#[ literally /never/ part of the plan. but i think opening my brain back up to writing male muses with jy's addition-- ]

[iniziare]

Aventurine is joining the line-up. And I fully blame Lottie for multiple reasons, not just for reminding me that he plays perfectly into my old type of male muses (listen, I used to write them constantly, trust me), and is a little reminiscent of someone dear to me and someone I used to write (and miss writing). Vastly different character of course, but when you can tell some inspiration, I'm rather tickled. I'm also aching for specific dynamics, to be honest.

[cats-in-the-clouds]

it is unfortunate when i go to prayer and cry my eyes out and the only response i really hear is that i simply have to bear it. like usually i can get my emotions out and once they’re settled i hear a rational solution but it sucks when i don’t get the answer i want. i just have to keep waiting. like normally i hear something that gives me strength but wow apparently i’ve hit a new low

[sleepyjuice]

toxic!rafe will blow your phone up the second you post something on instagram that he’s ‘iffy’ about.

you posted a photo dump which consisted of some random photos of the beach, some of your friends, one of you and rafe of course, but the one that had rafe seeing red was the last slide, which was you in a bikini. he texted you several times at first, and while you were literally typing your response, he called you. your fingers were typing so fast to respond to him that you accidentally declined the call, and he did not like that. you immediately went to call him back, but another text from rafe rolled in, saying ‘fuck you don’t talk to me we’re done’ you sighed loudly, knowing damn well he was talking out of his ass right now, so you sat back and waited for the inevitable next string of texts to roll in. which they did, only seconds later.

rafe <3: do you get off on making me mad or something

rafe <3: like i’m racking my brain trying to understand why you do the things you do and that’s all i can come up with

rafe <3: and i see at least 4 guys have already liked your post like that’s crazy to me?? thought i told you to block all the guys that followed you?? of course you didn’t

rafe <3: also who even took that pic of you??? bc i know damn well it wasn’t me so who the fuck you posing for with your fucking ass and tits out? WHAT THE FUCK

rafe <3: DO NOT PUT YOUR SHIT ON DO NOT DISTURB answer me rn.

rafe <3: nah it’s cool actually i’m gonna go hit up my other gfs so you have a good night.

you rolled your eyes at that last text, deciding to fully turn your phone off. you knew he would likely try to text or call you again very soon but you didn’t want to deal with it right now. this wasn’t your first rodeo, you knew nothing you could say to him right now would calm him down, so letting him freak out on his own was the best method to his madness.

three hours had passed since you turned your phone off. you had caught up on some reading and turned on your current favorite show, but found yourself interrupted by a knock at your front door. you expected it to be rafe, but instead it was a large bouquet of your favorite flowers and a gift bag. you glanced around to see if rafe was lurking around, but saw nothing. when he freaked out over text and was able to reread his actions, he usually waited a bit longer to show his face as opposed to a verbal argument.

you brought the flowers inside and set them on the counter before grabbing the card attached to the side of the bouquet.

sorry we argued. you are so beautiful and i love you so much. got you a little gift and sent you some money for food and i set your appointment with your nail girl for tomorrow at 10. love you forever baby -rafe

you couldn’t help but smile just a little. the flowers were beautiful and the note was pretty sweet, so you chose to ignore the part where he said ‘we argued.’ you didn’t get a word in, but you let it slide. especially after you opened the gift bag to see the new dior bag you had been wanting.

you hurried to turn on your phone, immediately seeing a $500 apple payment from rafe as well as a new text from a few minutes ago.

rafe <3: hope you like the flowers and bag baby. love you! :)

you: i love them. thanks rafe, love you too

rafe <3: good to hear. lmk what you end up getting for dinner and i’ll pick you up tomorrow to take you to your nail apt. can’t wait to see you baby

you would order yourself dinner that was obviously way less than $500, but you would send rafe a picture and thank him again. you’d facetime him before bed and conversation flowed like nothing had even happened just hours before. he’d ask you what color nails you were getting, tell you funny stories about the old men at the country club and excitedly plan what you two were going to do the next day. the cycle seemed like it would never end, but you often forgot about the bad when he was talking so sweetly to you and all you could think about was how excited you were to see him tomorrow.

[husbandhoshi]

title: eat. play. love.

pairing: seungcheol x f!reader

wc: 19.4k

summary: being one of new york's top food critics comes with a lot of perks: free dinners, nice awards, and a linkedin profile your parents could be proud of. that doesn't stop you from wanting a lofty promotion to editor, and the only person standing in your way is choi seungcheol. just one problem: his romance column has half of new york under his grimy little thumb. that, and you hate him.

in which your love language is food. seungcheol doesn't have one.

notes: romcom with mild angst, coworkers!au, slow burn enemies to lovers, playboy!cheol, suggestive (one moment in particular) + mentions of sex (otherwise sfw), swearing, lots of alcohol, also you will probably get hungry reading this. extra special thanks a million times over to my fav person @wuahae for bearing with me through literally all 20k words of this. i love you:')

It's underneath a layer of paper-thin egg yolk pasta where you think you see god.

Spoon meets whipped ricotta, white truffle, sage oil. A sip of 1979 cabernet, punishing and oaky. Rinse and repeat.

None of these words are in the Bible, yet you are having nothing short of a religious experience.

"Well, this seems like good news for the place," Jeonghan says. "Wine's tasty. Three stars?"

At this point, you're fairly sure Jeonghan has tuned the explanation of your elaborate rating process out (he's there for the wine, anyway), so instead you top him up and help yourself to a generous portion of his pappardelle.

"Four, then?" He leans forward on his elbows. "Or critic's choice?"

Candied lemon, pecorino, garlic. Derivative, but it's a good bite.

"You're distracting me." You point your fork at him. "You're like 80% alcohol, anyway. Bad opinions."

"Sue me," he laughs. "I would take a client here, is all I'm saying."

You pass on the opportunity to bring up that Jeonghan once brought a client to a Bubba Gump because he was craving coconut shrimp. But Jeonghan isn't a food critic—he's a business analyst and your best friend from college, back when all you cared about was Friday's house party and writing pizza joint reviews for the university paper.

It's a good arrangement. You appreciate his company, and he's never one to turn down a free meal. The both of you keep a small circle—such is the price of discernment.

There aren't many things that can come between you and a delicious meal. But, you have notifications turned on for just three things (all work-related) and you both watch the linen tablecloth light up under your face-down phone in true horror-movie fashion.

Jeonghan raises an eyebrow. "Popular on a Saturday night," he jokes. "Copy on your ass again?"

"Nothing's in production," you reply, letting the evil claws of your terrible work-life balance encircle you once again as you open your email.

URGENT: LIFESTYLE EDITOR TRANSITIONAL PLANS, it reads. It's from Wonwoo, your editor in chief, who has sent it with priority, as if the caps lock wasn't scary enough.

"So Joshua decided to quit. Just like you said," Jeonghan says, but it's like he's speaking to you through a wet paper bag because it takes every working brain cell of yours to read the email.

As you may know, Joshua has decided to step down from his position as our current Lifestyle editor.

Not a surprise, given his wife is having a kid. You had called it six months ago over the paper's Christmas dinner at Eleven Madison Park, when Joshua spent half of it outside on a phone call and the other half browsing the Baby Gap website.

I have decided to hire internally to fill his position. I and upper management believe you would be a good fit for the position. Please plan for a meeting 9 AM Monday to discuss transitional plans.

It's that part that you have to read over three times. And then you read it over a fourth, just for good measure.

"You're starting to scare me." Jeonghan puts down his glass, which is something akin to a baby separating from their bottle.

Sometimes you need a dictionary to understand Wonwoo, but the email seems clear as day to you. Good fit. Transitional plans. Suddenly you wish Jeonghan hadn't had so much of the wine because you're in desperate need of a drink.

"I-I think…I think I'm getting promoted."

How funny to think your lifelong dream would be realized over a 40 dollar plate of pasta. You want to cry and hug the maître d' and eat the entire complimentary bread basket.

"It's about time." The glass finds his relieved hand again. "You breathe journalism. I'm afraid one day you'll text me in AP style."

You read over all of it again, trying to memorialize the words that undoubtedly will launch your wonderful and long career in the upper echelons of media.

Looking forward to talking with the two of you.

Wait—two?

Then the proverbial cherry on top, the laughably convenient other thing your eyes had glazed over before.

CC: Choi Seungcheol.

"Choi Seungcheol?!"

Nothing is ever that easy and it then dawns on you that this is a competition type thing because never in the history of the printing press has there been two editors for a section.

Jeonghan stares at you blankly. It would be funny if you didn't feel like you were being double deep-fried like terrible fair food, all the thrill and elation of the moment boiled down to lead in your chest.

"I—he," you stammer.

Jeonghan mouths check to the poor waiter assigned to watch your table. God bless him.

"Words," he tells you. "You went to journalism school."

You take a syrupy breath that sits in your lungs unhappily. Your food is cold. This is a disaster.

"Well, actually, I'm not getting promoted."

Jeonghan's eyes soften, just enough without making you pity yourself more.

"There's this guy," you start. "He's the love and relationships columnist, the one I complain about all the time." Jeonghan makes a small ahh sound, your predicament finally dawning on him. "I guess we're both under consideration for the position. I didn't-I didn't even think of him. I—"

You slump into your seat, the arancini your only solace despite your complaint that the breading was too salty earlier.

"So? I bet you're a way better fit than him. It'll be a shoe-in. Easy decision."

Jeonghan's confidence in you makes you want to cry.

The problem is that Seungcheol is the human equivalent of Cosmopolitan Magazine. You can't recall the last time he walked into the office with a fully buttoned up shirt. You also can't recall the last time one of his advice columns wasn't in the end of quarter recap for popularity.

It's not in you to explain this debacle to Jeonghan. This whole situation is so cosmically awful that all you can do is ask for dessert in a takeout box and watch Jeonghan calculate tip without a calculator because that's all you learn in business school.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Jeonghan asks when you're both in the Uber.

"Yeah." You have a headache. You also can't decide whether or not to give the restaurant three or four stars, and you always know by the time you're out the door. "It's fine."

The tiramisu is cold in your lap. Jeonghan squeezes your shoulder. You refresh your email.

Choi Seungcheol's name stares back at you.

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The meeting goes exactly how you would expect.

Wonwoo, in his lanky taupe sweater vest, says that Joshua is leaving and you and Seungcheol are standing toe-to-toe in the space left behind.

"I'm sure you two are well-acquainted," he begins.

You stifle a laugh, but Seungcheol's cat-like grimace says more than enough. Neither of you have the heart to tell Wonwoo that your very first impression of Seungcheol was that he tried to hit on you at the new recruit party, or that Joshua probably deserves reparations for how often he mediated fights between the two of you during weekly meetings. (Maybe not reparations, but at least an Edible Arrangements.)

For better or for worse, Wonwoo's genius does not extend to social cues, and he follows with a blithe, "Therefore, I hope you two will treat this as a friendly competition between equals."

You almost laugh again, but this time it's because you need the promotion more than you need air, and you cannot allow some Buzzfeed reject with the face of a model take that from you. And you don't doubt Seungcheol wants it as bad as you do, considering how often you've seen him try to schmooze his way up the ranks.

He may have become a columnist by rubbing elbows with the right people, but you'll never forget the late nights you spent sifting through hours of interview transcripts, on the grueling climb up the totem pole to earn your position.

"We'll evaluate an article of your own submission at the end of the month before we decide. Best of luck."

At least Wonwoo knows to quit while he's ahead—he closes the meeting with a succinct nod before returning to his seemingly infinite unread emails.

"Exciting," Seungcheol says. He claps his hands together, Rolex gaudy under the office lights, and sends a nauseating smile your way. "May the best writer win."

He offers you a handshake. You think he has real life cooties, so instead you close your planner and shoot him a very pointed look.

"There's only one writer here. Thrilled to read your next thinkpiece on how men should spend more time on Tinder and not therapy."

That earns you a chuckle from Wonwoo, but Seungcheol is not easily fazed.

Instead he rushes to hold the door open for you on your way out, likely his favorite piece of advice to give his poor, indolent readers.

"I'll book a table for us at Avra next month," Seungcheol gloats. "Consider it a gift from your future boss."

"They don't have a kids menu, you know."

"No problem. I'll have my darling food critic order for me." He places a wicked hand over his polyester covered heart. "Ending misogyny in one fell swoop, huh?"

You wait for the door to Wonwoo's office to close before looking at him right in his wet, cow eyes with the most malice you can possibly muster. You feel it collect in your bones, enough to feel like you can physically hack it up and hurl it at him.

"You have no clue what you're talking about, huh? Do you actually attract women with that attitude? Or are you just a really good liar?"

You are so close to him, you could kiss him if you wanted—luckily for the both of you, you would rather die a thousand fiery, terrible deaths, and then die all over again. Instead, you watch his pout unravel into a grin from hell, and he leans in closer, the scent of Old Spice and break room coffee heavy on him. This morning's matcha latte churns in your stomach, and you wonder if you should have gotten oatmilk instead of dairy.

Up close, he's worse. His hair reminds you of the sad, tired swoop of the washed-up lead of a daytime soap opera. And he has no pores, which is deeply upsetting because he looks like the type to wash his face with Palmolive and a prayer.

"You know what?"

His breath hits your lips and your skin prickles like you have an allergy.

"What?"

"You just gave me the winning idea for my next column." No way, you think. Mind games. Classy. "See you at dinner, sweetheart. Looking forward to it."

The pet name makes you seethe. There are a million things you want to say, all colorful and none workplace appropriate.

"I'd rather starve."

"Better not let Wonwoo hear you with that bad attitude. I'm sure management loves a team player." His cheshire grin somehow gets bigger, all white teeth and pink lip. "Try to smile a little, huh? Have fun writing about snails and black garlic and cwa-ssants, or whatever it is that you do."

you watch all the laminated syllables of croissant go through his paper shredder smile and you think you black out.

He spins on his heel triumphantly, almost bowling over Minghao from Arts & Entertainment, who is undoubtedly wondering if you did, in fact, kiss.

Seungcheol laughs as he walks away, linebacker shoulders rippling under his one size too small shirt.

The metal-red knot of anger swells in your gut as you watch his perfect silhouette and his tiny little waist disappear into the staff room. Then you realize what you've been looking at and let yourself get mad all over again.

He does have a nice ass, though. You'll give him that.

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"You'll never guess what I have."

"Is it better than this lox bagel?" You answer, mouth unattractively full.

Seungkwan's answer is the sound of a straw hitting the bottom of an empty cup and the grating jostle of ice. Phone calls with him are like ASMR because he's always doing a million things at once, but you wouldn't have it any other way.

"Infinitely," he finally says, after procuring the last milliliter of what's likely his second coffee of the day. "Besides, we all know pesto is way better."

"Wrong, but okay," you reply. "What is it?"

"You're not gonna thank me for being the best friend in the world? Me, an editor, keeping nepotism alive for you? A mere columnist?"

"Senior columnist," you laugh between bites. "You need me. Who else would you text during content meetings?"

"Whatever." His eye roll is audible. "I guess I won't tell you."

He shakes his cup again, all ice and no patience.

"Fine! I owe you. My career and my life."

"And a seat at Momofuku."

"And that."

You take another greedy bite, letting the everything on an everything bagel get all over your chin. You love dressing up and going to restaurants that cost more than both of your kidneys, but there's something sacred about eating a $10 bagel behind the shield of your computer screen at a cafe where no one knows you.

There's someone laughing really loudly somewhere, and if you weren't otherwise preoccupied, you would look for the offender and give them a hard glare. You don't know what could possibly be that funny at 9 AM, but, then again, you never were a morning person.

"So, I have intel. About Seungcheol." You can picture the glint in Seungkwan's eyes, glittery and caramel. Unfortunately, the news that it's related to your worst enemy makes you sit up a little straighter. "At today's content meeting, Joshua said that he's working on some kind of challenge to go on as many dates as possible. He might make it a series."

"How tacky," you say, but the information clanks around in your brain like shoes in a washing machine. The indulgent, clickbaity headline just falls together perfectly—I Went On 50 First Dates So You Don't Have To. Exactly the kind of article your mom sees on Facebook and sends to you.

"You have to admit it's a decent idea. Not as good as yours, but it'll get engagement," is Seungkwan's reply, but you can barely hear it over the swell of another sitcom-esque laugh, this time, from a woman. "The other editors are very invested in this whole thing, by the way. Of course, I'm betting on you."

You're about to very openly stress about people gambling on your success when your eyes wander to the backside of the Sports Illustrated model getting napkins at the counter. Not bad at all, you think. It may be too early for the comedy club, but appreciating the male figure has no schedule.

And then he turns around, and you're able to see past the curly hair, muscle tee, beauty pageant smile—it's none other than Choi Seungcheol, fully outfitted with the audacity to trespass on your bagel place. You have never been more disgusted by your heterosexuality.

You hide behind your computer screen.

"Helloooo?" comes Seungkwan on the line. "Are you making out with your breakfast or something?"

"Seungkwan, I gotta go," you hiss. Your eyes follow Seungcheol as he makes his way back to his table. "There's a…situation."

You watch him sit across from a beautiful girl in a sundress and Prada sunglasses, and her lips tumble into a brilliant red smile.

It would be really fucking funny if he was on a date, you think, but then you see him make the kind of eyes you last saw in the deepest, stickiest recesses of a frat house on thirsty Thursday. Then you realize he is on a date, that he's been on a date, and it's his laugh that is equally annoying as it is loud.

Seungkwan works hard, but the devil always works harder.

"Ok, talk to you later. Bye!" You can hear the beginning of one of Seungkwan's protests, but you hang up before he's able to properly complain. Maybe you'll have to do a little better than Momofuku—that's a problem for later.

Over the rim of your laptop, you catch glimpses of their conversation. You notice Seungcheol talks a lot with his hands, and you wonder if that's another one of his tips or if that's just him. Him and those big clown hands, illustrating a story that you're unfortunately too far away to hear.

But you can hear her laugh again, and you try to guess what he's talking about. His childhood dog. The insurmountable burden of being prom king and captain of the football team. This little not-competition and this little not-rivalry between the two of you. How the PB&J bagel is the best thing on the menu (it's not, but you see the berry compote all over his fingers and you know that's the hill he's dying on).

No matter how you spin it, it's a hard pill to swallow. Choi Seungcheol is good at what he does, and there's nothing you can do to stop it.

You hear the careening lilt of what seems to be Seungcheol whining, and there's a brief flash of something like endearment in your stomach before the repulsion sets in.

Nothing you can do to stop him, huh?

The question, sinister and burning, writhes in your brain as you chew on the ice from your coffee and stare at a blank Word document, the cursor blinking like a heartbeat.

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Beware the wrath of a woman scorned.

It's number 3 on Seungcheol's article titled Revenge and Other Stories. Unsurprisingly, he must not practice what he preaches, because you currently have all nine circles of Dante's Inferno inside you right now.

Play nice, Jeonghan had told you. Looks better to upper management.

And you did, until one of your photo requests mysteriously got deleted. Then Joshua told you to cut 500 words from this week's column because Seungcheol's just "happened" to be a little longer this time.

The knockout punch was yesterday when Seungcheol told you he was using your January critic's choice pick to take Wonwoo out for a friendly dinner, his treat. If you had known, you would've called ahead and told them to poison the hamachi. (No matter. Any foodie worth their salt knows Thursday is the worst day for sushi).

Now you sit on the C train, dressed to the nines, because you have a date with destiny at Nai. Sometimes destiny is a big pan of paella for one, but this time, it's Seungcheol and his next victim on date night.

Getting him there was so easy, it was almost criminal. An obnoxiously loud elevator phone call in which you name dropped the executive chef, a friend of yours, at least four times. Seungkwan very strategically asking you if a press pass can bypass reservations for a booked-out restaurant. Gossip in the break room with the intentional use of "intimate," "sangria drunk," and "affordable."

Affordable was a lie, but you're learning quickly that a hungry fish will take any bait. And seeing Seungcheol's face is never a joy, but you're not opposed to watching him open the menu for the first time.

"I have a killer Spanish accent," Seungcheol told you on the way out today.

Hook, line, and sinker.

The subway car rumbles under you. You're almost in East Village. You don't normally spend your Friday nights crashing dates—you actually don't really spend them outside your apartment at all, but Seungcheol is the exception to the rule and you're making a lot of them for him. A small price to pay for the glory of dethroning Casanova.

The plan is to "accidentally" run into Seungcheol and his Friday night exploit, and then to casually, non-bitterly mention a, that she is about to become a statistic, b, that his idea of chivalry was birthed in the basement of the Alpha Omega house, and c, that you're surprised he's still single because you always happen to catch him on dates. Something like that.

This is admittedly the best you could come up with. Like you said, you don't really crash dates. You don't really sabotage people either, but Seungcheol declared war the minute his Folgers breath hit your face outside Wonwoo's office.

Then you think of all the ways things can absolutely backfire. Seungcheol's warm, carefree whirl of laughter when he explains you're office rivals, or worse, lies and says you're nothing but a jilted, jealous ex. Or this whole thing could simply be immortalized in his winning article as a jaunty sentence about making the most out of a bad situation, yada yada yada.

You picture watching another girl, spellbound, as you dig into your table-for-one paella.

In your mind's eye, she laughs, floaty like his date at the bagel place, and for a moment you understand what it might feel like to want Choi Seungcheol.

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Friday night at Nai is red and glittering and heady with saffron.

You remember when you first ate here, two weekends after the soft open, early in your career at the paper. After a three hour conversation over wine and octopus with the owner, you wrote the restaurant a glowing review that, to your surprise, helped land it several ritzy awards. Now the dining room is never empty, but they always find space for you.

That was the first time you learned that all of this work meant something. Yeah, you loved an excuse to stuff your face and get paid for it, but what was even better was the chance to tell the stories of a working father's hand-pulled noodles, the drunk, midnight origins of a tasting menu, the caramel-greedy fingers of a well-loved childhood.

This is the long way of explaining how you bypass the two hour standby wait time, and how you walk in on a first name basis with the manager.

You're fully prepared to see Seungcheol mid-churro, perhaps four pick-up lines deep and wondering if he still has a condom in his wallet.

That's why you almost miss him on your way to your table. His is empty, other than a lonely, watered down martini on the rocks and two menus.

"Seungcheol?"

He looks up at you, and something like genuine surprise melts into relief, then intrigue.

"Look at who crawled out of her dungeon," he chuckles. "You clean up good."

Whatever pity you may have felt for him vaporizes instantly. Although, when he beckons for you to sit in the empty seat across from him, you do take the bait—you're not about to pass up a good opportunity to humble your least formidable foe.

"Refreshing to see that our love guru isn't above dining solo," you reply. "I have to admit, your acting is impressive. What an elaborate ruse to get another poor, single diner to pity you enough to sit with you."

"It worked, didn't it?" He takes a sip of his cocktail, which is almost a brand new drink because it's 90% water, 10% martini by now.

"I'm no expert, but pretending to get stood up is not a tip I would give the general public."

"Who said I was pretending?"

No fucking way. Your jaw drops. It's too unreal to believe. Even if the slutty cut of Seungcheol's shirt wasn't persuasive enough, surely the prospect of enjoying a free Michelin star dinner would warrant an appearance, even for you. Breaking News: New York's Hottest Bachelor Ghosted at Top Restaurant. If only that were as wonderful to the average reader as it is to you.

Because waiters are trained to enter conversations at the best possible time, you're forced to pause and order a wine for the table and some tapas. (No paella for one? Seungcheol asks, and you try to reconcile your annoyance with the fact that one, he's read your review of this place, and two, that he looks mildly turned on that you can pronounce all the menu items. You tell the waiter to add a paella.)

"You got stood up?" You cross your arms over your chest. "You may think I'm dumb, but I'm not that dumb."

"You have no idea how flattering your reaction is." He laughs, and the air shifts around him, drawing you further into his eyes, inky under the lowlight. "I understand you think I'm irresistible, but, alas, not everyone shares your opinion."

"I never said that."

You hate how easy it is for him to push your buttons. You hate how in control he is, and you hate how he's looking at you like you're on the menu.

The waiter returns with the wine, and you decide you're feeling equally as terrible.

"Truly, you can't be that irresistible. After all this time writing about relationships, you would think you'd actually be in one."

Touché, you think. Normally, it would be too low a blow, even for you, except that his column-related debauchery is one of the four thrilling conversation topics he subjects you to at the office. And who are you to bury the lede?

"Coaches don't play," Seungcheol says, leaning back and popping the martini olive in his mouth offensively, as if he's not at a restaurant that takes months to get a good table at.

"Bullshit." You lean forward and chase his gaze. He doesn't shy away; rather, he meets you with an appraising raise of an eyebrow. "Coaches should at least know how to throw the ball."

"What do you think we're doing right now?"

