2025 Round: Quotes

[hwarium]

Status: Open Prompting is currently open. Prompting is open from 28 December 2024 to 19 January 2025. Seventeen Holidays 2025 Round: Quotes About "the poem begins not where the knife enters, but where the blade twists" "beauty is terror" "you'll just have to taste me, when he's kissing you" Calling all readers, lovers of poetry and music, screen and stage. Quote collecters and lyric hoarders, unleash your archive. For this round, every prompt must contain a quote - you can combine them, add commentary, link to articles, do whatever. Steal from a literary classic, or copy a hit tweet. 🛑 HOLD UP If this is your first time on 17hols please check out our About Page which has helpful information about dreamwidth and HTML. We are a prompting fest where all the action happens in the comment section. Rules Sign up is not required. Fills have a minimum of 400 words for prose, haiku-length for poetry (3 lines), and 400px by 400px for art (memes are also art). Other mediums are fine too! There is no maximum cap. Tag and provide content warnings at your discretion, but a good guide are the Ao3 four (Graphic Depictions of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage) and this list of common CWs (cr: SportsFest). NSFW/Explicit content should be tagged NSFW art should not be visible, please provide a link and a warning. You may crop the artwork and embed a SFW preview. How it works Prompting Click on [Post a New Comment] at the bottom of this post; Change the subject; Copy+Paste the following HTML into your comment and edit the sections. Feel free to add as much detail as you want! Need ideas? Check out our 2021 and 2022 Quote rounds. <strong>Ship/Member:</strong> Any <strong>Major Tags:</strong> N/A <strong>Additional Tags:</strong> N/A <strong>Do Not Wants:</strong> None <strong>Prompt:</strong> <blockquote>[QUOTE GOES HERE] </blockquote> Filling Reply to the original prompt; You must change the subject to [FILL] - this is to help the mods track. Feel free to add a title Copy+Paste the following HTML into your comment, edit the sections, and add your text. You may also upload your fill to the AO3 Collection. <strong>Ship/Member:</strong> Any <strong>Major Tags:</strong> N/A <strong>Additional Tags:</strong> N/A <strong>Permission to remix:</strong> Yes/No/Please ask *** Remixing Post as a reply to the fill you are remixing, using the same HTML as above; Change the subject to [REMIX]. Art/media Upload your work to any platform (twitter, imgur, youtube, soundcloud, google maps, etc.) Using the same HTML code as above, copy the link into your fill or remix. That's it! Optionally, you can embed a picture into your comment. Please use the following code instead. (To explain, the HTML resizes your picture to 400x400px so that it fits on most screens. Users can view the full size if they click on it. You can also add a link to your work on twitter so that others can share it, or to any other website you want) <strong>Ship/Member:</strong> Any <strong>Major Tags:</strong> N/A <strong>Additional Tags:</strong> N/A <strong>Permission to remix:</strong> Yes/No/Please ask *** <img src="INSERT IMAGE URL" width="400px"> <a href="INSERT ANY URL YOU WANT">TEXT THAT DESCRIBES THE LINK</a> Note! On dreamwidth, you can't edit a comment once someone has replied to it. Navigation ABOUT FAQ TWITTER BAITS ✧ 2025 ROUND: QUOTES ✧ 2025 FILLS MASTERLIST ARCHIVE: 2021 ARCHIVE: 2022 ARCHIVE: 2023 NOTION DATABASE

Comments

we start with pain (bright dead things)

[hwarium]

Ship/Member: Any, but consider soonwoo, or mafia!AU jun8
Major Tags: N/A
Additional Tags: mutually destructive exes
Do Not Wants: None

Prompt:

But love is impossible and it goes on
despite the impossible. You're the muscle
I cut from the bone and still the bone
remembers, still it wants (so much, it wants)
the flesh back, the real thing,
if only to rail against it, if only
to argue and fight, if only to miss
a solve-able absence.

- Ada Limon "In a Mexican Restaurant I Recall How Much You Upset Me’ from the collection Bright Dead Things

&

and all I can do
        is stand on the curb and say Sorry
           about the blood in your mouth. I wish it was mine.

I couldn’t get the boy to kill me, but I wore his jacket for the longest time.

- Richard Siken "Little Beast" from the collection Crush

[FILL] bright dead things

[deadwine]

Ship/Member: Junhui/Minghao
Major Tags: explicit sexual content, implied violent sex, implied choking, general violence
Additional Tags: small towns, messed-up upbringings, one-sided Minghao/Yixing, second person POV (Minghao's POV), not quite a mafia AU but close, mutually destructive exes, ambiguous ending
Permission to remix: Please ask

***
You know how impossible it sounds when you say it, watching the flames lick the last visible inch of the sturdy leather seat of your motorcycle of ten years, ruined by the only one who has ever known your weak spots, and yet you say it because it's true and you're still too fucking honest for your own good.

It all started because it was fun. Nothing more, nothing less.

*

He had the only bicycle of all the kids living on your lane and a beguiling fucking smile, even at eleven.

You had newly learnt how to do a backflip and dodge a punch in the alley behind school and really, it took much less than that to become someone interesting in a small town where everyone grew up with the singular dream of leaving.

*

By the time you were eighteen, you knew the sound of his footsteps on the gravel outside your window better than you had known your father's face and he knew you would only initiate kisses underwater in the community pool at 6 am but reciprocate no matter how risky and public the events where he tried it.

You realised you had to get away when the most familiar cheek under your tight reared-back-and-ready knuckles was his, even if it was because he wanted you to teach him the one dance you stuck to while all its tamer accompaniments got abandoned the year your mother, too, disappeared.

Maybe it wasn't a realisation so much as a slow awakening to something that was glaring at you all along; you had always liked it when you rode his bike in tandem down the road at the edge of the forest next to down, brambled and twig-lined, bound to rope you both into a fall that split your knees open and scuffed your elbows.

Nobody else you knew believed love was preserved in the act of drawing blood from one's lover with their own hands.

But what the hell did you both even know back then?

It was fun. That's all there was to it.

*

The leaving was inevitable as was the parting. You never told him where you're going and he never asked you to stay--only pushed you into the backseat of his uncle's car and touched you until you begged to be fucked, and then he did. A last act of his love and a last act of your violence. Or vice versa.

*

But you should've known that people like you never got away from anything you were running from. Not the poverty or the fistfights or the only love that cut you down to your bones only to have you desire the pain, not abhor it.

*

So here he is, the forgotten ghost of your past but ghost no more, yours no more, forgotten no more.

If you're as honest as you pride yourself to be, none of that is true. None of it, except all of it.

Because he's here and you did forget how his smile could drive you to murder if you let it. He's here and he punches with intent, not like the limp-fisted boy who seemed alive only when the sun hit his hair just right. He's here, at the club you hang around and do odd jobs for the worst kind of people, arm-in-arm with Yixing, like they're the ones with a history that gave your stupid town its first and only public indecency scare.

Yixing, who has been a bouncer at the club because he doesn't have the means to be anything more but wants to fucking protect people anyway.

Yixing, who you've wanted since the moment you laid eyes on him. Yixing who takes your bloodied body home and fixes you up but never tugs you into his bed, even though surely he knows that the only reason you let him catch you post-fights and unguarded, over and over again, is for that very reason.

He's here and his body is curved around Yixing's and he's not yours and for the first time since you met Yixing you know you don't have to be the one to instigate a fight to top off a bad night.

*

So you find out what shithole he's putting up in and you trash it while he's out pretending Yixing is his type, too, even though you both know he's not. Surely Yixing's never let a lover press their thumb into his wounds and laugh like the world's funniest joke was birthed from the touch of their fingertips to raw hurt.

And then he finds your bike and sets fire to it, no trace of him left behind at the club's lot where you keep it save for the way Yixing won't meet your eyes.

It's okay though. You understand now that he wouldn't have been able to satisfy the madman in you, anyway, would probably hate how you'd wake up the morning after and push him around like it was what he deserved when he didn't.

When you go home, near dawn, it doesn't surprise you to find him sitting outside your door, long legs stretched out and a cigarette dangling from his lips. After all, you've only ever loved beyond the point of obsession and the only thing he's never been casual about is you.

He doesn't ask to be let in and you don't keep him out.

You're too honest to tell him you don't want him and he's never needed words to navigate this anyway.

He'll follow you to bed and say please and get his hands around your throat and counts your breaths even if you shake your head and you will cry and surrender and slap him for it in the morning; and then you'll find a fight until the itch for him returns, or he will, if the blood stains on his denim jacket are anything to go by--and you'll want to leave by the end of the week because you have always wanted to get away, but ten years and then some apart, you still haven't figured out if away meant away from what was your home or away from him as well, so you'll rail and bitch and threaten to do it but you won't. Not until the itch subsides.

But hey, if history always does repeat itself, at least you can be certain that it will be fun.

you are my lover but you are so cold

[deadwine]

Ship/Member: Minghao/Junhui, Minghao/Wonwoo, Minghao/Woozi
Major Tags: N/A
Additional Tags: N/A
Do Not Wants: None

Prompt:

If I say I love you, would you
Reply with the same intensity
The drops of rain cover up tears
Inexplicably filled with emotions and thinking about our relationship
You will come closer or drift further
I will be waiting in the rain

-The8, Cold Love

[FILL] 始终有限

[hwarium]

Ship/Member: Junhui/Minghao
Major Tags: N/A
Additional Tags: high school!AU, weather forecast: rain with a chance of breakup
Permission to remix: Yes! (Junhui's POV?)

***

“How does it go? The saying?” Wonwoo glanced at him as they waited on the platform, the cold bright lights of the station reflected on his glasses like a twinkle. “If something truly belongs to you, let it go and see if it comes back?”

“Do you believe that?” Minghao said, “That some people are never meant to be yours?”

Wonwoo tilted his head, chin dipping into the red scarf wrapped around his wet shoulders. He was contemplative, and seemed for a moment that he had something profound to share, but the moment ended with a burst of soft laughter.

“Yes, of course. Keria. Faker? I could never date them no matter how much I adore them. Even if I told them please, please go on a date with me I’m good at League,” Wonwoo shook his head and scratched his ear, “Sorry, I know your question was more nuanced.”

The lights on the edge of the platform started blinking faster. Overhead, a polite voice made the announcement Please stand clear. The train was to arrive, exactly as scheduled.

“No, I think you’re right,” The corner of Minghao’s mouth twitched, “Of course some people are never meant to be together. You and me, Soonyoung-hyung and Seungkwan —”. Wonwoo laughed at that “— New Jeans and HYBE. I think the question should be, how should you know, whether the someone is someone you’re not meant to keep?”

Like clockwork, the doors of the carriage lined up with the platform gates. Minghao glanced at the station list on the signage above. This one was the express, not a train going local.

“I’m on the next one,” Minghao said, “I’ll see you in class tomorrow?”

“Good night Minghao,” Wonwoo waved, “Sorry we didn’t finish taking about Junhui.”

“All good hyung, you gave me something to think about,” Minghao waved back, just as the door closed and the train left without him.

Someone he was never meant to keep.

Yes. They were talking about Junhui.

---

The signs were there, like a well written book with carefully placed clues. A gun on the dining table, a knife by the bed, a stray comment about a locked room. Theatre club darling, street grime breakdancer, teacher’s pet, aloof delinquent. Handsome, lanky. Popular, reclusive.

Placing Junhui and Minghao side by side was just an invitation to comparison.

Junhui always shone brighter from the very beginning. At school his smile was an aura that warmed the space around him. The harshest teachers seemed to melt, the coldest girls seemed to soften. He won the awards that won the school front pages in the local newspaper. Junhui was friends with the cooler kids, Kwon Soonyoung respected his opinions when it came to stage direction, and once (or twice!) Yoon Jeonghan came to speak to him.

Junhui was a year older, so they only met because Minghao took advanced maths a year early and both of them took the summer course at the cram school. Minghao recognised Wonwoo from library duty and Wonwoo was sitting next to Junhui.

How does one summarise a love story into a paragraph?

Minghao would rather not think about the beginning, as he sat here thinking about the end. He’s at the school gates, waiting for Junhui and Wonwoo to come out so that they can walk to cram school together.

The signs were there. Junhui was graduating soon, but he wanted to go to theatre school, not university. Their city did not have a theatre school. Maybe it was exams, but Minghao could count on one hand the number of dates that were Junhui’s idea, and not Minghao’s. And maybe it’s just a habit, how Junhui reaches for his phone when there’s a lull in the conversation. And maybe it is forgetfulness, how Junhui says goodbye after already turning around to go.

Recently there was a listlessness to Junhui, a point on the horizon that his gaze drifted to. It’s easy, to slip into a habit of wondering. Going to arcades and wondering if Junhui wanted to be elsewhere. Having ramen and wondering if Junhui preferred malatang.

Sitting next to him, and wondering of Junhui preferred someone else. Wu Jiafan who was funnier. Yanan, who was more handsome. Or even Wonwoo, who was smarter.

Speaking of.

“Hey.”

Wonwoo has arrived, uniform still neatly tucked in while Minghao’s was untucked even before he arrived on campus. Junhui’s not with Wonwoo, but that’s to be expected. He’s known for loitering after class, chatting to everyone and drawing them in with his enigma.

Wonwoo must’ve seen something in Minghao’s eyes because he bent down for a moment and then straightened up again, “I’ll go on ahead. Need to buy stationery before class.”

“Sure,” Minghao said, “See you there.”

“Do you have an umbrella? It’s forecasted to pour.”

Minghao looked up. The sky was overcast in the inevitable way that signalled rain. “I’ll be okay. If it rains I’ll make a run for it,” he shrugged, “And if I get wet, I get wet.”

“And then you’ll dry off?” Wonwoo raised an eyebrow.

“I’ll dry off,” Minghao shrugged, “Eventually.”

“Don’t wait too long then, not if it starts raining.”

“Sure, see you later.”

Wonwoo hovered for a second before turning around, just long enough for Minghao to perceive it as something. A good luck or I’m on your side. Maybe it was nothing, but for Wonwoo, words and actions found it difficult to escape the gravity of his conscience. So the silence was something.

Minghao waited for the thoughts to return, for the heat to rise again. A gaggle of students poured out the gate, laughing and nodding.

There was always an opacity to Junhui’s wants. He said yes too easily, to teacher’s requests, to Minghao’s ideas. He had said yes dating Minghao, that late night at the convenience store, both of them eating instant noodles by the window. And he would say yes to Minghao if he asked —

Lets break up.

Minghao’s heart hammered at the words. The concept was like water in a room, and Minghao had just placed his hand on the door knob, and felt the force behind it.

It felt inevitable, like a wave coming onto the shore. Unstoppable, no matter what Minghao said, whether he raised his voice or stamped his feet. It was like as Wonwoo said, no matter how much he adored Jun, it will not mean that Jun was any more meant to be his. He could say I love you, but Jun may not reply with the same intensity, or reply at all.

“Haohao. Lost in your thoughts?”

Minghao jumped. Jun had bent over a comical angle, long hair hovering just over Minghao’s forehead. Even upside down he was so handsome. Seeing Jun made Minghao want to grow smaller, stick his bottom lip out in a pout and show his sour moods. Invite the love, the attention. Let Jun ruffle his hair or buy him snacks.

He didn’t want this to end. But maybe it will. Maybe he’ll say something and Jun will only drift even further away.

Or maybe he’ll drift even closer.

But that was a decision for Jun to make, if Minghao gave him that decision.

“Jun-ge,” Minghao stood up, felt the muscles in his leg stretch out and something in his heart relax. He was never a coward, and honesty has never disappointed him. “Can we talk?”

---

Thank you pb for the prompt that immediately sniped me like a bird out of the air. When I listened to the song it made me think of a moment right after an inevitable breakup, with one side loving the other more but choosing to let go. But as I wrote Minghao, I realised he's the kind of person who will always do right by his heart, even if he knew the outcome.

