Take Me Out (NOT To The Ball Game)
Jeon Wonwoo x f!reader | part of the Aju League collab hosted by @100vern and @sailorsoons
word count: 4.3k
contains: I cannot overstate how absolutely stupid I think this fic is, not an ounce of realism sorry I just wanted to write this, CRACK, fluff, doxxing themes, canon wonu (he's an asshole on the internet for fun), reader is emotional about her fav team, general online discourse.
warning: I do not condone doxxing or harassing in real life. this is fanfiction and it is NOT real. I wrote this for fun and in the hopes that others would also find it funny. Don't read if it bothers you. Also I don't know jack shit about baseball, most of this is vague but still in the realm!
synopsis: In which Wonwoo realises his internet happenings can sometimes have real life repercussions, manifesting at his doorstep in a SVT jersey and steam blowing out your ears. Wonwoo learns a few lessons, but most of all, how the fans seem to have the one thing the team lacks; consistency.
[a/n]: this is possibly the dumbest thing ive ever written but I also love it so much. big big thank you to hali @sailorsoons and jewel @100vern for hosting the collab!! I had so much fun writing this, it's so different from what I usually do and it was exciting attempting to navigate a new plot form!! please check out all the other lovely fics in this collab over here!!
masterlist
Wonwoo's eyes hardly skim over the slew of outrage in his notifications, opening and closing the icon to get rid of the pesky red symbols.
He exhales loudly, digging his chopsticks into the cup of ramen to scoop himself a mouthful, eyes occupied with the glaring loading screen. The lights are all off and the curtains drawn closed, slivers of the afternoon light pouring in through the gaps. Wonwoo's only just woken up, hardly washed the sleep out of his eyes over the bathroom sink before he seated himself at his desk, ready to start his weekend with a healthy dose of League of Legends. He has groceries to buy, trash to take out, and the floors are filthy, but he'll get around to it. Eventually.
For now the most of his errand running involves throwing away his empty ramen cup and grabbing the water bottle he's been letting chill overnight from the fridge, tripping over a stray slipper in the kitchen before making his way back to his room.
Wonwoo's been told he needs to get more hobbies, at least those that don't involve sitting at a computer for hours on end and neglecting every other essential activity. He likes to argue he keeps the adult part of his life during the work week, when he's putting in his hours and wearing his ties and blazers, signing things and working overtime. The weekend is when he can wear the rattiest sweatpants and t-shirt set he owns and eat like he spends every dollar as soon as they warm in his hand.
Of course, gaming isn't the only hobby he has. One, in fact, he's found himself to be enjoying quite recently.
His phone buzzes right as he sits back down to the setup that cost two months his salary and could be a beacon seen from Mars. Wonwoo takes his first sip of hydration for the day as he picks up his phone, a missed call from Seungcheol.
He calls back on Discord, unhooking his headphones and slipping them on. Seungcheol answers almost immediately.
"'Morning," he he hears him grumble on the other line, very clearly woken up not long before.
"Have you even gotten out of bed?" Wonwoo scoffs.
"Ready to bet my dog you woke up less than an hour ago."
Wonwoo has nothing to say to that.
"Whatever, what do you need?"
"Need you to stop turning yourself into a Twitter influencer, it's embarrassing."
Wonwoo sputters, "I'm not influencing anyone."
"Your last tweet won't leave my timeline."
"All that's telling me is you like what I have to say."
Seungcheol sounds like he's heaving himself out of bed, the noises strenuous and unwelcome to his creaking body. He was playing games with Wonwoo till sunrise before bed, so the strain is not uncalled for or uncommon. This was a regular Saturday for them both.
"Why'd you have to come after Kim of all people? You're gonna get a psychopath at your door before dinnertime at this rate."
Wonwoo makes a sour face, leaning back against his chair to start playing League. "Because he deserves it."
"I dare you to point out Kim Mingyu in a lineup."
Seungcheol asks, of course, because Wonwoo would die a horrible death if his life depended on the dare. In fact, he knows preposterously little about the star studded cast of the SVT baseball team he features on his account.