"Oh, please." Your wrist twitches as you fight the urge to down your entire glass of merlot in a single gulp. You picture the title of his next article: Top 10 Ways To Get A Woman Drunk. And then the oh so charming punchline: 1. Be so insufferable she cannot last a conversation without her real life partner, wine.

"See? I've already got you laughing." He notices the generous sip missing from your glass and tops you up.

"No, you do not get to make this about me."

Somehow, you are laughing, but you chalk it up to the spiteful little man in your brain writing headlines for Seungcheol's column.

How To Antagonize Your Date In 5 Easy Steps.

"Need I remind you I'm only here because your actual date stood you up? Too soon?"

"I prefer you anyway," he answers, his expression half-challenge, half-something else that you don't really want to think about.

"Crazy, because I'd rather be literally anywhere else."

Signs You Are In A Hostage Situation, Not A Date.

"You should stick to food. You're a bad liar." He cocks his head to the empty table next to him. "It's still open if you want it."

"I'm no quitter."

Maybe The Male Gaze Isn't So Bad: A Thinkpiece.

Definitely not that one.

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"So, before I try anything," Seungcheol says, leaning across the table. "Teach me how to be a food critic."

"Why, so you can steal my job?"

"You can keep it," he laughs. "I'm gonna be your boss, not your replacement."

You notice he'll linger on the tail end of his sentences, betting on the response you haven't even come up with yet. He's picking apart the furrow of your brow, the marrow of your brain. It's like one drawn out interview, but you suppose that's all dating really is. Maybe your journalism degree wasn't a waste of money after all.

You won't give him the satisfaction of a fight (plus, you don't want the food to get cold), so you change the subject.

"Well, I take pictures first," you say, waving away his overeager fork.

"Genius. They really scammed you out of your Pulitzer, huh?"

You ignore him in lieu of repositioning the chorizo. Unfortunately, Seungcheol is unrelenting. You hear the snap of his phone camera, clearly taking a photo of you and not the meal—clever, but you won't bite.

"Wanna be in my story? I can tag you."

In your periphery hovers his wry, wanting smile.

"Sure. So the world can know I'm a charity worker too."

He whistles, clutching his heart. If he weren't so annoying, you would find him a little cute. Just a little. You blame the kitchen for whatever aphrodisiac is in the food today.

"Live update: date with food critic going about as well as an episode of Hell's Kitchen."

He says this leaning forward, elbows on the table, so close to you that your knees might touch. You tense at the thought.

"Any date of mine would be on better behavior."

"So you're admitting this is a date?"

"This," you wave your hand over the table. "This is not a date. This is me regretting ever pitying you."

"Well, pity looks good on you."

And there it is again, that accursed, perfect smile. This time, it works, and you fight the losing battle of the wine flush undoubtedly all over your face. It bothers you that there's a little part of you that enjoys this, but that's a confession you plan on taking to the grave.

"Enjoy it while it lasts, because you're not getting any again."

"Fine. I'm still waiting for your grand secret," he says, now biting the tines of his fork like an untrained dog. No rest for the weary, you suppose. "Food is food. Prove me wrong."

Despite the betrayal of your basal human instincts, you're determined to make this a bad encounter. Maybe you hadn't anticipated the full force of Seungcheol's overgrown fratboy persona, but you came here for a reason and you do plan to see it through.

"There is no secret." You split apart an empanada, the guts steaming and fragrant. "You eat."

"Like this?" He crams an entire piece in his mouth, and you watch him recoil and huff the heat out. "Mmm, 's pretty good, though."

Your eyes almost roll back far enough to see the wrinkles of your brain. Of course he wouldn't get it, but you don't know what you were expecting from a guy who thinks Hot Pockets are fine dining.

You put on your most pretentious food critic face. "Eating is about respect. Storytelling. He's retelling the first time someone made him this dish. The ingredients—they're words on a page. An autobiography." Your hand finds your chest and you sigh, a final touch to your Oscar winning melodrama that would certainly annoy anyone with even half a brain.

"Huh. Poetic," he says. He's still fanning his (very full) mouth, but he chews a little more slowly. "I'm respecting. I'm taking it in."

You don't know if he's actually doing any of that, but, when he takes his next bite he asks about what's in it (tomato, raisin, egg) and if someone really made the chef an empanada when he was younger (yes, on the flour-printed counter, every Sunday morning).

You press on. It shouldn't take much to bore him, but with every question, food-related factoid, and snide comment you have, he matches you with genuine curiosity. Either he's an excellent actor or he's secretly culinary school-bound, because you can't actually imagine anyone putting up with any of that, nonetheless I like dick jokes and football Choi Seungcheol.

You spend the rest of the evening like this, spoon to heart to cherry mouth. The wine is abundant, and Seungcheol spends more time listening than talking, which he admits is a first for him.

"You really know a lot about food," he says, likely fighting the urge to use his finger to get the last of the chocolate sauce off the churro plate. "I like that."

It's a cheap compliment in a game of low blows, but it sits warm and content in your chest. You have to force yourself back to the night you met him, when he was all cognac and one-liners and he gave you his spare hotel room key. A good reminder of his true nature, you think, despite the fact that he just listened to you talk about all the different grains of rice, ad nauseum.

"It's my job," is your reply, adequately distant for your liking.

"Fair. You gonna ask me about mine?"

"What more is there to know?" You hold up the check. "You're paying, right? Chivalry and all that?"

You're waiting for him to mention the company card, the only one allocated to your section that Seungcheol couldn't possibly have because it's sitting snug in your purse. The one you'll say you conveniently forgot so you get to see a grown man squirm at paying the bill.

"Already did. Gave the host my card when I got here. You're holding the customer copy." His chuckle disappears under the lip of his wine glass. "Bet you were excited to use the company card, huh?"

If shame were a physical object, you feel like your own personal Atlas. Your only option is to stare at the wasteland of empty plates before you and wonder how deep Seungcheol's pockets really are.

"Hardly. More excited that I burned a hole in your wallet." You click your tongue, out of options on how to ruin Seungcheol's night. You would spill wine on him but there's none left. "Anyway, I'm heading out."

"Running away?"

"Bored," you lie.

He calls you a taxi, and you walk out together, night heavy with the rhinestone glare of Friday night traffic.

"I actually had a nice time tonight," Seungcheol says, emphasis on the actually.

"Unfortunate."

"How do you think I feel?"

The taxi pulls to the curb, and he sighs, weighty with exaggerated relief. You can't even take it seriously because he's looking right at you and badly failing to push down the smile at the corners of his mouth.

It's only now that you notice his eyes are really brown, like he's from a cartoon or something. Worse, you'd daresay they're nice, less menacing, when they're tempered by a good meal and semi-public humiliation.

"Text me when you get back to your villain lair."

"If I were a real villain, you would have a lot more to worry about."

Seungcheol opens the cab door for you, and you catch a whiff of the cologne he undoubtedly smeared on in the toothpaste-streaked mirror of his five by five studio bathroom. Pine, leather, and citrus, which is the most pedestrian combination of smells to exist and yet you doubt it hasn't done him any favors.

"I'm terrified. Shaking." You clamber into the backseat, and he smiles at you again, as if you've forgotten what all his other ones looked like. "By the way—"

You have half a mind to shut the door in his face, but you can't find it within you—maybe it's the wine, or perhaps pure defeat. Probably the former.

"This job. It's—" He clicks his tongue and looks at the tops of his leather shoes. He's actually thinking, and you don't like it. "Never mind. See you Monday."

And then the words are gone. He shuts the cab door, and they're left in a plume of exhaust and Seungcheol's tiny waving figure in the rearview mirror.

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"So you're telling me you went on a date with your worst enemy."

It's 8 AM, and Jeonghan isn't pulling punches. Even through the phone, you can see his lazy grin, the pen he's flipping in his hand, the green ribbon of the Dow Jones on his desktop.

The newsroom is refreshingly near empty, except for Joshua, who hovers around the water cooler like a fly on the wall, if flies wore Armani ties and cigarette jeans.

"It wasn't a date, and I wanted to ruin it so he would have nothing to write about."

"No one goes on a date to ruin it. You could have just left."

"Clearly you haven't seen How To Lose A Guy In 10 Days."

"Are you serious." Jeonghan laughs, crackly and bright. "Care to tell me how that movie ends?"

"Except he isn't Matthew Mcconaughey. He says spaghetti like pah-scetti and doesn't use Oxford commas."

Mid-laugh, you endure another beat of extended eye contact with your editor until he beckons you over. He'd likely been waiting for the perfect time to interrupt the conversation he was so subtly eavesdropping on—oh, how you love a newsroom with an "open floor plan" to "facilitate communication." Sometimes you think the reason Joshua's stuck around this long is because reporters can't stay away from drama, especially if they're not the ones reporting it.

"I gotta go," you tell Jeonghan, whose version of a goodbye is a triumphant cackle.

You find Joshua putzing around, plastic water cup incriminatingly full.

"I take it you had an enjoyable weekend?" he asks, eyes sequined with all the secrets they hold.

"Yup. Just working on that Dining Through The Years article." Not entirely a lie—you are hedging your bets on this story, one where you revisit the restaurants you wrote about when you first got your start at the paper (Nai included, although admittedly yesterday's food was the least of your concerns). "You needed me?"

"Glad to see New York's finest chefs are well-versed in Kate Hudson's filmography," he says, grinning something beastly. If he weren't your boss, you'd knock that little water cup clean out of his hand. "Anyway, if your interview is over, I need you to go on a field trip."

"Field trip?"

Surely you're better than a task for the interns. You wonder if they're off fighting their own demons, seeing as you missed the circus in the elevator this morning, the usual juggle of hazelnut lattes and lemon poppyseed muffins for the higher-ups.

"Wonwoo needs you to help pick out catering for the corporate event later next week." Joshua tips his head back at Wonwoo's glass-plated office, where you see him redoing his tie in the reflection of his computer monitor. "My guess is that Yerim is going to be there, and he wants to make a good impression. Like an 'I consulted a food expert' impression."

Classic gossip queen Hong Joshua, always with the unnecessary but incredibly cogent commentary on office politics. You think you're actually going to miss the bastard.

"Flattered," you remark dryly. "Catering from where?"

"That's the thing. It's from this Thai place like two hours out from the city."

Two hours: code for an all day endeavor. He wasn't kidding when he said field trip.

You graciously resist the urge to groan out loud. No one told you taking the high road is one big slog through the mud, but here you are. You tell yourself this will help your campaign to be editor—the stinky, dirt-smeared silver lining.

"Before you ask—yes, I know you cannot take the subway there." You blink at him, wondering why this all feels like the set-up to a terrible joke. "Luckily, as you probably know, Seungcheol drives here every day and has offered to help."

Ah. There it is. You look for the blinking applause sign hanging above your head and the chorus of riotous Seungcheols making up your own personal laugh track.

"Only back to the office, though—" Joshua adds, as if that provides you any solace. "There's a one-way bus going up there at noon."

"N-not both ways?" you croak.

"Something about funds," he replies, shrugging. "Hey, don't shoot the messenger."

"You're not the one I'm thinking of shooting."

"Who knows? Maybe he is Matthew McConaughey." And when your glare turns sharp as the edge of a santoku knife, he holds his hands up like he's getting arrested. "I'm just saying. As your friend, not your editor."

Whatever.

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You have to admit, Wonwoo does have impeccable taste in Thai food.

Three noodle dishes, two curries, and the best mango sticky rice you've ever had: that's what it took for you to finally say "not all men." Certainly not Wonwoo, who's in deep enough to send his goons cross-state for a girl he's tried to woo for almost a whole year now.

A tamarind sunset blankets the countryside in milk and honey. You're sitting on a bench, ridiculously full with leftovers to spare, waiting for your chauffeur from hell.

Two years and you still don't know what car Seungcheol drives. Your last memory of it is it being flashy, impractical, and loud, much like him.

You know this, and yet you are still surprised when a gnat of a BMW rips into the curb in front of you. The passenger window crawls down, and Seungcheol has the gall to whistle at you.

For someone so predictable, he sure does manage to find new ways to piss you off. Unfortunately, on brand— according to him, Consistency Is Key (number 2 on Keeping the Spark Alive, August 2022 issue). You've done your reading.

"You're welcome," is the first thing Seungcheol says to you after cranking down the volume of the radio and watching you fumble with the seatbelt.

"You really didn't have to." You look at the array of gas station snacks bubbling out of the cupholders—Sour Patch Kids, a Big Gulp, and Flamin’ Hot Fritos. You didn't even know they sold Sour Patch Kids to full grown adults.

Still, you do feel a little bad. You can count on one hand the amount of people you would do this for and still have one or two cheese-dusted fingers left.

"But, thank you."

"Joshua made me," he says, and what happened this morning starts to make a lot more sense. "Plus, I was a little jealous. I would kill for a day frolicking in the sun, eating delicious food, far, far away from the big city. Not trapped like me in the newsroom, exhausted, toiling away on my magnum opus."

The sigh that crawls from his chapped lips practically shakes the car.

"I'm retracting my thank you."

"I'm devastated. Really."

You choose to watch the strip of shitty New York highway unravel through the greasy passenger window. No point in picking a fight when you're in a leather quilted jail cell for the foreseeable future.

It's at the thirty minute mark where Seungcheol casts the first stone of terrible, stilted small talk.

"Why'd you get sent all the way out here anyway?"

The red taillight flush of rush hour floods the car, an unpleasant reminder of the real sunset left far behind you.

"Thought you knew it was Wonwoo."

"Yeah, but why?"

Why does it matter? Is your first thought, but you realize he's attempting to actually have a genuine conversation with you, which you suppose is better than him flinging around another rude remark. Either that, or he's falling asleep, and you'd rather not have the last moments of your life be in Seungcheol's chick magnet car.

"Joshua thinks it's because he wants to impress Yerim at the corporate meeting this week. I guess she likes Thai."

Traffic is slow enough for him to turn to look at you, really look at you.

"Come on, he can't like her that much."

"Yes, he can." you try to read his expression, neon-glossy. "This isn't even that much effort."

"Nah," he shrugs. "There's gotta be some kind of ulterior motive. Maybe he wants to move into corporate."

"Hot take for a romantic." You frown. "Not everything people do is a career move, you know."

You omit the unlike you that sits heavy in the back of your throat, although, his cavalier approach to relationships is starting to make a little more sense. You wonder if this whole thing—the dates, the watch, the Invisalign smiles—is just a long, drawn-out joke to him.

"Seems like a lot of effort to go through for an office crush." His gaze drifts back to the road. "The extravagant birthday present. Always having her favorite flowers in the office. That one cringe voicemail we all heard him re-record ten times. No one likes anyone that much. Come on. Her dad is the CEO of the company."

Suddenly his winning smile doesn't seem so triumphant. It almost feels like a betrayal, but you don't know why.

"Maybe he just likes her," you reply. "I dunno. I choose to believe that. I think it's sweet."

"Maybe you're the romantic." The words come out like an accusation; Seungcheol laughs, but all the joy's been sucked out of it.

"Who hurt you?"

"No one did. I'm just being honest."

You would laugh at the irony if it didn't feel like there was a vine wrapped round your throat. Life is funny, but never so funny as to curse New York's favorite romance writer with cynicism and a lying streak.

"Controversial, but I actually want to do nice things for the person I like."

"And when was the last time that happened?" He's deflecting, which is predictably on brand for him. His grin, now playful, is propped up by a pair of frustratingly well-formed dimples.

You can't even find it within you to protest because he's right—you haven't dated in a long time. Joshua stopped asking if you were bringing a plus one to office parties ages ago.

But it's not that you can't—in fact, the last time you did, you think it broke you a little inside. It's certainly not a story Seungcheol's privy to, though. You already feel strange, cut-open, trying to convince him that people are capable of meaningful relationships.

Childishly, there's also a part of you chasing the truth about him because it takes him further and further away from you. So you do what you do best and deflect again. Two can play at that game.

"Not taking criticism from a guy who's dated half of the city and has nothing to show for it."

"I wouldn't say nothing."

He opens his mouth then closes it again, as if he's revising the words on his tongue. Journalist behavior, which you didn't even know he could still exhibit.

Now you're really thinking. Who hurt him, and how? The development that Seungcheol is more than the playboy slime haunting page 3 intrigues you more than you'd care to admit.

Before you can pry, Seungcheol's stomach growls, almost offensively loud.

"Sorry," he says. "Who would've thunk that corn chips aren't a balanced meal?"

You stare at the takeout boxes snug in your lap. There is a cosmic message being sent right now.

Seungcheol's sad, Frito-filled belly. Fresh noodle that won't keep well in the fridge. Tax and tip for a four hour car ride back to the city. Expanding your repertoire of blackmail so that you can claim your rightful helm at the paper.

These are all the reasons you give yourself for what you ask next.

"You in a rush?"

"How could I be—do you see the blinding speed we're driving at?" He laughs at his own incredibly unfunny attempt at a joke. "No, I'm not."

"I may or may not have an actual balanced meal for you."

That’s how you end up in the parking lot of a random 7/11 off the freeway. In any other circumstances, it would be a cruel and unusual punishment, but you've already been whittled down enough to actually care about Seungcheol, even if just a little.

That's what you tell yourself, anyway, as you watch him finish the last of the takeout.

"So I'm bad at food, and you're bad at love. Why the fuck did Wonwoo even think of promoting either of us?" Seungcheol kicks his shoes off and props his feet up on the dashboard. You notice his socks have dogs on them, little linty brown ones, and you feel a little worse about openly bullying him about his fashion taste in front of the entirety of copy staff.

"I may be bad at love, but you're worse. Especially for someone who does it for a living," you retort. "Don't think I forgot our earlier conversation."

You try to read the tiny text on a receipt he's got stashed in the center console, among his graveyard of snack wrappers. (2) CHEESY GORDITA CRUNCH…8.78. (1) M MT DEW BAJA BLAST…1.00.

Definitely bad at food, you muse to yourself.

"You think I'm not kicking myself right now? That I have a beautiful girl in my car right now, and all we do is argue?"

Now that—nothing could have prepared you for that.

It gets awfully quiet. The noise of the freeway seems to screech to a fever pitch, all horns and the thrum of the asphalt. You wish anything but John Mayer was playing on the radio.

You will the headlines man in your head to make you laugh. Instead, your brain presses the word beautiful into your neurons and you feel all the heat in your body float to your face, traitorously, dizzyingly. John Mayer croons, your body is a wonderland and your stomach knots into itself over and over again.

"Stop that."

"What?" Seungcheol's head lolls to his shoulder so he can look at you from the corner of his eye. " 's not a big deal. Never been called beautiful?"

A grin plays on his lips, expression dancing on something grim, like he's spoken his final words.

"I'm serious! Stop trying to get me to like you." You huff and cross your arms over your chest, like it'll somehow make you feel more normal. "I'm not some experiment for your column."

"Is it working?"

You don't answer. How can you? There's a yes resting on the roof of your mouth, surely the product of the handful of real, actual moments you've now had with him—far too many for your liking. This whole charade has been a balancing act on the razor edge between rivals and something else, and now you're feeling the sting.

"For the record, I have been called beautiful before."

"And for the record, you're not an experiment for my column. You never were."

There's a relief that pulses through your chest, a breathless, wonderful kind of dizziness. You grab hold of it as soon as it's reared its ugly head. You're flying way too close to the sun, chasing cheap validation from the same guy who ate your lunch out of the fridge last week.

He's no better—he looks like the vulnerability cracked him open a little, and you're the one holding the hammer. It makes for a grubby, unflattering portrait of two emotionally inept people trying to play feelings.

However, much like all other things Seungcheol, any glimpse of something real is gone before you know it. He takes a loud, noisy pull of Diet Coke, and the spell is broken.

"Want any?" And when you shake your head, grateful to swallow the words pressed to your tongue, he says, "Should we wait out traffic here?"

This is an easier yes. You tell yourself you're getting sick of brake lights and reading the license plates on the back of other people's cars. Certainly that makes Seungcheol's gaze, lingering and moonlight-warmed, a little more tolerable.

For once, you don't talk about Wonwoo or your job. You don't talk about love, either.

Maybe this is the reason the next few hours slip through your fingers. Three folded takeout pagodas and a secret—somehow this is all it takes for you to hate Seungcheol just a little less.

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Usually, a good eggs benedict can solve the majority of your problems. Today seems to be the exception. The hollandaise is broken, Jeonghan is already laughing at you, and nothing will ever erase the fact that Seungcheol drove you home last night and now he knows where you live. If you wake up one morning and see a sniper laser pointed at your forehead, you have no one to blame but yourself.

"You look exhausted." An eighth of a buckwheat pancake disappears into Jeonghan's mouth. "You literally eat for a living. There is no reason for them to keep you late."

Jeonghan has a funny way of caring about you, but he's right. You did get home at 2 AM yesterday, but that was on you, not Wonwoo.

"I'm not going to let a corporate slug tell me what is and isn't a real job," you sigh, taking a swig of your half-flat mimosa and reminding yourself to figure out which staff writer gave this place 4 stars in last week's paper.

"Says the girl who needs the company card to afford bottomless brunch," Jeonghan replies.

"At least I'm not a slave to my career."

"What do you call this whole thing with your coworker then, huh? It's all you text me about." The smirk on Jeonghan's face is miserably, tragically righteous, and you can't even be mad about it.

"Seungcheol is my enemy, remember?"

"You sent me a five minute voice memo the other day ranting about how he went on a date with another girl." And just like the little shit he is, he even pulls up your mile-long text history, just to rub it in your face a little harder.

"Am I not allowed to wish for his demise? Since when were you the mature one?"

"I wouldn't call keeping track of his whereabouts wishing for his demise." Jeonghan takes a well-timed bite of your hashbrowns. "Something tells me you're wishing for something a little different."

You almost choke on a blueberry.

"Absolutely not."

You watch Jeonghan power down another mimosa, half-fascinated, half-appalled he would even dream of suggesting something so vile.

The memory of Seungcheol, leant back in the driver’s seat, lowering greasy spools of rice noodles into his mouth, crosses your mind. He had laughed until he cried when he asked you if a pineapple had really fried this rice. That was the kind of man you were dealing with. You can't believe you laughed with him.

"I think it'll be good for you to get back into dating again. Mingyu was, what, three years ago?"

And that's the chocolate chip studded, syrup-covered nail in your coffin. Of course all roads had to lead back to you and your relationship trauma Jeonghan considered unresolved.

You had dated Mingyu when you were younger, softer. It was a love of firsts, of sun-washed mornings and farmer's market Sundays, of raw, black currant midnights and whatever long-winded conversation you had spent all day on.

Mingyu was a chef. His hands, his lips, his eyes—that's how you fell in love with food. Strawberry kisses into fresh pasta into the first time someone had ever cooked for you. What a wonderful, terrible thing to see all your history on a plate, the I could never eat peas, the once I ate mangos till I was sick, the guilty spoon in the vanilla ice cream after a bad day and the dark chocolate you keep in your purse. He remembered that you like your noodles just a little bit overcooked, and you don't even think you told him that.

Food, like some shitty piece of home decor would say in that swirling, curly font, really is some window to the soul. It didn't fully hit you until, one day, you were at the grocery store alone, and somehow you knew exactly what brand of everything Mingyu liked.

You opened a restaurant together after you graduated from college. Then it closed, and you lost Mingyu to Naples or New Orleans or Seoul—somewhere, anywhere to escape the corner of 5th and 40th, the December-pleated memory of his hands in yours and a promise you could never keep.

You're sure you're over it by now, but you'd be lying if you said you didn't look for him in a bowl of his favorite ramyun, the one you could never replicate even though he insisted he just added hot water (Food tastes best when it's a gift, he'd say. You never understood until now.).

Jeonghan doesn't believe you because every time you try explaining this to him, you end up sounding like the most chronically lonely person on planet Earth.

"That is the wrong guy to suggest then," you instead reply, feeling all the food dry up in your mouth.

"I'm running out of options."

"Don't you have a hot coworker or something?"

You shut your eyes, pushing Mingyu back to recall literally any face from one of the many swanky corporate parties Jeonghan bullied you into attending. The only person coming to mind is Lee Chan, and even more than his face, you remember the fat platinum band around his ring finger (Better luck next time, Jeonghan had said, mid-cheese cube).

Worse, amidst all the fuzz, a grainy recollection of Seungcheol's wet cow eyes washes up against your eyelids, and it's not going away this time.

"I thought we were all corporate slugs," Jeonghan replies, enjoying the way you glower at him over your fork. "I was kidding, anyway. Relax."

Your entire body heaves with the sigh that escapes you.

You thank god that Jeonghan is never serious, because otherwise you'd have to consider the fact that he really thought you should date Seungcheol. Jeonghan, who knows the pizza column you, the Mingyu you, and now the you that works late because there's nothing else left to do, really might have thought you should date grifter by day, con artist by night Seungcheol.

The fluorescent glaze of the gas station lights. Seungcheol's hand on the gear stick. His voice, warm and gauzy. It's like there's a flash drive of last night plugged into your head, and you can't take it out.