The title is also from the lyrics of The8's Cold Love. The word 始终有限 means 'limited', but the literal meaning of the characters is 'the beginning and end has been set'. I like how it suggests preordained breadth, and it reminded me of a high school romance that was never meant to last, but was beautiful while it lasted. (In my head Jun8 talks it out and decides that they will break up when Jun graduates but will spend the summer going on dates and bullying Wonwoo).

love is an open square

[hwarium]

Ship/Member: Any, but I'm feeling the jihancheol triangulation
Major Tags: N/A
Additional Tags: acts of service as a love language but it's actually repentance, compassion as a reading your bruises on other people, wartime, unrequited love infinity mirrors
Do Not Wants: None

Prompt:

Caravaggio: You're in love with him, aren't you? Your poor patient. You think he's a saint because of the way he looks? I don't think he is.

Hana: I'm not in love with him. I'm in love with ghosts. So is he, he's in love with ghosts.

- The English Patient (Movie)

[FILL] the dust of our years

[kumquat]

Ship/Member: Seungcheol/Jeonghan/Joshua
Major Tags: Major Character Death
Additional Tags: fire emblem three houses au, joshua-centric, moral and romantic ambiguity
Permission to remix: Yes

***

Here was where he and Jeonghan had gotten reprimanded by the archbishop after the incident with the cats. That was a close call, hehehe. Here was where the three of them had wolf-whistled as Soonyoung and Junhui practiced for the White Heron Cup. Here, where Jisoo had dozed on Jeonghan’s shoulder, watching a boy heave an axe twice his size over his head. Hey Joshuji, are you listening to me?

For years afterwards Jisoo told himself variations on the same story.

[3k on ao3]

A/N: hwa i didn’t want to read your fe3h au before i finished this one (sliding home just shy of the deadline) but When I Get You!!!!

chainsaw revving

[rainiest]

Ship/Member: Any
Major Tags: (Suggestion of) violence
Additional Tags: Breakup? Toxic breakup? Breakup so toxic that someone should probably be in jail?
Do Not Wants: None

Prompt:

You couldn’t tame me right
I was all that you knew
Why were you so good to me?
Was I worth it, baby?
You keep running, running far away
Shouting that you hate me

Chill Kill, Red Velvet

 

Timmy: Note to self: Never break up with a girl in the Violent Gardening Tools section.

The Fairly Oddparents (2001-2017)

 

[FILL] hemlock

[cheapdates]

Ship/Member: Jeonghan/Mingyu
Major Tags: minor mentions of blood, post-break up, implied toxic relationship
Additional Tags: taking a prompt too literally. the unraveling of jeonghan's sanity.
Permission to remix: Yes! (scenes from the ~before? 🤲)

***

Jeonghan sits cross-legged on the tile floor of the greenhouse, the humid air sticking to the bare skin of his arms and legs. Sweat drips down the back of his neck, soaking into the collar of his shirt. Around him, the plants are all wilting—ferns curling in on themselves, flowers drooping like severed heads, their petals browned at the edges.

The small handwritten plaques Mingyu had made for each plant are still there: Hoya - devotion, Aster - patience, Gladiolus - sincerity.

Jeonghan sneers at the words now. Devotion. Patience. Sincerity. Qualities he never possessed. Qualities Mingyu had begged him to find.

Just one throwaway, sarcastic comment—"Maybe I’ll take up gardening if you’re so desperate for me to do something”—and Mingyu had taken it as gospel. He’d spent weeks building this space, as if the perfect greenhouse could somehow grow Jeonghan a conscience.

“Water them every morning,” Mingyu had said when he handed Jeonghan the keys. His voice had been warm, so goddamn encouraging. “They’ll thrive if you just give them a little attention.”

A loaded request. A plea for Jeonghan to meet him halfway. But Jeonghan hadn’t been good at meeting Mingyu anywhere, least of all halfway.

Unsurprisingly, Jeonghan had been shit at caring for plants, just like he’d been shit at caring for anything else—Mingyu, their relationship, himself. And so it had been Mingyu who had picked up the slack and gotten into the hobby instead.

Sitting here now, among the ghosts of Mingyu’s effort, it feels less like a greenhouse and more like a mausoleum. Even the cactus Mingyu had bought him as a joke—a sturdy, unkillable little thing—now lists pitifully to the side, its spines shriveled. Jeonghan stares at it, his thumb running thoughtfully along the rim of its terracotta pot.

“Maybe they all know you’re gone. Maybe they’re in mourning.” His laugh is bitter, echoing off the tile floor.

The greenhouse creaks, the sound of wind buffeting against the glass panes, and Jeonghan swears it sounds like someone sighing.




***




Jeonghan kneels beside the dying loquat tree, his hands shaking as he presses his fingers into the dry, cracked soil. The tree’s leaves, once waxy and vibrant, now hang limp and lifeless. He leans forward and wraps his arms around the pot, his face buried in the brittle branches.

“Come on,” he coaxes. “You were his favorite. You can’t die. Not now.”

The greenhouse groans, and Jeonghan freezes.

A flicker of movement catches his eye—a vine trailing down from the rafters, unfurling impossibly fast towards the ground. He scrambles back, heart pounding, his feet slipping on the tiled floor. The loquat tree teeters before toppling over, dirt spilling across the greenhouse floor.

Jeonghan blinks, and when his eyes refocus, the vine is still.

“You’re such a coward,” Jeonghan says aloud.

In his mind, Mingyu is there, arms crossed, shoulders rigid, that infuriating mix of disappointment and hope etched into his stupidly handsome features. The same way he’d always looked at Jeonghan, right up until the very end. Mingyu had been so damn patient, trying to reason with him, trying to fix him. And Jeonghan had made it impossible. Futile.

“Couldn’t even stay long enough to see me change,” Jeonghan spits. But there’s no venom in it because he knows the truth. He’d left because Jeonghan gave him no reason to believe he ever would change.

The wind rattles the glass panes, and Jeonghan stiffens. The sound is too measured, too rhythmic. Like footsteps. 

He whirls around, but the greenhouse is empty. Only the plants and flowers remain, their shadows stretching unnaturally in the dim light.




***



The whispers start that night.

At first, Jeonghan thinks it’s the wind or the family next door playing their radio too loud out on the back steps. He burrows deeper into the couch, trying to focus on the static of the TV, but the voices grow louder as the hours drag on.

One rises above the rest, a rasping murmur that is painfully, unnervingly familiar.

Why weren’t you good to me? 

It sounds so much like Mingyu that it twists Jeonghan’s stomach into knots, and he bolts upright, kicking aside the blanket tangled around his legs. He stomps out to the greenhouse without bothering to put on shoes.

“Really?” he hisses into the empty room. “Haunting me now? What, to guilt me into saying I’m sorry? That I should’ve been better? You knew what you were getting into. I warned you, and you said you wanted me anyway.”

The plants around him sway gently, though there is no breeze. The air grows heavier, pressing down on him like Mingyu’s disappointment used to.

“Go ahead,” Jeonghan says with a sharp, hollow laugh. “Say what you want, Mingyu-yah. Tell me how horrible I was. I can take it.”

But the whispers don’t come again. 




***




The greenhouse is alive. Jeonghan is sure of it now.

The fern that had been wilted yesterday now stands upright, grown nearly a foot overnight, its fronds spilling over the edge of its pot, its shadow stretching long and menacing against the greenhouse wall.

The air inside feels thicker today too, suffocatingly so, and Jeonghan’s pulse skips as his gaze sweeps over the room. The plants and flowers are all different now—lush, overgrown, unnatural. Their leaves all tilt towards him, like they’re watching.

“This isn’t real,” Jeonghan mumbles under his breath. He paces between the rows of shelves, bare feet brushing against scattered bits of soil.

The plants answer.

It starts as a faint rustling, like wind swirling through a forest, but it grows louder, overlapping into a cacophony of unintelligible whispers.

Jeonghan’s head spins and he stumbles forward, grabbing onto a shelf for balance. His hand brushes against a thorned stem, and the sharp pain jerks him back to reality.

Blood wells on his palm, bright and startling against all the green.

“Stop it!” he screams, grabbing the plant and hurling it across the room. The pot shatters against the tile floor, the plant crumpling into a heap of soil and broken roots.

“Is this what you wanted?” Jeonghan shouts, chest heaving. “To make me regret everything?”

He sinks to his knees, his bloodied hand trembling as he clutches it to his chest.

“To make me hurt the way I hurt you?”

The whispers stop, and the silence is worse.




***




The greenhouse is unrecognizable, torn apart in Jeonghan’s rage.

Shattered pots and mangled plants are strewn across the floor, their roots exposed and curling like corpse fingers. Soil covers the tiles, imprinted with frantic footprints and blood from Jeonghan’s raw knuckles. The glass panels are cracked, letting in gusts of cold air that cut through the humidity.

Jeonghan stands in the center of the room, breathing hard, a piece of vine clenched in his fist. His hand is trembling, dirt embedded under his nails, but his grip doesn’t loosen. 

The whispers are deafening now, overlapping, drowning out his thoughts. They fill the greenhouse, bouncing off the broken glass and reverberating through his skull.

Was I worth it, baby?

Jeonghan stumbles back, clutching at his ears, but it’s no use. The whispers are inside his head now. His knees buckle, and he collapses to the floor, surrounded by the remnants of the life Mingyu had tried to build with him. Ruined, just like everything Jeonghan has ever touched.

“I loved you,” Jeonghan chokes out, his cheek pressing against the soil-streaked tiles, body curling in on itself. Tears sting at the edges of his eyes. “Wasn’t that enough?”

The answer is unspoken but deafening. 

No. It wasn’t.

Mingyu had loved him back enough to try, enough to spend countless sleepless nights trying to sand down Jeonghan’s broken edges, trying to piece him together in hopes of making him whole. But Jeonghan didn’t want to be whole. He didn’t want to be fixed, didn’t want to change for anyone, not even Mingyu.

Maybe especially not for Mingyu.

Because changing would mean admitting there was something wrong with him in the first place. It would mean letting someone in—not just to the surface, but deep into the hollow, ugly parts of him that he didn’t even want to see for himself. And that terrified him more than the idea of losing Mingyu ever had.

A giggle bubbles up from his throat, unnatural and jarring, his lips twisting into something that doesn’t resemble a smile.

“You were a fool,” he mutters. “You thought you could save me. You thought I wanted to be saved.”

The greenhouse wails in response, the plants shifting in the corners of his vision.

The tears finally spill over, soaking into the dirt beneath him, and Jeonghan squeezes his eyes shut. The whispers drop to a low hum, but they don’t leave him entirely.

He knows they never will.




***




Jeonghan doesn’t expect to see Mingyu again, but there he is, standing in the doorway of the greenhouse. The early morning sun spills in behind him, lining his broad shoulders in soft gold, like some kind of halo. 

Jeonghan blinks, his throat dry and raw. “What are you doing here?” he croaks over the creak of the greenhouse settling.

Mingyu steps forward, his eyes sweeping over the wreckage. His expression is unreadable, but Jeonghan can feel the judgment radiating from him like heat. It makes his skin itch.

“I came to get the rest of my things,” Mingyu says simply.

Jeonghan lets out a bitter laugh. “Right. Your things.” He gestures wildly to the chaos around them. “Guess you’d better take the mess you left behind too.”

Mingyu’s eyes narrow, his jaw tightening. His shoulders stiffen, and for a moment, Jeonghan sees the old Mingyu, the one who had always tried to stay calm, tried to reason with him, even when Jeonghan pushed too far.

“You’re blaming me for this?” Mingyu asks, brows furrowing.

“Shouldn’t I?” Jeonghan snaps as he rises shakily to his feet. The room tilts, but he ignores it. “You—you built this for me. And then you left and now everything is dead. You made me think I could have something… something good.”

Mingyu exhales, his lips pressing into a thin line. He looks away, his eyes flicking to the tangled remains of the loquat tree strewn across the floor.

“You could have,” he says finally. “I gave you every chance, hyung. I gave you… everything I had. And now I have nothing left.”

Jeonghan stares at him, his chest heaving. An unfamiliar feeling twists between his ribs, too sharp to be shame, too bitter to be grief.

Mingyu meets his eyes again, and for a fleeting moment, Jeonghan thinks he sees the same ache reflected back at him. But the light in Mingyu’s deep brown eyes—the light Jeonghan had once found too blinding—is dull now. Distant.

“You used to say it was suffocating in here,” Mingyu says quietly. “Maybe you were right.”

He doesn’t wait for a response. Doesn’t say anything more. Just turns on his heel and walks out, the sunlight retreating with him.

The whispers start again almost immediately, drowning out the silence Mingyu leaves behind.

Jeonghan sinks to the ground, fingers curling against the cold tile.

“You’re wrong,” he whispers into the empty room. “I could have been enough. I could have given you something too.”

The plants sway gently, as if laughing at him.

Jeonghan closes his eyes, and the whispers grow louder, wrapping around him like vines. This time, he doesn’t resist.

He lets the greenhouse consume him.

ao3.

if i loved you less i could talk about it more

[seokmin_liker]

Ship/Member: any
Major Tags: N/A
Additional Tags: N/A
Do Not Wants: mcd

Prompt:

I think if the word for love was harder to say and didn't rhyme with anything, there would be less songs about it. I month you :)

- twitter user PhilsLion

this tweet drives me crazy because: 1) the implication that everyone else only talks about love because it's easy, whereas the speaker is in love despite it being difficult; 2) the speaker is feeling something unique and special to their relationship; 3) the speaker has to come up with a whole new language to express what they're feeling, one that specifically references a one month anniversary (it seems). if you know the context for this tweet you might think i'm crazy but please

[infrequencies]

Ship/Member: Any
Major Tags: N/A
Additional Tags: Time travel? Dimension jumping? Dramatic modern with no magic AU?
Do Not Wants: None

Prompt:

in all timelines, in all possibilities, only you can show me this.

— Viktor, Arcane s2

[FILL] so make it count

[tembusu]

Ship/Member: Minghao/Vernon
Major Tags: N/A
Additional Tags: time travel & dimension jumping (if you think too hard about the mechanics it'll probably fall apart lol)
Permission to remix: Yes

***

His mom tells him Love is your anchor. Minghao doesn’t realize how literally she means it until he ends up crossing time and dimensions and lands on Hansol as a starting point each and every time.

Love comes in all sorts of forms, he concludes. And it only makes sense that Hansol, who’d listened intently when Minghao had casually told him over Sunday lunch that yes, his family is made up of time travelers and dimension hoppers, sometimes both at the same time ends up being a point of familiarity in all his misadventures.

As much as Minghao wishes he can, he isn’t able to control it.

“We can hang out and chill if you find me wherever you end up,” Hansol says, and Minghao keeps him in the dark of just how many times he’s taken Hansol up on the offer.

The Hansol in this reality is a little older than the ones Minghao is used to meeting. He’s seen older, maybe once, but he’s travelled too infrequently for him to make sense of patterns, if any, and he honestly wishes he doesn’t ever need to.

“Hey, I figured it out,” stranger Hansol says.

Minghao tilts his head, watches as Hansol’s fingers deftly rotate the pieces of the Rubik’s Cube he holds in his hands. Flip, flip, flip until it stops. Twenty seconds, just about. Not good enough, if the way Hansol heaves out a heavy breath is any indication.

“Okay, that was a bad one.”

“Have we met before?” Minghao asks.

It’s a long shot, because time isn’t the only variable he needs to keep track of.

Hansol quirks a brow. “Don’t think so,” he answers easily. “But a stray Xu Minghao is still a Xu Minghao, so.”

Minghao shrugs. It’s the only thing he can do, considering. He acts how he always does, normal, comfortable, because panic helps no one and he’s never been turned away by any Hansols thus far.

“You managed to do it faster than mine did,” Minghao offers.

“Yours,” Hansol repeats, chuckling. “Where are you from?”

