#GORDON RAMSEY COULD NOT COOK THE MEALS I SERVE!!

[tilescel]

Video description: crochet komori noru rotating while spiked on a knitting needle through his belly

[riddles-n-games]

For those that want to commit to making a fic but have no creative ideas (no shame, we all get that way sometimes), I got you. Here's a list of AUs I came up with while avoiding my draft (that I still want to write, mind you) that mostly can apply to long fics, if you're willing to:

Avery and Jameson as a stunt woman and actor. Avery is stunt double to snobby up and coming starlet Emily Laughlin who has been cast to star alongside new heartthrob, Jameson Hawthorne as the lead and his brother Grayson. Optional detail, Libby has a catering service which is chosen for the duration of filming in part due to Avery's recommendations. Anyways, of course, Emily is quite possessive of the two and has been somewhat hostile to other female coworkers but still relatively lowkey about (at least for now). Anyways, mild interactions happen at first as everyone is getting to know everyone, who they are, what they've done before this movie, etc. Cue Avery and Jameson's first meeting. Avery thinks he's somewhat attractive but he's at least friendlier than his counterpart. Over the course of the course of filming, they interact some more, they joke around and become decent friends. He also definitely flirts with her (just a little) but Avery dismisses it as she knows Emily already gives her a hard time when Jameson spends time with her at all between sequences. Well, Jameson clearly doesn't take at all to that and after one especially big action scene, he commends Avery's efforts. Let's say that after this, he asks her on a date and she shyly accepts. They end up secretly dating and keeping on the downlow. Now, there is still more drama with Emily and people tease Avery about Jameson but she just shakes it off. That is, until one day they are doing another scene where the stunt doubles are needed and unfortunately, she gets hurt. Jameson rushes for her and kisses her relievedly. But all Avery can think about is the fact they just exposed their relationship. You take it from here what happens next.

Going off the idea that Libby has a catering service, maybe set in the same universe or not, what you're feeling up to; Nash is a celebrity chef and yes, he's been able to stick it to Gordon Ramsey. He's particularly popular for his beef meals and legendary barbeque techniques. Anyways, say they meet at a culinary event and he's a guest while she's serving. They bump into each other and a mess happen but he apologizes and helps her clean up. Of course, there's a spark. He definitely is interested. He personally sends an invite for a cooking comp where he'll be a judge; one because he sees Libby has potential and two, he gets to see HER around. She accepts; you come up with the rest.

Coffee shop AU for Libby and Nash. They literally SCREAM this AU; it's so them and Libby needs to have a cat that absolutely adores Nash. And also, like my previous headcanon; he has the occasionally over sugary latte that makes Libby's eyebrows raise in concern. But he sticks to a simple tea most days.

Also, here's an underused one; equestrian AU. Equestrians can get really competitive and snobby. Plus, our fave boys come from a rich family, this could easily fit them to a T. And instead of academic rivals, you can totally have a standoffish Avery and Grayson in this with a playful Xander and Jameson added in the mix. Not that I'm promoting Averygrayson here, I'm just saying that the way he acted towards her in TIG could be mimicked here in that way.

That's what I got for now. Buh-bye!

[birchbow]

Can we hear more about this kitchen clown who serves food based on vibes? I maybe sort of remember seeing that was your self insert but i might also be making that up

Oh, Cisine? She isn't a self-insert per se, but in appearance she is based off me in college, when I very first came up with her haha. I had a lot less Gender and a lot more hair going on back then!

She was always intended to be 1. huge (because I'm huge) and 2. a cook, which is why her name is Ramson Cisine (gordON RAMSey+C(u)isine). Her lusus was called Seahorsemom but instead of being a flying seahorse like Eridan had, she was a huge hippocampus ala Gamzee's goatdad. She's big into aura-reading and Vibes and shit, which are only patchily accepted as a Real Church Thing, but also she's mostly using it to decide what food to give people or to make personal decisions about her interpersonal interactions, so nobody gives her shit about it.

She's in the complicated sociological position of like...she accrues less esteem in the church because she doesn't really do frontline combat missions, and barely counts as a subjugglator at this point, but also she's several age cadres above Gamzee and rules the kitchen of the Dark Carnival with an iron fist. Could you technically throw your weight around and exert social pressure to order her around? Yes. Would you then never eat a good meal again??? Yes.

[responsivedeck]

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[raiderlandrum]

the  world  was  fucking  ending.  all  those  mindless  hours  spent  doom  scrolling  on  social  media,  liking  recipes  and  cooking  hacks  he  was  never  going  to  try  in  the  first  place,  meant  absolutely  nothing  now--  food  tasting  good  had  become  a  luxury  none  of  them  could  really  afford.  you  see,  the  virus  spreading  not  only  filled  the  streets  with  those  ambling  rotting  corpses  but  it  also  brought  out  the  monster  in  people.  everything  was  worth  fighting  over;  there  were  no  shared  comraderies  or  unified  fronts--  when  shit  hit  the  fan  it  became  every  man  for  himself  and  good  fucking  luck  if  you  weren't  a  good  shot.

food  was  scarce  and  not  necessarily  because  people  had  eaten  it.  yes,  there  were  other  survivors  out  there  doing  what  they  could  to  get  by,  but  sometimes  it  was  worse  than  that;  sometimes  they  had  to  go  hungry  because  people  were  so  god-damned  messy  and  selfish  that  in  their  desperate  attempts  to  take  care  of  themselves  and  no  one  else,  they  left  food  open;  out  to  mold  and  rot.  buildings  lost  power,  so  anything  refrigerated  or  frozen  went  bad  and  became  unsafe  to  eat.  eventually  all  that  was  left  was  that  pre  packaged  shit  that  sat  on  shelves  for  years  without  ever  changing  in  taste  or  quality;  and  the  words  quality  was  being  used  loosely  here.

beggars  couldn't  be  choosers,  or  something  like  that.

they  needed  to  be  grateful  that  at  least  they  managed  to  find  enough  to  keep  everyone  in  their  group  fed.  not  full,  but  still  fed.  hell.  he  wasn't  going  to  complain.  as  he  pushed  at  the  food  on  his  tray  with  the  metal  fork  in  his  right  hand,  he  couldn't  help  but  remember  the  horrible  meals  they  served  him  during  his  time  in  the  marines.  the  slop,  as  they  called  it.  it  had  such  a  foul  taste  to  it  that  it  made  canned  peas,  beans,  and  even  twinkies  taste  like  a  five  star  meal  prepared  by  gordon  ramsey  himself.

this  time  they  were  all  lucky  enough  to  even  have  fruit  cups,  and  it  wasn't  even  christmas  yet.

"seats  taken."  he  mumbled,  almost  like  a  reflex,  as  he  heard  the  shuffling  of  feet  behind  him;  as  someone  approached  his  table.  normally  that  would  have  worked,  most  people  would  have  just  found  somewhere  else  to  sit  and  grumbled  under  their  breath  at  him,  but  of  course  mallory  wasn't  most  people.