All Wonwoo knows is that he nearly killed himself bored the one game his friend Hansol dragged him to, and has been using his abandoned Twitter account to take out all his pent up rage on baseball players who he knows fuck all about. No particular reason why he chose baseball, or SVT in particular, he just picked whatever annoyed him first.
The virality of the posts didn't begin to rack up till a couple months ago, suddenly any vague insult Wonwoo threw at his target of the day was hot topic in the community. His DMs, replies, retweets and every other point of contact are constantly flooded with choice words that could land him a pretty penny in court, but he hasn't looked too close in a very long time.
The wrath brought upon him last night went largely ignored, but it must have done some numbers for it to be terrorizing Seungcheol to this extent. Still, Wonwoo can't bring himself to look. His work on that account involved dropping his nuke of the day and promptly forgetting about it.
Leaning back against his chair, he gets to work once Seungcheol announces he's going to freshen up and eat before logging straight back in.
Wonwoo's back hits the rest comfortably, months of his form moulding it to become the perfect encasement for his back. He has his setup fine-tuned to the distance of the keyboard from both his lap and his torso, how in reach his water bottle is, the brightness of the screen in relation to how low his blinds are pulled. All he needs to do is twist his chair and take a seat.
His headphones are fully equipped to make sure he games through the end of the world (which he fully intends to do), which naturally includes the doorbell. Wonwoo keeps his phone screen side up at all times, his brand spanking new ring camera making sure he doesn't accidentally drown out the delivery driver while his ears are occupied.
He's mid level when his screen lights up, letting him know there's someone at the door. His mind immediately snaps to the new keyboard he bought himself last week, a new one he's going to spend the next couple weeks modding to use for himself.
He doesn't bother dealing with what's left of his game before shooting up from his seat, slipping his headphones around his neck as he practically skips his way to the front door. He doesn't even look into his peep hole before wrenching the front door open, ready to greet the delivery man and sign his keyboard into his arms.
Wonwoo's never seen the delivery people in anything but their uniforms, so he's confused when he sees you standing there in a white jersey and accessories to match. Your stance is almost offensive, arms crossed and a hip popped, mouth in a hard line. The sunglasses on your face make you look like you mean business, but that's until his eyes land on the rest of the…paraphernalia that engulfs you.
He doesn't register it at first, but he realises you're wearing a baseball jersey. Wonwoo could never tell the difference, but the blaring tell was almost pointed. Bright red SVT logos and lettering plastered on the front. There's key chains and tiny insufferable plushies hanging from your belt loops, the phone in your hand hooks through a beaded chain with the team colours.
You're a walking billboard for the team's gift shop.
Wonwoo has to bite back a snort.
Despite it all, he makes attempt at searching for a vaguely rectangular shaped box in your vicinity, perhaps HR's been hiring people with a sense of humour. Alas, he sees none in sight.
You take that moment to say something, concise but enough to put him back.
"You," you say. You're sneering at him, an angry hand coming up to rip your sunglasses off your face.
Wonwoo is having an increasingly hard time keeping it together.
"Me," he responds, lukewarm.
Your face is contorting, like you're gearing up to start saying things you hope will keep him up at night, rocking slightly on the balls of your feet like you're bracing yourself. You continue to stare at him, and Wonwoo has little realisation for the fact that he's in his stained sleep shirt and shorts with holes above his knees.
You continue to look like you're about to blow, but the steam coming out of ears doesn't seem to reach a boiling point. Wonwoo's about to say something out of pure perplexity when you finally decide to speak.
"Stop talking!"
"What?" Wonwoo sputters, blinking at your hands that have formed into fists. For a wild moment, he thinks you're about to punch him. But all you do is stick your fists down at your sides, about-turn and walk right away.
Wonwoo now stares at his empty hallway, and listens to the thundering sounds of your footsteps skittering down the apartment stairs.
He hears Seungcheol calling him on Discord all the way from his bedroom, and he wonders how on earth he's going to explain this.
You're bounding towards the entrance by the time Jihyo calls you, the soles of your feet hurt when you present your ticket to the woman at the entrance, who scans it while you catch your breath. There's no need to ask for your seat, you know exactly where it is.
Jihyo spots you before you spot her, your name called out as you shimmy your way through the bleachers, the tags and plushies and key chains making a tremendous fuss with every movement. But you make it to your seat, trinkets and all, before the game officially begins.