Time isn’t the only variable he needs to keep track of, but it’s the only one he does, because it takes way too much time to go through all the things he did different. Not unless it’s staring him in the face.

“I’m twenty-two.”

“You’re young,” Hansol says, stressing the word, “and yours is younger.”

That, and also the fact that it’s a recent obsession. Hansol came to show Minghao his random purchase two weeks back. Minghao, not a fan of fads, told him that he’d get sick of it in less than a week.

He’s yet to throw the thing out, if only to prove Minghao wrong.

“I think he’ll get good at it.”

“You mean,” Hansol brings his palm up to his chin, “like me?”

A glint under the light, a silver band on Hansol’s ring finger. Minghao couldn’t move his gaze away from it since the moment he got here.

His Hansol isn’t a fan of embellishments.

“Like you,” Minghao agrees, “or even better.”

Hansol hums in concurrence. “You want something to drink?”

The cup Hansol pours his tea in comes from a china set Minghao remembers bookmarking on his phone to save for later. Promising. But Hansol had called him young, and the tea set is something from Minghao’s own time, so maybe Hansol had taken it out as a form of remembrance.

The choice of tea isn’t one Minghao is familiar with.

He stares down at the drink, scrunching up his face. Hansol laughs but doesn’t comment.



-



It’s not his shortest trip, not by far, but it’s short enough for Minghao to know that he won’t be missing out on any life-altering events in his own time, and for that he’s thankful.

The room starts to fade out. Minghao places the cup on the saucer before it falls involuntarily, the same time Hansol loops his hand around the ceramic, his ring cold to the touch.

Hansol lifts his hand up in a small wave.

Minghao clears his throat and asks, “Am I still in your life?”

He’s not supposed to, he knows. Hansol is a constant in his traveling, but Minghao realized early on that Minghao isn’t a fixture in Hansol’s. Going through a lifelong list of wrong decisions is an impossible task, and Hansol, his Hansol, had wrapped his fingers around his wrist and told him to stop obsessing.

“Who cares what he did there,” Hansol had said, matter-of-fact. “You’re here.”

And that’s true, of course it’s true, but sometimes Minghao sees a world of potentially good decisions, and he wants to know if they’re his, if he ever makes it there.

But Hansol, this Hansol, his Hansol, is good at keeping promises. And if Minghao falters in his promise to never ask, Hansol keeps his oath to never tell.

Instead, he just shakes his head in disbelief and laughs.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Minghao hears him say.



-



He comes back to the fancy restaurant he left about an hour back.

Hansol is sitting across him, bored out of his mind. Minghao’s plate is empty despite him not having a bite. Hansol has probably eaten his share; his own way of getting payback for Minghao flaking halfway through a date, however involuntary.

He’s playing with the Rubik’s Cube in his hands, movement slow and unpracticed.

“Welcome back,” Hansol says when he sees him.

Much to Hansol’s surprise, Minghao grabs Hansol’s left hand and splays it under the light. He keeps it there for a while.

“What?”

Minghao turns to look at him. “There’s something I want to see.”

Hansol’s brows furrow. He wiggles his fingers. “Here?”

Minghao smiles at him. “It doesn’t count unless it happens here, I think.”



-



i'm sorry if this wasn't quite what you imagined it to be, but i hope you enjoyed the fill as much as i had fun writing it :)

horanghae

[lachrymosy]

Ship/Member: Hoshi/any
Major Tags: canon universe
Additional Tags: career ambitions, etc.
Do Not Wants: None

Prompt:

What are we now but voices
who promise each other a life
neither one can deliver
not for lack of wanting
but wanting won’t make it so.
We cling to a vine
at the cliff’s edge.
There are tigers above
and below. Let us love
one another and let go.

– Tigers, Eliza Griswold

you're gonna make me an honest man

[infrequencies]

Ship/Member: Any, but consider Gyuhao, Seokhao, Jeongcheol, Seokhan, Verhao, Soonhoon, Meanie
Major Tags: N/A
Additional Tags: idolverse, hidden in plain sight romance, leaning into fan service so no one realizes it's real
Do Not Wants: None

Prompt:

question

haha i just read a fan fic about you and frankie from mcr going out.

answer

man, you wish that was fiction.

-from pete wentz's old livejournal posts

FILL: run toward the climax swinging your tail again

[dearmonday77]

Ship/Member: Meanie/Minwon
Major Tags: N/A
Additional Tags: idolverse, hidden in plain sight romance, enlistment mention
Permission to remix: Please ask

***

Jihoon and Soonyoung get together. Most of Jihoon's footage from In The Soop is with Soonyoung. Soonyoung calls Jihoon jagiya on camera.

The world doesn't end.

Then Seungcheol and Jeonghan announce, cheekily, that they're seeing each other with good feelings. Wonwoo catches Seungcheol monitoring social media in the car, scrolling through the #쿱정 tag on X and seeing the same video of Jeonghan laying his head on Seungcheol's lap from the concert across the multiple posts. There's a soft smile on Seungcheol's face as he watches.

The world still doesn't end.

Wonwoo watches as his members and friends pair up without the world ending. He might have been the one to forge his own path the day he auditioned with Pledis, but he's been happy to follow his members along ever since. They haven't steered him wrong yet.

He meets Mingyu's eyes when he looks from where Jihoon and Soonyoung are monitoring their dance practice leaning into each other like two magnets to where Seungcheol is helping Jeonghan with some of his rehab exercises. Mingyu's smiling at him, wistfully. Wonwoo knows that any expectations Mingyu might have had of romance from Wonwoo have long since settled into contentment at what they have. But sometimes, he sees the longing clear as day on Mingyu's face anyway.

The world didn't end when his members started getting together but it certainly changed. Maybe it's his turn to change the world this time around.

*

"Hyung, can we get dinner before we go home?" Mingyu asks him, after practice just as Wonwoo's stuffing his practice clothes into his bag.

"Yeah, why not." Wonwoo shoulders his bag. "I took my bike today."

Wonwoo's bike doesn't have any handrails on the back but he can feel Mingyu hesitating to put his hands around his waist as he settles himself behind Wonwoo on the bike. Wonwoo sees Mingyu chewing on his lip from the side view as he considers his options. Wonwoo decides for him and takes his arms to wrap them around him.

"Just hold on tight, okay?" he tells Mingyu.

Over dinner, they talk about Wonwoo's new camera and when they can do a photo walk together, their upcoming schedules and if there will be a chance to go home before they start their military service. It's been a while since they've had dinner with just the two of them. Wonwoo hadn't realized how much he missed it until just now.

"Oh, Minghao said there's a new exhibit opening in DDP next week, if you wanted to go." Mingyu says as he flips the pork on the grill.

Wonwoo had heard about that. It's a lineup of all queer artists and about life before and after the closet.

"Yeah, I was thinking of going when we have our free day." He'd have to go early and mask up but the exhibit looks promising.

"Oh, cool." Mingyu crafts a perfect bite of ssam, dipping sauce, pork belly and condiments. Wonwoo can hear the affected nonchalance in his tone. He can't help but duck his head and hide his grin.

"Would you like to go with me?"

Mingyu blinks at him in surprise. Usually, Wonwoo takes Minghao or Vernon on these museum trips since they're far more likely to be interested so Wonwoo can understand Mingyu's reaction. But he's been waiting for the right time to tell Mingyu about how he feels these last few weeks and the timing had never seemed right. There's no better time than right now.

"I'd love to go with you," Mingyu says, after a beat, clearly pleased at having been asked to go this time.

Wonwoo smiles at him and reaches out his hand to squeeze Mingyu's fingers. "Then it's a date."

*

"The internet tells me that you and Mingyu were out on a date last night," Seungcheol tells Wonwoo with one eyebrow raised. They're recording the tracks for the reverse unit stages for Caratland today and Wonwoo is going right after Seungcheol so it's just the two of them in the studio right now. "Carats are convinced it's someone writing fanfiction though because you were the one asking Mingyu on a date and holding his hand."

"Hah," Wonwoo chuckles. So people did catch that. "They wish it was fiction."

"So you and Mingyu…." Seungcheol trails off, but there's a warm smile on his face. Wonwoo's sure Mingyu's already told him and Jeonghan about their date but Seungcheol is nothing if thorough when checking on the members.

"I finally got my shit together," Wonwoo confirms.

*

Mingyu is on Weverse live when their dinner arrives. Normally Wonwoo would leave Mingyu's share out at the dining table and take his own order to his room so Mingyu can keep going. But he's feeling good today and Mingyu looks so cute watching GoSe and laughing.

He makes a little noise when he sets down their food, just loud enough that hopefully it picks up on the live. Mingyu turns to him right away, expression a little stunned. Wonwoo gives him a thumbs up and points at his phone to let him know that Carats can know he's there, confirming that they still live together. The smile that blooms on Mingyu's face, so radiant and joyful that Wonwoo swears right then and there that he'd do anything to keep it.

*

It becomes easier and easier to be bolder — to let Mingyu's hands linger on him on camera, to join his lives in their shared home, to flirt back even in front of an audience, to reach out when Mingyu extends his hand. That's what Mingyu gives him all the time with every touch and every invitation: a chance at trying bravery.

Seungcheol reports that their fanfiction numbers have skyrocketed. Wonwoo smiles and thinks about the bite marks he left along Mingyu's back while was inside him and the bruises in the shape of Mingyu's fingers on his thighs when they did it the other way around just last night. He's sure there's someone writing about that part of their lives too but it doesn't bother him as much anymore. Not when it's the perfect cover for the very real thing he and Mingyu actually have going on.

*

There's only one more day of Caratland left before he, Soonyoung and Jihoon need to start preparing for their service. All the members have been absolutely incandescent today. It's like an electric current is attached to them all, pushing them to jump higher and sing louder. Nothing could ever be better than being on stage with the members like this.

The members get into formation and then drop to the ground, leaving only Mingyu and Wonwoo standing for their lines in Left & Right. They agreed not to change the lyrics today so it's up to Mingyu and Wonwoo to ad lib any actions for this part.

"Neseul sego go hae," Mingyu sings, eyes locked on to Wonwoo's.

"Hana dul set net." Wonwoo leans in and plants a kiss right on Mingyu's cheek.


The crowd goes fucking wild.

*

Wonwoo and Mingyu get together.

The world doesn't end. It only gets better.

[cheapdates]

Ship/Member: any, but also wonhan
Major Tags: N/A
Additional Tags: N/A
Do Not Wants: None

Prompt:

“I feel like we each have one foot chained to a post and are running around and around in circles. You run after me, only seeing me from behind, and I flee from you because I do not want you to see me from the front. In the end, neither of us takes a step forward.”

- Flower of Evil (drama)

a lot of things about this drama make me feel crazy, much like wonhan. so.

[FILL] circling in stalemate

[kkulecru]

Ship/Member: Wonwoo/Jeonghan (implied?)
Major Tags: N/A
Additional Tags: jxw-inspired setting
Permission to remix: Yes

***
hello my original interpretation fell off the rails but i just couldnt escape the idea of this man wonhan

---

He’s always hunting for another trace of him, and he’s always flitting further away; leaping through another dream after dream.



It was slow, at first—the way the buffet of flavours began to dwindle. People were not like clockwork, and their dreams were not static. He didn’t mind the growing trend towards salt and regret. It was a refreshing change from sweeter feasts.

But the upswing never came, and the salt began to grow bitter on his tongue. Eventually even that faded, too, and he was left with a sea of blandness to choose from. And he knew why.

Jeonghan wanted his attention again—or was it that he had been waiting for Jeonghan’s to return?



Two dreams, two nightmares, carving their long, looping arcs through the endless cityscape. One smiling face offers endless bliss. One solemn face offers cold reality. One smiling face fits his feet carefully into the familiar imprints left behind in the sand, and crouches to extend a hand. And tears it away, when he notices who is approaching in his wake.



He remembers that he used to hate the chase—searching for hints of Jeonghan’s presence to hunt him down, make him stop. At some point it began to warp into a game; together they brought a facsimile of heart-pounding life back into their existences, for a while. Hunter becoming the prey becoming the hunted.

Jeonghan usually started it. He liked to play with clueless dreamers, their sleeping consciousnesses so easy to mould in his hands. Fish in a barrel, really.

And Wonwoo—had begun with smoothing over the warped lines, restoring the array of possible flavours for him to choose from. But his attention inevitably curves back to Jeonghan, not letting him fall too complacent in his role; he could be a predator to some, but Wonwoo would always be able to undo his work. The shepherd protecting his flock from the roaming wolf pack, armed but fair—Jeonghan had laughed at the apt roles such a dream had placed them in, when they had adjourned.

He can’t help but break out of such a character, though. He feasts on the dreams splayed out for his choosing, but he’s inevitably addicted to Jeonghan. Finding him, hunting him, escaping him. Forever held at arm’s length, and yet he keeps trying to know him.



In the quieter lulls together, he does try to part the veils they lay over themselves—he does. It’s as if Jeonghan can’t bear to be belly-up for more than a second, and he repays genuinity with needling jabs in return.

Oh, he’s learnt the sharp curves of his body all-too easily, has almost memorised every feature hiding under his dark clothes. But the mind within it, the true shape of that person—so many details elude him, no matter how much he tries.

Maybe that’s part of the game, too—if he ever gave in, would he eventually grow bland, too? He fears the answer. He wants to know the answer.

Sometimes he is the one to flee first, to escape those thoughts, to studiously ignore Jeonghan until he is desperately driven to hunt him down and force him to notice again—to return his regard to how it should be.



He can’t let him get too far away before he races to catch up, and they retrace their endless circuit until he lags behind and becomes the hunted.

Together, they are a content ouroboros. At least until one of them falters.

foundations

[delicatesse]

Ship/Member: Any
Major Tags: N/A
Additional Tags: breakup (nasty?)
Do Not Wants: None

Prompt:

my fingertips are holding onto
the cracks in our foundation
and i know that i should let go but i can't
and every time we fight
i know it's not right
every time that you're upset
and i smile
i know i should forget but i can't

kate nash - foundations

we should be kind

[thesolemneyed]

Ship/Member: Any
Major Tags: Death
Additional Tags: N/A
Do Not Wants: None

Prompt:

The first day after a death, the new absence
Is always the same; we should be careful

Of each other, we should be kind
While there is still time.
- The Mower, Philip Larkin

the voice of god

[thesolemneyed]

Ship/Member: Any
Major Tags: N/A
Additional Tags: N/A
Do Not Wants: None

Prompt:

...The voice never
panders, offers no five-year plan,
no long term solution, no edicts from a cloudy
white beard hooked over ears.
It is small and fond and local. Don't look for
your initials in the geese honking
overhead or to see through the glass even
darkly. It says the most obvious shit,
i.e. Put down that gun, you need a sandwich.
- Wisdom: The Voice of God, Mary Karr

they sit together on the porch

[thesolemneyed]

Ship/Member: Any
Major Tags: death ..?
Additional Tags: N/A
Do Not Wants: None

Prompt:

They sit together on the porch, the dark
Almost fallen, the house behind them dark.
Their supper done with, they have washed and dried
The dishes - only two plates now, two glasses,
Two knives, two forks, two spoons - small work for two.
...
...They have
One mind between them, now, that finally
For all its knowing will not exactly know
Which one goes first through the dark doorway, bidding
Goodnight, and which sits on a while alone.
- They Sit Together on the Porch, Wendell Berry

[FILL] Re: they sit together on the porch

[moonlitmelodiesfic]

Ship/Member: Wonwoo/Minghao
Major Tags: character death, manslaughter
Additional Tags: implied infidelity, that scene in gatsby after myrtle’s death (daisy and tom with a plate of fried chicken) but modified, implied jealousy, complicated relationship/marriage dynamic, marriage as a contractual thing for financial and social security
Permission to remix: Yes (wonwoo pov very welcome!!)