The stem of the champagne glass finds your hand, and you down the whole thing.

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Monday is uneventful. So is Tuesday, and you wonder what good deed you'd done to deserve such a blessing.

Wednesday, you realize you're just three interviews away from what could possibly be the best article of your life. Unfortunately, two of those won't pick up the phone and the third keeps rescheduling on you.

That's fine—Rome wasn't built in a day, and the same hopefully applies to your future noodle empire.

You're using your lunch break to write an email to number two when you notice Seungcheol hovering around your desk, a plastic straw in his mouth and evil in his eyes.

He's taken to publicly annoying you at work more than usual—Progress, Joshua had told you in the elevator this morning. Towards what? you had asked. He shrugged, letting his crafty, knowing look do all the talking.

"Me, you, and date number two?" is today's opening line. Before you can peel yourself away from your computer and give him a good lashing for whatever the fuck he just said to you, he continues with, "How's that for a follow-up text to my speakeasy date?"

"Lame," you reply, hackles still raised but now re-reading your email for typos.

"Wrong. You were supposed to say incredibly romantic, extremely witty, and unfairly charming." He perches his baseball player ass on the corner of your desk, waiting to be humbled. This is the usual order of things, which has shockingly become more of a familiarity than anything else.

"Do you even have a romantic bone in your body?"

Seungcheol raises an eyebrow. "Just one, but it's the only one that matters."

"Ew. Gross." You wrinkle your nose and attempt to soothe your temper with a sip of the terrible protein shake you got for lunch. "No wonder your column sucks."

"If mine sucks, I'd hate to see what people are saying about yours." And when your reply is a tired, hungry swig of your sad drink, he says, "No lunch today? Even I had something better."

"Lucky you."

The bigger truth is that that the deadline for your article, looming before you, is getting to you more than you'd care to admit. Seungcheol isn't helping, not with his bottomless magic hat of date stories that seems to only grow deeper by the day. Now you're forgetting to pack a lunch, and the highlight of your day has been reduced to punching numbers into a vending machine.

Things are bad, but you'll never say that aloud, especially not to the guy who'll spend the next five years dunking on you if you keep this up.

You stare down the lip of your bottle at the faux-chocolate dregs streaking the bottom.

The month before Mingyu opened his restaurant, you were so preoccupied with making sure everything was just right that you also forgot to eat. One day, leftovers from his work started magically appearing in your fridge. Chow fun (miss you!), salt and pepper shrimp (don't forget to drink water!), a gargantuan vat of hot and sour soup (love you most!).

It was a perfect coincidence until you realized there was no way Chinese takeout was coming out of a very French restaurant, and it was then you learned that love is never really a coincidence.

Now you have no coincidences, mapo tofu, or romance. Just muscle milk and a front row view of the struggling inseam of a man who must shrink his pants in the dryer.

He's peeling a tangerine. Your worst confession to date is that it's easy on the eyes. For once, his hands, always made busy with some scheme, now still over the rind, steady, practiced. Plus, it looks like a marble in his huge hands, which is unfortunately both funny and a little hot.

"Stare any longer, and I'm gonna forget how to peel this."

"Don’t flatter yourself. Just hungry," you half-lie.

Hungry, Stressed, And Delusional—The New Holy Trinity.

It's a catchy headline, but not a great look for you. Never in your life did you think you'd be ogling a man peeling an orange. He even takes all the pith off, and you don't have the heart to tell him that's where all the nutrients are.

"Exactly," he replies. Then he plops the naked, shiny fruit right on your bare desk. "Here. Eat."

You’re so taken aback, all you can do is stare. First at the orange, then at Seungcheol, who suddenly cannot make eye contact with you. Instead, he stacks the peel in his hands, dimpled piece over piece.

"Payback for the, uh, Thai," he says, and although you wouldn't equate a tangerine to James Beard awarded pad kee mao, all you can think of is an lime green sticky note in your fridge and a smile.

A gift. A pithless, wrinkly one.

The idea that Seungcheol was capable of being genuinely nice to anyone, nonetheless, you—probably the most undeserving person of it in the world—makes you feel something close to guilt.

You push through the feeling, instead taking the fruit in your hand and splitting it between your thumbs. The flesh caves so easily, and it's then you remember that food, unlike people, doesn't have to be complicated.

You can feel a better person somewhere inside you, someone easier to care for and with less of a bad attitude. You're not there yet, but there's a dark, satisfying comfort in not being good enough for the indulgence of that kind of intimacy. An arm's length was never too far away for you, except now there's someone sitting on your desk and they gave you lunch. Worst of all, you don't think you mind.

You hold out the half—sticky, guilty fingers and all.

Seungcheol wordlessly accepts it. There's no surprise or confusion—he smiles, you say cheers, and you both take a bite.

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On weekends, the Korean place down the street from your college apartment sold corn dogs until 3 AM. That was when words came easy and love came easier.

It was with sugar all over your nose, eyes pressed to the once forgiving half-moon, where you told Mingyu you would become a writer.

The thing about youth is that it can float anything, no matter how holey, desperate it was. So you sailed through college, that gasping hope wound tight in your fist. Then you started freelancing, just in time for Mingyu’s soft open. You wanted to write, but more importantly, you wanted some way, any way to be useful to the person who had given you so much.

In retrospect, there was no way your crude attempts at actual journalism could ever generate real publicity for him. Not in the heart of New York, where a new restaurant opened every two days and someone wanted to get published every three.

So you eventually sank, and so did Mingyu, leaving you with all this creased, no good love in your chest to shrivel up with nowhere to go.

All of that landed you here. A degree, a dream job, and a laundry list of accolades, but the fruit of that love still hangs heavy and joy-rot on the vine, as you wait for it to be good enough for the taking.

Ironically, it reminded you of cooking. No one ever teaches you when to stop, and now every other joint has dry-aged steak and some version of a three-day demi glacé. But at least demi glacé tastes good—you don't even know what the fuck you're doing some days, and the feeling's never been worse than now, waiting on a call you were supposed to get two days ago.

The phone rings, just in time to distract you from the top button of Seungcheol's fitted shirt, which looks like it's holding on for dear life. He's currently deep in conversation with Mina from design, but every so often, he'll glance your way to see if you're just free enough to be bothered.

The unspoken perils of working late—less people around to pester on Wonwoo's dime.

Mina stuffs her laptop in her bag and checks her watch. Strike three for Seungcheol.

Working Hard Or Hardly Working: A Guide To Office Romances. You're surprised he hasn't written that one yet. Maybe Joshua shot it down.

"Hello?" The dial tone breaks into the warm, risen-bread voice of the woman you know to be the owner of one of your favorite hole-in-the-wall noodle spots. The Friday night after your review was published, there was a line out the door. It honestly felt like a no-brainer to you, and you had no hesitation telling the owner that you were sure her place would become a local mainstay. You watched her crow-footed eyes go moony and you couldn't help but picture the day your yellowed newspaper would be posted up on the wall, framed and prophetic.

You're ready to profusely apologize for not stopping by—truthfully, no bone broth has come close to hers. Instead, she apologizes to you, which you aren't sure is flattering or a sign something terrible has happened.

You hope it's the former, but you should have known that hoping has never been enough.

She tells you that she closed the doors to her restaurant yesterday. It all comes spilling out, one gut punch after the other, the bills and the empty tables and how things just weren't the same the year after your review was published. She thanks you for your time, your writing, and your belief, and then she hangs up.

Not a thing in your body feels capable of moving. All the phone static passes right through you until the week's canned up dread balls up in your throat and some darker-than-black feeling swallows you whole.

The fluorescent ceiling lights sear into you. You think you're going to cry, and that's the last thing you want.

To anyone else, it wouldn't be that serious. Restaurants close all the time, and you know an entry in your silly little column is a far cry from a Hail Mary. But all you can think of is Mingyu’s neon sign on 5th and 40th and the two pairs of hands that had to take it down. You think your fingerprints are still on it, right over the blue shock of the I and the N.

One more dream taking on water, and once again, you're at the sad, cruel center of it.

You try to imagine the gumpaste walls, bumpy and water-stained. Maybe a pale square where your review used to hang.

No, you're definitely going to cry.

Fuck this, fuck work, fuck the article. And fuck Seungcheol, who's packing up his annoying, jingly messenger bag and is the only thing standing between you and an empty office to lose your shit in.

You squeeze your eyes shut and try to remember if you're wearing waterproof mascara today. Unfortunately, the cowbell of Seungcheol's bag sounds like it's catching up to you, and, like it or not, you are two shaky breaths away from breaking down in front of the last person in the world you want to see.

"Final touches on another titillating piece about pineapple on pizza?"

You have no stomach for yelling at him. You can't even look at him. Instead, you bury your head in your hands and tell him to never use the word titillating again.

"A little too soon to play editor, in my humble opinion."

You don't reply. You're trying to scare him off without really scaring him off because god knows you've done that with enough people. Either way, he's calling you a crazy bitch at the next holiday party. You can just hear it.

But you should've known Seungcheol, of all people, doesn't flinch at a little silence. You still feel him hovering behind you, probably wondering if it's the half-full vanilla protein shake on your desk that's turned you sour. Or if you'll really make good on your threat to shank him with the plastic knife you keep in your top drawer.

Just walk away, you think. Go the fuck home.

Seungcheol, who gets paid to play cupid like it's fantasy football, would never understand that bite of the dial tone. Not like that. Half an orange is a hell of a toll to pay for your unfortunate work-related trauma.

You count the seconds till he walks away.

One. Two. Three.

Four is cut short because instead of doing what he should have done and left, he places a hesitant hand at the base of your neck, between your shoulder blades.

"Hey, you ok?"

Easy, noncommittal words, but something in you cracks. You don't know what it is—maybe it's because it's late and you're running on nothing, maybe it's because you can't remember the last time a hand was so warm.

And so, against your better judgment, you lift your streaky, raccoon-eyed face (definitely didn't use waterproof today) from your hands to look at the same eyes you looked at not more than a month ago and swore at.

You're glad you have no idea what you look like, because it's bad enough that all the corners of Seungcheol's face fall.

"Whoa," he breathes.

Now he'll know when to leave me alone, you think, but then that hand slides to your shoulder and his expression becomes impossibly soft and what you thought was confusion, pity even, dips into affection, stinging and raw.

"Listen, I—," he clears his throat nervously. Perhaps he's running through his repertoire of Wikihow phrases to say to a sad person, but you, inexplicably, don't believe that. "I don't know what's going on, but if you, you know, ever needed to talk…" Then he points to himself because that's probably the longest he's gone without attempting to tell a joke.

You're two and a half shaky breaths into this conversation, and the likelihood you will start crying has not changed. If anything, the odds have gotten much worse because the stubbornness of Seungcheol's expression is fooling you into thinking he actually cares. The illusion is comforting—after all the fighting and sabotage and inconveniences, he's still made space for you. That, or he's keeping his enemies close.

Then his thumb rubs over the plane of your collarbone, and all the little walls and hurdles and dams and shields in you drop.

Close friends, closer enemies, and the infinitesimal space between you and Seungcheol.

You'll blame your sorry state of mind for what you're about to do because you can't really cope with any other explanation. That's a tomorrow problem.

Today, you trust Seungcheol. Today, you tell him not everything, but enough.

"Forgive yourself," he says. And before you protest and tell him, through the waves of tears and snot and lightheadedness, that your heart has yet to catch up to the rest of you, he interrupts you before you even start. "I get it. Just try."

You’re all too familiar with his sugar-floss, candy-coated platitudes that make everything seem so simple, but he looks you in the eye, or somewhere even deeper than that, with so much belief, it's contagious.

The words are ripped out from under you. All you can do is what you wanted to do in the first place. So you cry, and when Seungcheol takes you into his arms, at first tentatively and then all at once, you cry even harder.

"Is this ok?" he asks, so quietly, you almost don't hear him.

"Yeah, I-I think so."

You let him hold you, and all the noise and the heat and the static fades into a hum. His chin finds the top of your head and you let him do that too.

Neither of you say anything more. You don't need to.

All that matters is the welcome sound of someone else's heartbeat, a kind hand in your hair, and Seungcheol, with none of the charms and boasts and failed, half-baked insults he hides behind.

Just him, and you decide you like this version best.

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The emotional hangover you wake up with rivals that of every vodka-flavored morning you had when you were in college, plus another two shots.

There is nothing worse than the aftermath of a particularly bad episode of oversharing. There's a reason you don't talk about your personal life at all, but something about Seungcheol makes every single thing claw its way back up your throat.

A need to prove yourself. A tiny, whispering hope that if you give a little, you'll get a little in return. Or your pride, the familiar knife you keep wedged into your side. A million excuses rattle around in your head, but nothing will ever take away the fact that it felt good.

Shields down, heart bleeding—never did you think that's how you would find yourself in a state where you actually liked Seungcheol. It felt good to be taken seriously, to say that all the talk about foie gras and peppercorns and microgreens was just tableside service for a great love and an even greater apology. And you'd like to think somewhere between the tears and the linen of his shirt, you were finally understood.

Just try. The words, sun-warmed stones, float in the hollow of your chest. It felt a little more possible, coming out of Seungcheol's mouth, with that dumb, resolute expression of his.

You don't even know if you would do the same for him. If he came to you, rosy-eyed and breakdown-adjacent, would you drop everything and listen to him? Clearly his problems ran deeper than a pretty girl not calling him back, but you had never really cared to listen.

And that's something you'll give Seungcheol credit for—he puts up with you, with everything, really, albeit with clumsy hands and the mask of reluctance.

You roll onto your side to reach for your phone. There's a text from Jeonghan asking if you're still up for grabbing drinks this evening. (Always). You have your final interview at 2. (Thank god).

And no text from Seungcheol. (Damn.)

Somehow this is disappointing, which makes your day that much worse. Maybe the runny mascara wasn't as flattering as you thought.

8 Totally Normal Texts To Send When You're Overthinking.

Not a good headline for a worse situation. Honestly, you shouldn't care, but now you're here, staring at your phone and undecided on if you even want Monday to come or not.

You'll order one (or three) margaritas tonight. You'll ask Jeonghan about his upcoming trip to Seoul. You'll make your favorite overnight oats and you'll go to sleep and Sunday will pass just the same.

You won't think about Seungcheol's arms around you or his head on top of yours or the way he insisted he would drive you to the subway so you didn't have to walk. You almost brushed against his hand on the gear stick and the nearness made you want to throw up.

But you're not thinking about it. You can't. Not without falling in love just a little.

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"Here. Drink."

You set two cups on the table before sitting face-to-face with Seungcheol, who decided to roll up to a coffee date in a somehow flattering polo and slacks.

But it's not a date—you're just talking. It's a meet-up. Not a hangout, which sounds too familiar, and definitely not a date.

Yesterday did not go as planned. Margarita-buzzed and under Jeonghan's terrible influence, you texted Seungcheol. Just to clear up some stuff, you told yourself. Friday night's like a scab, and you just can't help coming back to it.

"So, you're a coffee connoisseur too, huh?" Seungcheol says, tipping his head to the side.

"Not nearly," you reply. "Just wanted to pay for something for once. I'm pretty sure I owe you at least fifty of these."

"I'll hold you to it." He's doing that thing where it's like he stares past you. It's the most impressive eye contact on the planet, and it's making you nervous.

Then the silence, once welcome, becomes awkward—the air turns stiff, clinging to all the things you haven't said yet.

You play chicken with the idea of being an emotionally intelligent person and just talking about what most certainly is on everyone's mind right now. The cup between your hands is burning your palms. Seungcheol smiles.

"I'm—" The exact moment you start, the words crinkle up on your tongue and all the walls come back up again. It's a terrible, inevitable instinct. "I'm sorry. For Friday."

"For…what?" Seungcheol pauses mid-sip to say this. "Also, this coffee is really good."

Arabica, orange, and honey, you want to say. But you can't deflect this time. Somehow Seungcheol has cornered you into this tiny cafe chair with that disarming grin and an overabundance of patience.

"Everything, I guess. You were just trying to leave."

"No, I wasn't." And he laughs, which makes your stomach fold over trying to figure out what there possibly is to laugh at. "I actually liked getting to know you. You…care a lot. And I didn't expect that."

Seungcheol's sincerity staggers you. You could ask what the hell he just meant by all of that, but you decide to take him for his word. You think you've experienced the most honesty from him in the past three days than you have in the entire span of time you've known him, and it almost feels like a privilege.

"Thanks…?"

"Don’t let it go to your head, though," he adds, as if to erase what he just said. "Can't have you walking around the office with a bigger stick in your ass."

"Poetic." You sigh. Once again, the illusion is shattered. You wonder if his kindness has a time limit. "How's your article coming along?"

"Nice try," he replies. "I'm not that easy."

"You're literally the definition of easy."

"Is that a compliment?" There's that challenge in his eyes again, that same look that he gave you outside Wonwoo's office. "You did ask me out on a date, despite saying that you'd rather eat glass. So I guess either there's a half-eaten plate in your trash or you've finally come to your senses."

"This is not a date. Dream on."

"You're right. This isn't a date." He leans forward on his elbows. "Just like our dinner date wasn't a date."

"It wasn't."

"Of course. If it was, I'd be asking stuff like…Where you're from. But I already know—h, e, double hockey—"

"Chicago."

"Same difference."

Your conversation continues as such.

Not a date, but where'd you go to college? Not a date, but do you have a pet? Not a date, but can I walk you home?

You realize your talk in his car two weeks ago involved everything but your pasts, but you suppose neither of you are the type to unwrap old wounds. Sometimes the bandaid is better on, but, in your case, there's really nothing left to tell.

You divulge that you went to Northwestern for journalism. You have a family tabby, and no, you wouldn't mind being walked home.

You also realize before today, you knew less about Seungcheol than you thought, but there's some give to his secrecy. He went to USC because his parents wanted him to. Played football for half of it until he tore his ACL and got adopted by the sports section of the school paper. He even captained the advice column for three semesters—something he wants to return to, but you're happy to tell him you wouldn't trust his advice as far as you could throw him. (What was your alias? Samuel. Sounds kinda like Seungcheol, huh? You say no. He laughs.)

After circling the same park three times, you reach the doorstep of your apartment building. You cycle through some one-liners to end on a high note, but none of them seem quite right.

It's not a date, but you've noticed Seungcheol keeps glancing at your lips, and it almost seems like one.

It's not a date, but Seungcheol asks some stupid question about if coffee could be considered tea, which you start to answer before you are rudely interrupted.

First, the bump of his nose against yours, then his lips, slow, insistent, dizzying. Your heart jumps all the way to your throat and you think there's so much heat in your cheeks that he can feel it.

It's not a date, but Seungcheol just kissed you and you liked it.

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The next time you see Seungcheol is in the elevator to the newsroom on Monday.

He sticks his dumb, big arm out of the cabin to hold the door open for you, and his smile bruises your overripe heart.

"Hi," he says, sneaking a glance like a guilty child.

"Hi."

The floor indicators flicker like fireflies, one by one. He sidesteps toward you so that your shoulders touch. You watch the 4 crawl to 5. The air in the cabin is sticky, electric.

And as if taking a great big dive, you kiss him, a fleeting, tender thing that you rolled around in your head for a good thirty minutes earlier this morning—and you never thought the fruit of overthinking could be so sweet.

The elevator dings.

Before the doors open to your floor, Seungcheol slams the close button, takes your face in his hands, and kisses you again.

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You have three reasons to get drunk.

1. It's Friday.

2. You finished your article.

3. You and Seungcheol are no longer mortal enemies, but now you don't know what you are.

(The other day, you both worked late, and he ordered takeout to the office. You sat crosslegged on his desk as he tried to explain what a touchdown was and why he was obsessed with the Steelers. Normally a two hour long conversation about football would be a punishable offense, but that night he made you laugh so hard your stomach hurt the next day.)

After Wonwoo's dinner with corporate, he went to the market across the street and picked up a few handles of soju and the fattest bottle of cheap vodka you've ever seen.

You're all getting a raise—you guess the Thai must have worked out well, although Wonwoo must have struck out with Yerim since he's spending his Friday night drinking with you guys instead.

So you get drunk.

Drunk enough to tune out of Jihyo from Sports giving Wonwoo dating advice—riveting, if not for your near double vision—and follow Seungcheol to the staff bathroom.

"Anyone—," you manage. His lips are hot on your neck, and every dizzy neuron in your body seems to be reaching, grasping for him. "Anyone ever tell you that your forearms look really good when you roll up your sleeves?"

"All the time," he replies, and he swallows the laugh right off of your tongue.

"You are so annoying." Your palm finds his heartbeat, and you revel in how it leaps towards your skin every hurried beat. You don't want to think about how many girls came before you, leant back against the bathroom counter just like this, but having a body against yours never felt so good. You guess that's what a three year hiatus will do to you. "Bet you hear that one a lot too, huh?"

"You got that right."

Another kiss, just a nudge of his nose and you're leaning up to him; your lips feel swollen and warm and somehow they still crave the feeling.

"How is it that we still bump noses," you ask, half words, half air. Seungcheol's hands, skin-greedy, skim over the back of your thighs like they're water and find the swell of your ass.

"You make me impatient." Cheshire grin across heart lips and you're toast. "Anyone tell you that you have a great ass?"

"All the time," you squeak out. It's a lie and a half but who cares. His fingers drag under the seam of your underwear and you've never been so thankful you forgot to wear shorts under your dress.

"Need you," he says, lips flush to the skin behind your ear, and your lower half would give out if you weren't propped against the sink.

The idea of Seungcheol on his knees, your thigh hiked over his shoulder, crosses your mind. He'd probably be really good at head, and that makes you dizzier than any ungodly combination of alcohol would. Or would he press you against the mirror, want your skirt pushed to your waist so he could fuck you from behind?

Anticipation tumbles into anxiety into some primordial, horrible shyness because you haven't had sex in years. You feel hot and damp and sweaty and you can't remember if you shaved or not. Plus, you're already seizing in his arms and he hasn't even touched you for real yet.

"H-home," you breathe. "Let's go home."

"Hm?" His hand slows in the dip between your thighs. "You wanna stop? We can stop."

"No, I just…I just thought it would be better if we went home. To…you know."

"Yours or mine?"

"Mine’s closer," you answer after a considerable amount of mental gymnastics trying to figure out if you're both drunk enough to not mind the mess.

You know your apartment and you know your bed and you know where the bathroom is in case you have to pee. There's a box of condoms under the sink. You have an extra toothbrush for him. Less variables to worry about because nothing else has really gone to plan. You watch Seungcheol misbutton the top two buttons on his shirt and all the fondness in your heart feels like a welcome stranger in your body.

How To Ruin The Moment In One Easy Step!

You feel incredibly horny and guilty all at once, but Seungcheol kisses your cheek on the way out and it's like you're able to breathe again.

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It seems that the car ride to your place sucks all the sobriety back into the both of you.

You're lying stomach-down on your bed, Seungcheol against the headboard with his shirt undone. You're in your bra and your still sticky underwear, and somehow, despite being ready to break your three-year spell, you like this much better.

"Imagine if someone needed to piss," Seungcheol groans. "I think we would have gotten fired. Lifestyle would have no editor."

"I honestly think that's why Seungkwan was standing outside for so long."

Upon hearing this, Seungcheol's eyes shoot open. If your phone wasn't charging, you would take a picture. He fell asleep on your shoulder in the car, and now, even with all the affection you can muster, you can only describe his hair as broom-adjacent. Einstein-core. How far you've fallen from grace.

"Don't worry, he won't say anything." And as you watch the color return to his face, you add, "Also, it's not that I didn't want to have sex, I just…" you trail off, hoping he'll get it even though you're making no sense.

"No, it was the right call. I wanna do it when we're both sober."

It smooths your frayed-out nerves knowing that none of this was a performance or a test, just two shy, touch-starved people stumbling in the dark.

"Lemme guess—this is just a typical Friday night for you."

"Flattering but no," Seungcheol replies, grinning something stupid. "Do you always spend this much time wondering what I'm doing?"

"No!" His hands, once busy with scrunching up the fabric of your bedsheets, now find yours, and he runs a careful thumb over your knuckles. You notice he has the care-worn hands of a line chef, or maybe even a baker, which is funny because you don't even think the man knows how to turn on an oven. "I dunno. You just seem so experienced. What about all of those other girls?"

He flips your hand over, tracing the creases of your palm.

"Just dates. Nothing serious."

You want to ask—What about us? Are we serious? But you swallow it all down. You watch Seungcheol's eyes, midnight-weary, fall back upon you, and it feels like he's trusted you with something important.

"Don’t get it twisted, though," he adds, before yawning big and wide without covering his mouth. "I'm a loser, not a virgin. Definitely not."

You bite back a laugh. Killer journalist bio, but that's something to pitch next content meeting.

"Definitely a loser. I think you make me a loser by association."