"Why'd you cut my call?" Jihyo asks, visibly disgruntled. She's in a similar ensemble as you, although significantly less decorated, hat covering the top quarter of her face from the sun. She hands you a beer, it's still cold.
"I did something," you huff. You're still severely out of breath, barely getting the words out as your spare fist digs into your thighs and calves in an attempt to bring the feeling back in them.
Jihyo freezes almost instantly, giving you a once over. "What?"
You mask your hesitation with the the breath you just can't seem to catch, heaving as you take a minuscule sip of your beer. It's cold and disgusting, the flavour still the same rancid wash in your mouth. You don't like beer, only drank it on game days for the hell of it. And it's the only liquid you've got right now, letting it dampen the blow of your racing adrenaline.
"What did you do?" she presses. She's sitting up straighter, shifting in her seat to face you.
Heat that has nothing to do with the sun burns at your neck, and you have to untie your tongue to respond. You realise you're the one who brought it up, but Jihyo usually reads you like a neon sign. Especially since this isn't the first time.
"I…went to the address—"
"For goodness' sake—" she starts, hand coming up into fists like she was attempting to control herself, before they landed on her lap. "You said you were gonna leave it alone!"
"But I didn't say anything!"
"Well that's a first," she scoffs.
"I really didn't," you grumble. You had a list, a booklet even, of things you were absolutely ready to say to whoever opened that door. You always do.
In your defence, the same one you've had for countless years, you're simply too protective of the things you enjoy. It started when you were a child, screaming bloody murder at the idiots in the stands that booed your favourite team. They'd only laughed at your passion back then, another child throwing a tantrum.
The rise of the internet changed things. You woke up one day and decided fighting every last troll and hate comment on the internet was your life's mission. It accelerated out of nowhere, and then suddenly you were showing up at every incel and vile internet warrior's house, learning that it wasn't all that hard to find them with the right resources.
@ wforw seemingly showed up out of nowhere, began flooding your timeline with incessant reposts and comments about the SVT baseball team that simply refused to leave you alone. It was all mostly opinions that required a plain and simple "who asked?" in return, but this bugged you. More than you could sit down and bear.
Jihyo's had to pull you out of many sticky situations, your obvious anger issues landing you right into the dragon's den. But this one was just trolling, petulant, babbling about the most unnecessary things. You were ready to bet this was a child.
That was, until you made the impromptu decision to drop @wforw a visit right before the game, the same visit Jihyo made you swear you wouldn't give in to. But you couldn't help it—he'd made a stupid post about Kim just the night before that was swarming your timeline. You couldn't escape it, not on your phone, nor in your mind.
The entire drive, getting out the car, and up the stairs, all the way till you reached the fated door behind which @ wforw spewed his slander, you mentally scripted everything you were going to say. You rang the doorbell, defiance in your stance, and not a single care in your addled mind for how absolutely stupid this decision was.
For someone who always has something to say, it takes a lot to get you to quiet down. But the whirr of your brain came to screeching halt as soon as the door of that apartment clicked open.
Fuck. He's not supposed to be hot.
Your cheeks once again burn at the memory, Jihyo's piercing glare now also in the mix.
"And you went by yourself!"
"I know! Just…I know." There's not much you can say in your own defence, something you're quickly realising as the condensation from your cup brings an uncomfortable dampness to your hand.
In all honesty, you were more aghast at yourself for the way you responded, and all because you couldn't fathom the idea of an internet idiot being even mildly attractive.
Jihyo drops the subject eventually, the starting of the game taking both of your attentions. But even as Kim Mingyu, the very player you stalked up to a stranger's home for is on the pitch, all you can think about is the interaction.
You're mad at yourself. All that existed in your working memory standing at that threshold was the vague idea that you were upset at something, and the very very broad shoulders of the man who opened the door.
Stop talking. About what? Is what you'd like to scream at yourself.
The recollection is making it impossible for you to sit still, even during the very exciting home run that has the entire stadium physically vibrating. You have half a mind to go right back and redeem yourself.