***

Through the gilded square of the window, the sun is setting guilelessly over the curve of the bay, the leftover fried chicken is going cold on the table, and sirens are streaming down to the person they’d just killed on the highway.

The air is dense and cool inside the house, a fine layer of dust on all the fine china, the silver cutlery. Minghao swipes a crystal whiskey glass off a shelf, coughing through the dust motes, rinses it, and downs a glass of tap water. Metallic bitterness coats his tongue in one fluid gulp. Minghao winces. It’s still better than the oily aftertaste of the dinner he just managed to get down.

Wonwoo’s face is turned out the window when he sits down again at the table, one hand cradling his chin. In the faint reflection of the window, his eyes are blankly thoughtful.

Minghao sets his glass down with an unceremonious sound. It’s enough to get Wonwoo’s eyes back on him. Minghao crosses his arms on the tabletop.

“Well?” Wonwoo tilts his head. Minghao does not elaborate. He watches Wonwoo’s shoulders shrug.

“Well, that’s the end of that,” Wonwoo seems to settle on, tone unrevealing. Flat. Light, even. The line of his mouth isn’t hard, but Minghao detects the faintest quiver at the corner anyway.

“You’re not…sad?” He asks, a little carefully despite his best efforts. He fiddles subconsciously with the ring on his left hand, watches Wonwoo’s eyes zero in on the motion.

Wonwoo shrugs again, looks back out the window. Dusk is bleeding down to the horizon. The last of the sun splashes a faint blood red over the water. A muscle in Wonwoo’s jaw jumps. Minghao notices the lack of a wedding ring on his left hand. “What use is there in being sad?” Wonwoo murmurs, after a while. “He wasn’t ever going to mean anything, really, in the first place.”

Minghao slides his own ring home and stops fiddling with it. There’s a little bit of relief sliding down his throat, although in response to which piece of information, Minghao’s not too sure.

“I’m sorry, still,” Minghao says anyway, feeling obliged on some level. Compelled not by morality but by the hint of darkness lingering in Wonwoo’s eyes, the set of his mouth, the grip of his hands. The words feel laughably useless, and insufficient in honesty.

“Don’t,” Wonwoo says, short, suddenly pushing away from the table in one swift motion. The chair screeches over the tiled floor, knife against a sharpening block, and Minghao barely manages to hide his flinch. Wonwoo billows into the kitchen, snagging another whiskey glass and turning for a cabinet all in the same breath. He navigates the bottles with a familiarity that startles Minghao, somehow, as though a death should have wiped away Wonwoo’s memories and habits in this dim tomb of a house.

Amber liquid wells into the cup, and Wonwoo tosses it back carelessly. “You don’t mean that anyway.”

“Mean what?” Minghao deflects, knowing full well Wonwoo means the half-hearted apology. The truth is, he’s not sorry about Mingyu’s death. But Wonwoo’s pointed remark withers him a little anyway.

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” Minghao tries. Wonwoo remains staring into the depths of the liquor cabinet. “If he did or didn’t mean anything, it’s all in the past. We can walk away from this now.”

They’re not going to come after us. They never have. It goes unsaid. It’s the least of Minghao’s concerns.

He walks over to Wonwoo, lays a hand on his elbow, and thinks briefly about coaxing his husband’s face toward him. It has been so long since they’ve touched. Since he’s touched anybody.

“Come,” he says, as Wonwoo remains stone-still beneath his fingers, “let us prepare to leave this all behind.” He does reach out a hand then, flicking fingertips over the smooth slope of Wonwoo’s cheek bone. He keeps his hand calm as it collects a singular tear. As calm as his hands had been when they’d let go of the wheel. As gentle as his foot had been when it had floored the gas pedal, in the looming shadow of Mingyu’s wobbly, lanky figure on that grey, cold highway.

He hadn’t seen Wonwoo’s expression then, and wonders about it now—wonders if Wonwoo might crack open again, might let him inside, now that Mingyu’s gone.

“I thought you weren’t sad,” he whispers, cupping both hands around Wonwoo’s face. Wonwoo says nothing. His mouth shakes. His head leans into Minghao’s hands. It feels like the final acceptance Minghao has been waiting for.

No one’s going to come after them. That is not the issue. Wonwoo is going to keep choosing Minghao. That also isn’t the issue.

“We make for Manhattan tomorrow,” Minghao says, once the tears slow to a stop, and Wonwoo is breathing silent but slow and measured. In Columbus Circle, there is a penthouse waiting for them, and here is the issue: there is also Junhui.

Wonwoo has always held revenge closer than he’s ever held Minghao.

for you

[klav]

Ship/Member: Any, but consider Wonwoo
Major Tags: N/A
Additional Tags: Bodyguard AU? Knight/Hwarang AU? + when devotion is rancid and fraught
Do Not Wants: None

Prompt:

"You'd die for the cause, but you won't fight for one?"
—Silco, Arcane S1


I would give my life for you, but not to you.
—Patternmaster, Octavia Butler

[FILL] for you, my lord

[kkulecru]

Ship/Member: Wonwoo/Seokmin
Major Tags: N/A
Additional Tags: vaguely medieval au?
Permission to remix: Yes

***
i made an attempt 😔🙏

---

First he had carefully cleansed himself in the baths, and then was anointed with blessed oils, and now he stands garbed in newly polished armour, waiting for the final part of the ceremony.

He steals the slightest glances at the Prince when it is his turn to finally come forward, to kneel down and formally pledge his fealty. His stomach swoops with the gentle weight of the Prince’s sword against his shoulder, and threatens to make his voice waver around his vows.

He takes the time to carefully weigh each word in his mouth, each pearl of bravery, justice and obedience placed before the golden Prince. Not his father, not the kingdom.

Just for him.

*

Their hunting party comes across townsfolk besieged by bandits, and with his soft heart the Prince orders the knights to defend the unarmed—even as he dismounts to join the fray. He’s leaving himself vulnerable as the rest of the party blindly obeys, and Wonwoo can only scorn their misplaced loyalties as he follows after the Prince. Someone needs to protect his back for him.

Later, as the people tend to the wounded and mourn the fallen, he weathers the Prince’s quiet scolding—for that is what it is, really, interspersed with reluctant thanks for shielding him from the blows he had missed, even if it hadn’t been necessary.

As untrained as they had been, some of the wild flailing had come dangerously close to skimming past the gaps in the Prince’s armour, even as Wonwoo was moving to intercept them before they could truly make contact. It’s with that knowledge, and his security in his decisions, that he lets the Prince’s words stoke the warmth in his chest. They’re well-meaning, even if he doesn’t quite understand.

(if there had been one more knight to defend some of the stragglers, caught defenseless and cornered, would there have been less casualties? The potential doesn’t outweigh the value of the Prince’s wellbeing, and Wonwoo’s shoulders are light as they begin to ride back to the castle.)

*

No one ever asked whether Prince Seokmin remembered the most minor of incidents years ago, when he was but a young boy briefly escaping the care of his guards to explore the lives of the townsfolk they were visiting. He ran gleefully through the streets until he bumped into a boy just a little older than him, the collision causing him to drop his precious basket of food into the mud. Freshly baked goods he had saved up carefully for, now ruined.

It was the devastation on the older boy’s face that made the young Prince’s heart ache, and his tearful apologies centred around being the cause of such an emotion in the first place. But the older boy buried his sadness deep down and entertained the Prince until the sun sat low in the sky, his guards finally coming to usher him back to safety.

He was sorry to see the young Prince go, even as he knew the coin purse he pressed into his hands in apology would be enough to keep his family fed for weeks. But the memory of the boy’s innocent happiness as he ran, the warm glow of accomplishment when he could finally rekindle that same pure smile solely of his own merit, the way his voice lilted a merry, “good-bye, Wonwoo!” once he left with the soldiers—

He, at least, remembered the satisfaction of it for a long, long time.

*

When the Queen tragically passes away, he is standing outside the Prince’s door, helps to dry his tears.

Many of the other knights seemed to view being assigned to the Prince’s personal guard as somewhat of an affront, and Wonwoo was happy to volunteer to take their places on rotation, as often as he could. Perhaps that is how they begin to become so familiar with each other, grown as they now are.

He is an attentive listening ear to his light-hearted complaints about his tutors, his fights—big and small—with the King’s advisors, sometimes with the King himself.

He is a sympathetic listener to his private fears about marriage, future partnerships formed for the good of the kingdom.

They’re now comfortable enough for him to offer to help the Prince—Seokmin, in private, he insists—explore for himself.

He tastes as honey-sweet as he looks.

*

When the small force of the kingdom’s enemies invade the castle, Wonwoo is ready.

The toiling bells ring out a call-to-arms, summoning the palace guard to defend their King, and Wonwoo bars the entrance to Seokmin’s inner chambers—pulling the chaise lounge across to block the doorway.

The pounding on the door and the frantic bells meld into one as he locks the outer chambers, too, and waits.

He only has to cut down three stray intruders that had the wrong idea. It’s only a little anticlimactic.

As the bells start up a different, mournful cry, he knows the palace knights had done their job and taken back control of the throne room.

It’s safe to unlock the doors and allow his King to batter his anger against his breastplate, as long as he likes. Better to get the rawest tears out now in private, even as he glares and begs to know why he would do such a thing. But the answer is simple—

“You’re my King,” Wonwoo says, and carefully strokes a gauntleted hand over Seokmin’s hair as he collapses into his embrace.

[hyojungss]

Ship/Member: Jun/Any
Major Tags: N/A
Additional Tags: N/A
Do Not Wants: None

Prompt:

So when I listen to Jun seriously talk about his dream of wanting to have the moon, it makes me think that he'll get it for real someday.

- Vocal trainer about predebut Jun

[FILL] i wouldn't ask you

[kisoap]

Ship/Member: Wonwoo/Jun
Major Tags: N/A
Additional Tags: Canon compliant
Permission to remix: Yes

***

Junhui runs into Wonwoo in the stairwell of his apartment building. “Oh,” he starts out of surprise. “What are you doing here, Wonwoo-yah?”

Wonwoo looks down at him from where he’s standing on the higher step. “Mingyu’s overseas for a fashion show.” He descends another. “You were messaging me about having hotpot for dinner.” One more, and Wonwoo’s on the stair directly above his. From this vantage point, Junhui can see just how badly his glasses need to be cleaned off. “You even invited me over.”

“I did, didn’t I?” he admits sheepishly, declining any outright mention of how Wonwoo left him on read. Junhui held out for about an hour before kicking the blanket and sulking over to the grocery store, hauling back enough ingredients for two. Speaking of which – they really were beginning to put a strain on his arms.

Wonwoo smiles and pries the heavier bag from his grasp. “You did,” he reassures, turning to climb up the stairs again, “so take responsibility.”

***

Jeonghan declared one time when they were on the subject of relationships: “Wonwoo needs to date someone who can take care of him.”

Wonwoo laughed in return, “What do you mean by that?” But Junhui could tell he was slightly put off by the whole assessment. “Of course it’s nice that we all know each other so well,” Wonwoo had said when Junhui had consoled him about it once, crouched in a hotel hallway next to the vending machine, “but it’s a lot sometimes, you know?”

Junhui had furrowed his brow while trying to find the words to relate. “It’s like… if Woozi said ‘Moon Junhui can fly!’ one day, and the next day I could. Then how would I know if I had the ability to fly all along, or if that only came to be because Woozi said it into existence?”

There was a twinkle in Jeonghan’s gaze from across the table. “Wonwoo can be very particular,” to which Wonwoo himself scoffed.

“We could put together a guide,” suggested Junhui later when he and Wonwoo had drawn the lots to clean up. He shot Wonwoo an appeasing grin and elbowed him from where he was rinsing the dishes. “This is how to care for your Jeon Wonwoo,” he tried in a deep announcer voice. Only in hindsight did he realize it didn’t match the tone of the content well at all.

Wonwoo shook his head. “Don’t you think –” he began. Junhui noted that he was using the wrong side of the sponge to scrub the kettle, but didn’t dare comment any further. “Isn’t the entire point of love figuring that part out yourself?”

Beside the humming vending machine, back in that hotel halfway across the world: “Sometimes you just don’t want to be that seen,” Wonwoo tried to explain as simply as he could. He laid his head against his forearms and looked at Junhui then, square on. “At least not by everyone.”

***

A piece of tofu skin slips from Wonwoo’s chopsticks and back into the pot. “I’m sorry,” he says as Junhui swipes at the droplets of broth that hit his cheek.

Junhui reaches for a tissue but ends up knocking over the packet from the table. “Jeon Wonwoo – you!” he jokingly threatens as Wonwoo makes a dive bomb to catch it before it can hit the floor.

When he surfaces back from underneath the table, Junhui’s already fishing out another helping of beef into Wonwoo’s bowl. “I’m sorry about that too,” clarifies Wonwoo while watching Junhui place more cabbage into the soup, “But what I really meant was not replying to you sooner.”

Junhui pauses from where he’d been stirring to look at him. “So out of the blue?” he laughs self-consciously.

“You were thinking of me,” Wonwoo continues, still clenching that pack of tissues. His glasses were fogging up again from the steam. They really did need to be cleaned. “I don’t want you to mistake me for taking advantage of your consideration.”

“Eyyy. You know I wouldn’t have those kind of thoughts about you. And we’ve known each other for so long, anyway.”

“That’s when it matters the most, don’t you think?” Wonwoo averts his eyes to his rice bowl, filled to the brim once more. “Being honest with each other?”

Junhui mulls it over carefully. “Maybe for you, because you’re good with words,” he concludes. “But for me, the silence is okay. I think I know how you feel. In most moments, at least.”

Wonwoo finally sets down the tissues and picks up the tongs instead. “It’s easy to say many useless things when words come so readily.”

“You aren’t the type to say things frivolously, though.” Seungkwan explained the word to him a month ago, and now Junhui couldn’t stop dispatching it at every opportune moment. Frivolously, again? he’d laughed the last time Junhui used it, unbearably fond.

Wonwoo was back to battling with that tofu skin, better equipped this time. “You’re too earnest for your own good, Junnie,” he notes, so focused on getting leverage that his own sincerity could’ve gone largely unnoticed. “I must look like a bad person in comparison.”

Junhui tries to imagine Wonwoo as a cackling villain in a movie while pulling a couple of tissues from across the table. “You’d never be a bad guy.” For one, not with those clouded-over glasses.

Wonwoo clicks his tongue and emerges victorious with the tofu skin at last. He places it into Junhui’s empty bowl with a soft smile, like the first rays of sunrise haloing an otherwise dark horizon. “There you go again with that earnestness.”

be careful what you wish for

[infrequencies]

Ship/Member: Any, but consider Hoshi, Woozi, Mingyu, Scoups
Major Tags: N/A
Additional Tags:
Do Not Wants: None

Prompt:

I want my cake on a silver platter
I want a fistful in my hands
I want a beautiful boy's despondent laughter
I wanna ruin all my plans
I want a fist around my throat
I wanna cry so hard, I choke
Well, I want everything I asked for

- Halsey, You Asked for This

[FILL] take what you want, take what you can

[klav]

Ship/Member: Seungcheol/Jeonghan
Major Tags: N/A
Additional Tags: violence, vague Arcane AU
Permission to remix: Yes

***

“Anyone else want a go?” The ringleader lifts Seungcheol’s wrist. Blood drips onto the dirt between their boots. “Or should we call it a fuckin’ night?”

The crowd roars. Seungcheol fights for breath, winded after two consecutive matches. His knuckles are split. His hip aches. Let it be over, he thinks. Let him limp away and lick his wounds in private.

There’s a scuffle in the corner. A short, high noise of surprise is cut off as the chain link gate slams open. Down here, the haze of the undercity is thick enough to touch, and Seungcheol squints through the kaleidoscope of white spotlights and gray-green smoke to see a man fall into the ring like a bird shot out of the sky.

“We have,” the ringleader’s voice goes thick with glee, “a challenger!”