"really?"  he  groaned,  years  of  exasperation  and  annoyance  hanging  on  his  breath  though  he'd  only  known  the  man  for  a  few  months,  as  mallory  took  his  fruit  cup  without  even  bothering  to  ask.  "the  more  time  i  spend  with  you,  the  more  i  wonder  what  the  hell  they  were  thinking  letting  you  be  on  the  raiding  team.  can't  even  find  your  own  damn  food,  mallory.  useful  as  fucking  ever."

"now  put  it  back."

aj & mallory

Mallory was so God damn sick of peas. He didn't consider himself a particularly picky eater. Growing up, he ate what his Mama put on his plate and he finished it. But a man could only eat so many peas before he started to contemplate the merits of murder. Mallory wasn't ungrateful, either. He went on the raids, he understood what was out there and how important it was to stretch the food as far possible.

Sometimes, he wondered if he made a mistake, staying here. They were in the city, surrounded by walking corpses and people with dubious intentions. He'd have likely done better in the woods on his own, his father's hunting rifle all he'd ever need to keep himself fed. That and the lakes. Plenty of fish to catch and gut.

Still, as much as he kept to himself and minded his own damn business, he at least showed his face and ate with the rest of their group every now and again.

Today's dinner looked a hell of a lot more promising. There was even fruit cups (the shitty, dole kind they fed to kids), but Mallory wasn't about to pass up something sweet.

After he acquired his plate (an assortment of canned black beans, green beans, and his fruit cup), he scanned the crowd lazily for at least one vaguely familiar face.

Ah. Landrum. He'd recognized the back of that bastard's head a mile away. He didn't really think about it as he headed towards him. They weren't friends. Mallory wasn't even sure he liked the dickhead, truly. What he was... was familiar. Mallory strode towards him, easily commandeering the vacant spot beside him without a word. He glanced at Landrum's tray. More specifically, his untouched fruit cup.

Mallory snatched it off Landrum's plate without asking. "What?" he asked, quirking a single eyebrow. "Didn't look to me like you were eating it."

@raiderlandrum

[stylesloveclub]

Pleasing (jealous blurb)

In which another waiter flirts with y/n, and Harry gets really jealous.

* 。˚ ˛ • 。* 。° 。 * 。 • ˚  ˛ 。* 。• ° 。* 。 • ˚

Y/n stands in front of Harry, dressed in an oversized apron and a silly little chef's hat that she’d found discarded in his pantry.

“Tonight,” Harry announces, “we’re going to make a simple honey-garlic glazed salmon, served on white rice with a side of roasted vegetables. Do you have all your ingredients prepared?”

His kitchen island is covered with all the necessary materials that she might need for the cooking session that Harry’s planned for them. “Yes, chef!” she salutes.

Considering how he’s one of the world’s best chefs and she’s a college student who only ever goes into her kitchen to boil water for her cup of noodles… he thought it’d be cute if he planned a little cooking lesson for her. He’s chosen a meal on the rather simple side – fish is quick to cook and takes very little prepping, and rice is a food that even a child could make. Paired with a healthy variety of vegetables, this is the perfect meal that he thinks y/n should learn to cook for herself so that she wouldn’t be living off of frozen meals anymore.

He rolls his eyes at her silly behavior. “This isn’t Hell’s Kitchen, puppy.”

“I dunno,” she contemplates. “You’re giving Gordon Ramsey vibes right now.”

“Except m’not gonna yell at you and make you cry.” He steps forward and cups her face tenderly, looking into her pretty eyes, his gaze filled with adoration and care. “Just want you to be able to make yourself something other than a frozen pizza.”

She smiles cutely, leaning up on her tiptoes to kiss him sweetly. His eyes flutter shut momentarily, reveling in her soft kiss. “You’re so sweet,” she murmurs against his lips. “M’ready to learn. Tell me what to do.”

He pulls away. “Preheat the oven to 425. Do you know how to do it, or do you want me to show you?”

She rolls her eyes. “I know how to turn on an oven.”

“Hey miss sassy, just asking!” He steps back in surrender. “I’ll get the vegetables ready while you do that, then.” He grabs their carrots, cauliflower, zucchini, and sweet potatoes (all veggies that y/n had picked out when they’d gone grocery shopping together), and runs them under the water to rinse them clean.

Meanwhile, y/n stands in front of his oven, a furrow between her brows. In her shitty little kitchen at her apartment, the oven just has one panel where you enter the temperature you want, and then a single button to “Start.” Harry, however, has two ovens stacked on top of each other, with a bunch of complicated settings. Did it matter if they used the top oven or the bottom oven? Were they baking or broiling? Convection on or off?

“Um, Harry…” She looks at him helplessly, tail between her legs. “I don’t know how to work this.”

He shakes his head and chuckles, drying the rinsed vegetables off. “I thought you knew how to turn an oven on?”

“Okay well your oven is stupid and fancy,” she gripes, crossing her arms as he saunters towards her cockily.

He stands behind her, leaning over her shoulder so that his front presses against her back as he adjusts the settings. One of his hands rests gently on her shoulder as he murmurs in her ear, “Press top oven, then bake. Then you press start once and put in 425, then press it again and it’ll start heating up.”

She grumbles once more, Harry hovering behind her with a satisfied smirk. “What next?”

“Need to cut the vegetables.”

“Okay, I can do that!”

“No, no…” Harry stops her as she reaches for the huge knife that he’d set out on the cutting board. This knife is meant for professionals, sharp enough to cut through a piece of paper in midair. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

She pouts at him. “Harryyy,” she whines. “Let me help!”

“You are helping! You can make the sauce right now, baby, that’s the most important part,” he coos reassuringly, “Let me do the cutting though, don’t want you to cut your fingers or anything. The knife is just a bit too big for you.” He presses a soft kiss to her fingertips as he says it, re-emphasizing how delicate and precious she is to him. “Okay?”

“Okay,” she agrees softly. She can’t help but melt into a puddle when he takes that soft tone with her, talking down to her sweetly and making her feel all fuzzy inside. Of course she’ll listen to him! Especially when he kisses her fingertips so softly like that!

“Good girl,” he praises. “Can you get the honey and mix it with some lemon juice?”

She nods, mixing the ingredients into one bowl and whisking them until the honey is no longer as thick and sticky as it initially was, watered down by the acidic lemon juice. She looks at Harry expectantly, who’s cutting the carrots into bite sized pieces at the cutting board, waiting for the next instructions. “I put some butter to melt in the microwave,” he says, “could you take it out and add it to your sauce?”

She does that as well, then adds some garlic and pepper flakes as instructed by Harry, whisking it together until she has a rich sauce sitting in front of her.

“That’s gonna be for the salmon, so you can set it to the side for now.” He brings a big bowl of chopped vegetables and sets it in front of y/n. “Now we’ve got to toss these with some oil so it doesn’t burn in the oven. And some seasoning, obviously.” He lets y/n add the salt and pepper, and adds a generous drizzle of oil, before showing y/n how to toss it all together so that each piece gets evenly coated. Then, together they spread the veggies out on the baking tray. By this point the oven has preheated all the way, and is ready for the veggies to go in.

“Let me do it,” y/n says when Harry opens the oven.

He looks at her hesitantly, but she pouts up at him with her cute, puppy dog face. The one that gets her whatever she wants, the one Harry can’t say no to. “Fine. But wear some oven mitts.”