"Good. So we're both losers. I like that." He smiles at you with so much warmth, it makes your heart physically hurt. Then he clamps down another yawn. "God, I'm exhausted. I think if we fucked in the bathroom, I'd have passed out. Or pulled my back."

"Then sleep," you chide, shucking a pillow at him. "Also take your shirt off. I don't like outside clothes on the bed."

"Say less," Seungcheol says. "I’ll blow your back out another day. Save the date." Between your almost audible gulp and his unfortunately attractive physique, you almost forget the place you're in-between.

Did everyone fit into his arms? Did he lift a hand for just anyone? Two silhouettes in the lamplight—was that how every day with him ended? Or just you, the only other person competing with him for his dream job? The convenient reality scares you.

The thought never seems to cross Seungcheol's mind. His head hits the pillow, and he's out like a light. But not without a not-so-subtle scoot to your side of the bed, near enough that the heat of his skin plays off yours.

You lean into it, liking how your skin buzzes with the closeness.

You're lulled by the sway of Seungcheol's breathing behind you—probably the most quiet he'll ever be. The moonlight oozes into the room; sleep comes over you like water, a slow, gentle wash.

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You can't remember the last time you cooked for two.

You open your fridge, and the hollow insides stare back at you. Rows of condiments and two water bottles. You have finally reached K-drama CEO status.

"Is this the part where I get kicked out?" Seungcheol says, shrugging his shirt back on as he walks out of the bedroom.

"This is the part where I cook breakfast for you."

"Really? You don't have to." He sounds genuinely surprised, which tips your heart a little off-axis.

"I want to," you reply, double checking the fridge as if opening it a second time would repopulate it. "That's what people do when they care about each other."

"Or if they're trying to poison you."

"Will you just let me do something nice for you?" You yank your head out to glare at him, and he looks stung.

"Thanks." He says it after so much pause that you wonder if this is the first time someone has done this for him. You wish you had a better offering, but surely the man with the worst palate in the world could spare his judgment for one meal. "No really, 'cause I am starving."

You let him bask in the rare glory of the unobstructed refrigerator light while you rummage through the pantry for a plan B.

"Holy shit. You live like this?"

"Not always. It's been…a week." All you have is the ramyun Mingyu likes, which feels like a weird, culinary betrayal. But you're hungry, and Seungcheol is eyeing a strange bag in the freezer that you don't even remember putting there. "You good with ramyun?"

"Honestly, I'll eat anything," he whines, gnawing on the ice straight from the freezer drawer.

At least he's self-aware. But he makes all the spaces Mingyu left behind seem a little less empty, and you can't find it in you to be mad at that.

You wait for the water to boil and Seungcheol finds a seat at your tiny dinner table, a misaligned, wobbly product of Mingyu’s inability to read an Ikea manual.

"I'm hoping your week got better?" Seungcheol asks, referring to your capital W week.

You tentatively nod before dropping the noodles in.

"Of course it did—you woke up to me in your bed. Can't get better than that."

"Actually, it's because I finished my article yesterday."

Seungcheol pauses before laughing to himself. "Congrats," he replies, now wiggling the table on its bad leg. "Can't say the same for myself."

you watch the starch-foam wash over the mouth of the pot, precariously close to the edge. You overfilled it, which mildly surprises you until you consider that you're cooking double the food.

There's a stretchy, anxious tumble in your stomach. It's not like you were expecting him to cheer or anything, but it just reminds you that you are, still in fact, competitors. When all of this is said and done, one of you is losing, and from every angle, it seems like quite the death knell for whatever you've got going on now.

It's a pity because you actually kind of like this arrangement. If Seungcheol was in your banged-up flea market chair next Saturday morning, you wouldn't be mad. Maybe you would even make him waffles. From scratch, even.

"What, too many dates to cover?"

He laughs again, somehow to no one in particular. "Something like that."

Past the bruising swell of his smile is the much sharper, more unforgiving edge of an unspoken hurt that you're neither trusted with nor owed, and yet you refuse to drop it. What about me? It feels like you're almost there, wrapped around something bigger, a scoop you can't pull your stubborn teeth out of.

"Is there a reason none of those were serious? Come on."

"What's so wrong with that?" And when you don't say anything, he says, "Trust me, it is never that serious."

His voice ticks up at the end like a teenager trying to play cool and the noodle water boils up around your chopsticks as you try to get your portion cooked through.

You won't—can't—turn to face him. You committed to the line, and now you must see it through, no matter how bad an idea it may be.

"That's not true," you finally squeeze out, finding the right footing for your voice. "It was serious for me. I'm sorry it wasn’t for you."

The table stops rocking.

"I'm glad. Really." He claps his hands together like a cruel punctuation mark, and it's then you remember that the only person as ill-tempered as you happens to be sitting two feet away.

Like an injured animal, your heart wants to cower back into your chest. You knew this was a mistake—this being everything—but an open wound can't help but bleed and your pride can't do without seeing the knife.

"Look, I don't know what your problem is." The pot hisses, astringent and pleading, beneath your fist. "I don't know what happened with your love life, but don't take it out on me."

"You asked."

"Yeah? Well, what is this?" You turn to face him, feeling the air between you tense, pulled like a rubber band. "You can't sit in my kitchen and tell me you don't care about whatever this is."

After all of the terse meetings, elevator spats, and foul-mouthed encounters in the parking lot, you can now recognize the fresh twist of Seungcheol's mouth and the livewire of a temper you've become so familiar with.

"Who said I didn't care? I'm just tired of you trying to lecture me about my life. I—"

"I'm not lecturing you, I just know you can't really believe what you're saying." Every word stumbles out, trembling and doe-legged, barely audible over his attempts to interrupt you. "There's nothing wrong with admitting you were in love with someone. And if you can't, I just feel really fucking sorry for you."

There’s an incredulous look in Seungcheol's eyes. But it's the worse part of you, ruthless and hungry for acceptance, that makes you say, "Maybe the fact that nothing lasts is your fault."

"Oh, really?" Seungcheol's voice, half-laugh with none of the warmth, rips through you. "You're really gonna act like you're better than me? As if you don't write in your pretentious little column every week, just waiting for your ex to read it and decide he wants you back again?"

There’s a red hot flash behind your eyes and everything inside you feels like it breaks at once.

"You know, at least I had someone who cared about me. Can't say the same about your miserable, sorry ass. Now get the fuck out of my apartment."

"Wh—"

he stands up, table croaking underneath his fists, and you realize you've crossed a bridge that can never be uncrossed.

"Get. Out."

It feels like a stitch in you has come undone. The water has long boiled over the pot and there's no joy to be found in watching Seungcheol stumble over his pant legs on the way to the door.

"I didn't want Mingyu. I wanted you."

it's not an apology, nor is it an indictment. You don't know why you say it, and you guess Seungcheol doesn't either. The door slams behind him, and all you're left with is a bloated pot of ramyun you never really wanted anyway.

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Celery. Red wine. Short rib.

If you had one day left on earth, you think you would go grocery shopping. It was like a prayer to you—you could close your eyes and know exactly what aisle had the beef broth, or feel the stone weight of a can of San Marzano tomato paste.

That's one thing you can thank Mingyu for—it's true that you don't love him like you used to, but you refuse to believe that any love worth having is also worth leaving behind.

Fingerling potatoes, the red ones. A Vidalia onion.

You recite your shopping list, slowly, quietly, a rosary.

Baguette is the next item, with a question mark next to it because sometimes your local bakery sells out after 3.

You pass by, expecting to see the shop window cleared out. Instead you see a familiar crown of cowlicked black hair and a horribly well-worn grin that only looks good because it's on Choi Seungcheol's face.

He's paying for a pretty girl's sourdough, and thyme, rosemary gets washed out by a dizzying riptide of heartache.

It was never personal, you tell yourself. Just another date. That's the angle.

You think it hurts a little less, knowing that it all was a business transaction. A long interview.

The thyme is next to the dill. The rosemary is next to the chives, at the end of the shelf.

You watch Seungcheol lean over the tiny cafe table to take a sip of his date's Americano. Did he always laugh like that? Were you really any different?

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Monday feels tilted.

There's the usual gust of cinnamon sugar and cold brew—today's offering from the interns, who have begun to master the art of pressing the elevator buttons with full hands. Wonwoo is wearing his Monday outfit, a wrinkled cream button up under a navy blue sweater vest. Your cubicle is empty, just the way you like it, save for the ass-shaped spot cleared off on the desk edge.

You like days like this, except today you don't and you know exactly why.

"Today's the day," Joshua says, nose buried in a bakery-style muffin, the top pillowing out of the wrapper.

He stares over your shoulder at your article, locked and loaded for submission to copy.

You are not exaggerating when you say you would die for these four thousand words. You ate and cried and argued for them in what you can only describe as the worst literary coliseum of your life, and now their (and your) fate rests in Joshua’s massive Mickey Mouse hands and Wonwoo's bespectacled whimsy.

"Well, don't let me stop you." He laughs and then totters away, sucking a crumb off a finger. Just another Monday.

Your cursor hovers over the SUBMIT button. You've always been a little scared of it—unsurprising, since you're also the type to triple read an email before sending it—but there's a new kind of fear boxed in those little pixels.

Last night, you emptied out your freezer. Stuck on the back wall was a neon green sticky note, behind all the bags. See you when you get home, it said. You laughed and then you cried and then you ripped it up because that's probably what Seungcheol was looking at the morning you chewed him out.

All of that heartache must have been good for something. To say you wasted it on a no-love situationship wouldn't do any of it justice, not when all that's left is most definitely a crude shoutout on Seungcheol's next listicle. If you weren't already getting one earlier, you sure are now.

You wonder what you'll be:

10 Signs She Is Clinically Insane.

It's Not You, It's Them!

Help! My Friend With Benefits Isn't A Friend Or A Benefit!

At least that one is funny, although if it's the winning line, you don't think you can ever show your face in the office again.

The beginning and the end and the muddy in-between. Entrenched in all of it was this article and this job, and you'll be damned if you let your misplaced faith get co-opted by a sweaty-palmed Casanova.

(8:19 AM; the smell of summer and dried-down cologne. A hand on your ribcage, just beneath your heart. Good morning, Seungcheol says, as if emerging from a long, wonderful dream.)

You picture the byline with editor tacked next to your name. To run your finger over the ink spackled serif of a paper hot off the press, as if somehow it would radiate the misery you had to endure.

(11:41 PM; jajangmyeon and a pack of rice crackers. Seungcheol had given you his chopsticks because you dropped yours. The hum of the broken light outside Wonwoo's office sings in the silence of an empty newsroom. Your eyes meet, and you don't look away.)

There's a sinking feeling in your chest. You close your eyes and hit submit.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Ask Samuel!

It's 6 PM on a Thursday and if you weren't already on your last thread, you are now. The angry red of the Daily Trojan website glares back at you from your phone as you step into the elevator with none other than your editor-in-chief.

You've resorted to reading Seungcheol's old advice columns. Not because you miss him, but because you want to know if he was ever a competent writer capable of talking about something other than how to score on a second date.

That's the only way he's beating you.

(There's also no way you miss him. The thought would make you laugh out loud if you weren't standing next to your boss).

One column became four became ten. After thirteen you concluded Seungcheol must have sustained a head injury some time before starting his job here—you can find no other explanation for how someone so generous and intuitive could've gotten lost in the chaff of articles with more pictures than words.

"Congrats," Wonwoo says, seemingly speaking into the void.

"Pardon?" You close out a particularly riveting query about estranged childhood friends to look up at him.

"Congrats."

"F-for what?" You get that head rush again, the same one you got a month ago at the Italian restaurant with Jeonghan.

"The job. You got the position." Wonwoo clears his throat calmly, as if he's not delivering the most important news of your life. "I wanted to let you know in person before we sent out Monday’s email."

For once, you have no words. In a wonderful instant, they are all zapped out of your brain. You feel hot and clammy and anxious all at once and you half expect to close your eyes and see either god or the flare of a hospital light, waking you up from an impossible coma.

"Holy shit," the primordial ooze inside you says instead. "T-thank you."

"No need."

"What about Seungcheol? Does he know?"

"I haven't told him yet, but he should be aware." Wonwoo pauses. "He didn't submit anything."

"What?!"

There are only so many surprises your body can handle. You feel like you are being held together by a fast-unraveling string on a poorly made sweater. Your stomach is somewhere in your feet and you don't even know where your heart is. Part of you is waiting for the elevator to stop so the entire office can jump out of the walls and laugh at you.

"I too was surprised," Wonwoo says, now checking his smartwatch for messages. "He must have changed his mind. No matter—I'm confident you will be an excellent fit."

The elevator jerks to a stop at the first floor. You feel boneless, like a can of cranberry sauce.

"Forgive me, I have a dinner appointment." Wonwoo ends the conversation the best way he can—with his trademark parentheses smile and a nod of the head—and leaves you in the elevator cabin alone.

All the times you've dreamed of this moment, you're tear-dizzy, joyous, fumbling with your phone to call your parents.

Instead you stand motionless, waiting, emptied.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

To make croissants, you fold a slab of butter into a square of yeasted dough. You roll it out thin and then fold it into itself before leaving it to rest in the fridge. Then you take it out again, roll it, and fold it. You do this until you've forgotten how many times you folded it and you no longer crave croissants.

When you were five, you pressed your nose to the window of your favorite patisserie and decided this is how your mind works.

You've had ample time now to flatten out Saturday morning, to watch all the little layers of doubt and loathing form, and now you're sick of it. It's not often you're star witness to your own unhappiness, but, as if you were called to the stand, you can easily play back the moment you lit the match and then watched everything explode.

You're not sure what either of you were expecting. A playboy and you, who loves so insistently, almost as if out of spite—there is truly no reality in which it makes sense. The fact that you fought over a literal pot of ramyun only proves this.

And now he's saddled you with the final blow. The position of your dreams with none of the glory because he gave up.

He gave up.

None of this should matter to you.

You're standing outside the office, waiting for your ride to your celebratory dinner (this time, on Jeonghan). The little headline man in your brain is silent for once. Instead, you try to enjoy the breeze, honeyed with late June, and not dwell on the horrible twist in your stomach every time you think about your new position. It's been 24 hours since you found out but it is no less raw.

It's then that you catch Seungcheol, creeping out the double doors of the office like some sort of criminal. You're not sure if it's the plod of his Sasquatch feet or that bag you hate so dearly, but you could recognize that walk from anywhere.

His pace quickens when you turn to face him—he's running away. You won't grant him the satisfaction. Not when he's fucked up what little you had left, and then some.

"You're an idiot, Seungcheol."

That does the trick.

"Funny way of saying hi," he responds, bracing himself on the sidewalk as if you're about to hit him.

"Why didn't you submit anything? What the fuck were you thinking?"

"What does it matter to you? You got the position."

"Look, I—" You shut your eyes, feeling the frenetic ice-cream churn of your brain try to put together a million broken up words. "I'm sorry for Saturday. But I never wanted to scare you off from the job. You deserve it as much as I do, and, as much as I hate to say it, I care about you too fucking much to watch you throw away your shot."

Saying the words is like cutting something loose from your chest, a million strings coming undone.

Seungcheol takes a deep, unsteady breath. You watch the crest and fall of his shoulders and the inescapable tar pits he calls eyes get big and shiny.

"No, I—" He pulls himself from your gaze. "I'm sorry. I should have never said that to you. And I should have never treated you like that."

The silence between you ripples, as if after a long rain.

"I was scared. A long time ago, I threw myself into a relationship. I thought we had something really, really good, and then I found out she was also seeing someone else."

Being right never felt so bad. It's even worse that something you would look forward to—the I told you so, the jokes really write themselves—no longer holds any satisfaction, only a sense of loss and a terrible urge to make it right again.

"And it's not right, but I decided that it was a mistake to take chances like that again. And it was fine, fun even, going on all of these casual dates and getting paid for it. Then you just had to mess it up."

"H-how?"

"You were so dead-set on convincing me otherwise. You wouldn't let it go, not with your weird sayings and the way you talked about your ex and when you told me you were making me breakfast. I started believing you, and it really fucking scared me."

There's a sharp pain in your head. It feels like, at once, you were skinned like a fruit. Like the interlude between dream and waking, all the sheets of sleep yanked from your person.

"What…what about the article?" you ask, scrambling. You don't really want to contend with what he just told you. You don't think you can.

"You deserved it more. And you really love what you do. I used to think it was all bullshit, but I was wrong."

You take a hard swallow. The image of Seungcheol, head bowed, a nervous hand on the back of his neck, swims in front of your eyes.

"Whatever. I don't even know what I'm saying anymore," he laughs, mirthless.

"No, wait," you say. "I-I also…never took you seriously, not even when I should've. You know, I read your advice columns. Crazy, I know."

"I do have to say that is one of your more insane claims."

"No, I thought, they were actually, you know…really good." You watch him blink, mouth already twisting up as he fights a smile. "What I'm trying to say is that I think we messed up. In a lot of ways. But I want to be friends again. Or at least not enemies."

Seungcheol takes a long pause before he sticks his hand out.

"Choi Seungcheol. Writer. It's nice to meet you."

Some force, as if you had always been connected, pulls your skin to his. You shake his hand for the very first time, and starting over never felt so good.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

"You're booking Eleven Madison for the office dinner again, right?"

Wonwoo pops his head into your office, his Monday uniform now festive with a holiday tie. Today, it's snowmen with glasses.

"Naturally," you reply. "Unless you have plans on that Friday."

You're referring to last week, when Wonwoo took a call in the middle of a staff meeting and revealed that yes, he would most definitely be available for drinks with Yerim that evening. He ended the meeting thirty short seconds later, and you think you saw him skip to the elevator.

He laughs, deep and caramel. "Not this time. Also—don't forget to review those job applications. Sent them to your email."

Before you can tease him again, he leaves, and you are forced to look at your teeming inbox, the only unfortunate side effect of your new position. But you've never been happier, and a hundred new unread emails never seemed so wonderful. The first time Jeonghan saw you in your new office, you were so giddy he thought you were coming down with something.

You take a hefty sip of today's coffee (ginger, molasses, cinnamon). On the side of the cup, the one you keep facing away from the door, reads SEUNGCHEOL and OAT, in loopy marker letters.

After you shook hands in the parking lot, you agreed to take it slow. You thought bringing everything to a simmer would cure you of your affection, but it wasn't even a month before Seungcheol was back in that same seat in your kitchen, eating the blueberry waffles you promised him.

But if slow meant long phone calls and the nervous twine of your hands after an ice cream date, then you think you like slow. You could do slow for a while.

He's taken to bringing you coffee in the morning. He claims it's your editorial right, but you think he just likes having an excuse to barge into your office. (And close the door behind him. And kiss you. But that's aside the point.)

Plus, Seungcheol's had plenty of legitimate reasons to be in your office. The newest one is the launch of Ask Sunny! , which you think is the best idea he's had since deciding to get you coffee every day. He spent the last few days campaigning to reuse his old alias, but you're pretty sure he was just looking for reasons to argue with you.

"Afternoon, boss."

Speak of the devil, and he shall appear. You always seem to learn the hard way with Seungcheol.

He swaggers in, ear-to-ear smile on his face, before taking a seat at the designated corner of your table.

"I think I like this desk better," he says, folding at the waist so he can lean close to you. Instead of reminding him it's the same desk, you just choose to make space for him, you let him press his nose to yours.

"Friendly reminder we're at work."

"Everyone's at lunch, genius."

He interrupts you with just a touch of his lips, which should be considered no less than a war crime by now.

"You are the worst."

"Not what you said last night. Not even close." He places another wet kiss on your nose before sliding off the table edge to his feet. There's a horrible warmth in his eyes as he watches you very clearly remember what exactly he's referring to. (A wandering hand. A cherry. Dark hair, wound through your fingers). "Anyway, I've got serious problems to solve. Or should I say Sunny? I still think we should have gone with Samuel."

"Executive decision," you tease. "Now if you don't need anything, scram. Out of my office."

"Just wanted to remind you I made reservations for us at Avra today," Seungcheol says, lingering in the doorframe with the shit-eating grin he tends to sport nowadays. "I'll even let you order."

There's no fighting the familiar bloom of laughter in your chest. It boils up, sparkling and citrusy, as you roll your eyes and watch Seungcheol return to his desk no less starry-eyed than how he walked in.

If cooking is a language, then love is the words, and you finally think you're learning to speak them.

You open the email at the top of your inbox: Seungcheol's last draft of the article he never published. You urged him to let you consider it for the next issue, and he finally caved (although you're learning that he really doesn't take much convincing when it comes to you).

Eat, Play, Love: A Guide.

Maybe you'd put it through. Maybe.

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[hoodedjelly]

Sleep walk BTS post!

will go in depth with my process and put better quality drawings in here!

Before any of this i was listening to several fiddauthor/ford playlists to hear a song that really got my brain moving. Funny enough i didn't get Sleep walk from one of the 100+ song playlists i was listening to, it was in my oc playlist (thats a mad scientist who would've thought). Originally i wanted to make a fiddauthor animatic (who knows maybe i will), but THIS SONG just caught my brain in a way i couldn't refuse.

So i technically started working on it the late night of September 27, exactly a week ago! which yes yes i hear you all in unison go "WHAT???" to that, and all I have to say to that is.... I have untreated adhd and lots of caffeine in my system! (honestly felt like ford sometimes while workin on that animatic)

Started it off with some notes, then thumbnails. I had my tbob AND J3 open next to me stood up with clips for reference (prob looked a little insane looking back but its fine)

now for the rough animatic! i did this in Adobe animate 2022 (i'll get back to that later) the only thing that really got changed was i wanted to add the diner scene from j3. i realize now that it messed up the timeline i was going for with the animatic but i like to think things are out of order because of the state ford is in, things start to merge together.

After i sat with this rough animatic for a bit, i wasn't sure if i was going to make it in Adobe animate (what i usually do) or make it all in Clip Studio Paint. I wanted this animatic to be way more visually interesting then i usually do, so CSP it is. But! i only have CSP Pro, so i had to draw and export every single new frame from this animatic.

it was a little tedious at first (again never done an animatic like this before) but i got used to it! I edited it all together in CapCut and thats really it!

The missing J3 pages from TBOB spoke to me in a way that im not fully comfortable talking about to my followers. I put a lot of myself in this animatic then i'd want to realize, it's very important to me. The night when i uploaded it i was literally shaking with anxiety (and caffeine-) but the overwhelming support for it is really amazing, thank you so much! if you have any more questions please ask away i love talking about the art process.

Below im going to talk about the code and put HD backgrounds!

thank you for dyemro on here for cracking the code first! now i can talk about my insane little thought process about it

So i never planned to add a code until halfway through with the animatic. i was watching ThatGFFan videos and him talking about gravity falls codes got my brain cooking. i wanted something sweet and simple (i realize with dyemro's post it wasn't as simple as i thought, give me some slack it's my first time). like what you should with making codes you start at the end. And i wanted something that was a nice send off for drawing ford be fucking miserable for 1 minute and 30 seconds.

so i got this. (honestly every time i look at this drawing after finishing the animatic it makes me real emotional)

There are 4 codes in this whole animatic 0:02, 0:15, 0:30, and 0:58

wanted the first one to be REAL noticeable so people can stop and be like "wait... theres stuff in here". people usually think to use the bill symbols, but no! from the description theres a little hint to use the Author symbols

doing that code it leads to: imgu r.com /a/uZa iVfu (and if you know that double line a under a letter means capitalization + im a dumb dumb that used a code image that didn't have a Z so thats just a normal Z)

it makes a LINK! > imgur.com/a/uZaiVfu <

now enough of that boring stuff, heres some HD screenshots and backgrounds of my fav parts

[amongemeraldclouds]

written in the stars

You never meant to fall for your best friend, Lorenzo Berkshire. Everything had to happen according to plan, and this was not part of the plan. Yet each sweet gesture of his was leading you down the path of no return.

Lorenzo Berkshire x f!Reader | Based on this request

Warnings: fluff, no use of y/n, semi-violent depiction of falling in love lol

✿ Masterlist | Event Masterlist | Tea Party | 1.7k words

The words swam across the page and you sighed in frustration. It had been the fifteenth time you tried to read the same sentence, but fatigue had made its home in your bones. You finally surrendered, slumping your shoulders and landing face first onto your textbook with a thud.

“There are better places to sleep, you know. For instance, the couch or literally behind you, your bed,” Lorenzo Berkshire suggested helpfully as he closed the door to your dorm room. You didn’t even hear him enter.

You shifted your head, placing your cheek onto the printed words. You could hardly care if any of the ink transferred onto your face. Would it somehow seep into your brain too and help you study faster? “Let me perish in peace,” you whined.

He shook his head and grabbed your open planner beside you, scanning through the scrawled handwriting that dictated your life. “You’re supposed to be preparing for bed now,” he said, shoving the list into your face. 

“Too. Many. Words.” You emphasized each word as if it was a struggle to even speak.