The man stumbles to his feet and pushes back his hood. He’s young and pretty, delicate, unscarred, with long dark hair. Seungcheol can tell immediately that he’s not supposed to be here. A face like that has never seen an undercity fight.

Coercion. It must be.

“Wait,” Seungcheol says, but his voice gets swept away. A fresh face has fanaticized the audience. Someone takes up a rallying cry that catches like wildfire. The air sharpens with the smell of spilt wine.

Jeonghan, the ringleader announces above the clamor. The name, too, feels wrong.

Seungcheol gets pushed forward anyway. They meet in the heart of the spotlight. Jeonghan looks at Seungcheol with wide, dark eyes, his lashes quivering, his mouth slightly crooked. He must be a topsider, Seungcheol thinks, to have skin that clear.

“Do what you have to,” Jeonghan says, squaring his narrow shoulders.

“I—are you sure?” Seungcheol whispers.

DING… The bell sounds, a familiar vibration. DING…

Jeonghan doesn’t blink. “Yes.”

DING!

Seungcheol has been hitting things long enough to know when to pull his punches. He swings deliberately wide. Jeonghan dodges, lithe but slow. His back hits the concrete wall. He flattens his palms there, tracking his fingers over an old bloodstain.

Again Seungcheol swings, light, reluctant, giving Jeonghan enough space to skitter away.

A hiss of discontent sweeps over the crowd. Jeonghan freezes, staring at Seungcheol, his eyes bright with fear. Like a rabbit in a trap. Fuck. Seungcheol doesn’t want to hit him.

Instead Seungcheol gets up in Jeonghan’s space, nearly nose-to-nose, close enough to smell cigarette smoke and soap off his nice cloak. He presses his fists into the wall on either side of Jeonghan’s neck and watches his pupils dilate.

“You need to fight back,” Seungcheol says.

Jeonghan’s breath tickles his throat. “No.”

“At least try.”

A screech echoes from the crowd. There’s nothing fissure folk hate more than stalling. Any longer without a real hit and they’ll storm the fence, take the violence they’re owed. Seungcheol has seen it happen before. None of the fighters survived.

Too late, Seungcheol spots a decanter nosing through the fence. It tips forward, pouring bloodred wine down the back of Jeonghan’s jacket.

Jeonghan jerks forward. A surprised noise jumps out of his throat. Almost reflexively, Seungcheol kicks out and sweeps his feet from underneath him. Jeonghan hits the ground like he’s never getting up again. Flat on his back, hair spread out like a firework. The crowd explodes.

Desperately Seungcheol steps back and scans for the ringleader, for one of the other boxers, even Jihoon if he’s still around. Anyone to call off this fight. Clearly this isn’t fair. But the air is a thick gray stew churning with silhouettes. No one is coming to save them.

Jeonghan sits up on his knees. His chest heaves. “Please,” he says, quiet and unsteady. “Make it quick.”

That, at least, Seungcheol can do. He takes Jeonghan by the chin and tilts his smooth, beautiful face toward the light. Apologetically, selfishly, he thumbs across Jeonghan’s bottom lip. This is not the worst thing he’s ever done, but he has a feeling it will haunt him longest.

“I’m sorry,” Seungcheol says, wrecked, and hits Jeonghan across the face.




Later, in a dank cubbyhole beside the arena, Seungcheol dabs the last of the antiseptic against Jeonghan’s split lip.

“The boss will be coming with my cut,” he says gently. “You should get outta here before then.”

“Mm,” Jeonghan says listlessly.

Pink neon light shifts across the bruises on his face. Through the window, the alley pulses like a carnival, bright and wide awake despite the late hour. A laugh floats up from below. Seungcheol gets up to draw the blinds. He leans against the wall and folds his arms.

“How’d you end up in the Lanes?” he asks.

Jeonghan’s eyes flick toward him. “I’m looking for someone.”

“Who?”

“You don’t know him.”

Seungcheol scoffs. “Try me.”

“Eh.” Jeonghan smiles, a stunning flash. “Maybe later.”

Seungcheol flounders. Was that flirting? Is this topsider hitting on him? He opens his mouth, his face hot, and says nothing. Jeonghan’s blasé attitude makes no sense. His fear in the ring was real. He was scared before. Now he looks… relaxed. At ease.

“I’m due back in Piltover tonight,” Jeonghan continues, casually inspecting the bloody rag. “You should come with me.”

“Up topside? To do what?”

“You have a good heart. You could fight for something… more. You could help the people here.”

Seungcheol hesitates. That’s the kind of talk he overhears in seedy bars. Fruitless plans to fight back against the Enforcers, to lift the undercity out of its own muck and debris. Tempting, but risky. Seungcheol has no plans to return to a jail cell anytime soon.

“I don’t know about that. The ringleader wouldn’t let me leave anyway.” Seungcheol admits. “Thinks I owe him.”

Jeonghan sets the antiseptic down and levels Seungcheol with a look. Those pretty, dark eyes. It’s sick to think so, but the bruising suits him.

“If your debt were settled,” he says. “Would you leave with me tonight?”

Yes, Seungcheol thinks, immediate and nonsensical. I would follow you. He has nothing real here. Not since Soonyoung—

Before he can actually answer, there’s a banging at the door.

The ringleader is a Vastaya, a tall humanoid with the face of a rat and a mechanical leg that sputters and coughs when he walks. He goes nowhere without a goon, three knives, and an oxygen mask spray painted with the tusks of a rhinoceros. Two years ago he broke Seungcheol out of jail. He’s laid claim to his body ever since.

Jeonghan yanks open the door and says, very sweetly, “Seungcheol quits. He's leaving with me.”

The ringleader rocks back on his heels, nostrils flaring. When he laughs, yellow slime dribbles from his front fangs. The light behind him shifts pink to green with a passing cloud of vapor.

He leans in and leers. “Is that so?”

There is one moment of suspended silence. Seungcheol’s stomach flips.

“Don’t—” Seungcheol lunges to throw himself in front of Jeonghan, to shield him, but he miscalculates. With remarkable speed, Jeonghan side-steps him and pulls a gleaming metal handgun from the abyss of his cloak. The barrel glows an otherworldly, electric blue when he fires it once, twice. Energy crackles through the air.

The ringleader’s hand goes limp around his dagger. He and his goon drop like twin sacks of coal. Jeonghan blows steam off the barrel of the gun. With a twirl, he slips it back into his belt. It’s all over in a matter of seconds.

“How did you—” Seungcheol’s mouth hangs open. His breath stutters in his throat. “Who the fuck are you?”

Jeonghan tucks a loose lock of hair behind his ear. That fearful, wary figure from the boxing ring has completely disappeared. He smiles at Seungcheol, warm and mischievous, eyes twinkling.

“Let me tell you a secret.” Jeonghan steps close, nose-to-nose with Seungcheol again, a mirror of their earlier stance. His cheek is still an angry violet. His voice drops, low and silky. “I've been watching you for weeks, Choi Seungcheol. I saw you, and I wanted you. So I tested you." He leans in. "And now I'm taking you.”

Seungcheol’s breath shivers through his whole body like an electrocution. Jeonghan clicks Seungcheol’s mouth closed and presses his thumb into the dimple of his chin.

"So," he says. "Aren't you coming?"

don't you wonder about me?

[hyojungss]

Ship/Member: Any
Major Tags: N/A
Additional Tags: love that isn't fully reciprocated or that is imbalanced in some way
Do Not Wants: None

Prompt:

Baby, I love you
. . . . . . . .

- STAYC, GPT

[FILL] . . . . . . . .

[tenderlyache]

Ship/Member: Wonwoo/Junhui
Major Tags: N/A
Additional Tags: canonverse (early/debut days), ambiguous relationships, repression
Permission to remix: yes

***

In Junhui’s defense, his mouth was full of kimbap.

He thought it was an understandable excuse for inaccurate pronunciation while rehashing his and Minghao’s argument. Not to Wonwoo, apparently.

“Siot is a little breathy. Ssang siot is more tense.” Wonwoo demonstrated it. “Do you hear the difference?”

Junhui chewed. “Not really, no.”

“Listen.” Wonwoo enunciated a consonant, slow and careful. “Which one was that?”

“Erm.” Junhui swallowed his mouthful and slurped at his last of his drink to wash it down. The straw made a loud rattle in the empty cup, a sound Minghao would have scolded him for. He put his cup down. “Ssang siot?”

Wonwoo shook his head. “Siot.”

Junhui was a student of application. He was consistent, if not particularly studious, about his Korean lessons. The members were the most effective teachers anyway. Those lessons stuck. Textbook memorization? Not so much.

“Anyway,” said Junhui abruptly. “What do you think I should do now?”

“I can re-explain the difference in another way,” offered Wonwoo patiently, “or I can quiz you again?”

“You’re missing the point, Wonwoo,” said Junhui lightly. “I was saying words, not just consonants.”

“What?”

“My argument with Myungho — what should I do now?”





(“Wonwoo,” said Junhui, through a bite of mackerel. “I . . . . . . . .” He choked, fishbone caught in his throat.

Wonwoo thumped Junhui’s back. “What were you saying?”

“Fishbone,” spluttered Junhui, coughing. “I can still feel it.”

“Swallow it,” advised Wonwoo. “Eat another bite of rice. That’s what I do. It’ll push it further down your throat.”

“But I don’t want that,” Junhui said stubbornly, voice hoarse. His chest hurt. “I want it out.”

Wonwoo blinked. “I don’t know if I can help with that.”)





Wonwoo found Junhui in one of the company’s meeting rooms. Junhui was hunched over his unfinished Korean assignment, mouthing vocabulary words to himself.

“Oh, Wonwoo!” Junhui sat up straighter, his grin lazy. “Is it my turn to record? Were you looking for me?”

“I didn’t know you were here. They were being loud in the studio. And my head hurts.”

“I can be quiet,” promised Junhui.

Wonwoo gave him a little smile. “You don’t have to. Go back to what you were doing. Pretend I’m not here.”

Junhui laughed, half breath, half sound. “As if that were possible….” But he turned back to his assignment obediently.

The silence lasted a full ten seconds.

“Wonwoo. Are you busy?”

“Hm?”

“The members always say you’re good at Korean.” Junhui dipped his voice to a comically low tone. “Teacher Jeon Wonwoo, please save me…”

“What do you need to learn?”

“Well, we’re working on relationship terms right now. Chapter seven. For example, you are my-” Junhui sounded it out: “Co-work-er.”

“Is that all I am to you?” teased Wonwoo.

“No, you’re-” Junhui switched to Mandarin for the words he couldn’t yet express. “You’re my . . . . . . . . too.”

“What does that mean?”

Junhui averted his gaze. “Hmm. We haven’t gotten that far in the lesson yet.”

“Try to tell me.”

Junhui paused. “I don’t know how to explain it in a way you would understand.” He looked down at the open Korean workbook. “So did I say it right? Co-work-er?”

“Yes, you’re my coworker. But you’re also my roommate.” Wonwoo enunciated each word, slow and careful. “You’re my member.” Wonwoo looked away. “You’re my . . . . . . . . and my friend.”

“What did you say?”

“Friend?”

“No, no, I know. Soonyoung taught me that one. Friend,” repeated Junhui impatiently. “What did you say before that?”

“Coworker, roommate, member, friend?”

“There was something else.” Junhui scanned the Korean workbook futilely. “Never mind. Maybe I misheard. Guess I still need more Korean lessons…”

Wonwoo hummed noncommittally.





When Junhui was alone again, he pulled out his speech-to-text app, fumbling at mimicked pronunciation. It took eight tries before his phone recognized his utterance and spit out something close to intelligible. Even then, he wasn’t sure if he got it right.

Did you mean: 짝사랑?

Junhui copied the text. Pasted it. Pressed translate.

and for anyone who thought i left...

[hyojungss]

Ship/Member: Any
Major Tags: N/A
Additional Tags: sports au, or even future fic if you want
Do Not Wants: None

Prompt:

"...I never left."

-- Daniel Ricciardo, 2021
_{* Daniel Ricciardo is an ex-Formula 1 driver.
** in isolation this quote is about proving your haters wrong but in a broader and more delicious context, it's about telling yourself you haven't peaked when you have!!!}

[FILL] forthcoming

[agentwilight]

Ship/Member: Mingyu(/Wonwoo if you squint)
Major Tags: none
Additional Tags: formula 1 au, introspection
Permission to remix: Yes

***

WHEN MINGYU WAS SIXTEEN AND BEGAN HIS CAREER IN FORMULA THREE, someone told him that he needed to understand that he could possibly be his own downfall if he lets the whole thing get into his head too much. He doesn’t remember now if it was his former race engineer or if it was his performance trainer who told him that, but oddly enough, he only remembers it now that he’s fighting for his spot in Formula One.

He’s twenty-seven now and still without a world title after a total of forty one podiums, twenty fastest laps, and twelve race wins despite being eight years in his F1 career. He remembers stepping into a Mercedes once, his race engineer telling him that it would finally be his year. That was three years ago.

For some reason, despite his record-breaking career debut (two wins and three podiums), and a stellar amount of points gathered for all of his teams, he seems to be unable to land a single world driver’s championship trophy.

He leaves the simulation room thinking about the recent numbers in his races. Wonwoo, his race engineer, told him that he should let the engineering team worry about the numbers, that he should just continue driving and tell them if the car feels good.

“You should stick to getting a feel for the car instead of stressing about the numbers. That’s our job, Kim.” Wonwoo gives him a pat on the back, but Mingyu’s stomach is still unravelling, like there are unruly moths inside of it rather than butterflies.

“I hope that’s not a dig at my intellect.” Mingyu knows it isn’t, but he also hates being told to not worry about the numbers. He’s a driver, for god’s sake, he’s supposed to deliver good results, and good results mean good statistics, which means he should absolutely worry about the numbers.

“You should have become an engineer with how obsessed you are with your race statistics.” Wonwoo laughs, but Mingyu only keeps a straight face.

“Oh… I didn’t mean to…” Wonwoo trails off and proceeds to excuse himself, pretending to be busy with the simulator, checking the recent fastest lap time, checking the tyres, checking everything including the goddamn wires.

Mingyu just stands there thinking about how much he wants to throw up, but can’t.


THE PRE-RACE BRIEFING IS ALWAYS THE WORST. Mingyu hates being told what to do. Hates that he would ultimately have to follow whatever strategy the team comes up with, and hates that he must acknowledge the possibility of relinquishing a good spot to his teammate if it comes down to it.

His teammate is a kid, fairly new, fairly decent. The kid didn’t have a breath taking debut the way Mingyu did, but the kid also debuted on a midfield team and not in a powerhouse team like Mingyu did.

(He doesn’t know which one is more embarrassing, the fact that the kid debuted in a midfield team but earned more points than he did during the last race, or the fact that he’s salty about that despite knowing full well that the car he’s driving now is not a Mercedes… a car he isn’t used to.)

(Secret third thing to be embarrassed about: He knows it’s not the car’s fault, or the kid’s. He just can’t seem to drive the way he used to.)

Mingyu’s head floats for the majority of the pre-race briefing. He knows the script all too well, get the points, try to get a podium or a win — if you can, but just ultimately… get the points. They’re eighth in the constructors, though, and it would probably take a miracle before they could even lay their hands on the constructors’ trophy, but Mingyu lets his team principal dream.

Before he leaves, his team principal places his hand on Mingyu’s shoulder.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, Kim. Your overthinking makes your driving inconsistent and volatile.”

Mingyu knows that, of course he does, but the thing with overthinking is you just don’t know when or how to stop. It’s even harder when you’re driving at a speed of 300 kilometres per hour.

Still, Mingyu pretends that he’s going to try, and leaves the briefing room with a smile on his face that never really reaches his eyes.

“Goodluck out there,” The kid, Lee Heeseung, gives him an encouraging smile.