After the veggies go in the oven, Harry does most of the remaining work. He massages their salmon fillets with the sauce that y/n made (which he makes sure to compliment, tasting a bit of the sauce and telling her how yummy it is and how nicely she made it), then puts them on a baking pan right underneath the veggies. “We put the vegetables in first because they need 40 minutes in the oven, more or less. The fish, however, needs to come out of the oven in exactly 15 minutes, or else it’ll be dry. Got it?”

She nods from where she’s positioned herself on his kitchen counter, watching him wash his hands. He slots himself to stand between her legs, hands resting on her spread thighs. “What do you think?” he asks, “Easy enough to make on your own?”

She wraps her arms around his neck. “Yeah, I think I could do it. Don’t think it’ll be as good as when you make it though,” she pouts.

He kisses her cheek. “I’ll always cook for you when we’re together. This is only for when I’m away. What did you eat when I was in Milan?”

“Um… a lot of bagels. And dino nuggets.”

He holds in his gag, imagining the sad, soggy nuggets that she must’ve been having for dinner when he wasn’t there to make her gourmet meals. “Exactly. You need to be able to make yourself some nutritious meals for when I’m not here to cook for you.”

Her fingers curl into the hair at the back of his head, staring up at him sweetly. She can’t believe she somehow snagged a guy who cared this much about her, who would spend his weekend teaching her how to cook vegetables so that she had something healthy to eat when he wasn’t with her.

She’s just about to lean in for a kiss when her phone rings, interrupting their little moment. Harry steps away from his spot between her legs, letting her hop down from the counter and rush to her phone.

“Hi!!,” she says to whoever’s on the other side of the phone, one of her friends from college from what he can tell. Her voice is sweet and sugary, like always.

Harry leans on the counter, crossing his arms across his chest as he watches her with a fond smile. She bites mindlessly at her cuticles as she listens to what her friend is telling her, and he stops himself from walking over to pull her hand away from her mouth. Her nail biting habit is one that he’s trying to break, not a fan of the way she sometimes makes her pretty hands bleed from how often she bites at them.

“When are you going?” y/n asks on the phone, pacing from one side of the kitchen to the other. “Today? Oh… no, I don’t think I can come. I’m…um, I’m at my friend's house.” She stutters over her words as she tries to figure out how to word it, very clearly avoiding name dropping Harry, or even hinting that she’s at a guy’s house.

It makes Harry’s brows furrow. She’s at her friend’s house? Friend? He doubts she gets on her hands and knees and begs to get fucked by her other friends.

In his head, they were in a relationship. She was his, and he was hers. No questions asked.

He cares for her quite deeply, if it wasn’t obvious, and for the most part believed that she felt the same way. So he wonders… why would she avoid calling him more than just a friend? Did her friends even know that she was seeing someone, or did she not even want to call whatever they have going on as “seeing each other?”

The oven timer goes off before he can question her about it.

A conversation for later, he supposes.

* 。˚ ˛ • 。* 。° 。 * 。 • ˚  ˛ 。* 。• ° 。* 。 • ˚

“Hey, y/n!”

Harry’s ears perk up when he hears her name, being called from down the hallway.

“What’s up, Jason?” she responds, bright and bubbly. She’s always like that at work, no matter how dragging her shift may be. He thinks that’s why the staff like her so much – she’s a drop of sunshine right in the middle of their restaurant.

“How are you doing?” he asks, smiling down at her and crossing his arms in a way that he hopes makes his biceps bulge attractively. Jason is another one of the waiters at Pleasing, a college student just like y/n. They’d once bonded over the fact that they go to the same university, but he majors in business, which is completely unrelated to what she studies.

“Oh, good! Same old, same old,” she huffs cheerily, waving her hand in the air as if she were waving away her troubles. “V’got a huge party coming in at 8, you know how that is.” Having a table of seven people is always a struggle… larger parties tend to stay at the restaurant for up to 4 hours, ordering a bunch of extra drinks and sweets until they’re practically kicked out of the restaurant. Y/n dreads the thought of how much she’ll be running around, trying to keep up with seven people’s orders, and how late she’ll be stuck here. If they’re coming in at 8… christ she might not get home until 1 in the morning. She wonders if Harry’ll be willing to wait for her so that they could still drive home together.

“Damn, that sucks,” Jason hisses sympathetically. “You know… how about I talk to Alfredo and see if we could switch tables?”

“Oh, don’t be silly Jason! You’re basically done for tonight, didn’t you just get the bill for your last table?”

“I mean– yeah, but I insist.” He smiles down at her charmingly, “you work so hard, I think you deserve to go home early tonight, yeah? Let me take care of your tables.”

Harry decides he’s heard enough. He stands from his desk, brows furrowed and steps out into the hallway, where he sees his y/n, smiling up at this silly college boy. It grinds his gears, jaw clenching and fingers fisting at his sides.

“Jason. Y/n.” he snaps. Their smiles are instantly ripped off their faces, the two employees straightening up as soon as they hear Harry’s stern voice. “What are we standing around for? Don’t you have tables to attend to?”

“Apologies, chef,” Jason says, at the same time y/n murmurs out a soft, “Sorry Mr. Styles.” She looks at him sadly, seemingly wounded by the harsh tone of his voice, and it takes everything in him not to melt at the sight of her sad puppy eyes.

“Get back to work,” he grits out harshly, turning on his heel.

He steps into his office, and slams the door behind him.

“What a miserable old prick, am I right?” Jason murmurs to y/n to lighten the moment, when he thinks Mr. Styles can no longer hear them. She doesn’t respond.

Harry doesn’t know how to interpret her silence.

* 。˚ ˛ • 。* 。° 。 * 。 • ˚  ˛ 。* 。• ° 。* 。 • ˚

There’s a quiet, timid knock at Harry’s office door.

“Mr. Styles?” Y/n steps in nervously, shutting the door behind her.

Harry looks up momentarily, then back down at his paperwork. He ignores her.

“Harry?” she tries again. Again, he says nothing. His brows are furrowed as harshly scribbles something out on his paper, but it’s not his usual concentrated furrow. He seems upset.

“What’s wrong?” she pries, stepping closer to his desk. When he once again doesn't even glance up at her, she huffs. “Why are you ignoring me?”

He stops writing, his blue pen halting mid-word on his paper, before speaking slowly. “How do you think I feel, when I see you entertain that stupid boy’s flirting?”

She pouts, looking up at him with wide, innocent eyes. “Flirting? I… I haven’t been flirting with anyone?” she says quizzically, confused by this random accusation.

He scoffs, finally looking up at her. “I know you’re not that stupid, puppy.”

She blinks at him, still confused.

“That boy– Jason.” he grumbles. “He’s so clearly flirting with you.”

“Jason?” she asks again.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed it.”

“I– well… he’s just being nice,” y/n explains, as if Harry’s a child throwing a tantrum. “You’re overreacting.”

He blinks at her, processing her words. Overreacting. As if everyone in the kitchen hasn't noticed the way Jason stares at y/n's ass whenever she bends down, or how he's always falling behind on his tables trying to talk to her! Could she really not have noticed?

He shakes his head in disbelief. “Fine, whatever.” He looks back down at his paperwork.