“You can’t do this to yourself,” he said, his words tinged with concern. His worry shot an arrow straight to your heart. It was bad enough you couldn’t concentrate on your studies anymore. You didn’t need to fall deeper in love with your best friend. A feeling that you tried hard to suppress. It wasn’t part of the plan.

That warm, cozy feeling you tried not to think about was enough to restore some of your strength as you closed your textbook and packed up for the night. You updated your planner and placed the stationery away for tomorrow. “I didn’t mean to worry you,” you said, rubbing the back of your head. 

Enzo just smiled and exhaled as if you were being ridiculous. “Well you can’t stop me from caring, you’re my best friend. Besides, what would you do without me?” He said, holding out a paper bag to you.

You stared at his smiling face just a beat longer, trying to save it for later, and turned your attention to the paper bag. You opened it and peered inside, it drove the arrow further through your heart. “You didn’t have to get me my favorite candle,” you began.

“But I had to, yours is nearly over,” he said pointedly looking at your burning candle, whose flames flirted dangerously with the bottom of the glass jar. “It’s a freshly scented fire hazard at this point.”

You frowned and took out the second item from the bag. It was exactly the book you wanted to read. You gasped excitedly. It was sold out everywhere but he managed to get a copy for you. You couldn’t find the words so your excitement sent you leaping into his arms instead. The impact surprised him but he caught you, holding on tightly as he lifted you off the floor.

You inhaled the scent of his soap and cologne, your heart fluttering at the familiar scent. “Thank you,” you said, burrowing your head into his neck. He exhaled sharply as if your gesture took the breath out from him, but you dismissed it as a delusion. As far as you knew, he only ever saw you as a friend and you were not going to take advantage of his kindness. He’s a good friend, that’s all.

You removed your arms around him in disappointment, placing your feet back firmly on the ground and back to reality. “You’re welcome,” he replied, “now why were you studying when your planner clearly said you should be sleeping?”

You blushed, not wanting to admit that it had been hard to concentrate since he took over your mind. “Just, you know me, I want to do well in the subject,” you gulped, you were a bad liar. You were so exhausted, you even forgot which subject you were reading about. But Enzo didn’t push further, trusting that you’d share with him when you were ready.

“Just take care of yourself, okay? Good night,” he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead. It sent electric jolts from your head all the way down to the prickling sensation in your toes. A warmth settled in your stomach.

You waved after him weakly as he left your dorm, gently closing the door. You didn’t trust your lips to speak or you might just find yourself asking him to stay.

Of course guys and girls could be friends together, unless the boy was Lorenzo Berkshire. You huffed in annoyance. You had managed ten perfectly wholesome years laughing at each other’s silly jokes, sharing lunch, exploring new places together during the summer holidays. 

He was Lorenzo, the snotty little kid who scraped his knees climbing trees and chasing after spiders. He was your best friend. How dare your heart and brain join forces against you, feeding you things that were anything but wholesome.

He looked at you from beside the Astronomy Tower and you took in his features closely. Time had carved away his rounded cheeks and sharpened his jaw line. His frame filled in the uniform as if the rest of his body was sculpted by the gods themselves. It was clear that he was no longer that little boy you knew.

“Something wrong with my face?” A playful smirk adorned his already charming face. And oh he knew the effect he had on people.

“Ugh,” you rolled your eyes as heat crept up your cheeks because you had been staring at him a beat longer than was appropriate.

“If you were actually doing your Astronomy homework, you might have a chance at getting top marks,” he gestured at the abandoned instruments beside you.

“And if I told you that the way your eyes twinkle could rival the stars? My mind would still be on Astronomy, no?”

It was his turn to blush at your words. It wasn’t new, flirting with each other. You were both quick to throw in compliments and jabs at each other. It was always meant to be playful, and yet your words jumpstarted his heart and unleashed an entire zoo in his stomach.

“You must be a black hole,” he quipped, turning the tables, “because I can’t help but get lost in your eyes.”

You hid your smirk behind the thermos he had brought you and took a sip. It was your new favorite tea. It shouldn’t have surprised you that you that he knew how you liked your tea despite your affinity for trying new flavors.

After all, he remembered you’d be here tonight to do your Astronomy homework and he wanted to keep you company. Just like he remembered to save you your favorite breakfast croissant when you arrived late at the Great Hall. Then there was the time he brought you flowers just because.

It was one sweet deed after another, a small act that nudged you off the ledge and then some. You groaned inwardly as the warm bittersweet taste of tea settled into your senses. This was the final straw. Some people fell gracefully into love then there was you. You had  tripped into love and landed face first on the ground. You never planned to fall for your best friend.

Gripping your fingers through the soil, you fought tooth and nail to remain firmly on the ground. But when you moved to stand, you somehow tumbled further down the hill with each thoughtful gesture, collecting scrapes from rocks and twigs on your way down. Dirt caked your clothes. Your hair was a metaphorical mess, so much so that a bird could make its nest there. Needless to say, falling for Lorenzo Berkshire was anything but graceful.

As you took another sip of your favorite tea, you could no longer deny your feelings. You chuckled, sure you were going crazy as you shared your feelings. “Well I feel more like a comet just hurtling in space because I never planned for this.”

He stood up straighter at the sudden fire in your tone and seriousness at your expression. He looked at you patiently, waiting for you to continue.

“Do you know how hard you’ve made it for me these past few weeks?” You huffed, pointing at him. “I tried so hard not to fall for you because you’re my best friend. It wasn’t part of the plan! But you bring me this,” you gestured at the tea, “my favorite tea and you expect me not to fall for you? Then there’s the flowers, the scented candle and books! You knew the way to my heart and you just waltzed right in. How dare you!”

He chuckled and nodded, “How dare I? So that’s why you’ve been acting strange the past couple weeks. No,” he shook his head. “How dare you make me think about you all the time? Did you think I wanted to fall for you too? I just wanted to see you smile, wanted to hear you laugh, especially when it was because of something I did. I don’t know when I started to fancy you but I do and I just wanted to have these little reasons to see you.”

You both huffed as your confessions set in. “You love me too?”

“I think my actions have spoken louder for me, no?” He asked rhetorically.

“But it’s not part of the plan,” you argued, pointing at your planner that had your life planned out in neat rows and columns, down to your daily to do list.

“Maybe it was written in the stars,” he quipped, returning to your conversation on Astronomy.

“You did not just say that,” you said, a chuckle escaping your lips.

“Stop being stubborn and come here,” he sighed, picking up your planner and grabbing a marker. “Here, add me to the plan, it’s that simple. You know you’re in charge of these, not the other way around.”

You looked over his shoulder, watching his handwriting form on the page as he moved your schedule around and he inserted his name. Dates you’d spend together. 

“I—” you opened your lips to protest but he caught you in a kiss. The words died on your lips as everything else inside you came to life. You knew then that there was no going back and for the first time, you allowed yourself to want it. To want him.

You sighed inwardly, he was right. It could be that simple. Perhaps it was even written in the stars. 

✿ Masterlist | Event Masterlist | Tea Party

[sweetkpopmusings]

wonwoo boyfriend headcanons <3

a/n: i am vibrating from how much cold brew i consumed on an empty stomach so i'm writing this in hopes of wonwoo thoughts calming me down but honestly i'll just end up crying <3 pics not mine~

content: fluff | wc: 1.4k | warnings: none! | pairing: boyfriend!wonwoo x gn!reader | requests: open

wonwoo is the love of my life actually. it's scientifically proven and peer-reviewed that i love and adore him with all my heart and soul, so this post is going to be long and filled with my love for him <3

sweetest softest most loving boy in the world <3

he's the type of person to show love through small, tender gestures and actions

loves playing with your hands

i can very clearly see him lying in bed, grabbing your hand delicately, and twiddling with your fingers while you both watch tv/read/scroll on your phones

he also does this absentmindedly when he’s thinking

he may be lost in thought but that doesn’t mean he’s unaware of your presence <3

your presence actually helps him think more clearly :-(

he'll always come to you with questions or problems he needs to work through because just talking to you helps him sort out his thoughts and he knows you'll always offer support and advice

he will call you or send you voice messages about this when he's away too

you are always always always on his mind

and he never lets you forget it

wonwoo so clearly loves you with every little thing he does

even the unconscious ones

walking on the outer part of the sidewalk so you're farther away from vehicles, putting his hand over your head when you enter a car, getting two of a drink/snack so you can have some, tidying up your area of the bathroom counter, and so on

taking care of you is his second nature :-((

sometimes wonwoo just stares at you with complete wonder in his eyes because he can't believe you're real

when you catch him doing it and ask if there's something on your face he just shakes his head and says in tiny "oh no it's nothing"

he looks down to his hands and he's blushing SO much and fighting back a lil smile because he's overwhelmed by how much he loves you i'm screaming

if you push up his glasses when they start to slip or straighten the collar of his shirt or fix a loose strand of his hair he will absolutely lose it

you broke his brain like he doesn't know how to contain himself when you do kind gestures like that

he's muttering and stuttering "thank you" over and over again

he's so cute and flustered so you just give him a lil kiss or pat on the head and he goes completely silent and his eyes are literally sparkling with his love for you

no thoughts head empty except for his love for you <3

wonwoo is a big big BIG fan of quality time

he adores doing things with you, and he equally adores sharing space with you as you both do your respective things

if y'all are in the living room reading different books but cuddled together on the couch, wonwoo is genuinely in heaven

he also loves having you around while he games. like if you're in his vicinity he's so at peace even when his emotions are at an all-time high during the game

and he loves just hanging out while you're doing something you love !!

he simply loves your physical proximity (or digital if he's touring/you're traveling and y'all just facetime or call while doing your own things like cooking or working)

he will let you know when he wants your undivided attention though

often he will do this by biting your shoulder :,-)

you could be making tea in the kitchen and wonwoo will walk up and give you a backhug and gently bite your shoulder so you know that he wants you to look at him and talk to him i'm sobbing thinking about this

and he's so content talking about the smallest things with you :-(

after he bites your shoulder he hums "what're you doing?" and you know he knows what you're doing but you love him so much so you answer "i'm making tea"

he proceeds to ask you lil questions about your tea, your mood, what you plan to do while drinking your tea the correct answer is "hang out with you, wonwoo"

he could actually listen to you talk for hours i'm not even kidding

he's obsessed with the sound of your voice and all the idiosyncrasies in your speech, gestures, etc

he starts picking them up and seventeen is like ?? when did you start saying/doing that ??

and then they meet you and go OHHHHHHHHH that's what it was

after that they will point out every time he acts/speaks like you and he gets a lil embarrassed but also his heart swells because he loves that you've become such a huge part of him <33

he strikes me as the kind of guy who likes to listen to podcasts with you

hear me out

walking around outside, there's a breeze in the air, you're holding hands, sharing headphones, and listening to a podcast about your shared interests

someone hold me i'm having a breakdown

he's so good at comforting you

he becomes so in tune with your emotions that whenever you come to him sad/angry/stressed/etc he is ready

even if he doesn't know exactly what to say, he will listen to you and support you however you need

he'll hold your hands in his while you speak and maintain eye contact so you know you have his full attention

and whenever you cry he will gently wipe your tears away before grabbing tissues for you <3 and sitting with you while you settle yourself <3 and then he'll ask if you want water or anything to make you feel more at ease <3

he's also the absolute best at supporting you through all your successes

he is your BIGGEST fan

he'll always be proud of you and tells you that frequently because he thinks you're so amazing in whatever you do and he wants you to celebrate yourself as much as he celebrates you

he will be walking on cloud nine if you ever compliment a song/performance he's done

like if you like what he's doing that's more than enough for him to be satisfied with it

if he's ever insecure, you telling him all the wonderful things he does makes a world of difference

also so silly with you

he loves making comments that make you laugh

he gets the proudest smile on his face when he makes you laugh

he likes to whisper lil jokes or ad-libs to you when you're hanging out in a group

because he loves when you giggle or even laugh loudly at something he added to the conversation just for you

sometimes he'll make notes of a funny story or a joke he wants to tell you the next time he sees you :,-)

he also will keep notes (mentally or on his phone) of cool things he's learned so he can share them with you !!!

few things make him happier than the look on your face when he tells you something interesting <3

speaking of notes

wonwoo loves leaving handwritten ones for you

if he leaves before you wake up, he's putting a good morning note by your usual mug or your toothbrush so you see his encouraging message as soon as you start your day

if you're going to be apart for a while, he'll write longer notes or hide different little ones around your place so you can get surprise wonwoo words while he's away :-(

any notes you write him are kept safely with his things !!!

he keeps a special one in his wallet or phone case, so you are always with him and he takes it out and reads it when he misses you or is feeling sad even though he has it memorized

if you give him a gift based on the notes you two have written each other throughout your relationship, he WILL cry

he just loves sentiments like that <3 he's a sentimental guy and he likes to show you his love through things with meaning because he thinks it's the best way to convey how special you are to him

wonwoo loves you with everything he's got, and it's clear from the way he interacts with you on a daily basis that you are an important part of his life

no matter what, he's thinking of and caring for you because you make him feel so loved and cared for that he wants nothing more than to make you feel safe and adored <3

sorry i gotta go clutch my crocheted wonwoo plushie to my chest and cry because i love him so dearly :,-( i hope everyone gets the wonwoo they deserve <3

[shellbilee]

Hey There Darlin' - Chapter 7

A Glen Powell RPF series

Can't believe how much this is growing. I'm so thankful for every like, reblog and comment. Sending all of my apologies for the delay, I've forgotten how hard smut is to write and I'm embarrassed to admit how many times I wrote and re-wrote this trying to make it perfect. Hope you enjoy! x

Thankyou to @zacksnydered for the gifs!

Warning - Smut heavy in this chapter.

Billie

“105! Dani, you did it girl!” Billie beams, grinning from ear to ear as she helps her patient re-rack the loaded barbell on the squat rack.

Dani’s grin matches Billie’s when she turns around and jumps into Billie to hug her, the two having a celebratory embrace at the new squat personal best. Dani was a sophomore who had torn a major ligament in her knee playing high-level basketball, and after close to six months of rehabilitation, she was back to squatting even more than she was pre-injury.

“I told you you could do it, I’m so proud of you!” Billie announces as they part, holding Dani’s shoulders and grinning back at her teenage patient.

Dani’s smile takes up her whole face. “Thank you so much Billie, honestly I couldn’t have done it without you”

Billie scoffs, “Don’t be silly. This was all you!”

“What’s 105 in pounds?” Dani asks, picking up her water bottle and looking back at Billie, “Also, when are you ever going to stop using kilograms?”

“About 240 pounds” Billie replies with a laugh, “And never. I can’t help it that my brain thinks in kilos. That’s what I learnt in school way back when, and that’s what I’m sticking with”.

Dani laughs, sitting down on the floor and stretching out her legs, Billie perching on a nearby plyometric box and looking down at Dani.

“So, same time next week?” Billie asks, pulling out her iPad and checking her patient diary for next week, “Two-thirty?”

Dani nods and Billie inputs the appointment, running through the plan for their next session before saying goodbye.

“Well done again Dani” Billie says, squeezing her shoulder as they walk out of the gym area, “We’re going to have you back on the court in no time at this rate”.

Dani grins and Billie nods, waving goodbye as Dani goes to get her things and Billie retreats into her office.

Almost immediately she picks up her phone, her stomach flip-flopping when she sees a text message notification from Glen. They’d transitioned to text messaging, having exchanged phone numbers on Sunday night, and despite it being two whole days, Billie wasn’t sure she would ever get used to seeing Glen Powell’s name pop up on her phone.

There’d been no shortage of interaction between the two of them, Glen and Billie texting back and forth - talking, flirting and sharing pictures of their day. Of Brisket and Nugget, of Billie out on a run, of Glen at the gym, a playful selfie here and there. Their texts had become increasingly flirtatious, and Billie was seriously struggling to keep her thoughts in check. 

She was trying to focus on work - on Chelsea's niggling shoulder, on Derek’s hip that was catching every time he reached top speed on his sprint, on the brace that she had to order for Jimmy’s knee, but thoughts of Glen somehow kept inching their way in.

Billie felt like she was back in high school and with a teenage crush. Except this time, she was a grown up, and her teenage crush was a Hollywood celebrity.

She swipes across the screen to open his text message, nearly audibly groaning at what appears on her screen next. Glen was at a photo shoot today, and he’d sent her a little sneak preview. 

How was it physically possible for anyone to be that good looking? 

Honestly. 

The man was literally sex on fucking legs.

The photo shows Glen dressed in a light blue shirt and jacket leaning against a door frame, his shirt unbuttoned and leaving very little of his chest to the imagination. Billie isn’t sure where to look first, torn between the delicious planes of his chest covered in a dark mess of hair, or his intense, intimate expression that makes Billie need to catch her breath. His jaw is covered in more stubble than when she’d seen him last, and suddenly she can’t help but wonder how it would feel when she kissed him.

Her fingers hover over the screen, her brain at a momentary loss of what to say.

How am I supposed to focus on the rest of work when you're looking like that 😍

Typing bubbles appear almost instantly, and Billie realises she’s smiling.

You’re not the only one having trouble focusing. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about seeing you tonight

Billie’s smile grows then, her whole body instantly flushing with warmth. She types back, knowing her thoughts have undoubtedly been very similar to his.

Surely that ‘lost in thought’ look is what works for photo shoots though?

She can almost hear Glen chuckling as he reads her words.

Except that they kept asking me why I seemed so distracted all through the shoot

Billie feels herself grin stupidly.

And what did you tell them?

I said that I had something I was looking forward to doing tonight 

Billie nearly drops her phone at that, her breathing instantly ragged. Fuck.

And what might that be?

Seeing you, of course

Billie lets out a laugh then, loving their flirty back and forth. 

She's already decided she’s going to sleep with Glen tonight. Not only because she was dying to, but because she knew there was no way she was going to be able to stop herself. How she'd done so on Sunday at his house she had no idea - she could still feel his lips on hers if she thought about it, tender and heated as he held her on the kitchen bench.

Billie grins and bites her bottom lip, fingers tapping on the screen.

See you at 8 darlin x

You’re trouble mister 🙈 I'm looking forward to you seeing you too.

“Am I allowed to know about whatever it is that's making you look at your phone like that?” 

Billie's head snaps up when she hears her colleague Lisa's voice, seeing her standing in her office doorway with a curious look on her face.

“Nope” Billie says, sending a kiss face emoji back to Glen before locking her phone and quickly shoving it back into her pocket.

“Cmon B, we've worked together long enough for me to know that that” she says pointing at Billie's pocket, “Is absolutely something to do with a guy. So come on, spill”.

Billie grins, picking her water bottle up from her desk and bending to check her computer screen to see who her next client is. 

“Need to know basis at this point, Lisa”

“Oh yeah? I don't even get a little hint?”

Billie laughs at her friend's insistence.

“Alright, here's one. He's fucking gorgeous”

Lisa rolls her eyes. “That's hardly a hint Bil”.

Billie shrugs, smiling sweetly and walking over to the doorway beside Lisa.

“That's all you need to know for now”.

“Need to know, or get to know?”

“Both”

“Did you meet him at Rufus on Friday?”

Billie shrugs again innocently. “Maybe”.

Lisa raises one eyebrow, running her fingers through her platinum blonde, spikey pixie cut. 

“You know I'm going to keep asking you, yeah?”

Billie laughs, the two walking down the hallway and stopping at Lisa's office.

“And you know I’m going to keep deflecting your questions yeah?”.

Lisa punches her arm playfully and Billie grins, nodding at her friend before walking off to the waiting room.

“Billie!”

Billie stops short as she passes Ross’ office, her boss sitting at his desk and waving to her. 

“Hey bossman”

“Just checking you’re still okay for the Monterey trip in August?”

Billie nods. “Sure am”.

Due to the clinic’s work with high school and college athletes, they often got asked to accompany teams to tournaments and competitions around the country. Billie had been on a few trips in her years at Evolution Sports Rehab, using them as a convenient excuse to see more of the US. So far she’d been to Florida, Atlanta and Boston, and several places in the greater California area.

A few weeks ago Ross had been contacted about a four day college football tournament in Monterey, California. He'd pitched the opportunity to her and the rest of the physical therapists at a clinic meeting last month and Billie had put her hand up to go. Namely, because Bec and Ben had a gorgeous beach house down in Monterey that Billie had spent countless girls' weekends at. Knowing that Bec wouldn't batter an eyelid if she asked to borrow it for a few days, she'd jumped at the idea of a mini getaway at the beach - even if she had to work for a little while she was there.

“Can you make sure you've done your stock order by the end of the week please? Whatever sports tapes and creams you think you'll need for it”

Billie exhales and leans her hip against the door frame, shaking her head at her boss.

“Why on earth do you think I haven't already done that Ross?” Billie asks, grinning when Ross rolls his eyes and laughs, “I mean we've only worked together for how long? It's like you don't know me at all”.

“Alright, alright, I’m sorry” he says, waving her off.

Billie laughs and turns to exit his office, Ross’ voice making her stop.

“You seem like you’re in a good mood today?”

Billie turns to look at Ross curiously. “Am I not usually?”

Ross laughs. “You’re always happy and bubbly Billie, but it just feels like you have an extra spring in your step today”

Billie shrugs innocently, knowing full well that it's the evening activities she has planned that's making her seem giddy. But her boss certainly doesn't need those extra details.

Billie opens her mouth to respond but is cut off by Ross’ phone ringing, the two sharing a look that says ‘talk later’ without words. Ross nods at her before he picks up his phone, Billie waving him off and walking out to collect her next patient.

---

Billie is lighting her favourite coffee scented candle on the table when she hears the knock at the door, Nugget jumping from his bed and barrelling down the hallway like a rhino in a stampede. She puts the box of matches down and makes her way to the front door, pausing to quickly look over her reflection in the oversized hallway mirror. 

She exhales heavily, looking back at her face.

Glen Powell is about to be in her house.

It's words she never thought she'd say in a million years, yet here she is, about to invite him in on a third date. 

A third date, that she's very much hoping ends in the stereotypical way it's said that third dates do.

Billie is acutely aware of the way her heart is doing backflips in her chest, her insides feeling giddy as she pulls open the door.

“Hey there peach”

Billie's cheeks instantly flush at his nickname, never mind the utterly sexy smile on his face that makes her temporarily forget her own name. He’s dressed in a tight tan t-shirt that Billie can’t help but notice is nearly strangling his thick biceps, his hair fluffy and brushed back like it was in the photo he'd sent her earlier.

It takes everything she has not to jump him right there and then. 

“Peach?” she questions with a grin at Glen, tilting her head and leaning her temple against the door edge.

He grins, shrugging his broad shoulders adorably. “I dunno, it just came to me”.

Billie laughs then, opening the door all the way and gesturing for Glen to come in. He’s holding a wriggling Brisket in one arm, the tiny dog desperate to get to Nugget who is similarly wriggling with excitement at Billie’s feet. Billie manages a quick hello pat before Glen bends and lets Brisket run off into the house, the two dogs galloping away already in play mode.

Glen steps inside and stands beside Billie, the heady scent of his delicious cologne instantly clouding her. She barely has time to close the door behind her before Glen's hands are on her, his lips finding hers in a heated kiss that leaves her breathless and wanting.

“I've been thinking about doing that all day” he whispers when they eventually part, his lips still only an inch from hers, one of his hands reaching up to tuck one side of her loose hair behind her ear.

It's the smallest gesture, but in an instant it has Billie melting.

“That makes two of us” Billie replies, her eyes never leaving his full lips, reaching for his jaw and pulling him back in for another tender kiss that he immediately deepens with his tongue.

God, if she didn't stop now they'd end up fucking in her hallway.

She forces herself away from him knowing that she’ll lose control if she lets their kiss continue for even a second longer, feeling her stomach squeeze in the best way when he keeps hold of her hand and lets her lead him down the hallway.

“Can I get you a drink?” Billie asks, gesturing for Glen to take a seat and walking over to open the back door for Nugget and Brisket to go outside, “I’ve got beer, wine, soda or water”.

“I’ll take a beer please” he says, pulling out a stool and sitting down, resting his elbows on the bench.

Billie can’t help but smile at the sight of him sitting in her kitchen. It all seems so domestically normal, but really, it’s anything but that. It’s like she has to actively work to keep her eyes from staring at him - at his thick, tanned forearms, his full, plump lips, or his gorgeous green eyes that are currently following her around her kitchen. The kitchen of which, she’d happily let him take her on every single surface of. 

She exhales silently through her nose. 

Fuck.

“I realise that I should have asked this earlier” Billie asks suddenly, turning and opening the fridge to retrieve a beer and an already opened bottle of pinot grigio, “But please tell me you eat sushi? Because I definitely don’t have an option B prepared”

Glen laughs, his deep chuckle echoing in the kitchen. “I do. Did you order in?”

Bille shakes her head, popping the cap off the beer and handing him the bottle. “No, we’re making it”

Glen eyes her curiously, one eyebrow raised. “I’ve never made sushi before”.