But you don't. Because you watch the game till the very end, eat with Jihyo, where she once again makes you promise to not open any of your social media for the rest of the night, and go right back home.
Of course, 'the rest of the night' ends right when you wake up the next day, opening your eyes and immediately itching to unlock your phone. You manage to still the thought, at least till you wash up and eat breakfast, intentional in the way you slug your steps, all to be able to say you waited before jumping right back in.
By the time you do unlock your phone and get the more important reminders out of the way, the dreaded app looms like a dark cloud. The fact that you can now put a face to @ wforw is more daunting than any other time you've done this, the prospect of knowing what his voice sounds like almost makes you want to throw up.
But you open the app, and hope you don't have to see his horrendous take about Kim more than you have to see everyone else's new hot opinions of the day after yesterdays game. You manage to scroll a couple times before he hits you square in the face.
You start reading it before you can register who posted it.
You don't think about the fact that you haven't changed out of your snoopy pyjamas, that your hair is still in the haphazard claw clip you stuffed it into half asleep, that you're wearing house slippers when you grab your keys and storm out that door. There's a good chance you're spooking every person you stalk past, but you don't have a lick of care in you when you start your engine and pull out without a second thought.
The drive leads you right back to the awful apartment building from yesterday, the pristine floors and walls and the nice receptionist and the non-creaky elevators. You want him to live in a dump, with a racoon for company and a half chewed up croissant for dinner.
You once again skip the elevator in your rampage, taking the stairs in stride when you would only deign to in any other situation. The apartment door is within your vision, and you're immediately rapping your knuckles on the wood, not waiting before ringing that doorbell once, twice, thrice.
By the time the door opens, you're just about ready to blow. However, due to the constraints of reality, when he appears on the other side, he still looks just as hot as he did the last time.
There's a couple seconds of silence, but that's all you allow yourself. You will not go home without a fight.
"You think you're funny?"
He blinks at you. His hair is wet and brushing against his eyes, damp towel around his shoulders. There's confusion on his face for a moment, before realisation, like he's just recognising who you are.
"Depends on the day," he responds, mostly blank faced.
"What is your problem?"
"My problem? My problem is you showing up twice in two days like some ineffective angel of death. Now scram."
"No."
"Do you realise you're just giving me more ammo?" he says, amused look on his face.
"I could take you to court."
He only smiles, a weird one, it's more of a smirk. Like he's smiling at a child who just doesn't know better.
You like his smile.
"I know the law," he says casually, "try me."
"What makes you so confident?"
"Oh I don't know, maybe freedom of speech? I don't like how a rich baseball player plays, I'm allowed to say that. Haven't named any names that aren't already familiar to the public, it's all fair game."
"You can't bluff your way out of this, I can find…a lawyer. And a…loophole."
"Of course, you're just rolling in money," he says, giving you a very obvious once over. "And if we're talking about taking this to court, I think the state would be more interested in doxxing and harassment than what I have to say about Choi's form."
"There is nothing wrong with Choi's form!" you nearly yell.
"That's what you took from it? You could go to jail for this, you really are insane."
"I'd rather rot in a cell than sit behind a screen like a coward!"
"They're baseball players for fucks' sake! They make their millions and don't give a rat's ass about what I have to say!"
"I do!"
"I appreciate the fanfare in my hallway but if you haven't noticed, it's noon on a Sunday and I'd rather go through the end of my lease with neighbours that don't hate my guts."
You want to say something, fire back about more of his insolence and his cowardice and how he's a disgrace to humankind, but you only get his closing line.
"Now if you'll excuse me," he says, eyebrows raised, slamming the door shut.
You immediately move to start banging on the door again, but the door only clicks open once more, his form appearing. "And don't even think about knocking again, calling the cops is a hobby."
And then the door is slammed shut again, for the final time, a gust of wind blowing over your form. You stand there in the hallways, adrenaline still pumping in your ears, and the ghost of your last argument lost on your lips.
Jihyo called you a monumental idiot. Amongst other things.
But you like to argue this was world's better than what you did before. Sure, a bumpy road to get here, but you were going to take your chances.
It's Friday evening, and you make sure you're wearing real clothes this time when you pull up to the apartment building that's plagued your thoughts for over a week. You even set your hair nicer, put on makeup and shoes that weren't sneakers.