The audacity of this man, she thinks to herself, to ignore her like a fucking five year old. “He offered to cover my tables, that’s it–” she continues to explain, but he cuts her off.

He holds in the urge to explode. “I dropped it,” he grits out instead. “I suggest you do the same.”

In his head, he's envisioning every single way that Jason's ever looked at y/n weirdly, all the instances in which Jason's flirted with her, asked her if she has a boyfriend. But, if she’s going to ignore the way Jason was smiling at her, standing so close to her, offering to do favors for her... then there’s no point in him trying to fight it.

He’s just a friend to her, anyways.

“Leave me. I have work to finish,” he mutters coldly.

He starts writing, and she feels her heart break a little bit.

“Yes sir,” she murmurs, voice thick as she steps out of his office.

* 。˚ ˛ • 。* 。° 。 * 。 • ˚  ˛ 。* 。• ° 。* 。 • ˚

The rest of her shift is dull.

Jason doesn’t end up taking her table, since Mr. Styles had yelled at them and scared him off, so she’s up on her feet, constantly buzzing from the dining room to the kitchen, heart heavy with every step.

Every time she goes down the hallway, past Harry’s office door, she feels resentment building up in her chest. How dare he? Accuse her of flirting with someone else, when she was literally just doing her job, then ignoring her and kicking her out of his office like she’s some stray puppy annoying him for some food.

God, the fucking nerve! Was she supposed to just stop being nice to people to appease Harry’s jealousy? How could anyone in their right mind think offering to cover someone’s tables is a method of flirting?

“Psst.” She’s snapped out of her rage by Grace poking at her shoulder. “Jason wanted me to give you this.”

She looks down at the small piece of paper Grace holds out to her. “What is it?” She opens it up, and finds 10 digits written down in scrawny, boyish handwriting. A phone number.

Grace smiles at her teasingly. “He asked me if you’re single. He’s super into you, said he’s been trying to drop hints ever since you got hired but you’re always too busy to notice.”

Oh, she realizes, heart dropping. Harry was right.

* 。˚ ˛ • 。* 。° 。 * 。 • ˚  ˛ 。* 。• ° 。* 。 • ˚

She stays behind after the restaurant closes, hoping to get a moment alone with Harry. He hasn’t left his office at all tonight, not even to check on the chefs when one of them burnt some bread in the toaster. As everyone packs up their stuff, closes up their stations, and leaves, y/n stays in the staff room.

Only once everyone has left does she head to his office.

The light from under his door is the only thing lighting up the dark hallway. She knocks softly, but enters without waiting for him to say “come in.”

He looks up, slightly startled. He thought he was the only one left in the building. His tense shoulders relax when he realizes it’s just y/n.

His hair is mussed, curly tendrils sticking every which way as if he’d been raking his fingers through it every five minutes, tugging at his roots frustratedly. “What is it?” he asks. His eyes are red and stressed too… he’s never looked this tired.

“Jason asked me out,” she says, fingers wringing behind her back nervously. Harry freezes. His shoulders tense and his heart stops.

“Oh.” He puts his pen down and looks up at her. “Are you going to say yes?” he asks lightly, no indication of the turmoil in his stomach.

“Jesus Harry,” she breathes, confused and shocked by his words. “No, why would I? Why would you even think that?”

He shrugs. “Makes more sense for you to be dating a college kid. Someone who goes to school with you, who you can tell your friends about.” His words slowly reveal his insecurities, that he’s older than her, boring and something that she might be ashamed of. “Better than dating some miserable old prick, isn’t it?”

“Harry…” she trails off softly. “I’m– I’m not the slightest bit interested in Jason. Or anyone else.” She looks up at him with round eyes, her voice growing shy, “only… only you.”

“Well then, why–” he cuts himself off, trying to formulate his words in his head. He shakes his head at himself, frustrated, and stares at the table. ““The other day, when you were at mine… you told your buddies that you were at a ‘friends’ house.” He looks up at her sadly, “It was like you were trying to keep us a secret. Like you didn’t want them to know you were… seeing someone.”

Her breath hitches in her throat as he continues, “If you don’t want t’tell your friends, then how am I supposed to know that we’re… exclusive? It made me feel like– like you didn’t think this was as serious as I did.”

“No,” she breathes, “no, you’ve got it all wrong.”

She walks around his desk to stand in front of him. He rolls his chair back, and she situates herself on his lap, straddling him and holding onto his face. “I didn’t tell them because… well we just haven’t talked about it, have we?” Her eyes flicker with insecurity as she rubs her delicate fingers over his cheekbones, his stubble rough against the skin of her pretty hands. “Because… well what if I went around telling people that I’m your girlfriend, and you didn’t want that? What if I’m just some clingy kid who just self-proclaimed myself as your girlfriend?”

He holds her wrist gently, keeping her hands pressed against his cheek. “Baby...” he murmurs delicately.

“I was worried that maybe you didn’t want to call it the same thing I did,” she continues sadly. “I– I didn’t want to scare you off.”

“Puppy… I thought you knew,” he cups her jaw and looks into her eyes so earnestly that she feels her heart swell. “Thought you knew that you’re mine, that m’obsessed with you.” He nudges his nose against hers softly, “Don’t care what you call it, as long as you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” she whispers back with a smile. “Nobody else’s.”

“I… I got so sad when I saw him flirting with you,” he admits shyly. “Thought he was gonna steal you away.”

“I’m sorry, I should’ve–”

“S’not your fault, puppy. You’re too sweet to even notice it, always wanna see the best in people.” He chuckles to himself warmly, caressing her cheek softly, “precious little thing.”

“Well, if it helps,” she says, leaning her face towards his touch, “I texted him and said I’m not interested. Told him that I’m seeing someone,” her eyes glimmer happily, “and that it’s pretty serious.”

His eyes grow warm and a grin spreads on his face, “good… yeah, that’s good.” With one hand cupping her jaw and another on her waist to hold her steady on his lap, he leans in for a kiss, slotting their lips together and fluttering his eyes shut.

* 。˚ ˛ • 。* 。° 。 * 。 • ˚  ˛ 。* 。• ° 。* 。 • ˚

When they get home, it’s all soft touches and warm words.

He’s so happy, a warm feeling bubbling in his stomach at the idea that y/n is his… that she’s his girlfriend, or whatever you want to call it. It’d been so long since he felt like this, so long since he’d been in a serious, real relationship. It made him giddy. He felt like he was 12 years old, kissing a girl for the first time all over again.

He pulls her into his bedroom before she even has the chance to put her stuff down, taking her bag from her and stripping her of her clothes. He unbuttons her blouse slowly, kissing her softly as he fiddles with each button, and unzips her skirt, letting it fall to the floor. He guides her hands up to his shirt, so that she could do the same– undress him, kiss him, run her hands up and down his bare chest the way he’s doing to the soft skin of her back.

He places her on his bed gently, hovers over her and kisses all over her, just worshiping her. He kisses her face, her cheeks, her lips, down her neck, over her breasts, and along her stomach. He kisses her core, licks and sucks somehow romantically, until she’s cumming on his tongue, whimpering his name softly and arching her back towards him. Her hands touch all over his body, skimming over his muscular back and gripping his shoulders as he comes back up to kiss her.