“It's easy, I promise”, Billie says as she pours herself a glass of white wine, lifting the glass to her lips and taking a sip, “I’ve got it all ready to go”.

“How was work today?” Glen asks when Billie starts taking her already chopped and prepared ingredients out of the fridge and laying them on the bench in front of Glen.

She tells him about Dani, her patient that pulled a new personal best, and about the Monterey trip in August. 

“Do you go on trips like that often?” 

Billie shrugs as she peels two sheets of dried seaweed from the packet, laying them on the bamboo mats in front of her and Glen. 

“I've been on a few actually. The last one was a baseball tournament in Boston last October” she explains as she pulls the bowl of now cooled sushi rice from the stove onto the bench, “I went with Shanya, one of my younger colleagues and honestly it felt more like a holiday than work. We had the best time. Got to see Fenway too, which was definitely a highlight”.

Glen listens intently as she talks, Billie feeling his eyes on her as she leans against the bench and takes another sip of her wine. She loves the way each part of her body feels as he looks at her, her mind soon wandering and imagining how his hands would feel instead.

For a second she seriously considers completely ditching dinner and moving straight to the part of tonight she’s been thinking about all day.

“Okay so do you have any idea how to do this?”

Glen shakes his head no, the adorable expression on his face making Billie laugh.

“The hardest part is making sure you don't put too much rice, and then the rolling of course” Billie explains, using a spoon to flatten a layer of rice onto the seaweed sheet, “Then you just add your fillings long ways like this” she adds, arranging salmon, avocado and Japanese mayonnaise horizontally across the rice.

She wets her fingers and carefully rolls up the seaweed, looking up at Glen when she's produced a perfect looking sushi roll.

“See, easy right?”

Glen laughs, clearly not convinced.

They spend the next fifteen minutes making sushi, Billie offering her best constructive criticism and chuckling when Glen's first attempt immediately unrolls on the plate. The second one is a little better albeit has filling falling out the sides, Glen clapping his hands in triumph when it stays put on the plate and making Billie laugh harder.

If her life were a movie, this scene would be shown as a video montage in the kitchen with a fun pop song in the background, cutting between snippets of Billie and Glen laughing and grinning at one other. 

She can’t help but smile stupidly at the thought.

“Wow, you can't half tell which ones are mine” Glen comments when they’ve finished, taking a sip of his beer as Billie clears the empty prep plates into the sink, “Mine look terrible”.

Billie scoffs. “For someone that’s never made sushi before, I think they’re a pretty good first attempt”

Glen flashes her a grateful smile that Billie returns with her own, asking him to refill their drinks as she sets about slicing the sushi rolls and bringing them over to the table.

“How old are you in this photo?”

Billie looks up at Glen to find him pointing at one of the many photos on her fridge door, walking closer to see that it’s the one of her and Sloane at Camp America.

It's one of her favourite photos, her and Sloane standing with their arms wrapped around each other, faces plastered with enormous happy smiles as they balance precariously on stand up paddleboards. 

A split second after the photo was taken, they'd lost their balance and splashed into the freezing but stunning turquoise blue waters of Lake Tahoe.

To this day, Billie wasn't sure if it was the happiness on their faces or the memory of them falling and laughing that made her love the photo so much.

“That would have been seven years ago now, so twenty three, twenty four?” Billie replies, coming to stand next to Glen and looking back at the photo nostalgically, “God that was an incredible Summer”.

“You know what’s incredible?” Glen asks, tilting his head as he looks down at Billie beside him, “You in that bikini’. Fuckin’ hell darlin’’” 

“Oh stop it” Billie replies, punching Glen’s shoulder playfully. 

“I'm serious, peach. You'd have driven all of the teenage boys crazy looking like that” Glen adds, clicking his tongue as he looks back at the photo, “I can just imagine them all lining up to have you as their camp counsellor”.

Billie laughs. “Actually, I was mostly in charge of teaching water sports and leading hikes”.

“And they were the most popular activities?”

Billie grins. “They were pretty popular, yes”.

Glen's face splits into an even bigger grin, Billie shaking her head and walking back over to the table.

“So what about you?” Billie asks when they’re both seated minutes later, taking a sip of her now full wine glass and looking across at Glen, “How was your day? The photoshoot?”.

Glen’s eyes are narrowed as he momentarily focuses on dipping a slice of sushi roll into the bowl of soy sauce without dropping it, Billie glancing over at Nugget and Brisket and smiling when she sees them both squeezed onto the dog bed in the living room. 

“It went well, as good as photoshoots can go I suppose” he reasons, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly, “After a while, they sort of all blend together. But sometimes they’re fun”

“Do you at least get to keep the clothes?”

Glen laughs. “Sometimes. But also, some of the shit they get you to wear, I don’t know what they’re thinking sometimes”

Billie laughs then, covering her mouth as she chews.

They soon settle into a quiet comfort, eating, talking and laughing. 

Billie isn't sure she’s ever met a man who could make her laugh as much as Glen did, and certainly not one that she could have such a rich conversation with at the same time. Not only that, the way Glen looked at her as she spoke - like she’s the most stunning, intriguing, sexy thing that he’s ever laid his eyes on. 

It was hard not to feel fucking incredible when he looked at her like that.

Billie smiles to herself and lets out a silent breath as she settles back into her chair, her mind quietly wondering about all the other ways that Glen could make her feel.

Fuck.

---

Glen

Glen relaxes back into the couch, cold beer in hand as he watches Billie standing at the back door waiting for the dogs to come back inside after their dinner. For the millionth time in the hour and a bit that he’s been here, he pushes away the sinful thoughts of Billie that have all but plagued his mind for the last three days. 

She looks somehow even better than he remembered from Sunday, today dressed in a pair of slouchy denim cut offs that end high on her toned, tanned thighs, and a loose white knit sweater that seems to keep slipping down to reveal one smooth, bare shoulder. The top half of her hair is pulled back from her face with a tortoiseshell coloured clip, a few loose bits falling around her face as the rest tumbles down her back in soft, chocolate waves.

He wonders idly if she has any idea how god damn sexy she is, Glen forcing himself to look away from her bare legs when she whistles for Nugget and Brisket to hurry up. 

He looks around the living room, loving the homey details that are so uniquely Billie, his eyes falling on a photo book on the coffee table in front of him. He reaches for the book and starts to flip through it, smiling at each new page of the lovingly snapped and collated photos that display all of the people and things that Billie loves.

There’s multiple snaps and pictures of Nugget - from when he was an adorable tiny puppy all the way through the giant golden bear that he is now. Of him and Billie at the beach - Billie kneeling and smiling happily at the camera while Nugget stands saturated and panting beneath her arm, of Billie laughing as she holds Nugget like a baby - his head flopped upside down and tongue lolling out to the side, a selfie of the two of them with their faces side by side. 

Next is photos of Sloane, Bec and Billie at various times - the three of them posing and dressed to the nines at a formal event, another of them each holding a fruity cocktail, sun-kissed and smiling as they stand on beach somewhere tropical, and another of the three of them standing together arms intertwined with their heads thrown back in laughter.

Glen looks up when Billie comes over to the couch, shifting to give her more room when she sits down beside him. Her sweet, peachy perfume fills his nose as she leans into him, her knees bent and folded beneath her. He smiles down at her for a moment, Billie oblivious to his gaze as she picks up her phone and navigates to Spotify, a soft Luke Combs song suddenly playing from the living room speaker.

Glen looks back at the book as Billie sips her wine, flipping the page and looking down at a picture of Billie standing arm in arm with a guy. It takes him a second to realise that he has the same honey-green eyes as Billie, the shape of their smiles similarly wide and happy. 

“Is this Bradley?” Glen asks, noting more similarities between the two of them the more he looks at the picture.

Billie nods.

“And that” she adds, leaning over and pointing to two pictures on the page next to it, “Is Harrison and Kiara”.

“Kiara looks like you” Glen comments looking down at the adorable brunette girl in the picture, Billie leaning her head on Glen’s shoulder and smiling almost nostalgically. 

“Bradley and Jordyn say that all the time”.

Glen looks down at Billie and smiles softly. 

“You miss them”

“Everyday” she replies, letting out a quiet exhale, “You know what it’s like with nieces and nephews”.

Glen smiles gently but doesn’t say anything, closing the book after a few more pages and turning to look at Billie. 

“So you said you don’t start until late tomorrow?”

Billie nods, turning so that her body is facing Glen, leaning one elbow on the back of the couch and resting her cheek in her hand.  “Yep. I’m going to that gymnastics meet. So I don’t have to be in until 12”

“So you can sleep in then?”

A grin slowly grows on Billie's face then, a playful look in her bright hazel eyes.

“I can, yes”.

Glen can’t help the expression that takes over his face.

“I like sleeping in”.

Billie raises one eyebrow, her head tilting as she looks back at him.

“Is that right?”

His lips stretch into a mischievous grin and he nods, Billie grinning as she taps her fingers against the wine glass in her free hand. 

“You know what I like even more?” he breathes, reaching out to tuck stray hairs behind Billie’s ear as his eyes fall to her plush lips.

“Tell me”

“Kissing you”

Glen’s hand cups her smooth cheek and he leans in and kisses her, pressing his lips to hers in a soft, tender embrace. He can taste the wine on her tongue, her mouth moving against his in a way that makes his stomach flip, Glen moving his hand into her hair and deepening their intimate kiss.

Billie lets out a soft moan that he swallows with his lips, the sound making Glen’s whole body stir in the best way. He can feel his arousal growing, his heart starting to race, his grip tightening in Billie’s hair as he explores her mouth with his tongue. 

He wants more, needs more, suddenly desperate to feel more of Billie beneath his fingertips.

Glen pulls away for a second, lungs starting to burn, reaching down to take the wine glass from her hands and deposit it on the coffee table. Billie understands the action immediately, barely waiting for Glen to sit back before she’s climbing into his lap, straddling his legs and wrapping her arms around his neck.

Her lips are back on his in an instant, their kiss immediately deepening, Glen kissing her hungrily as his hands fall to her waist and grip at the thickest part of her hips. The feel of her curves in his hands makes him dizzy, even more so when Billie threads her fingers into his hair and drags her nails against his scalp. 

He groans then, the sound clearly having an effect on Billie, her hips grounding down into him in response. He’s hard now, painfully hard, and he knows Billie can feel it as she starts to rock her hips into him. 

Fuck he wants her, every single part of her, all over him and everywhere. 

Glen finds the hem of her sweater, sliding his fingers underneath the thin cotton and onto her buttery-soft skin, pressing his fingers into her warm flesh and pulling her flush against his chest. The action makes Billie break their kiss, dropping her head back as a breathy moan escapes her, Glen not missing a beat and dragging his lips along her jaw. 

He’s overwhelmed by her scent - sweet and heady and driving every one of his senses mad, completely lost in her as he kisses her ear, her neck, her collarbone. 

“Fuck, Glen” Billie sighs, her voice barely louder than a whisper, a wanting, almost pained moan following when Glen sucks at the thin skin near the base of her throat.

He’s just about to move lower, all of a sudden desperate to have his lips on her chest, Billie suddenly somehow reading his mind and reaching for the bottom of her sweater. He pulls back for just a moment, hands helping to peel the soft material from her body, a groan he can’t control falling from him at the sight that’s now in front of him. 

He doesn’t know where to look first, painfully aware of the way his length is straining in his jeans beneath Billie, eyes glued to her breasts held in only just by a small, black bralette. They’re not big but they’re certainly not small, round and perky and threatening to fall out of the thin cotton material with the smallest of movements. He can see her nipples straining against the fabric, his tongue reflexively wetting his lips at the sight, his breathing turning ragged when he reaches out and cups her soft flesh.

Billie drops her head back again, sounding nothing short of perfect when she sighs his name, every single one of Glen’s muscles clenching as she arches her back into his hands and all but begs for his touch. He kneads her tits in his hands, thumbs swiping roughly over her covered nipples, looking up when Billie lifts her head back up and gazes down at him with seductive, hooded eyes.

“Fuckin’ hell peach, you’re gorgeous” Glen breathes, words trailing off into another strangled groan when Billie rolls her hips against his. 

She cups his face with both hands and pulls him back in for a kiss, this time hungry and feverish, like she can’t get enough of him fast enough. Glen responds eagerly, licking into her mouth and matching her desperation, his hands palming her harder as his thumbs drag the thin cotton down so that her breasts fall free.

The sound she lets out when he plays with her nipples is absolutely sinful, the way her breathing becomes instantly shaky making Glen want to growl. He breaks their kiss by biting down on her bottom lip, leaving her mouth and licking his way down to her chest. 

In that moment he swears he could stay there forever, drunk on Billie’s scent, her taste and feel beneath his lips, kissing and mouthing her smooth, silky skin. She cries out when his lips close around her left nipple, her back arching into his chest and his free hand moving to hold her there. He suckles at her, loving the way she all but shudders in his arms, her hips increasing their pressure with each new roll against him.

“Glen” she breathes, her voice soft and erotic, her hands threading once again into his hair and tugging gently, “Bedroom. Let’s go to the bedroom”

Reluctantly he releases her nipple - though not before savouring her for one more delicious moment, his grip on her waist tightening when she moves to stand up from his lap. He’s having none of that, instead moving both of his arms to her thighs, Billie letting out a surprised chuckle when he stands up from the couch with her wrapped firmly in his arms.

“Direct me, darlin’”

Billie laughs and bends and kisses him, Glen loving the plush, swollen feel of her lips, the two grinning back at one another as she instructs him to head down the hall to the last room on the left. 

He’s instantly distracted by Billie’s breasts in his face, unable to stop himself from immediately returning his lips to her sensitive flesh, navigating around the couch blindly as Billie tries to concentrate on guiding him.

Bumping into a side table and the wall of the hallway, several giggles fall from the both of them as they eventually make it to the bedroom. Glen bends and sits Billie down on the edge of the bed, her eyes never leaving his as she peels off her bralette and pulls the clip from her hair, Glen simultaneously shedding his t-shirt.

He loves the way she looks back at him then, her eyes sultry and wanting as they roam over his now shirtless torso, Glen’s own gaze dragging between her swollen lips and naked chest. Just when he thinks Billie couldn’t possibly look any sexier - a seductive, wanton goddess, all flushed cheeks and tousled hair, he sees her hands move to her shorts and watches as her fingers make quick work of the button and zip. 

Glen feels like he’s frozen then, unable to do anything but watch, his breath coming short and heavy as Billie slowly, torturously, shimmies the denim material down her legs. She slides them down to her ankles and lifts both feet in the air towards Glen, daring him to take them from her as the new position of her legs teases an explicit view of between her thighs.

A groan falls from Glen, low and rumbling from somewhere deep within him, Billie grinning seductively when he grabs the shorts from her ankles and tosses them onto the floor behind him. She moves to scoot backwards but is stopped by Glen’s hand on her calf, Glen instead pulling her closer to the edge of bed as he lowers himself to the floor in front of her.

He doesn’t miss the soft whimper that falls from Billie when he pulls her legs apart and rests her thighs on his shoulders, the sight of her naked save for a skimpy, black cotton thong stirring something primal in him. He swears he could look at her all day like this, feeling dizzy from the sight of her, the smell of her arousal, the sound of her increasing breathing. He swallows thickly, his throat suddenly dry, his own arousal throbbing painfully inside his jeans as he thinks about what he’s about to do.

Glen’s been thinking about doing this since the moment he first kissed Billie, wondering what she’d taste like, what she’d feel like and what she’d sound like coming undone on his tongue. It’s his favourite thing to do - something he enjoys arguably more than sex, unsure if it’s the way he can tease and bring them right to the edge, the sight of them when they eventually fall apart above him, or the way they feel when they spasm against his mouth that he loves so much. 

He inhales heavily, hands sliding beneath Billie’s ass and grabbing at the thick part of her thighs, holding her steady and bending to press a kiss to her hip. He grins to himself when she lets out the softest whimper, looking up to see her eyes trained on him, her lips pressed together as her chest rises and falls quickly. 

He loves the desperate look in her eyes, he’s mad for it, feeling the electric tension in the air as she silently begs him to kiss her lower.

He kisses along the waistband of her thong, moving slowly as he holds her steady, tongue drawing delicate circles along her sensitive skin. He knows he’s driving her mad, watching as her jaw clenches and her fingers flex into the sheets below her, her eyes following his every movement. He grins as he moves lower, kissing over the cotton now, feeling her heat beneath the material as his fingers dig into her harder. He holds her gaze for a moment longer, electricity and an unspoken communication between them, finally tearing his eyes away and looking down as he hooks his finger and pulls her panties to the side.

And god if it’s not the most gorgeous sight he’s ever seen, his deep muscles clenching in the most delicious, desperate way.

He groans.

“Fuck peach, look at you”.

His eyes run over her syrupy folds, pink and glistening and begging to be tasted, his tongue wetting his lips before he bends and kisses her sex. The second his mouth is on her Billie tosses her head back into the sheets, a beautiful, breathy moan falling from her that makes Glen grip her harder.

He doesn’t waste any time, burying his tongue into her velvet flesh, his nose brushing her clit as he kisses her open-mouthed like he would her lips. The moans he teases from Billie are nothing short of erotic, an intimate melody Glen would happily listen to for hours. He brings his fingers to her sex and uses his thumbs to spread her open, licking and sucking at her sensitive flesh until he feels her muscles starting to tremble. 

His name falls from her lips between a myriad of expletives, her voice slowly getting louder as her body starts to writhe on the bed. Glen knows he’s got her then, knowing he’s close to teasing out her first release, determined to give her as many as she can take as he quickens the pace with his tongue. 

“Oh Glen fuck” she moans when his lips find her clit, circling and sucking as her hips start to ground into his mouth.

He groans into her folds, loving how she’s practically fucking his face, moving one hand to her pubic bone and flattening down to hold her steady. She sucks in a long, shuddering breath and Glen knows she’s almost there, increasing his pace with his tongue and watching as she tries to buck her hips against his hold.

“I’m close Glen, I’m close” she breathes, moans punctuating her words, her eyes squeezed shut as her hands fist into the sheets.

“That’s it darlin’, let me hear you” Glen whispers against her, sucking one of her luscious folds into his mouth and loving the way she cries his name, “I wanna hear you, peach”.

Keeping one hand flat on her pelvis, he drags two fingers through her folds and coats them with her slick, easing them inside her and looking up when she cries out in pleasure. Glen groans out loud, his eyes not knowing where to focus first, torn between the way his fingers look knuckles deep within her, the sight of her wet, syrupy folds practically dripping onto his hand, and her gorgeous, near naked form trembling on the bed.

Glen can’t get enough.

And neither can Billie.

He curls his fingers in the way that he knows will drive her mad, bending and kissing her slick flesh before lavishing it with his tongue. He quickens his pace, fucking her with his fingers and sucking at her clit, Billie’s cries becoming gorgeously desperate as her body soon starts to shake.

In that moment he knows he has her, letting out a heavy breath and coaxing her over the edge.

“Just like that Bil’, that’s it” he breathes against her slit, just loud enough for her to hear over her breathy moans, “Come on darlin’, give it to me. Come for me, sweets”.

His words are her undoing and in an instant he feels her entire body tense and release, Billie’s back arching away from the bed as her head tosses back in ecstasy. His name falls from her lips like a desperate prayer and her hips buck beneath his hold, the sight and sound of Billie’s orgasm taking over her so fucking beautiful that Glen can’t help but stare enamoured. He coaches her through her release, still fucking her slowly with his fingers, eventually stilling within her when she grabs his wrist silently telling him to stop.

He bends and kisses her velvety folds gently, withdrawing his fingers and watching in awe when her body spasms with tiny aftershocks, looking up to see Billie’s chest heaving as she lays back painting on the bed before him. 

He crawls his way up her body, leaving kisses on her heated skin - her hip, her breast, her collarbone, hovering above her and grinning down at her adorable post-orgasm bliss smile.

“You’re an absolute sight when you come darlin’” Glen whispers, bending and kissing her parted lips gently, “Never seen anything more fuckin’ sexy”.

Billie’s eyes flutter open, taking a second to focus on Glen above her, her swollen lips stretching into a soft, playful smile.

“I have” she whispers after a moment, lifting her hands to cup his jaw and pull him down for a kiss, “Your face looking up at me from between my thighs is something I won’t be forgetting anytime soon”.

Glen lets out a deep chuckle, lowering himself onto her and rolling his hips so that his painfully evident arousal presses into Billie’s belly. The action teases a soft, sexy moan from her throat, and suddenly he can’t help but think of another half a dozen things he’d like to do and make her not forget about.

He bends to kiss her then, capturing her lips in a heated, sensual kiss, her hands reaching out and roaming his naked back as his length presses against her, thick, hard and wanting. All at once the tension between them is building again, a growing desire licking at Glen’s insides like a raring, burning fire.

In an instant he can’t think of anything except for how much he wants Billie, how much he wants to make her come again, to bury himself inside her and fuck her over and over into the sheets beneath them - to watch her, hear her, feel her come undone around his cock.

His thoughts make Glen groan into her mouth, forcing himself away and quickly jumping from the bed, Billie propping herself up on her elbows to watch as he reaches for his belt buckle and makes quick work of his belt, jeans and underwear. He stands stark naked then, loving the seductive, hooded gaze that's returned to Billie's face, reaching down to stroke himself as her eyes run over his body and back again.

He's hard, painfully hard, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths, looking over her parted lips and down to the tiny black thong that's still pushed to the side and affording him the most sinful view of her still slick folds. She’s like a siren, a vixen, a goddess if ever he's seen one.

And fuck he just can't get enough of her.

Especially not when she reaches over to her nightstand and pulls a condom from the top drawer, scooting backwards into the pillows and winking one gorgeous eye at him. He grins back devilishly, needing no instruction after that, crawling back onto the bed and cupping her jaw, kissing her hungrily as he takes the condom from her fingers.

“You ready darlin’?” he asks when he’s rolled it down his length seconds later, parting Billie’s legs and resting one of her ankles on his shoulder.

She only nods, her chest rising and falling with desperate anticipation, the look in her eyes telling him everything he needs to hear without words. He strokes himself roughly, cursing at the sight of his length dragging through her slick, lining himself up with her velvety folds and exhaling loudly as he meets her eyes once more.

Glen wets his lips and grins, loving the way Billie looks back at him then.

“Hold on, peach. Gonna show you somethin’ else you won’t wanna forget any time soon”.

----

Previous Chapter

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[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for being mad and getting snippy about PDA? I know it’s double barreled, but average the two.

My brakes went out. Out out. Pedal hit the floor. $3,000 later, and I won’t have my car for at least another week. Help is coming soon (borrowing a family’s car), but until then the walk to or from work is an hour long. I’m not broke but everybody’s three months from homeless and I’m out here struggling as a student. My car breaking down has been the last straw for me, and I’m unfortunately shutting down in big ways.

My roommate Guy has been historically so overwhelmed by anxiety that he’s been really cruel and selfish in times of stress (anyone’s stress.) Things are improving, but my temper is short on my best days, and he knows. A line of communication we’ve opened up when I ask for his help with literally anything is to try and get around the parts of DBT DEARMAN (iykyk) that aren’t serving us and focus on a) a definitive answer b) THEN make moves to compromise or qualify our answer. I asked him for a ride home tonight, and he said he and his partner were going to drink together that night (so he wouldn’t) but offered to help me tomorrow. That’s fine. Or, is it? It feels like a dick move to PLAN to drink instead… especially when he’s not supposed to drink on his medication. When the roles have been reversed (it’s never been exactly the same, he’s never experienced bad car failures, but my love language is helping), I have taken care of things for him and his S/O (who doesn’t drive.) I feel kind of hurt, but like I can’t be mad.

Here’s where it gets weird. I walk home. It takes me a second hour because I walked slow and took some backways. I have a big lonely spiral and I’m in tears all over hell and highway. I get home, and they’re snuggling on our couch. I HATE PDA. It makes me feel Horrible and lonely and unloveable… and it’s a non-negotiable if I want to have an OK time. They know that. I immediately comment on it rudely (trust me that it was rude; I have ADHD and the depression brain fog is real and I have no clue what I actually said) they come back with “we’re just sitting here 👁️👄👁️” and then I disappear to shower.

They’re both deeply anxious people, which compounds the guilt. I know they dread me coming home (Guy told me so at one point… literally said that) because of my irritability after twelve hour days as a grad student in a high-burnout field, and I let them down again today. What do y’all think, AITA?

[grogusmum]

IRL

Part 3 @han_shot_first

JAVI X F!PLUS SIZE!READER

SUMMARY: Set before the events of The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent. Javi and Reader are friends online, and after a year of DMing they decide to meet. (The only change is Javi and Gabriela are just friends)

WORD COUNT: 1800ish

WARNINGS: Reader has insecurities about her size and appearance. Javi is adorable, be warned. Things get spicy.