You're hyper-aware the entire walk, from the moment you step out of the car, enter the building and are hit with the distinct scent of artificial roses, to standing between the elevator and stairs to make a decision (you pick the stairs), all the way till you stand in front of the fated door. Like you were gazing at yourself from a bird's eye view, equally curious as the next person for what you'd do next.
There's no banging or rapping or knocking on the door, you simply press the doorbell calmly, like you're an invited guest. You're assuming he has a ring camera, and is glaring at it with the hopes it'll disintegrate you where you stand, also because he's taking a significantly longer time opening the door.
You're beginning to convince yourself he either wasn't home, or was choosing to ignore you till you went away. That is, till you hear the distinct ding of one of the elevators down the hall. It's not like anyone else in here knows who you are, or what your very brief history with the man behind the door, but you feel yourself go taut anyway, shoulders up and head down so your hair shielded your face.
It isn't out of self-preservation, at least not the legal kind. You realise you're embarrassed.
The clicks of someone's shoes echo the hallways, quick paced and sure, growing closer and louder. You remain tense, counting the seconds till the person unlocks their own door and leaves you to your barren misery.
Except the footsteps have stopped, but there's no jingle of keys or the beeps of a keypad. You don't dare look up.
"What now?" he asks, and the voice has your head snapping up so quick it nearly gives you whiplash. "Can't even talk about Lee's ugly socks?"
He stands there, glorious in a plain white button down and slacks, blazer thrown over his forearm and a briefcase in his hand, phone in the other. His hair's been pushed back and gelled, and you can see his eyes better.
Work. Right. He probably has a job.
"Wonwoo—" you start, but are immediately cut off.
"Great, you've figured that out too." His face looks amused but you know he's exasperated. You shift your weight.
"I just—"
"I don't have time for this, you either leave right now or we do it the hard way—"
"This isn't about baseball."
"Right, it's about my impeccable taste in furniture, have you already taken a peek?"
"No," you grumble, not having much else to say. "But, just let me talk."
"It's all you seem to do."
You have to bite back a retort about the irony, but you choose to let it go. It's easier, especially when he looks like that all dressed up.
"I'm going to leave you alone after this. I promise."
He stares for a minute, sighing loudly before digging his hands into his pockets. "Well?"
You take a moment, breathe in, and out. "I have reservations for two at the Plaza Monique at nine today. I'll be there, for no other reason than I like their risotto. And I won't be waiting or anything, at least not until past nine. They don't charge for an empty seat if it's just two so, I'll be fine either way. Reservation's under _____."
You finally bring yourself to look up at him properly, trying to commit the face to memory in the very real chance that you might never see it again.
"That's all."
It's darker than you anticipated in the main dining room, nothing but a yellow lamp illuminating your table. It's cosy, but there's a draft. You don't dare change your seat.
A waiter asks if you're ready to order at 8:56 PM, you shake your head, claiming you're still browsing. Except you know what you want, the risotto and peach tea your forever order.
You set the menu down, grab your water glass and down it, the giant clock on the wall inching closer and closer to nine on the dot. Rolling your shoulder's back, you exhale. Picking up your phone, you open Jihyo's chat, and type out:
[You]: take your W|
You don't send it out, a naive part of you still fixated on the 8:58 PM displayed on your phone. Two minutes. And you'll beg Jihyo to join you in this too dark den to wallow. Maybe she'll lay off the I told you so's for tomorrow.
The waiter comes back, and you're about to disappoint him again by asking for another few minutes.
Except he notes only an expectant "Ma'am?" to get your attention, and you look up. He gestures behind him and you have to fight from breaking out into a smile full of teeth. You only manage a small one, enough to not scare him away.
Wonwoo stands behind the waiter, waiting to be led to his seat. He's dressed in all black, jacket pulled over the ensemble. He hasn't brushed out his hair from before, still pushed back, the low lighting of the place making sure you can see every angular plane of his face.
"I'll let you peruse the menu, and be back to take your orders."
You hardly hear him, because Wonwoo, with a look that's not unpleasant, exasperated, irritated or upset, sits opposite you.
And he's smiling, just like you are.