He lines himself up with her, and pushes in one smooth, gentle stroke. Her legs wrap around his hips, and he rocks into her, moaning into her mouth and breathing heavily against her neck.

“Fuck baby,” he whispers, “You’re mine. Mine to touch, mine to fuck, mine to look at.” She moans delicately, opening her eyes and staring up at him with rose-clouded vision. “Say it– tell me you’re mine,” he whimpers.

“Yours,” she whines, “all yours.”

When he cums, he cums inside of her, spurting into her in long, thick streaks that fill her to the brim. He moans softly into her neck, shuddering on top of her, and she caresses her fingers through his hair, kissing all over his face until he pulls out. They lie next to each other, and in her sleepy haze, she whispers out his name.

“If I’m yours, does that mean you’re mine too?” she asks, eyes wide.

He turns towards her and brushes her hair out of her face, “That’s exactly what that means sweetheart.” He kisses her sweetly. “M’all yours."

+++

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[babbagerpmemedepository]

world's shittiest rp memes™: jerma985 cooking-themed sentence starters (from his cooking simulator streams)

intended for shitpost-y threads, but could be versatile. change pronouns/insert names/adjust phrasing as needed.

(grabs a pan directly out of the oven.) "OWOWOW, MY HANDS, OWW!!"

"okay, now what i want you to do is chug the avocado oil."

"they didn’t even know that half of that shit touched the ground."

"how much soup is soup?"

"wha- it cooks when i take it out?! how does it cook when it’s not in the pan?! that makes no sense!"

[sender's muse] tries to place a utensil down but manages to fling it clear across the room instead.

"i’m gonna deep-fry a propane tank."

"there's blood on the counter. ... and this dough looks really, really weird to me."

(cramming a bunch of metal utensils into a microwave.)

"i feel like that's the kind of shit we'll be eating when the apocalypse happens."

"i threw a cucumber and it exploded!"

"it looks like a... it looks like a dead bird."

(tries to empty a pot into the sink but manages to flip it completely upside down, spilling its contents all over the counter and floor.)

"i just singed my fucking eyebrows."

(tries to carefully pour food from a fryer onto a plate. 80% of the food ends up on the counter around the plate instead.)

(attempts to gently flip a cut of meat, but somehow manages to launch it out of the pan, into the air and onto a completely different part of the stove.) "... WHY?! I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING!"

"hopefully he doesn’t taste the glass."

[sender's muse] attempts to yell "YOU FUCKIN' DONKEY" like gordon ramsey, but they do the accent so badly they sound like shrek instead.

[sender's muse] accidentally throws an entire pizza out of the window.

"i’m realizing what i’m turning into. and i actually entered into, like, the experiment pretend-to-have-a-restaurant five-year-old thing."

an explosion goes off behind them. they turn to see the kitchen has caught fire. "... huh? did someone drop a fucking BOMB on us?!"

[sender's muse] starts pointing the business end of a blowtorch directly into their own eyes.

"i’ll put on the kitchen nightmares american OST."

"do not mix gas in the mixer. ... not now."

(tosses a pan in the air and breaks the ceiling fan COMPLETELY apart. all of the blades come off and the base falls to the floor.) "what. what?! scared the absolute hell outta me, i didn't know you could do that!"

(microwaves raw trout for 20 seconds, then immediately grabs a fork to dig in.)

(accidentally tosses a sponge into a pot of soup instead of the sink, then tries to surreptitiously fish it back out and pretend they didn’t.)

as [sender's muse] is walking to serve [receiver’s muse], the entire meal falls off the plate on the way there and they set a completely empty plate on the table like nothing is wrong.

(placing a porkchop directly onto the counter) "don’t let me forget this is here! ‘cause it’s cooked and it’s ready to eat!"

(tries putting something in the microwave, but it somehow flies out and across the room.) "okay, this is fucking broken."

"you wanna make prison wine?"

(laughing) "that looks like cat puke..."

(toting an extremely burnt pizza crust with a 5 inch tall pile of olives on it) "who ordered the caviar pizza?"

"it’s still good! ... no it’s not."

(spills two bowls of soup in a row just trying to carry them out of the kitchen.)

"it looks like someone bled on that pizza, doesn’t even look like sauce."

"i’m making floor soup."

(looks in the oven and immediately starts laughing.) "oh, shit."

(completely abandons the still-cooking food.) "aw, is that a bird? a bird just flew by."

(throws a pan full of raw steak across the room.)

(starts throwing cuts of meat out the window.)

(immediately after throwing a cut of meat out the window) "... did somebody just scream at me? i just caused a car accident!"

(scanning over the complete disaster in the kitchen like a cop at a crime scene) "okay, so very obviously, there was a struggle, right."

[gukyi]

the courtship chronicles | ksj

summary: dating has never been anywhere near your list of priorities, but kim seokjin is nothing if not determined. and when he comes to the rescue and accompanies you to your friend’s wedding, he decides to request only one thing in return: for you to let him take you out on fake dates and shower you in fake affection, and show you how much fun dating can be. he just needs to remember to keep the part where he’s been in love with you under wraps.

{friends to lovers!au, fake dating!au}

pairing: kim seokjin x female reader genre: fluff, comedy, and emotional hurt/comfort! word count: 20k a/n: big, big, big thanks to @aurawatercolor for commissioning me for this piece!! i honestly am so happy with this fic and even happier to give my main man kim seokjin the love and attention he deserves!!! this fic is pretty much slow burn from start to finish, so enjoy!

check out the post-script drabble here!

“You’re bringing a plus one, right?” Cynthia demands on the other end of the line, voice frazzled and breaths quick. “You better, because I already factored it into the wedding budget. There will be food meant for a plus one for you which I already paid for so you better bring one. I paid for it already.” She’s running in circles, trying to make her point. It’s clear she’s got an awful lot on her plate as it is. 

“Can’t I just eat their serving myself? You know I’m a growing woman,” you plead. Cynthia and the rest of her bridesmaids have been on your back about bringing a plus one ever since she got engaged. 

“No, you have to bring a plus one. Even if it’s your mom, Y/N, I don’t care,” Cynthia says. She makes to say something else, but then pauses. “Actually, I do care. Can it please be a date? Even like, someone you met off of Hinge. I don’t know. Not your mom. Don’t bring her. That would be only a little weird,” she corrects herself. 

“Weirder than some stranger I met off Hinge?” You ask pointedly. 

“No. At least they’re around your age. I want to see you applying yourself, Y/N!” Cynthia scolds. “Go out there and find a man! Pick him up off of the street if you have to! Anything!” She rallies. “Being single is cool and everything but being in love is just as fulfilling!”

“Of course you would think that, you’re getting married tomorrow,” you tell her, sighing. Can’t she just accept that you aren’t really looking for a relationship right now? And haven’t been looking for one since you graduated college three years ago?

“I love my future husband, thank you very much. We plan on leading a very full and extraordinary life with our fifteen dogs and eighteen geckos.”

“Okay, Miss We Bought A Zoo,” you tease. 

Cynthia laughs. “Pretty soon it’ll be Mrs. We Bought A Zoo, thank you very much!”