Part 2

“Girasol,” he whispers; voice husky. Your knees go a little watery not only from the want in Javi’s voice for you but for the sweet nickname, sunflower.

His warm, plush lips taste your mouth, chin, and neck. Tickling behind your ear, you had never kissed anyone with a mustache or much facial hair. It tickles and rasps over your soft skin deliciously, especially your neck, causing your shoulder to jump with a smiling gasp. 

Being pressed against the wall was also new to you like this gorgeous man can't get enough of you and needs to be as close as he can possibly get. One hand is cradling your jaw; the other travels from your hip under your sweater, where he has found that the dress is sleeveless. He hums, pleased by his discovery. You try not to feel emotional and keep the thought - thank you. Thank you for being attracted to me, even though… inside your head. But it brings up some tears that you blink away. 

The moment you open your eyes, the lights flicker, signaling you to return to the theater.

“Javi?”

“Hmmm?” He murmurs, distracted by devouring your neck.

“The next film-”

He pulls away as the lights flicker again. 

“We will pick this up back at the hotel,” he rumbles. 

Javi takes your hand and leads the way to the theater. Since you are among the last to sit, Javi looks and tugs you toward the back of the theater. He noticed your glassy eyes when he pulled away. He wonders if he overstepped.

After you settle into your seat-

“I'm sorry,” Javi looks at you with his puppiest eyes.

“For?”

“Well, I- for,” Javi struggles. “ Maybe I was too forward, and now we don't have good se-”

You smile; Javi really is the sweetest.

“Javi, I have never been so turned on in my life,” you murmur in his ear, and his face breaks into a broad smile, his eyes dancing. 

While the rest of the day flies and is more fun than you've had in a long time, every once and a while, you get a little in your head when hobnobbing with “the beautiful people.” But somehow, Javi seems to feel it every time, and he brings you closer, his lips grazing the shell of your ear, murmuring a sweet check-in.

Online, late at night, you would talk and talk, and you thought you felt a tension in the last month before planning to meet, but you always half-heartedly dismissed it. And when you saw his picture, you wholeheartedly dismissed it. How can someone like him…but here you both are. He doesn't even see the other women. Javi has at least one hand on you at all times. Holding your hand or on your thigh with his thumb chasing little circles during the films and Q&As, his arm wrapped around your waist during intermission. This new layer to your relationship is exciting, if a little scary. 

All you have been thinking about since the alcove is getting back to the hotel, but as Javi checks you both in, your traitorous brain starts to race; you know Javi is a good guy, he would never just presume, and if you put on the brakes he would respect that…but now that it's here. It's not that you don't want to; you want to, by the gods, do you. But what if he doesn't like what he sees when you are, quite literally, laid bare?

Javi returns with the key cards, his stomach knots in new and exciting ways. 

“It's a two-bedroom penthouse suite,”he murmurs, primarily to his feet. He can feel the tips of his ears going hot, “I got them before - but you know, if you don't - I mean, if we-”

Javi doesn't know what you are thinking. But he can easily see the anxiety scrawled across you. But he doesn't know what has you in this state—

Watching him, you can see his effort. To keep you comfortable, respecting your boundaries, and he keeps showing you he is attracted to you, all of you.

So you tell your liar of a brain to shut up for once, and your first finger goes gently under his chin, tipping his head to look at you. 

“Javi? Please take me upstairs.” 

This is when Javi’s brain short circuits.

The penthouse is, of course, gorgeous, just as Javi hoped. There’s a fireplaced living room, with the spread of chocolate-covered strawberries, soft cheeses, warm crusty bread, and the champagne he asked for on a coffee table. 

“Javi! This is, does this just come with penthouse suites or…”

“There are always, well, ‘amenities,’ but um, I asked for your favorites.”

“When?”

“As soon as you said you’d come to visit.”

“But-”

“I know it was a little bold of me, but I - sort of had this big plan to try to win your heart this weekend. But like I said, I got two rooms, I wasn’t, you know, ‘expecting something’,” All of this comes out in a rush, but Javi takes a breath and slows down, his eyes taking in your lovely face.

“‘Han Shot First’, I’ve been having feelings for you for a long, long time.”

It's your face’s turn to warm, as romantic as his nickname Girasol is, as beautiful as it makes you feel... There's something about him using your url handle at this moment - the name he knew before he had seen your picture… You fling your arms around him, and without hesitation, his mouth seals to yours. His hand goes to your cardigan, peeling it off. Before you can have another wave of anxiety, the groan Javi lets loose as his hands run up and down your upper arms and around your back settles your qualms. He presses you as close to him as he can without occupying the same space, thus defying the laws of physics.

“Girasol”, Javi murmurs. “I can't believe how lucky I am.”

His hands rove your back, hips, and backside. You keep beating back your traitorous brain, so you can just enjoy how this feels. He likes everything he's touching. 

One of his hands comes to the side of your face, holding you tight in his kiss. 

“May I undress you?”

Javi begins unbuttoning your dress, his hands so sure at every button. He pulls back the top of the dress off your shoulders, and his needy kisses travel from one to the other, stopping to enjoy your collarbones and the hollow of your throat. Then he lets the dress fall, a circle at your feet. You slip his blue blazer off his shoulders and start unbuttoning his shirt. You peek back at his face to see adoration.

You nod, and the look he gave you in the alcove returns causes a pleasant zing in your lower belly.

Javi becomes impatient and brings his arms hurriedly out of his sleeves, and pulls you against him once more, his arms wrapped around your waist. With urgent kisses, he walks you backward until your calves hit the bed. 

Giving a yip as you drop onto it, a nervous giggle bubbles up, and you take a breath, eyes closed. Mirroring your action in the lobby, Javi's curled forefinger gently lifts your face to him.

“I am enamored with every inch of you, Girasol. Every last inch.”

Against your will, your eyes swim, so that is where Javi decides to start in his worship. His hands cradle your face, thumbs brush the tears away. Pressing kisses to your cheeks. 

Your hands rest on his narrow hips as you look up at this beautiful man, this silly, passionate, delightful man.

He wants me, you think, all of me.

Your hands travel up his sun-kissed torso, the sweet curve of his belly, but just as your hands settle on his chest, he has your shoulders, pressing them to the bed. And this was that moment you feared, laid out on the bed. Suddenly Javi’s got you behind your knees with those enormous paws of his, and with a quick and decisive pull, he's got your ass at the edge of the bed and thighs over his broad shoulders, and you can feel his breath at your core. 

“Javi!” Breath quickening, you are pretty sure you almost came from being moved like that; you don’t get “thrown around”

Javi's hands run up your thighs, his thumbs massage the crease where your hip meets them  -

“Did you like that, Girasol?”

💚 THANKS FOR READING 💚

Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated.

If you enjoyed this fic and would like to read for Javi or any of my works, click the link to my masterlist. If you would like to get tagged for any of my fics, click the link to my taglist form.

[that-tmr-girl]

Shut Up and Take It {Part 2}

The more Newt dominates you in bed, the more you like it.

Dominant Newt, vaginal sex, blow job, fingering, overstimulation, degrading

I woke up feeling half dead that morning. I could still barely even move and had to wear a literal turtleneck because of all the marks he left on me. I had to lean against the wall just to take a shower.

Dominant Newt was nice, but damn, it screwed me up. My legs are still shaky and sore. Even when I was sitting, my body threatened to collapse.

Sitting was better than standing though so I'm thankful for that. I just had to sit there for a while and pretend that this isn't the same plan we’ve had since the beginning. As long as they think I’m listening.

So I sat for most of the day. Then, I went and laid down, where my lover had joined me after.

As if nothing was wrong, he had curled up to my side. With his arms around me, he cuddled me as tightly as he could, kissing my lips every now and then.

Until his lips had moved to my neck.

Closing my eyes, I threw my head back to give him full access. As he bit down and started touching my thighs though, it became clear he wanted more.

“Newt, someone could walk in,”I pointed out, slightly pulling away to look at him.

“No they won't,”He said simply, not a hint of worry on his face as he kept his hands on my thighs. “If you don't want me, just back out now,”He commanded.

“I always want you,”I breathed out.

“Yeah. You’ve made that pretty clear,”He grinned, a devilish glint in his eyes. Biting his lip, he looked me up and down before letting his hands travel up my shirt. Shivering at his cold fingers, I shut my eyes for a moment.

Sneaking his hands higher up, he threw my shirt on the ground just as I opened my eyes. Without stopping, he quickly unhooked my bra, throwing it to the ground as well. Grabbing my hips, he picked me up and put me on my back, making me shriek for a moment. Ignoring my sounds for now, he unbuttoned my jeans before looking at me for permission. The second I nodded he tore them off, my panties following.

“You have to be quiet this time. Understood?”He checked.

“Yes, Newt.”

“Good,”He grinned, placing his hands under my chin. Lifting my head, he admired his marks from a few hours ago, tracing his thumb over them. Shuddering a little at his touch, I grasped the sheets in anticipation, unconsciously rubbing my thighs together as wetness dripped down them. “Someone's already so excited to be used, aren't they?”He smirked.

“Yes.”

“You just have no damn shame when it comes to me, do you?”He practically taunted.

“Never.”

“And you never will,”He chuckled, pulling his hands off of me. Looking at the ceiling, I took a shaky breath of want as I listened to him unzip his jeans, letting them fall to the ground. Risking a glance, I saw him strip his shirt off, leaving him naked. My face flushed at the sight of him, already hard and yearning for me, his eyes filled with lust.

Walking back over, he crawled on top of me, aligning himself with my entrance as I spread my legs wider for him. Looking at me, he silently asked for permission to fuck my brains out, something I eagerly gave to him.

Keeping me silent, he crashed his mouth against mine as he slammed into me. Letting out a noise, I moaned and shrieked against his lips as he pulled out only to shove back in. Grabbing my wrists that were at my sides, he pinned my arms beside my head as he pulled his face away to look at me. Pushing my hips up, I bit my lip as I took him deeper inside of me. Grunting, he carelessly railed me as I tried to keep up with the rough pace. My legs shook as he filled me up, the bed creaking under us. My eyes rolled to the back of my head as I already clenched around him. His grip tightened on my wrists as he pulled out and pushed in again. Holding in screams, I threw my head back as I came on his dick. Grunting louder, he pushed into me again, filling me up.

“You still take it so good for someone who could barely walk this morning,”He whispered in my ear.

“I could take you for hours.”

“If you insist,”He said in a dark voice. Pulling out, he stood up before gesturing for me to get in front of him. Trying to ignore the shakiness in my legs, I did as he instructed.

Grabbing me, he turned me around and bent me over the bed. A small shriek of surprise left me as he aligned his dick with my soaked cunt. Biting down on my lip, I balled my hands into fists as he kept pulling out and pushing in. Grabbing my hands, he pinned them down as he fucked me to the point of practically losing my senses. At each thrust, he seemed to be deeper and deeper inside of me. I was basically cross eyed as I released. Pretending not to know, he just kept going, twitching inside of me. Letting out a whimper, I buried my face in the mattress as he exploded inside of me, more of his liquids now dripping down my thighs.

“You said you could take it, but you're always going to make some noise. Aren't you, you slut? You just can't help it,”He whispered in my ear as he pulled out. Turning me around, he shoved me on my knees. Ready for him, I grabbed his dick and started licking his tip. Groaning at the teasing, he wrapped his hands behind my neck and shoved himself all the way down my throat. Gagging on him, I swirled my tongue around, collecting his juices in my mouth. Moaning around him, I looked at him as I took him down my throat. With a dark expression, he thrust his hips, making me choke before humming around him.

“All these times and you still gag,”He said through raspy breaths, throwing his head back as he twitched in my mouth. Humming louder, I sucked on him until he shot his warm seed down my throat. The second he was done he pulled out. “And even with my cock in your mouth, you still make noise,”He tsked, a devilish look on his face as he picked me up and threw me back on the bed. “You like that though, don't you? You like it when my dick’s in your mouth? It makes my whore happy, doesn't it?”

“Yes,”I breathed out as he kissed and sucked on my neck. Closing my eyes, I savored the feeling of his lips until he started squeezing my nipple, making my gaps as my eyes shot open. Taking it even further, he started running his finger between my folds, making me squirm under him.

Sinking his teeth into my neck, he started leaving even more marks as he plunged two of his fingers inside my sensitive pussy, making me throw my head back. Pumping and curling them, he used his thumb to rub circles on my clit as he moved his mouth to my chest, his other hand holding my waist. Biting my lip, I could barely see as dots of pleasure clouded my vision. While increasing his pace he grazed his teeth over my nipple. Throwing my head back, I bit back down on my lip as I tightened around his hand. Moving his mouth to my other nipple, he sucked on my breasts before removing his fingers.

I absolutely whimpered in disappointment until he pushed his hard dick into me, making me moan as I released all over him. Thrusting in and out twice, he held my waist as he climaxed, leaving me a wet and sweaty mess.

Breathing heavily, he groaned before slowly pulling out. As I tried to sit up he quickly pushed me back down.

“Lay here so I can put your clothes on. Then, you're just gonna sleep until dinner, where I’ll see you then. Understood?”

“Understood,”I nodded.

“Good,”He smiled, his eyes soft as he cupped my face and kissed my temple, back to his soft self.

I know the circumstances suck, but I could definitely get used to this. Rough sex and then my soft Newt back? That sounds like the dream.

As long as you forget the nightmare part of it.

[thedoctorisgroovy]

Slim Pickin's

» Pairing: Spencer Reid x BAU!Reader

» Word count: 1655

» Warnings/Tags: Spencer has a gf(non canon made up name), mentions of sex (but no detail), alcohol consumption (no one is drunk though), using people to get over someone, reader sleeps with people as a coping mechanism, angst, idiots in love, fluff, happy ending!!!

» A/N: I heard this song and couldn't resist writing something based off of it. Who else is obssessed with her album?? If anyone was gonna make me break my streak of bad dating it was be our boy Spencer.

I realised I was in love with Spencer after the 3rd time hooking up with my friends with benefits that month.

Over a bottle of wine at my best friend Penelope’s house, we’d discussed my boundaries and expectations and after the douchebags I’d been out on simple first dates with, the bar was still unbelievably low and yet was still clearly unattainable.

“I just want someone who’s jacked but kind ya know? Literally just nice and is alive and breathing, not much to ask for.” Close to slurring every syllable that came out of my mouth and essentially on the verge of tears. I wanted to follow it up with something about wanting Spencer - my other best friend and colleague - but I didn’t need to. She knew well enough what I was insinuating after hearing me pine over him for months already.

“Okay get that cute and sexy butt up, we’re going out and finding you someone that you can move on with!”She exclaimed, reaching out to tap my butt as I stood with her.

“I already have someone, I have Jake.” Reminding her of my frequent friends with benefit situation that developed about a month ago.

“Well you can have multiple ‘someones’ until you get over him, so lets go!” And with that she dragged us to the nearest bar to find me someone new to drink up and drown my sorrows in.

After a thoroughly disappointing evening of fancying and talking to exactly no one, I decide to part ways with Penelope and go home, it was 1am on a work night after all and no more drinks or men would distract me from Spencer the way that sleep could. I finally crash into bed and receive the ever so romantic text from Jake.

“You up?”

“Yeah, just got home from the bar. Long night lol”

“Could I come over their?”

I groan dejectedly before screenshotting the message and sending it to Garcia captioned “Why am I sleeping with a man who doesn’t know the difference between their, there and they’re?” I can almost hear the giggle in her reply.

“Ooh get some girl, see you in the morning, don’t be late!” I send her an upside down smiley face emoji before flicking back to Jake’s name in my messages list.

“Sure. See you in 10. Don’t plan to stay over, I have work at 8.” I reply before dashing off to the bathroom to freshen up and look presentable. I debated sending Spencer the screenshot, knowing he’d get a kick out of someone’s appalling grammar but decided not to, not wanting him to 1. know that I’m sleeping with strangers and 2. give me a lecture on the importance of dating people who are “on your level.” He would never judge me, but he does want what’s best for me, even if he doesn’t realise that it’s him. I hear his familiar knock after a few short minutes and go to open the door. When I do, Jake is immediately on me - obviously pleasantries don’t exist when you’re horny - and we fall into the pattern we’ve developed over the time we’ve been sleeping together.

As Jake did his best attempt at having sex with me, my mind wandered to Spencer. His beautiful curls, his grin that reached both ears and lit up his eyes, his laugh, his wonderful brain full of science and facts and trivia. The way he smelt when he allowed me to hug him sometimes. I knew it was wrong to think about him this way, especially in this moment and especially since he has a girlfriend, but I couldn’t help it. This past case hadn’t helped either. We’d been paired together on every aspect which meant a lot of one on one time in the car, the office or coffee breaks. Everything about him drew me to him like an invisible thread and my heart broke thinking that my current situation would never happen with him. Jake finishing brought me back to my reality and I pretended to while he leaned down to kiss me. He wasn’t a bad kisser by any means, I just didn’t care.

The guilt set in after he left, knowing that I was just using him to feel some sort of connection and satisfaction. I’d been playing him like a slot machine, except I was still losing.  I’d been complaining about these men, all the time knowing that I’m the problem purely because I can’t have what I want. I know that he’s using me too otherwise we’d probably be officially dating instead of just hooking up, but it doesn’t alleviate the embarrassment of knowing I won’t be able to look my co worker in the eye in a few hours time. I hug my knees to my chest and close my eyes, the feeling that I’ll probably end up alone finally getting through to my thick skull. Just as I started to doze off my phone suddenly buzzed. I grab it, only to see Spencer’s name flashing under the text notification.

“Sorry to disturb you so late, are you awake?”

“Hey Spence, it’s okay. I’m just about to head to sleep but we can talk if you need to. Are you okay?”

“I’m so sorry, I’ll let you sleep. Can we talk at work instead, in private?”

“Of course. See you soon. Goodnight Spencer.

“Goodnight.”

My heart pounded in my chest at the possibilities of what he could want to talk to me about. If it was something personal, surely he’d go to Emily or JJ, they’re his best friends.Some sick, petty part of me hoped he somehow knew about my night-time escapades and was jealous. I ended up convincing myself it was work related just to be able to fall asleep that night.

I barged open the door to Garcia’s magical tech cave without looking up from my phone and immediately started off loading to her.

“Ooh girl, it is slim pickin’s out there I swear.. OOF!“ I look up at what I bump into and am met with Spencer’s tear stained face and red eyes, he looks so hurt that my heart breaks in regards to him for the 2nd time in 12 hours.

“Spencer? What’s wrong, are you okay, are you hurt?”

“He broke up with Allie.”

“Oh my gosh, sweetie I’m so sorry. Is this why you wanted to talk last night?” He nodded slightly, wiping his eyes with the backs of his sleeves.

“Please don’t call me sweetie” He pleaded, laughing almost incredulously, the bitterness on his tongue tainting the usual sweet melody of his laughter.

“Okay..?” His sudden change sent me reeling, I always called him pet names and he’s never once had a problem with it.

“You’re the reason they broke up…” Garcia lilted teasingly.

“Garcia!” Spencer snapped her surname back at her, desperation flooding his features.

“Me? What did I do?” I bit back, I knew that I had been nothing but kind and respectful to Spencer so how the hell could this be my fault? Spencer stood there looking mortified and frantic, his frazzled curls sticking to his forehead slightly. I stared at him before begging,

“Spence? Please talk to me.”

“Okay. What Garcia means is, we broke up because I realised that I have feelings for you. On this case, all the time we spent together, I started to fall for you. But it wasn’t just this week, I realised I liked you since you started working with us. And when I got home you weren’t there but I wanted you to be, but I knew that wasn’t fair to Allie so I called her and she came over and we talked and I broke up with her.” He rambled off animatedly, running his fingers through his hair, something he did when he was stressed or preoccupied. I just stood there frozen, mouth hanging open like I was trying to catch flies or something. I couldn’t believe what I’d heard or thought I’d heard. ”You.. you like me?” I thought I was going to faint.

He crossed the gap between us in one stride and wrapped his hands around my waist. His touch was so careful and gentle that I melted into it without hesitation. I rested my head on his chest and listened to his heartbeat for a few seconds before looking up into his beautiful eyes. Everything I wanted and needed was right here in the moment, and I was afraid to let go. He lowered his voice just close enough to a whisper, words meant just for he and I to hear.

“I wanted to talk to you last night but you said you were going to sleep, so I spoke to Garcia instead, and she told me that you’d been hiding this from me all this time. I know it was out of respect but I’m sorry you were hurting. Would you like to go to dinner with me? On a proper date?”

A squeal that left Penelopes’ mouth was quickly silenced by Spencer and I turning to shoot her a death glare. I reached up to stroke his cheek, eyes softening again as I turned my gaze from Peneople to him. Everything in me wanted to scream yes. I wanted to jump onto him, kiss him, wrap myself around him, live in the question for however long I could. But I knew I had to give him an answer, and a real one at that.

“Spencer that’s not fair to you or Allie. You just broke up and I don’t want to be a rebound. I would love to go out with you, okay please know that. But I’ve waited this long, I’m happy to wait a little longer.” He beamed at me, one of his signature ear to ear grins that I’d fallen for long ago.

[xthe-writing-vampirex]

Hi, I don't know if you still will take requests but could you do fnaf ruin eclipse vore with borrower reader? I was thinking that reader was friends with sun and moon before the pizzaplex collapsed but was never eaten by them, and had to escape when the pizzaplex started to collapse and came back to see if they were ok. Perhaps eclipse was worried they would get hurt because of the rubble and so eats them to keep them safe. Fearplay would be nice to have but I was a bit confused with the rules in it saying that you don't do non consensual, but some of your other stories have fearplay elements, so you don't have to if your not comfortable. I really enjoy your stories and your very talented, but I know it takes time to do so take your time and make sure you take breaks if you end up doing this one!

Gonna be honest, I've been trying to write this for a literal year and am hoping my brain will finally let me. This is kinda my own take on Eclipse since I honestly can't fully get an idea of his personality from how little we see of him in the DLC. Anyway I hope you like it Anon!

FNAF Ruin Eclipse x Borrower! Reader ⚠️Vore⚠️

🌿🌿🌿

You run through the now crumbling remains of what was once Freddy Fazbear's Mega Pizzaplex, now reduced to a crumbling ruin with broken animatronics wandering around inside. As a borrower, you'd be living in and hiding in the walls of this place for years and the sudden appearance of the sink hole was almost your death. You frantically ran towards the exit, many humans doing the same, and only just managed to get outside the building before things started to collapse. Somehow the building is still standing for the most part and now your focus is on getting back inside and finding the one animatronic you cared about, Sun and Moon.

You hadn't seen them since before the sinkhole incident and you'd been worried sick since, constantly thinking about them and desperately trying to to figure out a way to safely get back in and to the daycare. It took you almost a month to plan things out and find a way to actually get in that couldn't just crumble on top of you but now that you have absolutely nothing will stop you from getting to the daycare and finding your friend. Now all you can hope for is that they'll actually be okay.

Crawling on your hands and knees you move through what's left of some of the metal air vents around the daycare, having used them to come see both Sun and Moon many times before. The darkness you notice when you actually manage to get into the daycare tells you Moon will most likely be active, unfortunately the familiar starry ceiling the two of you usually look at while you're there with him is badly damaged and there's a random array of lights on in different places throughout the daycare. Parts of the play areas lay under large pieces of rubble, while others seem fully intact and even usable. Pushing on you use a bit of string and a fish hook to hook yourself to the rim of the open vent, letting the string fall loose and down to the floor. Carefully and slowly you make your way down the rope, all the while searching around as best you can in the dark environment for any sign of your friend.

Once your feet hit the floor you take in your surroundings, starting to walk through the rubble and make your way towards the play sets in the middle of the daycare area, every little thing towering over you at your small stature. Usually you'd just have Sun or Moon carrying you around and trying to make sure no one accidentally steps on you. Now you're honestly wishing for that again, hating feeling this vulnerable and exposed.

Suddenly, you hear a thud nearby and the loud noise causes some of the now crumbling playsets to begin to fall towards you. You let out a scream, not caring who hears you, believing this is very much it for you. Then you feel a metal hand close around you and you're moved into an oddly dark, warm environment. You open one eye after a moment, carefully scanning your surroundings for any threats. What you do see confuses you. White, dull, teeth like protrusions around you, a dark almost navy blue pillow-like object below you, and a long dark tunnel like a slide just beyond all of that. After staring at the tunnel for a moment, you notice much to your surprise that there's a sort of soft light coming from it. You're drawn to it, moving further and further in until you slide down the long tunnel in question, falling into a dark, pillowy, open space. The warm glow slightly illuminates the area, dull like an eclipse, and faint stars can be seen decorating the navy blue fabric like walls around you. You don't know where you are for a moment, until you actually stop and think for a moment. When the realization dawns on you that you have in fact just been swallowed and ended up in something's stomach you start to panic, banging on the soft walls as hard as you possibly can.