It works the opposite of how the kid intended for it, though. Instead of being encouraged, or even somewhat un-burdened, Mingyu only feels annoyed.


IT’S NO SURPRISE THAT MINGYU LOSES. AGAIN. He sits in ninth place, four places above the kid. He takes his small victory (beating the kid), but still mourns over his loss (not winning). It has been two years since he moved from Mercedes to Alpine, but he still couldn’t get used to losing.

He should have seen it coming, really. Alpine never really made it on podiums these days. The cars have been getting more and more difficult to drive, and it’s getting harder to adjust especially when you come from driving an even better car.

“There’s a lot of understeer on my car, and while the super softs had enough grip, the car just… wouldn’t cooperate with me.” Heeseung looks like he’s about to cry. Mingyu would have made fun of Heeseung in his head if the same thing didn’t happen to him.

“I had a lot of understeer with mine, too. I think it could be the suspension? Perhaps you guys could look into it for us?” Mingyu looks over at Wonwoo who nods upon silent acknowledgement.

They still haven’t had a friendly conversation after Wonwoo’s joking comment about Mingyu’s career choices. Mingyu doesn’t usually hold grudges, but Wonwoo’s words have been repeating themselves in Mingyu’s head over and over again that he’s starting to believe Wonwoo might be completely right.

Still, he’s not giving this up. He’s already had a taste of what it’s like to win. He doesn’t know if he could stop chasing after that high.


HE LOSES IN MONZA, SPA, THEN SINGAPORE. There’s only one race left and Mingyu knows that even if he wins that race, he’s never going to get his team a Driver Championship trophy, or a Constructor’s trophy. The most he could give them is a promising finish with all of the points that he could muster.

Or, if he’s delusional enough, maybe he could deliver a good performance and win the race, giving his team a bump up the Constructor’s rankings despite the lack of a foreseeable win.

Mingyu knows that the team isn’t expecting much, not when they’re still in the middle of their multiple-year plan to get Alpine on top of the grid. They just want him to try his best and hopefully good results come out of it, that’s really all they’re expecting.

However, it still feels absolutely shitty that despite all of Mingyu’s efforts to be the iconic rookie everyone used to adore, he’s just another driver in the midfield, unable to do anything but lose out to younger, much faster drivers.

He looks at the numbers on the screen and tries to make sense of it before eventually giving up. He sees Wonwoo observing him from the entryway and Mingyu pretends to yawn just to mask his eyes glistening with tears that are about to fall.

“Go get some sleep. I’ll deal with the numbers for you.” Wonwoo gently pats him on the shoulder, “Your time will come soon. Don’t worry about it.”

Mingyu only looks at Wonwoo and gives him a halfhearted smile before walking out of the HQ with shaking palms hidden in his coat pockets.

fame is a firework

[klav]

Ship/Member: Any, Soonyoung/Any
Major Tags: N/A
Additional Tags: idolverse or other fame-centric AU, love as a performance, nsfw?, the inherent horror of being a celebrity
Do Not Wants: None

Prompt:

Perhaps all romance is like that; not a contract between equal parties but an explosion of dreams and desires that can find no outlet in everyday life. Only a drama will do and while the fireworks last the sky is a different color.
—The Passion, Jeanette Winterson


All the world's a stage.
—As You Like It, Shakespeare


And who do you call when it's late at night?
When the headlines just don't paint the picture right
When you look at yourself on a screen and say
"Oh my God, there's no way that's me"
—929, Halsey

[FILL] lines

[gyucassu]

Ship/Member: Soonyoung/Jihoon
Major Tags: N/A
Additional Tags: idolverse, canon compliant, kinda nsfw, it's giving jekyll and hyde with a side of pining, i think jihoon needs a hug
Permission to remix: Yes

***

It’s hard to tell where Hoshi begins and where Soonyoung ends.

At this point, Jihoon forgets which one he fell in love with.

*

The first time they fuck, it’s after they finish writing Shoot Me Before You Go.

Three in the morning; they finish recording and collapse on top of each other in a heap, high on the adrenaline of wrapping a song that fully captures the vision they intended for it. Jihoon figures Soonyoung needed to release the excess energy somehow. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel the same euphoria, and that his hands moved with their own volition, that the very same fingers that clicked every sound into place didn’t also wrap themselves around Soonyoung’s cock and jerk him off until the sound of his theatrical moans echoed off the soundproof walls of his tiny studio.

Soonyoung’s grin is cheeky. “I’m your muse,” he murmurs breathlessly, his hot breath fanning Jihoon’s cheek when Jihoon finishes riding him to chase his own release.

Jihoon rolls his eyes. “I’ll deny it in public,” he threatens emptily.

“It can be our little secret.”

*

It’s unnerving how Soonyoung — Hoshi — can touch him like that in front of everyone.

Like they haven’t explored the maps of each other’s bodies, carved the nooks and crannies with heated kisses that turn into lyrics, melodies, choreography for the world to see. That, Jihoon thinks scornfully, is intimacy.

Not this shit.

Jihoon thinks of Soonyoung — Soonyoung humming to himself, lips pursed in thought. Soonyoung’s sharp eyes, looking at formations and choreography. Soonyoung, silent and focused, listening to Seungcheol’s ideas.

Hoshi is loud. Hoshi cackles and giggles while bouncing off the walls, feeding off applause. Hoshi beams with pride, and also breaks into tears when dreams become reality.

But hell, Jihoon can’t blame him for that. Woozi can’t, either.

Soonyoung tells him Woozi is cold. Woozi is stoic, unfeeling.

Jihoon wants to say that Woozi is protective.

Because what they have in the shadows matters, more than fame or money ever would.

But Woozi — Jihoon doesn’t think he can tell Soonyoung that, either.

*

When Soonyoung – Hoshi – Soonyoung asks what they are, Jihoon freezes.

“What do you mean?” he asks, not looking away from the screen in front of him.

Hoshi – Soonyoung – sits up from the couch. “What is this? What are we?”

Jihoon wants to scream the question again, but he knows it’s not fair. Not when the spare blanket he leaves in the studio wrinkles against the hard muscle of Soonyoung’s hips. Not when hours ago, for inspiration, Soonyoung’s mouth was on his cock.

Why is it beginning to feel that Soonyoung – Hoshi – Hoshi sucked him dry?

“I don’t know.” It’s as honest as Jihoon can be. Jihoon hopes he understands.

“It’s a little excessive if this is all just fanservice.” Soonyoung’s face is blank. “Even for you.”

Jihoon wonders if all Soonyoung sees now is Woozi. Not him, not really.

Woozi continues to stare at the screen, the purple glow of the studio illuminating his pale face. When Soonyoung leaves the studio in a blur of tears and a half-zipped sweatshirt, Jihoon’s face crumples.

*

Jihoon wants to ask who’s really in love with Lee Soohyuk – Soonyoung or Hoshi.

Jealousy rears its ugly, bitter head. It looks like Woozi. But maybe it’s Jihoon. Maybe it’s all of him, who misses Soonyoung by his side when he stays late at the studio. Not Hoshi, who wraps his arm around Woozi’s shoulder during concerts and fanmeets, then chooses to stand on the opposite end of the line when they bow so he can avoid him backstage.

But isn’t Hoshi also the same one who keeps them on their feet until not a hair is out of place? Isn’t Hoshi the one who is willing to let them bleed until they move synchronously at the whisper of Woozi’s music? Isn’t Hoshi, like Woozi, willing to risk it all for their team to be seen as worthy by the world beyond their tiny part of it?

Doesn’t Jihoon love him, too?

For a moment, Jihoon believes that this is for the best. That Soonyoung and Jihoon – Hoshi and Woozi – are meant to create beautiful things for the world. That the reason why they work so well together is for everyone else’s pleasure. Everyone else’s benefit. Jihoon understands why people write stories about them. Why people believe that they were meant to be together offstage, too. That’s how good they are at pretending.

Is Hoshi pretending when he’s with Lee Soohyuk? Is Soonyoung?

Was Hoshi pretending with Jihoon?

It doesn’t matter. Shadows only exist in the light. When the light is gone, darkness remains.

Maybe what Jihoon and Soonyoung had was only meant for shadows, where light can be, but where they can hide.

When the curtain falls, Jihoon understands what it means to be left with nothing.

who are we to fight the alchemy?

[agentwilight]

Ship/Member: any, though perhaps i may suggest: 8jun
Major Tags: n/a
Additional Tags: sports au, olympics au, the high of winning something together after losing for so many years, team matches
Do Not Wants: explicit sexual content

Prompt:

Shirts off, and your friends lift you up over their heads
Beer sticking to the floor
Cheers chanted, cause they said
There was no chance, trying to be
The greatest in the league
Where's the trophy?
He just comes running over to me
— The Alchemy, Taylor Swift

do i keep you up at night?

[agentwilight]

Ship/Member: any
Major Tags: horror
Additional Tags: lovecraftian horror, cosmic horror, falling in love with an eldritch being and/or vice versa (?)
Do Not Wants: none

Prompt:

Every day, I secretly chase after your footsteps
I'm always careful so you won't notice
— Shadow, F(x)

[FILL] shadow

[cheapdates]

Ship/Member: wonwoo/jeonghan
Major Tags: DUBCON, tentacles, explicit sexual content, body horror
Additional Tags: jeonghan is an eldritch being. wonwoo is a freak. power imbalance. twisted human/monster romance.
Permission to remix: Yes

Inspired by the entirety of the song Shadow by F(x).

I'm going to be honest - I've never written anything like this. My brand of dark and twisted is pining men crying during sex. I can't explain or defend this. I also can't believe I'm actually going through with it and posting it to 17hols, laying my depravity at the feet of some of the writers I admire most in the community. Alas. Here we are. PLEASE heed the tags.

***

The streets are nearly deserted at this hour, quiet except for the faint hum of neon signs flickering above shuttered storefronts. Their distorted reflections pool on the rain-slick sidewalk, shimmering like spilled oil. An occasional car drifts by, tires hissing against the wet asphalt, but otherwise, the city feels dead.

Wonwoo, however, knows better.

He’s a little buzzed from the bar, tired after hours of half-hearted conversations with co-workers whose names he can never seem to remember, but his senses are still sharp. And so, he notices the shift in the air as he crosses the street, just a block away from making it home safely. The warning is subtle at first, just a familiar prickle of unease at the back of his neck. Most times, it’s easy enough to convince himself he’s imagining it, that the feeling of being watched is nothing more than a trick of his nerves.

Not tonight.

A sound comes low and faint, nearly drowned out by his own footsteps. Soft and wet, like something slick being dragged across the pavement. It’s enough to make his pulse quicken, the fine hairs on his arms standing on end, but he doesn’t change his pace. Speeding up would only make this more fun for the creature that stalks him.

“Don’t you ever get tired of this?” Wonwoo asks, not bothering to look back.

A giggle ripples through the air. “Tired of you?” Jeonghan purrs. “Never.”

Wonwoo exhales sharply and ducks into the nearest alley. The narrow passageway reeks of mildew, the damp, slimy walls illuminated by the weak light of a single, flickering bulb hanging above a boarded-up door. It’s dark, cramped, and grimy, but it’s private. Private-ish. Private enough for what’s about to happen.

“You know,” Wonwoo mutters, his voice steadier than he feels, “you could just ask me out like a normal p—” He stops himself short, the word sticking in his throat. 

“Go on.” Jeonghan’s voice floats out of the shadows, deceptively soft. “Like a normal what?”

Wonwoo hesitates. The air suddenly feels heavier, colder, his skin pricking with a rush of adrenaline. His fight-or-flight instinct flares, but it’s useless. Jeonghan moves much faster than he ever could.

Before he can even blink, tentacles, slick and glistening, unfurl from the darkness. Two snap around his wrists, yanking his arms above his head and slamming him back against the filthy brick wall. The impact knocks the breath from his lungs, leaving him momentarily dazed, his chest heaving as he tries to recover.

The tentacles are impossibly cold, their surface textured like raw, wet flesh. The sensation is sickening, enough to jolt him back to full awareness. He thrashes, desperately trying to find leverage, but the more he struggles, the tighter they bind him. A violent shiver runs through Wonwoo, part disgust, part something far worse.

“Like a normal person,” he bites out, though the word feels absurd, especially now.

Laughter echoes down the alley as Jeonghan steps into the dim light. At first glance, he almost looks human. Almost. But as he glides closer, the illusion shatters. His skin ripples, shifting between translucent and opaque, veins glowing like molten threads beneath thin glass. His limbs are just a touch too long, his joints bending at unnatural angles, dark hair falling limp against his shoulders like strands of ink. His angelic face is wrong in ways that are hard to pin down—it’s as though someone has smeared his features, blurring the edges like charcoal on wet paper. Worst of all are his eyes: twin black voids that seem to devour the low light around them. They aren’t just looking at Wonwoo—they’re pulling, dragging him into their abyss, threatening to consume him whole.

“And ruin all the fun we have?” Jeonghan teases, leaning in close enough that his icy breath ghosts over Wonwoo’s face. “How boring.”

From the shadows behind him, a third tentacle emerges—thinner, more serpentine. It snakes forward, circling around Wonwoo’s ankle with a wet, chilling grip. He stiffens as it slips beneath the cuff of his pant leg, the cold sensation trailing higher and higher. Dread settles in his gut, but something hotter, deeper, stirs alongside it.

When the appendage brushes between his legs, finding him half-hard and leaking beneath the fabric of his underwear, shame hits Wonwoo like a punch to the stomach. 

Jeonghan hums, a low, mocking sound, his head tilting with an unsettling, boneless fluidity. The tentacle flicks cruelly against the tip of Wonwoo’s cock, and Wonwoo’s vision splinters, the world around him cracking at the edges like glass on the verge of shattering.

“Stop,” Wonwoo gasps. It’s not an order. It’s a plea.

“Stop?” Jeonghan echoes, black eyes widening with feigned innocence. “But you’re already so eager.”

The tentacle winds slowly around Wonwoo’s cock, and the sensation is almost enough to drive him mad. It’s texture shifts as it slides down his length—soft as velvet one moment, rough like sandpaper the next, each change dragging a choked sound from Wonwoo’s throat. Another tentacle slips beneath his sweater, trailing up his torso with slow undulations. The ridged surface drags against his skin, leaving lines of ice and goosebumps in its wake.

It’s already too much, overwhelming and unbearable, and yet, somehow, not enough. It’s everything Wonwoo knows he shouldn’t want, and still, he’s growing harder, already coming apart at the seams. Each motion sends violent jolts through his body, like lightning searing through his nerves, sharper and brighter with every strike. It’s disgusting. It’s perfect. So fucking perfect. Nothing else, no one else, has ever come close to making him feel this good.

Wonwoo’s hips jerk forward, instinctively rolling into the pressure, a broken whimper spilling from his lips as his head thuds back against the wall. His glasses slide down his nose, the fogged lenses blurring Jeonghan’s monstrous form into a hazy, indistinct shape, and Wonwoo is grateful for it. It’s easier this way. Easier to lose himself in the sensation and not the horror of what’s happening.

"See?" Jeonghan murmurs, his lips brushing against Wonwoo’s. “You do want this.” His hand—if it can even be called a hand—grips Wonwoo’s jaw, spindly digits digging into his chin.

“I don’t,” Wonwoo whispers, though the words are brittle, hollow, even to his own ears.

Jeonghan’s grin stretches unnaturally wide, his mouth curling all the way to his cheekbones. “You’re a terrible liar.” His tongue, slick and too long, drags up the length of Wonwoo’s neck, lapping at the sweat gathering there.

Twisting away, Wonwoo bites down hard on the inside of his cheek, holding back a moan, but he can’t stop the tremor that runs through his body.

The tentacles continue to move. The one coiled around his cock tightens, stroking with an unnatural rhythm, shifting in ways that defy human touch. It’s impossibly precise. Calculated. Fluid. Another winds around his waist, slithering up his spine, its suckers latching onto each vertebra with a wet, obscene sound.

