let them all be as slow as they could've been otherwise. I want to get to the juicy parts of their relationships before the story ends!
Thank you for the ask! 💛
#asks#slowburn#this is a tentative answer#I have a feeling Ash could surprise me with their slowburn levels#the abyssal song
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