You hear a knock on the door, turning to check the kitschy cuckoo clock you had found at a flea market for five dollars for the time. It’s six on the dot.

“I have to go, Cynthia, Seokjin’s here,” you tell her, already making to hang up the phone as you head towards the door, using your shoulder and ear to hold it in place. “We’re making a family dinner for two, tonight.”

“Bring Seokjin! He’ll charm the shit out of my mom, I just know it,” Cynthia tells you. “Bring him! Tell him to clear his fucking calendar for tomorrow.”

“Bye, Cynthia,” you say as you reach out for the doorknob, twisting it to reveal your grinning best friend with a bag full of goodies on the other side. “I have to go.”

“Send Seokjin my love! I don’t even expect a wedding gift from him! His presence is enough!” Cynthia shouts, loud enough for Seokjin to hear everything despite the phone not even being on speaker. You hang up before Cynthia can say anything else to goad Seokjin into accompanying you to her wedding, sending an apologetic smile his way. 

“Sorry, that was—”

“Cynthia?” Seokjin finishes with a grin. You usher him into your apartment, letting him place his bag on your kitchen countertop as he pulls out two wine glasses to get the party started. You sigh, helpless. “Yeah, I figured. She’s getting married tomorrow, isn’t she?”

“She’s uber stressed, if that’s what you mean to say,” you correct, joining him in your kitchen as you start to unpack what he brought, countless tupperware containers filled with vegetables, meats, pastas. There’s even an entire bag of rice. Does Seokjin really think you have no rice in your apartment? Seriously? 

“I can imagine,” Seokjin agrees with a laugh. “Thank god you and I aren’t getting married anytime soon, right?” With a flourish, he produces a bottle of red wine you had been saving in your fridge for this very occasion, filling up half of each wine glass. 

“I’ll toast to that,” you say, smiling as you hold up your glass. Seokjin swirls the wine around in his own before holding it out. 

“Here’s to not being romantically involved whatsoever!” Seokjin hurrahs, and you laugh at his honesty as your glasses clink together, the sound echoing around your kitchen. “Who says you need to be married to prepare a kickass meal together.”

“You’re in charge of the meat,” you immediately tell him. You’ve never been the biggest fan of handling it. Vegetables are much more your speed. They also don’t get angry at you when you make a mistake cooking them. Besides, Seokjin’s always been the better food mediator between the two of you. 

“Like always,” he teases, giving you a nudge as he pulls the pots and pans from the cupboard beneath the counter and hands you one of the seventeen different cutting boards you have in random places in your kitchen. You don’t know what it is about them, but every single month you find yourself buying a brand new cutting board. They may as well be drugs. “You should really branch out and try cooking beef sometimes. I’ll teach you, hey? So you don’t have to be scared of it.”

“I am not scared of cooking beef,” you tell him sternly, flinching when Seokjin places the meat in the oil-slick pan and it begins to sizzle and pop. 

“If you say so, Y/N,” Seokjin singsongs. “You know, I’d make a pretty good teacher. I reckon I could show you a thing or two about cooking.”

“Okay, Mr. Cooking Is My Passion,” you say, scrunching up your nose. “Just because I can’t make a damn filet mignon does not make me a bad cook,” you tell him, “whose soup do you ask for when you’re sick and in bed with a cold? That’s right, mine!” You poke his chest for good measure, making him put his hands up in surrender. 

“Alright, alright, I concede,” he says with a laugh. “Your soup is delicious.”

“Thank you,” you say, proudly. “How about I make a couple of servings while you cook the meat?”

Seokjin blows a kiss your way. “Y/N, You know just the way to my heart.”

An hour later, you and Seokjin have whipped up an impressive set of dishes, from your homemade vegetable soup to his traditional bulgogi bibimbap, a small bowl of kimchi in the middle of the table accompanied by some sauteed vegetables and a serving of glass noodles. There’s enough to feed a family of four (one of whom could be a ravenous high-school football player) on your table, and yet, you and Seokjin never fail to finish it all. 

Seokjin takes one bite out of his bulgogi bibimbap and moans in delight, tossing his head back as he holds out two thumbs up, chopsticks clanging onto the side of the bowl as he drops them. “Wow,” he says loudly, patting himself on the back. “I’m amazing. Gordon Ramsey wants what I have.”

“There’s no way it’s that good,” you tease, even though it most definitely is that good. Seokjin is, without a doubt, the best chef you have ever met, the best chef whose food you have ever had the pleasure of eating. If he weren’t employed by a publicity company he would almost certainly be the owner of the best restaurant in the city. The New York Times would visit his restaurant and write a five-star review to be published in the paper the next morning. You take a bite of it yourself, chewing it slowly and pretending to ponder its flavor. It’s delicious. It’s never not delicious. “Hmm… it’s alright.”

“‘Alright’?” Seokjin shouts, slandered. “Just ‘alright’?” He slams a fist onto the table in anger. “This is blasphemy! It’s amazing!” Grabbing the knife beside his plate, he holds it under your chin dramatically, glaring into your eyes. “You better retract that statement, or else!”

“Or else what, Mr. Kim?” You say, desperately resisting the urge not to burst into laughter. Seokjin’s not doing much better, lips pursed tight in an effort not to cackle aloud. 

“Or else I’ll have no choice but to eat all of your bulgogi bibimbap for you!” He cries, reaching over with grabby hands to take your plate away from you. 

Just as he suspected, you hold on tight to your plate, refusing to let such good food go into the mouth of someone who has his own plate. It’s then, as you’re playing tug-of-war with your food, that Seokjin finally breaks into chuckles, hiccuping out his laugh as he concedes and lets you eat your food in peace. 

“Just as I suspected, peasant!” He says proudly. “It’s delicious!”

You put a heaping chopstick-ful into your mouth. “It really is, Seokjin. You always do such a great job.”

“I’m honored,” he says, bowing slightly. “Food is what brings people together.” He holds out a piece of kimchi in front of your mouth, and you eat it obligingly. “Speaking of bringing people together, what was Cynthia shouting about on the phone?”

“Oh, just her wedding, you know,” you tell him with a shrug. “The usual. She’s desperate for me to bring a plus one,” you say. Marriage is disillusioning her. She thinks everybody around her should have a love like her own. And while it is a wonderful, fairytale-esque thought, you just aren’t really on the same wavelength. You never have been. “She even factored it into the budget to guilt-trip me into doing it.”

“Why don’t you?” Seokjin asks, downing a spoonful of soup. “Going to a wedding alone can’t be too much fun.”

“I won’t be alone,” you protest. “I’m one of her closest friends. I’ll know a bunch of people there.”

“Yeah, but you won’t have brought someone who, by way of how plus-one’s work, will be obligated to be by your side the entire night. Who are you gonna dance with when Crazy in Love comes on, huh?” Seokjin points out. 

You frown. “I can dance by myself.”

“Yeah, but a plus-one would make it more fun! You guys can dougie, or whatever it is the cool kids do these days. Is dabbing still a thing?” He dabs, just to make a point. It’s cringey and awful and hilarious, all at once. 