“You’re so perfect like this,” Jeonghan breathes, his voice reverent, almost tender. “Helpless. Mine.”

“I hate you,” Wonwoo spits, though the sentiment is weakened by the involuntary buck of his hips. “I hate this.”

Jeonghan laughs. "No, you don’t. You lead me here because you wanted this," he says, his voice dropping an octave, vibrating in the hollow spaces inside Wonwoo’s chest. “Admit it, Wonungie. Just say it.”

Wonwoo shakes his head, his hands clawing at the slimy brick behind him. The sensations are relentless, the ridges of Jeonghan’s appendages sliding against his most sensitive spots in a way that’s too much, too fast, too good. His knees buckle, but the tentacles hold him upright, pinning him firmly against the wall.

“Say it.”

Wonwoo shakes his head again, biting his lip until he tastes blood. The tentacles tighten their hold, squeezing, stroking, dragging him closer to the edge.

“Come on. Say it,” Jeonghan demands, his void-like eyes glinting with cruel amusement.

The tentacle between Wonwoo’s legs unfurls further, splitting into finer tendrils, each one working independently, caressing the most hypersensitive spots of his body. They stroke, pulse, and twist in perfect synchronization, pleasuring him from every angle. One coils tighter around the head of his cock, while another slips lower, wrapping around the base. A third presses against his perineum, slick and firm, sending a bolt of electricity up his spine. One more curls between his ass cheeks, circling, teasing. It flirts with pushing inside him but doesn’t—hovering, threatening, leaving him dangling on the brink, his nerves lit up like live wires. 

“Beg me for it, or I’ll stop,” Jeonghan warns.

Wonwoo’s head swims, the fight finally draining out of him at the threat.

“Please,” he chokes, the word tumbling out in a desperate rush.

“Please what?” Jeonghan taunts, his grin widening. “Say it, Wonungie.”

"Please, don’t stop," Wonwoo moans, his eyes squeezed shut, voice thick with shame. "I… I want it."

Jeonghan giggles, the sound sharp and unnatural, like the tinkling of shattered glass. “Mmm. There we go. Good boy,” he coos.

The tentacles tighten in reward, their strokes quickening, and Wonwoo’s body jerks helplessly against them, every inch of him wrung tight.

Beside his head, Jeonghan’s long, curved nails scrape against the alley wall, the harsh sound setting Wonwoo’s teeth on edge. “Mortals are so sensitive,” he murmurs. “So addictive.”

Before Wonwoo can respond, another tentacle slithers forward, brushing under his chin and curling toward his lips. Wonwoo tries to turn his head away, panic seizing his chest, but the other tentacles hold him fast.

“Open,” Jeonghan orders.

Wonwoo hesitates, his heart hammering against his ribs, but, slowly, reluctantly, his lips part. The tentacle slides inside, its texture alien and slick, hot and pulsating. The taste of copper and rot floods his mouth, making his stomach twist in revulsion. He gags, his throat convulsing as the appendage wraps around his tongue, moving in rhythm with the ones stroking his body. The sensation is vile, invasive in a way that makes his skin crawl, and yet his cock only throbs harder, his balls pulling up tight.

The pressure in his middle builds rapidly from there, spiraling out of control. Every muscle tenses, his nerves burning with electric fire, until the pleasure sharpens into a blinding ache. It sears through his stomach, his chest, his cock—pushing him past the limits of what he can endure. He’s lightheaded, everything narrowing to the unbearable sensations overtaking him. Darkness begins creeping into the edges of his vision, he thinks he might blackout…

And then, the world explodes.

The release, when it comes, isn’t a release at all—it’s a violent unraveling. A ruining. His muscles lock, his lungs forget how to work, and for a brief, terrifying moment, he isn’t sure where he ends and Jeonghan begins. His body spasms uncontrollably as his orgasm hits, wave after wave of brutal pleasure crashing through him, breaking him apart piece by piece. He jerks against the wall, helpless as the tentacles milk every last shudder from him, keeping him trapped on the razor’s edge between ecstasy and agony.

Above him, Jeonghan moans, a low, guttural rasp, his head snapping back as though he’s consuming every pulse of Wonwoo’s pleasure, devouring it like a feast.

Just when Wonwoo feels like he might truly lose his mind, might actually die, the tentacles begin to withdraw, peeling away with obscene squelches, leaving behind sticky trails of slick. Their absence is almost as overwhelming as their presence, a sudden, jarring emptiness that leaves Wonwoo gasping.

Without anything to hold him up, his legs buckle, trembling and useless, and he collapses against the wall, sliding down in a graceless heap. His chest heaves with shallow, ragged breaths; his body is wrecked, twitching uncontrollably with aftershocks that won’t subside.

Jeonghan crouches beside him, studying him with an almost childlike curiosity, head tilting at an unnatural angle. He reaches out, his not-quite-hand brushing over Wonwoo’s sweat-damp cheek.

“See? Wasn’t that fun?” he says with a sharp-toothed grin. “I’ll see you again soon, my Wonungie.” It’s both a promise and a threat.

Wonwoo doesn’t respond. He can’t. His body feels hollowed out, his mind is in shreds. Shame squeezes his throat, the echo of what just happened lingering in his nerves, refusing to fade. It’s disgusting. It’s wrong. He should feel angry, violated, revolted.

He should hate himself for this. Should hate this vile creature.

But as Jeonghan melts back into the shadows, disappearing into the darkest corner of the alley, all Wonwoo can think about, in the sick, aching aftermath, is how badly he wants more.

ao3.

warm blood

[infrequencies]

Ship/Member: Any
Major Tags: N/A
Additional Tags: N/A
Do Not Wants: None

Prompt:

As I say every year, there are so many ways to fall for someone. If you are at the edge of the cliff anyway, consider taking the leap. The ground might be soft enough to hold you and whatever comes next, and if it isn’t there will always be more cliffs, more edges.

—hanif abdurraqib, tell a friend you're in love with them tonight

wibbly wobbly timey wimey

[infrequencies]

Ship/Member: Any
Major Tags: Potentially MCD
Additional Tags: anything, but consider: multiple concurrent realities, dreamwalking, time travel... Doctor Who-esque, or lean into sci-fi
Do Not Wants: None

Prompt:

["You need to break the time loop. Stop trying to save me. I love you."

[This message has been played 18446744073709551615 times. Would you like to hear it again?] (source)

A fugitive, having lost something important to him, he escaped from the pain of the real world and into a world of dreams. The dreamworld of his own creation is a place where nothing has ever been lost. Here, he relives the happiest day of his life over and over. But eventually, this illusion of perfection begins to fall apart. As time passes, the face of the person he holds dear and recreated in his dreams becomes blurry and distorted. He ignores the truth by covering it up with a white sheet. One day, his creation escapes and he jumps through other people’s dreams to find it again. And he grows determined to turn his city of dreams into reality.

— JxW, This Man audiobook

"[Dreams] occur on a shared astral plane. Potentially in the fourth dimension. And when I enter your dreams, I encounter the same thing. Almost as if a piece of you lives there permanently.”

Almost as if. Exactly as if.

—from The Atlas Complex by Olivie Blake

[FILL]: history is for fools

[thesolemneyed]

Ship/Member: jihoon/soonyoung
Major Tags: mcd (past character death), wound description
Additional Tags: inception inspired universe, dreamscapes, memory
Permission to remix: Please ask

*****

Time is linear,

Memory is a stranger,

History is for fools....
— Roger Waters, Perfect Sense, Part I

Jihoon jolts awake to the feeling of falling once again, sweat cooling on his chest and heart racing in his throat. He clenches his fingers into the worn out material of his sheets and waits until he can no longer taste blood in the back of his mouth, doing the slow breathing he read about online when researching panic attacks at 3am.

The shabby white walls tilt slightly as he stands. One hand shoots out to steady himself, knocks at the edge of a framed picture on his bedside table, thick with dust. “Sorry,” he croaks, although the room remains empty.

His mouth feels full of chalk as he moves through to the bathroom, wipes a hand across the mess that is a mirror and inspects his too-long hair and the heavy bags under his eyes. The tube of toothpaste is twisted and mangled in his palm, spitting out just enough for Jihoon to feel like his teeth are clean, and he grips the edge of the sink as he brushes to keep himself steady.

From the bedroom, his phone buzzes, which is odd because it’s rarely got enough charge these days to receive messages. It makes Jihoon frown, but he tramps through to investigate. It’s from Junhui, asking if he’s ready for today.

He isn’t, but he composes a lie that sounds almost trustworthy when read off a screen.

The clothes on the floor are clean enough for him to wear again, if a little wrinkled. Not that that matters in his line of work exactly. His cupboards are bare, but he knows that Wonwoo will bring enough food for the three of them to the cramped warehouse they use as an office.

Junhui refers to them as spies, but Jihoon prefers to think of them more as archaeologists: diving into the muck and dirt of other people’s minds to dredge up whatever it is they think their buyers might be interested in. Sure, it might not be the only part of the job, but it is the part he foregrounds in his own mind.

The first time he entered someone else’s dreamspace he was so violently sick when he emerged that he thought he’d never have the guts to go back in. It had been Soonyoung who had convinced him to try again, had been Soonyoung who’d held him close until he’d stopped shaking.

The pastry is dry but the coffee Wonwoo supplies is hot and dark and strong, so Jihoon doesn’t complain. He scowls as Junhui fiddles with a pistol, familiarising himself again with the springs and locks in a way that screams of compulsion more than necessity. He doesn’t remember anything about weapons in the brief. Maybe he needs to be reading his emails more carefully.

“Should be relatively easy. In and out job,” Wonwoo is saying, checking a floor plan again. “It’s taken me three weeks to build the layout of his childhood home exactly down to his daddy’s dirty magazines under the bed.” He glances over to see if Jihoon is listening, which he mostly is. “The plans should be here, in the study. There’s a safe behind the ugly painting of the lady with a weird dog, code is written down here. Memorise it.”

The slip of paper glides into Jihoon’s line of vision, the numbers already pressed deep into his brain. They’ve been over this before, but it’s always better safe than sorry.

“He’s hired some extra protection so, Junhui, you’ll need to take care of them. Jihoon, try to get up through the house without the kid seeing you. If he does, don’t freak out. Just make sure you’re wearing a mask.”

Jihoon nods. He hates wearing anything that covers his face when he works, finds that it makes him claustrophobic. But he understands the necessity of the request. If their target sees him in the dream as a child, he’ll remember him when he wakes up as an adult. And that will cause a whole sea of problems for them and their client going forwards. Problems they could do without.

He remembers when Soonyoung first tried to talk him through the idea of non-linear time, of the way dreams and memories warp and contort the forwards flow of something that Jihoon had always thought was ever so simple and straightforward.

“If you can visit it in a dream,” Soonyoung’s mouth had been curled up at the edges, the sheets wrapped loosely around his waist, “if you can picture it in a memory, then surely someone else would be able to be able to see it too. And surely that someone would be able to take what they saw in that dream back into the real world, just like you can.”

“Yes, but what would be the point?” It had been far too early for Jihoon to be pondering such questions, even as his stomach had churned in excitement at the idea. “So you can visit your best friend’s spank bank? No thank you.”

Soonyoung had laid down, laughter billowing out in front of him like a balloon. “No, silly.” A hand, careful against Jihoon’s face. “There are far more exciting things that we could do.”

Wonwoo had been the first to join after that, then Junhui a short time later. Although no one outside of the four of them knew their names, there were lots of very important people in the world who knew about them and were very keen to meet them — either to shake their hands or to put a bullet in their brain. Either way, Jihoon was keen to keep his face off the front pages and keep his pockets lined with cash made by what some were calling ‘the greatest threat to personal privacy of this century’.

“The main trick,” Soonyoung had explained shortly before their first mission, “is to make sure you make it out before they’ve even cottoned on you’re there.” He’d hesitated, pulling on a black balaclava made out of an old pair of tights. “Well, that and don’t get shot, I guess.”

The falling asleep is always the easiest part for Jihoon, especially with the agent they pump directly into their bloodstreams. If he thinks about it too hard, it feels like dying. So he tries not to think about it too hard.

Wonwoo was right, the job was almost pitifully easy. Jihoon hears the muffled shots as Junhui dispatches the guards — his fussing with the gun earlier clearly having paid off — and enters the study shortly after. The painting, the safe, the code are all exactly as Wonwoo said they would be, and Jihoon almost feels a sense of comfort falling over him as he pulls out the plans and lays them down on the floor.

He likes to tell himself that he wasn’t just drawn into this scheme because of his eidetic memory, that he has other qualities which make him a valuable part of the team. It’s just, if you asked him to name them, he might come up short compared to the others.

But he also tells himself that he doesn’t need to be anything other than a cog of the right size and shape in this well oiled machine that they’ve built. They all have their place and he’s long since come to accept his.

“It’s tricky, this one.” Soonyoung’s voice is hazy, more static than sound. Jihoon clamps his lips together and forces himself to focus. “You’re out of practice, old friend.”

“Shut up.” Jihoon breathes through his nose and turns the page, ignoring the way his hand shakes and rustles the paper a little.

Soonyoung eases himself to the floor, the leather of his shoes creaking against their laces as he goes. He hovers in Jihoon’s periphery, clearly trying to get a look at what is in front of Jihoon. “Did you miss me?” The whisper tickles against Jihoon’s ear. “Do you miss me?”

Of course, Jihoon thinks, but he doesn’t have time to get back into that now. “Shut up,” he repeats, with less force this time. “Please.”

“Shh. He’ll hear you.” Soonyoung giggles. “If he sees you it’s curtains. You’re not wearing your mask.” And, just like that, Jihoon isn’t. Breathing is a little easier for a moment until Soonyoung leans forwards and smiles directly at him. “Can’t have you getting caught.”

A bead of sweat drops down onto the paper below Jihoon and he shuffles the pages again, tries to focus on the information Wonwoo had highlighted. “I won’t get caught.”

“That’s what I thought.” Soonyoung adjusts his posture, splays out more on the thin rug. “That’s what we all thought.” His voice is only vaguely cruel this time. Jihoon has certainly heard worse.

He remembers toying with the tech when they first got their hands on it, him and Soonyoung carving out the rules for this new, dangerous they had decided to play with.

“You can take nothing in except whatever you can imagine,” Soonyoung had explained to Junhui on their first trip as a three. He’d always been much better with words than Jihoon. “And you can bring nothing out except what you remember.”
“Is it true?” Junhui had asked, looking somewhere between bored and engrossed in the way only he can. “What happens if you die in a dream?”

Soonyoung and Jihoon had exchanged a glance then, the argument already well worn between them. “I think it’s better we try not to find out,” Soonyoung had said slowly. “Dying in someone else’s dream could only lead to…complications. Besides,” he’d grinned, recovering himself quickly, “we’ll only have to find out if one of us gets caught. And that isn’t going to happen.”

Footsteps outside and Jihoon feels his heart miss a beat. There is a light knock at the door, then Junhui’s voice. “You good to go? We’ve got about two minutes left on this dose.”

Soonyoung sits up, alert and watching Jihoon. There is a glint in his eyes that seems almost like a dare.

“You go now.” Jihoon keeps his voice low. “I need one more minute here. I have one more page.” He has more than that, but he’ll have to hope that what he already has will be enough. He rifles through the pages again, then shoves them back in the safe, carefully moving the painting back to its place.

“You’re leaving.” Soonyoung’s voice is full of pout, the way it always gets when he’s sulking. “Already?”

Jihoon turns, takes a deep breath and looks Soonyoung steady in the face. He takes in the mess of his missing eye, the cavernous wound where the bullet tore its path through his skull. He hates that this is how he remembers Soonyoung. Then again, he doubts he could every forget seeing what he did. “I can’t take you with me.”