Eclipse grunts at the sensation, holding the area where his stomach would be. Originally he'd simply planned to keep you in his mouth for a moment, wanting to get you to a safe area to avoid you being almost crushed by any more falling objects, then you literally walked into his throat and slid down it like it was a literal slide. He figured it wouldn't hurt to just let you stay in there where you'd actually be safe from harm while he tries to find somewhere he can take you where you'll be safe and he can actually talk to you. After all he does remember you, he's Moon and Sun both and has their memories, at the same time though he is a bit different.

"Hey!! Let me out! Please!! I don't want to die here! I just want to find my friend, please!" You scream, actual terror in your voice while you continue to bang on the animatronics fake stomach. Eclipse flinches again at the sensation, feeling bad for having scared you like this.

"Y/N. Calm down. You're safe with me. I'm not.....I'm not who you were looking for exactly but I'm still them. Just together." He explains, causing you to pause, thankful he's actually talking at a lower volume. If he spoke any louder it would physically hurt your ears since you're right below his voice box. You don't recognize the voice at first but the cadence of it is so familiar.

"W-Wait.....Moon? Sun?" You ask nervously, hoping beyond hope that this is in fact your friend.

"In a way....yes? My name is Eclipse. I'm both of them. You're perfectly safe starlight. I'm just trying to take you somewhere you won't be in harms way when I let you out." Eclipse explains, voice gentle and melodic. It's higher pitched than Moons but a bit deeper than Suns. You can still hear the similarity though. Calming down a bit, you move away from the walls of what you assume is his 'stomach' and look up towards where his voice is coming from.

"I-I.....I-Its nice to meet you Eclipse.....I'm sorry if I hurt you.....I was really scared for a moment there." You manage, voice still shaking a bit, as you move to sit down on the soft surface below you. "You....don't have any way to digest me do you?"

"Heavens no! You're perfectly safe in there Sunshine! I'm sorry for scaring you but I promise I'll let you out as soon as we get you somewhere safe!" Eclipse says, seeming offended by even the implication that he might be able to harm you. You nod in response at first before remembering he literally can't see you.

"A-Alright.....thank you Eclipse....I'm glad I found you." You reply, grateful to know your friends are okay.

"You're welcome Starlight."

[fayeforrosie]

Carnations and Lillie's

Part 4

Karina X Fem! Reader (Feat Ningning)

As Karina begins her art lessons with you at your studio, becoming more comfortable around you and finding herself enjoying such an atmosphere, she devises a plan to win your heart over 

Part 4 to The Only One I Want 

Warnings- Literally nothing Karina is so adorable here 

Word Count- 2.4k 

The tapping of Karina’s foot could be heard throughout of the entirety of the building, a recognizable form of Karina’s anxiety displayed for all those to see. She bit her lip, glancing down at her drumming foot while her stomach turned sideways. It was practically a mission for Karina to reach her hand up and flick her wrist, knocking on the door ahead. 

Nevertheless, Karina strides forward, tapping silently on the door, worried it would be too quiet for you to hear. She takes a step back and readjusts herself, noticing the sounds of your footsteps increasing as you got closer. 

Then, the door opens, and Karina comes face to face with you once again. 

“Hi Jimin, good to see you again”, you smile and take a step back, your arm grazing outwards as a sign for her to continue into the room. 

Karina smiles back, unable to allow any words to slip from her tongue, as she was far too nervous to talk right now. She had to give her mind at least a few minutes before she could think of any words, just in case her brain wired down from the overstimulation. 

“I’m excited for our first class together”, you exclaim, picking up on the slight uncomfortable atmosphere 

If she wasn’t going to even look at you, why would she even come anyway? You thought to yourself. 

“So I was thinking...”, you slide a chair over towards the girl, taking a piece of paper that you had recently sketched your plans and ideas for your sessions with the idol beforehand. You point to the first idea you had marked down, and then fix your attention on the girl beside you, never letting a smile leave your face. 

“Since you were so attracted to my painting that was in the museum, and that it was focused on realism in nature, we could start on creating some pieces that connect to nature in some type of form. You are the artist, so you get to decide how you want to interpret your work.” 

You continue on to share your ideas with Jimin, allowing her to perceive your ideas and be enlightened on everything you were willing to go over with her. You didn’t hear any words coming from the girl, only small nods and smiles, however you came to notice that she was especially captivated by your realism in nature idea, and you decided that you would start with that. 

After discussing what was best for you to begin with her, you went over all the supplies that she would need herself if she would seriously want to create a hobby out of art. You told her your background, and how you began to take an interest in art, a response to Karina’s questions she had and her advances to get to know you. 

While your simple chat session seemed to have gone by quick, you noticed that a half an hour has already gone by, and with the fact that you only had the idol for an hour today, you suggested the two of you get started. 

You moved your chair in front of Jimin, placing two blank papers out for the both of you, and discussing the basics of interpreting nature onto a piece of paper. 

While you spoke on the necessities that would be required for your art, Karina couldn’t help but stare desperately at your lips, her own curving into a soft smile as she admired how beautiful you looked while you spoke, almost as if you were an angel. She adored the way your eyes fundamentally disappeared in result of your beauteous smile. Everything about you captivated- 

“Jimin?” You tilted your head, tapping the girls hand in attempt to regain her focus. 

“Oh um”, Karina adjusts herself into a more appealing position, running her fingers trough her hair and tucking her front pieces behind her ear, “sorry, I’m listening.” 

The girl cringes at herself, knowing fully well that she had just been caught daydreaming about you as she started intently at your blushed lips. She rolls her eyes at the thought of being teased by her band-members for such an accident. 

Time goes by and eventually you had taught her the basics of what she needs to do in order to create an artistic piece of nature. You firstly taught the girl how to draw a flower, and then the surroundings that would be included in such a scenario. 

After informing her that it would be her turn to try, you stood up abruptly from your seat, startling Karina, and made your way behind the idol, directing her to pick up her own pencil. 

“Go ahead, start with your base”, you encouraged, “imagine what the scene would look like, how beautiful the surroundings are, and then spill all that onto the paper.” 

The leader nods, although her face tinted bright red as a result of your close proximity, and faces downwards to begin on her work. 

Once she starts, she almost immediately allows her hand to take the lead, creating her base for the flower to stand upon. She draws a simple atmosphere, including gorgeous designs that she had picked up from your speech to her.

Karina finds herself getting lost in the moment, as if a little rat was on her head, pulling her hair strands in every direction to maneuver her hands across the paper, sketching a beautiful ambience. That is until you assisted her. 

As she was sketching the outline of her grass, you reached down to her hand, stopping her movements and bringing it over to the side of her paper. 

“You see how this side”, you point with Jimins pencil, it still being in her hand, “is the same size as this right here?” You bring her hand to another spot atop of the paper, pointing it at now a new place she had previously created. 

Karina felt the breeze of your breath against her neck, arising the tiny hair on the leader's neck while she contained her own heartbeat to the best of her ability. She was afraid of you hearing the evident pounding against your chest, given the closeness in which you were with her. 

“Since these are two different places, and one is farther away from the other, you would need to make this one smaller, to show that is isn't as close.” 

After giving Karina the advice for her work, you distanced yourself once again, missing the warmth of the leaders hand against your own, however you quickly diminish such a thought before taking a seat in the spot you had previously attained. 

Time flew by in the class, the music produced amongst the wind kindly conjoining with the light trace of Rnb you had emanating from your computer. It was truly an aesthetic, yet simple ambience the two of your warmly respected. 

Karina had finally finished the outline of her base for the drawing, and showed it to you excitingly. You smiled and told her that she was already on the right track to creating some beautiful, and she gratefully accepted your compliment before standing up and packing her things, a response to you ultimately informing her that her time was sadly up.

At the door, you leaned in for a hug, which ultimately took Karina by surprise, but nonetheless, she smiled and pulled you in, a short, three-second hug pleasing the prolonged, twenty-four hour day she had. 

You told Karina that you were excited for her to comeback, and she expressed the same before going on her way. 

-

After that day, Karina came to take classes with you for three weeks straight, never missing a single day. If she was to be informed that their was a meeting she was required to attend, or something else on her schedule that was the same time as your class, she would immediately called ahead to her manager and delay the conference. 

With each class, Karina fell harder for you, feeling as though she were a love-struck high school girl obsessing over her crush, and in all honesty, it is exactly what it was. She was obsessing over you, in a healthy way of course. 

Karina picked up on your tiny habits you would do throughout the class, where if you were getting frustrated and couldn’t draw something perfectly, you would bite on the end of your pencil with a thwarted scene upon your face, and she would catch herself staring at such an endearing expression before you could notice.

Another habit she loved was when you were concentrated and your eyebrows would furrow as your eyes squinted at the paper below you. Not only was your countenance winsome and adorable, but she additionally admired the way you were so focused on perfecting your work to your greatest ability. Karina could sense your ambition and talent for art, and she truly wanted to prove to you that she was interested in the beauty and nature of your work, if not more than you.

The two of you became close over the three weeks as well, allowing yourselves to be comfortable in each other’s presence and finding peace during your sessions. You were able to joke around with Karina now, treating her as if she were a friend from the past, and as much as Karina felt content with your tranquil appearance now, she couldn’t help but dream for more, where you were closer to her, laughing and telling jokes but in a romantic aspect. 

She wanted to have something serious with you, and yes she only met you around three weeks ago, but Karina knew you would cause her to fall hard, and that you did. 

Now, Karina found herself inside her dorm room, knees side by side with her member, Ningning, as she discussed her plan to confess to you. 

It was inevitable. Karina needed to let you know how you made her feel. How you allowed her to experience what it was like being around someone so special that did not treat her as an idol, but as Jimin, instead. You made her feel alive, and nobody else on this planet, especially the men she was blindly chosen to go on dates with, could compare to what she felt for you. Thus, Karina could not hold such deep emotions to herself, and knew she had to share them with you, or else she might as well call her manager and set herself up another stupid blind date to make her go crazy. 

“So what’s your plan?” Ningning voiced beside her leader, smirking as she leaned closer, as if it were a top-secret mission of some sort. 

“Ok, get this...”, Karina points her fingers to the girl and smiles, “I’ve been learning how to draw nature and shit with Y/n, and we are just about finished with our project we are working right now, right...”.

Ningning nods for her to continue, oblivious to where this is going. 

“Well, while we have been doing our project at the studio together, I’ve also started my own project, which is basically similar to what we are doing, but I think this one is looking better. Y/n and I are focusing on flowers right now for our drawing, and we were talking a couple weeks ago right, and I-”

“Wait wait wait”, Ningning shoves her hand in Karina’s face, laughing at the speed her leader is talking in. She could tell how excited and coordinated she was for this plan. 

“So you’ve been working on a separate project while doing the first project with Y/n?” 

Karina nods with a smile, however it drops as soon as Ningning palm comes into direct contact with her bare arm, an angry expression adorning her features. 

“Why wouldn’t you tell me this? I want to know these things!” Ningning shouts and crosses her arms. “Whatever, continue.” 

Karina laughs and takes a breath before going on. 

“Well anyway, as I was saying before I was rudely interrupted”, Ningning scoffs at that, “when we were talking before, she told me that her favorite flowers are Carnations, being the reason she was drawing them on her paper, so I decided to include a big carnation in my secret project. And then get this”, Karina smirked and lightly pushed her member’s shoulder. 

“My favorite flowers are Lillie’s, and Y/n knows that, so I also drew a Lillie next to the Carnation, symbolizing her and I, and I added like hearts and stuff! So I’m planning to finish the drawing tonight, and then tomorrow I’m going to write her a letter explaining the drawing, and confess my feelings at the end!” 

Karina’s face stung bright red while her smile never left her face, and she quickly noticed the sharp pain to her cheeks when she realized how hard she had been beaming. Once finished with her elaborate plan, Ningning congratulated her for coming up with something so cute and clever, and how she never expected such a anti-love type of girl like Karina, to be head over heels for you, going as far as writing love notes and such. 

“I’m happy for you Rina”, Ningning grasped the palm of Karina’s, finally taking a turn into a more sincere direction. 

“I know you really like her, so I wish the best for you. It’s really nice what you did for her, seriously.”

With that, Ningning leaned forward towards her member and instantly pulled her into a tight embrace, rubbing the warmth of her finger tips upon the back of Karina’s neck. It was truly a special moment for the two, and Karina was forever grateful to have such an understanding and optimistic friend, as was Ningning. 

“I’m going to get some rest, but I wish you the best of luck Jimin.” Ningning left her with a kiss on the forehead, turning the lights off on the way out before she reminds her leader to get some rest. 

Karina tugs her knees up into her chest as she thinks about what had transpired between her and Ningning. She was exceptionally delighted with the way Ningning expressed her positivity for her plan, and it made Karina even the more assured with what she was going to do. 

Her plan was perfect... she had the art, the writing, and her feelings to offer you. Now, all she needed was your reciprocation, and man did Karina wish for that. 

[shana-silver-fox]

Wishes are not Hopes

Big giant rambling dump about The Book of Carol 2.02

Laurent's opening line sets the difference between Carol and Isabelle.

Izzy represents wishes (childish, unrealistic, immediate gratification )

Carol is hope. (maturity, realistic, planned)

some online descriptions on the difference

HOPE to want things to happen that are possible. “I HOPE it doesn’t rain tomorrow.”

We use the verb WISH when we want things that to happen that are unlikely or impossible. "I wish it never rained again"

Put simply, this is the difference between hope and wish:

The verb wish usually describes the present or the past.

The verb hope usually describes a possible future situation.

Wishes are not hopes. Isabelle will never be Carol.

Laurent then immediately tells Losang that he knows Daryl is missing Carol and "the others". I do love how Laurent now knows that Carol is the most important person in Daryl's life and grouped everyone else as 'others". We can infer that through off screen conversations Laurent made this conclusion.

Daryl seems to have regressed to early seasons Daryl. Rick's henchman, now Losang's. Could play a part in his old abandoment issues coming back. We even have Losang saying "we stil have to deal with Daryl when he comes back" Call back to Daryl's intro episode season 1 of TWD

I think the baseball game was a wink at Daryl getting to 1st base, and of course no further lol Even Norman used that analogy in the interview after this episode.

Izzy asking "what does us mean" I think was meaningful for Daryl. I think he's been wanting definition for him and Carol for the longest time and is afraid to ask. Not having that definition has him feeling extra lost figuratively when he's lost literally. Not enough is said about that pause Daryl took before he left on the bike, like he wanted to say more to Carol before he left. I'm convinced he wanted it locked down before he went.

Daryl asks for her and Laurent to go with him and she says no. Remember, he asked Carol to go with him and she said no too. I think when Izzy reconsiders and says she will go with him, his reaction is knee jerk almost like Daryl was trying to recreate the goodbye he wanted with Carol. He wanted her to say yes, and seal that I Love You with a kiss.

Several times in dialogue we are told "people gotta believe in something" and "what we want is to be certain" Daryl was missing that certainty with Carol. (Until she shows up for him of course) I think he really had convinced himself no one would look. Remember Rick left him to rot with Negan. He had to save himself. Abandonment monster still lives in his brain.

We also got confirmation that Daryl and Izzy had separate rooms so there was no pre hanky panky. That awkward kiss was literally it.

There were several signs *no pun?, or writing on the wall *cough I think were direct FcU to ABC shippers.

l mean, Blondie standing over younger blondie with a bullet hole to the head?

Also minutes later, Izzy executes Emile with a bullet to the head. Emile is the masculine of Emily 👀 jfyi Lots of coincidences in a short scene.

Emile broke my heart. I'm not quite sure what to make of Isabelle being the death of the young lovers? Thoughts?

This has gone on super long and I didn't even cover Carol's half of the story, so I think I'll make a separate post.

[thedeviltohisangel]

Can you do a request for John Egan where a new recruit calls the reader “the major’s girl” in front of them both despite the fact that they aren’t together, just obviously in love with each other?

All The Things I Did (Interlude): A Feeling I Want To Get Used To

chapter 1 chapter 2 interlude 1 chapter 3 interlude 2 interlude 3

a/n: ok tooth rotting fluff. john egan is literally holding on by a thread. which also means my brain wants to put him through hell. if anyone is feeling devious and wants to talk about a spook/bucky disagreement please reach out. let me know your thoughts, interlude requests still open!

Cass was used to whispers and shadows. Sought comfort in them even. You’d be surprised what you learn when people think you’re not around. It was how she learned she’d been given the nickname of Spook. How she had learned Colonel Huglin was coughing up blood. It was also how she learned that, apparently, she belonged to Major John Egan. 

She was sorting through her mail at Mary’s desk when her ears prickled with the sounds of whispers coming down the hall. When she heard her name, she paused her sorting momentarily but regained herself. 

“...and then apparently he laid her down on top of the table and kissed her right there!”

“No! Lieutenant Cooper would never be so public.”

“Maybe Major Egan is driving her that crazy.” There was giggling that drifted away as they turned down a separate hallway away from Cass. It was not like her and John were trying to keep their burgeoning relationship a secret. He would bring her flowers every morning and they sat together in the mess hall for almost every meal. But they hadn’t been dancing at the base social club or kissed each other on the airfield for all to see. She was certain John would if the idea crossed his mind. Was certain he would do it right this very second if she asked. But she didn’t like being the topic of gossip. 

“Find everything you were looking for, Lieutenant?” The secretary came from around the corner and sat back at her typewriter.

“Yes, Mary, thank you.” Cass turned to go but stopped short, unable to help herself. “Mary, I do have a question for you. Were Major Egan and I a topic of conversation amongst the girls last night?”

“Lieutenant-” Mary, for her part, was blushing furiously. 

“I’m not asking because I’m upset. Just curious.” 

“I didn’t confirm or deny anything, promise ma’am. But the girls all have such a crush on Major Egan and they’ve noticed you two spending time together. And someone mentioned maybe seeing you two at the pub in town and before we knew it, we were planning your happily ever after.”

“Oh.” Cass’ words were catching in her chest. Her heart hammering at the notion that not only had people noticed the something between her and John but that they were writing their own fairytale of it. “Well, on his good days, I do suppose he has a certain Prince Charming quality to him.” They both giggled. 

“I promise, Lieutenant, it was just girls chatting.” Cass tapped the stack of envelopes on the desk a couple times.

“Thank you for your honesty, Mary. Enjoy the rest of your day, will you?” She slid her own pair of aviators over her eyes as she stepped out into the morning sun. “John, John, John.” Even the sound of his name put a smile on her face. Happily ever after indeed.

----

John was antsy. Gale was watching him with a toothpick between his lips. The rest of the boys were either dancing with a girl, talking about dancing with a girl or huddled together laughing over training stories.

“I don’t understand, Bucky. She said she wasn’t feeling like going out tonight. You shouldn’t be surprised she isn’t here.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t be upset about it.” 

“Your pouting is ruining the night for the rest of them.” John scanned the room and they all seemed fine enough. 

“Where’s that girl we were looking at the other day?” Two younger men walked past Bucky and Gale and took a spot at the end of the bar. 

“James told me they call her Spook.” John’s eyes whipped to the side so quick it made him dizzy. “If she shows tonight, I’ve got to have enough of these to ask her to dance.” 

“I’m not sure, Robbie. That nurse I was dancing with said she heard Spook is Major Egan’s girl.” 

“Well, if that was my girl, I’d make sure there were no questions about it.” Gale readied himself to intervene in whatever was about to ensue.

“Alright, gentlemen, let’s get a couple of things straight.” John squared his shoulders and held himself to his full height. His threatening words were never able to make it out of his mouth as he watched the two plebeians in front of him look over his shoulder in both shock and awe.

Cass had decided that no one was going to wonder about John and her after tonight. The entire time he had been giving her all of him. Open and honest about what he wanted and willing to go at whatever pace she dictated. In return, Cass had interpreted their dynamic as him trying to find a crack in her armor. To expose the real her. She had been fighting to regain the upper hand. Barely treading water trying to work through the feels he stirred up. But she didn’t want there to be any ambiguity. For him or for anyone else. John Egan was hers. And she was his.

The whole room had gone silent, even the saxophone squeaking out a wrong note, as she stood in the doorway in a red dress looking like a pin up they would paint on the side of a fortress. It was slightly off her shoulder, John drooling over the sight of her bare collarbones, the fabric hugging every inch down to her hips before flaring out into a skirt. 

“Maybe this was a mistake,” she whispered to herself as her heels carried her over to the bar. She waved away the Coca Cola he went to place in front of her. “Something stronger tonight. A double.” It went down in one go, Cass afraid to turn around and face the crowd again.

“Cassandra Ann Cooper, you are the most phenomenally beautiful, gorgeous, angelic woman I have ever had the honor to lay my eyes on.” John had love in his eyes. That was the only way she knew how to describe it. And, God, if she didn’t think her eyes were showing love right back. 

“Thank you. I’m not used to all these eyes on me.” His eyes flicked down to the empty shot glass on the bar before flickering back to her. 

“We can get out of-” His hand was running from her bicep to her wrist to her hand, ready to whisk her somewhere far, far away if that is what she wanted. She shook her head.

“No. That’s the exact opposite of the reason why I came and wore this dress.” She thought back to the hyperbolic version of her date she had heard this morning. Thought back to Mary saying someone thinks they might have seen them. Cass worked in the shadows but she didn’t have to live in them. “Dance with me?” She grabbed his hand before he could answer, as if he would have ever thought to say no, leading him out onto the floor just as the band was beginning to switch to something slow. 

“Cass, not that I’m complaining, but did I miss something?” One arm wrapped and settled around the small of her back and the other held their interlocked fingers to his chest. 

“Have you noticed people whispering about us?” He thought back to the airmen at the bar.

“Yes.”

“I’m sure it’s my fault for not being as forward or open-”

“Cass-”

“-but I want everyone to know you’re mine.” She felt his heart skip a beat under her hand. “That is, if that’s okay with you.” Words failed him so he chose action. Afraid the word he felt and meant but couldn’t say would slip out.

John held her face between his hands and groaned at the first sweet release of her lips on his. Even with heels on, she pressed onto her tiptoes to get all of him. Cass gripped the lapels of his jacket to pull him closer and closer and closer. She could hear the whistles and the cheers but they were muffled by her heartbeat echoing in her ears. He kept her bottom lip between his teeth when he pulled away, Cass whining and chasing his lips for more. John obliged her with a laugh, a genuine and happy laugh, barely able to oblige her kissing antics around his smile.

“I’m holding onto my last strand of fucking sanity, Cass, but I’m yours. I’m fucking yours.” She smiled wickedly and kissed him again in the hopes of branding his words onto her skin. John lost himself in her easily. Easier than breathing. Easier than flying. Easier than singing the words to his favorite song while he drove down an open road on the perfect summer evening in Wisconsin.

“You’ve got a little bit of lipstick on, Major.” He looked downright sinful with his swollen lips and blown pupils and her red lipstick smudged against his skin. Cass nuzzled her nose against his sweetly, her eyes closing with the warmth of being with him for all to see. “Hey, John?” He kissed her forehead and held himself there.

“Yeah, angel?”

“I’m yours if you’ll have me.” He wanted to say something cool. Be suave and charming and impressive. 

“Never letting you go.” Instead he was truthful. They both just had to get through this damn war first. “Cass, I have to tell you something.”

“Can tell me anything.” She stroked her thumb over his cheek and kissed him again, insatiably high on her feelings for him. Cass knew the word to describe them. But she couldn’t say it. Not when it would devastate her.

“I lov-” His declaration was interrupted by Meatball’s barking as he ran towards them. She dropped to embrace him with a giggle, accepting his kisses and scratching behind his ears. “You’re a horrible wingman, Meatball.” John quickly recovered from his near declaration of his love for her. The word and the feelings that went along with it were simmering in his soul the past few days. He was desperate to tell her. Desperate for her to know the truth behind what she meant to him. John didn’t know how much time they truly had but knew they had to make the most of it. 

“Sorry, you were going to tell me something.” She stood back up and twisted her fingers with his. John brought the back of her hand to his lips as he shook his head. 

“Not important.”

“Everything going on in that beautiful head of yours is important to me.” 

“Don’t let Gale hear you say that,” he mused as he leaned in to kiss her again. Cass looked around and noticed they had been swaying to their own beat as the music had changed around them. “I told him I was jealous that he and Marge were able to create their own world whenever they were together.”

“I think we’ve created our own solar system, John.” One where she was the sun he revolved around. One where he hung the stars in the sky just for her. One where they could build a life together and live forever. 

“And I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.” He let the way he kissed her and held her and danced with her express the words he had tried to say. Let the way he carried her back to her billet and brought her flowers the next morning, as he always did, express his promise for tomorrow. Wrote the words on a piece of paper and put her name on the envelope before tucking in his trunk. If anything happened to him, he wanted Cass to have it. Wanted her to know he was hers as long as he had known her. That he had dreamt of an after with her. That as long as he was here, that is what he was fighting for. 

John could only hope the universe deemed him worthy of having it.