“Stop, stop, you’re embarrassing yourself and I’m the only other person here,” you plead. “You and Cynthia are so on my ass about bringing a date, God. I just—I’m not really interested in anybody right now. Dating just isn’t my thing.”

“Has dating ever been your thing, Y/N?” Seokjin asks, even though he clearly knows the answer already. “I don’t think you’ve been on a date since sophomore year of college. Do you even know what dating is, anymore? Love?”

You roll your eyes. If there’s one person who’s a bigger hopeless romantic than Cynthia, it’s Seokjin. The man has an entire bookshelf of romance novels in his bedroom. He waxes poetic about falling in love every other day, about coming home to a significant other, a family, to cook for, to spend time with. He’s been on more Bumble dates in the past year than you can count on both hands and feet. 

“I know what it is,” you defend yourself, “I’m just—I don’t really believe in that, for me. I don’t ever see myself having it. I have friends. My family. That’s good enough. I don’t need romantic love.”

Seokjin scoffs. “What? You mean to tell me you don’t ever want to fall in love? Never ever? Come on, Y/N. Love is great! It makes you feel warm and happy, like one of those giant Costco teddy bears. Those are the material equivalent of love. Haven’t you always wanted a giant Costco teddy bear?”

“When I was five, yeah,” you tell him. “Listen, Seokjin, I get it. Love is great and amazing, I’m just not that interested. You and Cynthia have been trying to get me to go on a date for years and it doesn’t appeal to me whatsoever.”

“What about dating is unappealing?” Seokjin inquires. He’s determined. And you, the best friend, are weak. 

“I don’t know, having to meet new people, talk about yourself, try to see a future with them. It seems so tiring,” you say, sighing. Seokjin looks positively bewildered, because of course he enjoys dating—he’s so charismatic, charming, and outgoing. Even if a date goes poorly he still ends up with a new friend. “I’m just not that into doing that stuff.”

“Psh,” Seokjin says casually, skeptical. “I bet that if you just gave the whole dating thing a try, you might actually like it. You haven’t gone out on one in so long—maybe it’s different than what you remember. The last time you did it, we were all just college students.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me,” you groan. “How exactly do you expect me to ‘give the whole dating thing a try’, then? Last time I checked, I wasn’t particularly interested in anybody.”

Seokjin pauses, pondering for a moment as he taps his chin with his pointer finger. Then, like a smack to the face, it hits him all at once, and in his excitement, he pounds his fist right onto the prongs of the fork by his plate. “Ow, holy shit!” He shouts, excited nonetheless.

“Oh my God, are you alright?” You ask, a little concerned and a lot amused.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he assures you, rubbing the side of his palm. “But what I was about to say, is why don’t we go out?”

You sputter, choking on the soup you had just taken a sip of. “I-I’m sorry, what?”

“Why don’t we date? It’ll be fun!” He says happily. 

“Seokjin, we’re friends,” you say. 

He shrugs, carefree. “Yeah, sure we are. But think about it: since we’re already so close, you won’t have to worry about introducing yourself to someone new. You won’t have to go through the whole tell me about yourself thing, we can just jump right into the dating part! It’ll be fun and you’ll get to see what dating is like past the introductions. How about it?” He asks. 

He thinks it’s brilliant. 

You think it’s ludicrous. 

“But, Seokjin, are we actually going to date? Like, be a couple? Because I don’t know if that’s what I was really aiming for with our friendship today,” you say hesitantly. You love Seokjin, sure, but you aren’t in love with Seokjin. You’ve been best friends since college. Won’t it be weird if you suddenly start dating? And doing other couple-y things?

Seokjin waves a hand around like a nonchalant businessman. “No, we won’t actually be boyfriend and girlfriend, or anything,” he promises. “It’ll just be fake. Make believe! Think of it as a dating test-run. What do you say?”

“You sound too enthusiastic for me not to be worried,” you tell him tentatively. He’s like an energetic salesman. It’s a little frightening. There must be some fine print you aren’t looking at. Something that you’re missing. “Are you sure about this? Like, do you want anything in return?”

“Anything in return to help my best friend find love?” He asks, scandalized. “Of course not!”

You frown. 

“Okay,” he gives in, “maybe some more soup. I’m about to visit my mom and she loves it.”

“Why don’t I just come with?” You suggest. Seokjin’s mom is the second-best chef you’ve ever met. Somewhere along the line, Seokjin took what he learned from her and improved it ten-fold. 

“Even better! Mom’s been begging me to bring you around sometime. How about it, do we have a deal?” He asks, holding his hand out. 

You sigh. He’s your best friend, and all he wants in return is for you to visit his mom with him. What’s the worst thing that could happen?

“Sure,” you say, conceding. “Why not?”

Seokjin’s first order of business as your self-appointed brand new not-real boyfriend, is to accompany you to Cynthia’s wedding as your plus-one. He does actually find a wedding gift on such short notice—a fairly new cookbook from which he had memorized the recipes already, so it was no longer of use to him. Because of course, Kim Seokjin is the only person on Earth who memorizes the one hundred recipes in a book just because he wants to. Where does he find the time?

[May 18th, 3:18PM]

Seokjin: Are we wearing matching colors? Seokjin: Or is that too senior prom?

You: As long as you don’t show up wearing white you should be fine

Seokjin: >_> Seokjin: You know that if I wore white the groom would drop everything and marry me instead ;-)

You: Only because of your charm You: I’m wearing pastel pink! I don’t suppose you have anything in your closet to go with that, do you?

[Seokjin is typing…]

[May 18th, 3:20PM]

Seokjin: Oh, Y/N, you don’t even need to ask twice

An hour later, Seokjin pulls up to the curb outside of your apartment complex in his Volkswagen, which is every bit as charismatic as he is, right as you’re scrambling to tug on your most comfortable heels (as if such a thing could exist!), running late, as per usual. The ceremony begins at 5:30 and you and Seokjin were meant to leave for the venue at four. 

It is 4:19. 

Frazzled, you rush around your apartment movie-montage style, tweaking strands of your hair in the mirror in the hallway and nabbing your bottomless bag on the coffee table. It’s not even really summer yet, but your apartment doesn’t have air conditioning and it’s becoming more and more of a curse as the globe slowly warms multiple degrees over the years. The true loser of climate change, rather than the polar bears, the bees, and coastal cities, is you, who thought renting a place with no air conditioning would be just fine. 

Desperate not to open the door to Seokjin with your forehead dripping, you dab off the beads of sweat gathered by your hairline with the skirt of your dress—whatever, you were going to sweat in it at some point—right as you hear the first knock. 

Seokjin’s fashion choices are usually rather conservative. He does work a somewhat menial half-office job, so he can’t roll up to his desk wearing the exceedingly stylish and exceedingly adventurous clothing that Namjoon and Taehyung wear, which, in turn, limits his closet. Lots of plain or argyle sweaters pulled over dress shirts with the collars peeking out, lots of navy jeans, lots of white sneakers and loafers. The only clothing item Seokjin does experiment with is socks, of which he has an impressive collection, ranging anywhere from corgi butts to Santa Claus. 