“You could try.” Soonyoung’s fingers grip Jihoon’s wrist, tips clawing in. “You’ve never tried before.”

He’s wrong, of course. It’s the only thing Jihoon has ever really tried to do.

“Nothing in, nothing out.” Jihoon is parroting Soonyoung’s own words back at him. “You have to let me go.” That’s rich, he thinks to himself. Coming from him.

Soonyoung grips tighter, his breath heavy. Fury and betrayal and hurt swirl in the pits of his eyes, cheeks flushing as he digs into Jihoon’s skin. Footsteps again from beyond the door, lighter this time, a child’s. Jihoon’s sign to leave.

The drug works fast as it wrenches him awake, the feeling of Soonyoung’s thumb tight against his pulse point. Before he plummets, he sees Soonyoung’s mouth twist. “See you tonight.”

He slams awake as the door to the study opens, knows the boy doesn’t have enough time to see his face.

Wonwoo is stood there with a bottle of water and a frown. “You good?” he asks. “Took you longer than normal.”

Jihoon is already reaching for the paper and pencil, sketching out the drafts he saw before they can fade. His hand moves fast, the shapes deliberate and practiced. “Fine,” he grunts. “Just rusty.”

“Junhui says he thought he heard you talking to someone.” Wonwoo doesn’t sit, doesn’t hover like he used to. He’s eager to send off the drafts to their buyer, keen to get things moving again. “That can’t be right, can it?”

The plans aren’t as detailed as they might be, but they’ll do. Jihoon pushes the paper towards Wonwoo and stands, rolling his wrists. “Kid’s off his rocker,” he scoffs. “It all went super smooth in there. Same as it always does.”

Beneath the sleeve of his jacket, the semicircular grooves sting as they seep wet blood into the soft cotton of his shirt.

*****

ao3

drinks or coffee

[ninamonday]

Ship/Member: Mingyu/any crossover
Major Tags: N/A
Additional Tags: canon or idolverse, sexless industry parties get sexy
Do Not Wants: None

Prompt:

feeling so good at a bad party
we don't have to talk, I know that you want me

Rosé, "drinks or coffee"

Re: drinks or coffee

[babygirlmingyu]

Ship/Member: Mingyu/Myung Jaehyun
Major Tags: age difference, power dynamics
Additional Tags: n/a
Permission to remix: Please ask

***

Mingyu looks too good for this party.

And he’s bored out of his mind.

He knows why they sent him here. He’s the most extroverted member of the group, practically built for these situations. It’s easy for him to make the rounds, to charm the entire room of board members and executives with his practiced smile and well-timed laughs. But he wishes they had sent him with someone, anyone.

The majority of the people here are old and he hasn’t seen anyone he knows yet, almost wondering if he’s supposed to be here or if he’s the only idiot from Hybe who showed up tonight. The party is a celebration of their achievements for the year, a gala as they call it, and Mingyu was invited to speak. Because he’s good at these things, because he can make anyone comfortable with the flash of a smile, because Seventeen’s gross profits this year were too good for them not to invite him.

He expected other idols to be there, one at the very least, someone he could talk with after he was done flirting with the older married ladies who giggled at his compliments behind their champagne glasses. Instead, he stands near the bar in an expensive suit that’s perfectly fitted to his body, glass of wine in hand, watching the way people move around each other, exchanging fake pleasantries.

Mingyu scans the room for someone he maybe hasn’t spoken too, taking his duties seriously, and then his eyes fall on him.

Myung Jaehyun.

He doesn’t know how he hasn’t noticed him before, in his dark black suit and frilly coral shirt, standing out amongst the sea of people. Mingyu meets his eyes, smiles at him and Jaehyun quickly adverts his gaze, sheepish, as if he’d been staring and Mingyu caught him red-handed.

He’s adorable, Mingyu thinks, watching the way Jaehyun fidgets with the cuff of his sleeve, trying and failing to look busy.

The party suddenly seems a lot more interesting.

Objectively, this is a bad idea. Terrible actually and if anyone from his group was around, he knows they would tell him. He can almost hear Seungcheol’s warning tone, feel Wonwoo’s quiet but loud looks on him. Fortunately, they’re not here and Mingyu is bored and he looks good and Jaehyun keeps sneaking glances at him like he’s unable to look away.

Mingyu crosses the room towards him without thinking, his feet carrying him all the way until he’s standing in front of Jaehyun. They’ve met a few times prior to this, at music shows and award ceremonies. Mingyu remembers the shy look on his face when Jaehyun had gotten scared at the confetti, how he’d jumped and then laughed at himself in embarrassment. He remembers the way his face beamed during interviews, how his eyes sparkled when he performed like he couldn’t quite believe he got to do this for a living.

“Hi,” is all Mingyu says.

Jaehyun looks up at him and his eyes — deep and bright and pretty — make Mingyu feel a little crazy. This close, Mingyu realizes how small Jaehyun is. Mingyu could put him in his pocket probably, pick him up and take him home. That thought is dangerous.

“Mingyu-sunbaenim,” Jaehyun answers back, immediately bowing his head. “How are you?”

“Tired, bored.” Mingyu brings the glass of wine to his lips, taking a sip as his eyes watch Jaehyun. He’s shuffling on his feet, clearly nervous and trying so hard to keep his eyes on Mingyu’s face. But Mingyu knows this game better than anyone and he doesn’t miss the glint of want that flashes in Jaehyun’s eyes when they drift down to his throat as Mingyu swallows. “Hyung is okay.”

Jaehyun breathes out a small “hyung” like he’s testing it on his tongue. Mingyu knows he’ll have to make the first step here, Jaehyun would never dare, given their positions.

“Are you here by choice or because someone told you to come?” Mingyu already knows the answer but he wants to see what Jaehyun will say.

Jaehyun’s eyebrow quirks up, a small smile playing at his lips and god, he’s so cute. Mingyu wants to eat him alive. “Zico-hyung said it’s good for me to come to these parties, if I want to get ahead, make a name as a producer.”

Mingyu laughs a little, looking around. “Do you see Bumzu or Woozi anywhere here?”

Jaehyun shakes his head. “I’m nowhere near the level of genius they are though.”

“You’re still young,” Mingyu notes, his eyes falling to Jaehyun’s lips. He’s wearing a tint, cherry-colored and the gloss shines under the lights, leaving tempting imprints on his glass every time he takes a sip. Mingyu wonders if it tastes as sweet as it looks.

The moment breaks when someone — Mingyu has no idea who the man is — comes by and says it’s nice to see them, that it’s been a while. When he leaves, leaving a trail of sharp cologne behind him, Mingyu turns to Jaehyun again. “Do you know him?”

Jaehyun shakes his head no.

“Me neither.”

Both of them laugh and Mingyu doesn’t miss the way Jaehyun’s entire face transforms when he does, bright eyes and perfect teeth, genuine joy that’s a stark contrast to all the fakeness in the room.

”Wait, why are you here then?” Jaehyun asks, pausing before adding “Hyung” at the end of his sentence.

“I’m giving a speech,” Mingyu says, rolling his eyes dramatically. “Whatever you do, try not to become the token extrovert of your group.”

“I think that’s too late,” Jaehyun admits with a chuckle. “And I’m also the leader.”

“Well then, I guess we’re doomed to keep running into each other.”

“I don’t mind that.”

Jaehyun’s cheeks are dusted pink and Mingyu wants to push a little further. He shouldn’t, he really should keep this to how it is right now but he can’t help himself, has never been good at denying himself when he wants something. And right now, what he wants is to kiss Myung Jaehyun.

“Do you like me that much already Jaehyun-ah?” He’s teasing but Jaehyun flushes even darker, looking down shyly at his shoes. He’s so cute it hurts, Mingyu wants to squeeze him. He’s young too and Mingyu is fully aware that there’s a power dynamic here that he needs to be careful with. He wants Jaehyun to know he can say no, that this isn’t an obligation.

”Please tell me if I make you uncomfortable. I tend to flirt a lot with everyone,” Mingyu says with a soft smile, giving Jaehyun an out.

Jaehyun’s face falls a little, like he’s disappointed. “I’m not uncomfortable. But I’d like it more if it was real and not play flirting like I saw you doing with the women from Financer earlier.”

Mingyu smirks, stepping a little closer to Jaehyun. “So you were watching me?”

Jaehyun doesn’t back away. “You’re kind of hard to miss.”

Mingyu checks his watch, he’s got about thirty minutes before his speech. He looks back at Jaehyun, tongue running over his bottom lip slowly, deliberately. “Want me to show you what I do when it’s real?”

Jaehyun nods, pupils blown wide, and Mingyu starts walking towards the bathroom, knowing without looking that Jaehyun is following behind him. The bathroom is an individual room that locks and he looks around quickly before dragging Jaehyun inside.

“Last chance to back out,” Mingyu says quietly, setting a hand on Jaehyun’s waist and crowding him against the door.

“I don’t think you realize this is like one of my wet dreams coming to life,” Jaehyun says, honest and bright, hand curling around Mingyu’s collar and pulling him down to close the distance.

Mingyu makes it to his speech with a minute to spare, adrenaline coursing through his body. When he stands on the small stage, he spots Jaehyun in the crowd, trying to smooth the wrinkles of his shirt, his lips kiss-swollen and cherry gloss licked clean by Mingyu. Their eyes meet across the room and Jaehyun blushes, touching his neck where Mingyu knows is a mark hidden under the frilly collar.

Mingyu doesn’t regret coming to this party at all.

game boys

[ninamonday]

Ship/Member: Any hhu/Any
Major Tags: N/A
Additional Tags: N/A
Do Not Wants: None

Prompt:

I don't need new buddies, I don't need new buddies
I am just a game boy
Day ones are all I keep around me

seventeen, game boi

Two years, now I understand it
Yeah, you'll always be a gameboy
But these days, I don't wanna play, boy

Rosé, gameboy

[FILL] game boys

[m1ntea]

Ship/Member: Wonwoo/Jeonghan
Major Tags: N/A
Additional Tags: Exes, Post-breakup, Streamer!Wonwoo, Salaryman!Jeonghan, Unhappy ending (I'm sorry)
Permission to remix: Yes

***

Wonwoo runs into Jeonghan in the convenience store by his apartment. It makes sense in a way, since their shared inability to maintain a balanced, healthy diet was one of the only consistencies throughout their relationship.

“Wonungie,” Jeonghan coos, looking genuinely delighted to see him. It makes something sour curdle in Wonwoo’s stomach. His apartment is just down the street from Jeonghan’s office— the location had been one of the main reasons they’d chosen it last year, when they were looking for a place to move in together. Wonwoo’s work is entirely remote, so it made sense at the time for them to choose somewhere more convenient for Jeonghan. Then everything fell apart, and Jeonghan moved out, and Wonwoo found himself trapped in Jeonghan’s stomping grounds.

It’s honestly a miracle that they’ve made it this long without running into each other. Wonwoo is usually careful to avoid going out during commute, lunch, or dinner specifically for that reason. But he’s coming off of a twenty-four-hour subathon stream, sleep deprived and lightheaded, and considerations like is it lunch hour for people with regular office jobs? hadn’t really been at the top of his mind when he stumbled outside in search of sustenance.

“Hi, hyung,” Wonwoo replies. He sounds tired, because he is. Less than an hour ago he was wearing a cat ear headband and playing Fall Guys with his chat, struggling to keep up with the flood of Wonyangie~ redeems. His throat is still hoarse from all the meowing.

For the most part, Wonwoo enjoys his streams and his chat and the community he’s built, and he isn’t ashamed of his choice of career. But he’s just spent the entire past day playing games, and he doesn’t have the time, or the energy, for whatever other games Jeonghan might be cooking up.

“It’s been a while,” Jeonghan says. He rakes his eyes over Wonwoo’s body. “You look good.”

Wonwoo does not look good. He’s wearing a sweatshirt with a kimchi stain on it. His hair is greasy beneath the beanie he pulled on in an attempt at propriety. His eyes are dry, and his glasses do little to hide the dark bruises below them. He looks like shit, especially compared to Jeonghan, who is dressed in one of the tailored suits he wears for his fancy finance job.

When Wonwoo doesn’t immediately reply, Jeonghan tilts his head slightly. Contemplating, calculating.

“Wanna go get some real food?” he asks, nodding at the roll of convenience store gimbap in Wonwoo’s hand. The amusement that’s been hovering around the corner of his lips finally blooms into a smile. “Hyung will buy.”

Wonwoo tightens his grip on the gimbap, fingers crumpling the plastic. “No,” he says. “I’m fine.”

“Hm?” Jeonghan’s smile only gets wider. He looks at Wonwoo like he’s a puzzle to figure out, a Rubik’s Cube that can be solved if Jeonghan just prods in the right places. “Don’t you think it would be nice? We could go to that Japanese place you like.”

The problem is that Wonwoo knows Jeonghan’s not being malicious. He isn’t suggesting they go to the upscale restaurant that used to be their default date spot because he wants to embarrass Wonwoo in all his stained-sweatshirt glory. No, Jeonghan has some sort of other angle here. Perhaps he really does just want to catch up, or pretend like they can be friends, or make sure that Wonwoo spends more time outside the apartment than the five minutes it takes to walk to the convenience store and back.

But it doesn’t matter, because it isn’t Jeonghan’s fucking job to stage silly mind games just to make sure his pathetic ex-boyfriend is still functioning like a human being.

“Jeonghan-ah.” Wonwoo keeps his voice quiet, as gentle as he can through the cloud of exhaustion. “Stop.”

Jeonghan freezes. It should feel like a victory, but Wonwoo would rather meow on stream a thousand more times than have to reckon with the knowledge that he’s the reason Jeonghan’s smile just turned brittle enough to shatter.

“You don’t have time to eat out,” Wonwoo continues. “It’s Thursday, right? You have your weekly standup with the Sales Department in—” Wonwoo pulls out his phone, squinting at the lockscreen. “Approximately twelve minutes.”

“Ah.” Jeonghan blinks, then blinks again. Wonwoo has managed to make him speechless, yet another hollow victory. When Jeonghan speaks again, his voice is softer. “Wah, you’re right. You still know me so well, Wonungie.” He laughs, and it’s tinged with something almost like nostalgia, or maybe regret.

Wonwoo musters up a smile. A year and a half of dating, six months of separation, and this is where he’s ended up: taking critical damage in a fucking GS25. He can practically see his health bar flagging, the last little heart flickering out of existence.

“That’s not knowing you, that’s just knowing your schedule.” There’s an important difference there, but Wonwoo hadn’t figured it out until too late, after things had already ended.

Wonwoo leans over and takes the plastic dosirak from Jeonghan’s hands, then grabs a canned coffee and a lemonade from the drink cooler. He plops his haul down on the front counter before Jeonghan has a chance to protest, tapping his phone to pay.

“Here.” Wonwoo hands Jeonghan’s dosirak back over, along with the coffee. “Lunch is on me.”

Jeonghan’s expression is unreadable as he accepts the offering. They’ve come to a junction now, passing through the door and out into the street. Jeonghan’s office is to the left, Wonwoo’s apartment down the street to the right.

“Thanks, Wonwoo-yah,” Jeonghan says. This time when he smiles, there aren’t any secrets tucked away in the corners. It’s the most honest Wonwoo has seen him in a long time. “Next time I’ll pay, okay?”

For half a second, Wonwoo sees an ending screen flicker before him.

No lives left.
Would you like to restart?

He blinks the vision away, banishing it to the farthest recesses of his mind. After all, part of being a gamer is knowing when to give up. Some things just aren’t meant to be, and some paths will only ever lead to heartbreak.

“Sure,” he says, the lie blatant on his lips. He’s never been any good at these kinds of games, the ones that Jeonghan so often plays. He gives a half-bow, overly formal, so that he doesn’t have to see Jeonghan’s expression. When he turns away, Jeonghan doesn’t call out after him. Wonwoo swallows his disappointment. Some things never change.

Game over.