You didn’t really know what you were expecting when Seokjin said you didn’t need to ask twice after mentioning that you were wearing a pastel pink dress. He does own a couple of pink things, but as far as you’re aware (and you’re pretty aware, considering you’ve been best friends with him since the beginning of college), it amounts mostly to his sock stash and a couple of sweaters, which he most often wears under denim jackets or over dress shirts. 

What you most certainly aren’t expecting when you open the door is to see Seokjin standing on the other side in a full-on suit, a light grey color that complements the peach in his skin tone perfectly. More so, however, you hadn’t at all anticipated for him to be wearing a perfectly-matching pastel pink dress shirt underneath, complemented by a rather obnoxious bow tie with red hairs littered all over it. 

“Wow, okay,” you say, blinking just to make sure that your eyes are working perfectly. “It’s May, why do you look like Valentine’s Day threw up on you?”

Seokjin opens his mouth to send a witty response back to you, but the moment he lays his eyes on you, it’s as if all of the words have fallen from his lips. He swallows, hands fumbling with the bouquet in his hand. “Don’t say that to me like you aren’t also wearing the most Valentine’s Day dress I’ve ever seen.”

“It’s a pastel pink midi dress,” you tell him, frowning. “At least I’m not wearing something that has cartoon-y red hearts all over it,” you accuse, pointing to his bow tie. 

Seokjin gasps, offended. “Hey! This is my lucky bow tie. It’s never steered me wrong when it comes to love.”

You scoff. “I don’t think Cynthia and her fiancé need your bow tie’s help today. Have you ever seen someone more in love with another person than they are with each other?”

Seokjin pauses. He sighs a little bit, like there’s something weighing on his mind he refuses to divulge. You won’t press. You may be best friends, but you aren’t mind-readers, and sometimes, there are some secrets that have to be kept even from each other. Yours is that when you guys were juniors in college and Seokjin was running late for class because he was desperate to find the last Pop-Tart in his apartment, you had actually eaten it the night before when he was in the bathroom. 

You wonder what his is. 

“You never know,” he finally says, “we could always use the extra luck, don’t you think?”

You nod, “I suppose. What’s with the flowers? You know you aren’t supposed to bring them to a wedding. They probably have enough flowers as it is.”

As if caught off guard by the flowers held in his very own hand, Seokjin turns his gaze down to look at the bouquet, a collection of baby’s breath, tulips, and carnations. “Oh,” he says, speechless. “Well, I was dropping by the flower shop anyway to bother Hoseok, and he said that they had some leftover stock that nobody wanted because they were a little smaller than the other flowers, so he gave them to me at a discount. They’re for you, I guess.” Like a nervous high schooler going on his very first date, he shoves them towards you, making you step back to avoid getting punched in the chest. 

“Seriously? You didn’t have to do that, Seokjin,” you say happily, pleasantly surprised at the bouquet. Sure, some of them are a little wilted, a little dehydrated, but you get flowers so infrequently (in fact, you don’t think you’ve gotten any since Seokjin sent you one of those singular rose grams during your first Valentine’s Day at college), that the gesture is as good as gold. 

“Eh,” he says, shrugging casually. “I don’t really have anybody else I would want to give them to.”

Gleefully, you take them from his outstretched hand and immediately rush to put them in some sort of vase. You, like the piece of millennial trash that you are, end up using a random empty mason jar you find in one of your kitchen cabinets. 

“What time is it?” Seokjin asks, looking around for a clock. 

“Late, we have to go,” you instantly respond, shooing him out of the door and darting down the stairs because the elevator in your apartment building is about four hundred years old and doesn’t even have a light bulb inside of it. You cram into Seokjin’s tiny white Volkswagen, which just screams hipster-mom-in-her-forties, and he speeds off at a velocity that tiny Volkswagen beetles were not meant to go at. 

Surprisingly enough, you make it to the wedding venue with a few minutes to spare, which you largely attribute to the fact that Seokjin was driving faster than some of the SUVs on the highway on the way over. He isn’t a bad or reckless driver. He’s just a driver with certain priorities that rank higher than the act of driving itself. 

“Ah, the smell of nervousness and love,” Seokjin says as you step out of the car, inhaling dramatically. “Smells like a wedding.”

“Smells like the ceremony is about to begin,” you say, and you both rush over the pebbled path to the entrance, giggling like a bunch of high schoolers as you stumble through the front doors very ungracefully. 

“Wow,” Seokjin says, impressed at the extent of decoration. Cynthia had been raving on and on about how she was aiming to have a sort of romantic, Impressionist art painting vibe to the wedding, lots of pastels, flowers, twinkling lights. “This is very impressive. One hundred out of ten.”

“Cynthia’s been planning this for months, so I’m sure she’ll be pleased to hear it,” you say, ushering yourselves into the main wedding hall as the rest of the guests file in from chatting outside as the clock ticks down. There are two seats close to the front that Cynthia’s saved for you and your plus-one, which she most certainly will be very happy to see you have brought with you, in the form of your best friend, Seokjin, of course. 

“Aren’t you excited?” Seokjin whispers as everyone settles down. “Can’t you feel the love in the air?”

“It’s not in my genetics to feel that sort of thing,” you retort back, earning a pout from your best friend in return. 

“Well, it’s in mine, and let me tell you, Y/N, it feels like love!” He exclaims happily. “You should be basking in it.”

“Are you?” You round on him. No point in not practicing what you preach. 

“Always,” Seokjin says, gazing at you happily. He seems so content, in this very moment, about to watch a ceremony that will bond two people together for the rest of their lives, devote themselves to each other, wholly and completely. “I’m always basking in it.”

Then, the officiant steps up to the microphone at the front of the room. Seokjin reaches his hand over to grab yours, letting it rest in his palm on his lap, and the ceremony begins. 

Going to weddings as a child, even as an adult to a fairly distant coworker, they’ve always felt so detached from you as a guest. Sure, the ceremonies are wonderful and you’re happy for the newly-married couple, but it’s almost as if you’re watching a movie and instead of being another character, you’re part of the audience. When you leave the wedding venue, when all of the dancing and eating and celebrating is over, you forget all about it, and you move on with your life. 

But knowing the two people standing up at the altar as more than just coworkers, or a distant relative, knowing them as friends, as near family, tints everything in a rosy pink. It’s the most beautiful wedding ceremony you’ve ever had the pleasure of attending. It’s humbling and real and unrehearsed, romantic and funny and meaningful all at once. It makes you feel warm inside, truly, truly happy for your friend and for what is to come in the next chapter of her life. 

Crying was pretty much unavoidable. It was mostly on Seokjin’s end—he’s not as close with either of them as you are, but he certainly loves love much more than you do—but some tears were shed on your end, as well. This is the sort of thing you’d want to talk about for years to come, even after you walk out, in the hopes that a constant reminder will prevent it from ever fading from your memory. 

As weddings go, the next part is the best part: free food. You get to your tables and Cynthia’s fancy (and expensive) caterers come whooshing around with bottles of wine and pitchers of water, filling up the glasses on your tables as the wedding party prepares to enter. You’re seated next to some other old friends from college, ones you recognize and ones you don’t, and ones that Seokjin is very happy to start chatting up the moment you take your seats. 

“Are you here together?” One of the men—you think his name is Nathan(?)—asks, pointing to the two of you. 

“No,” you say. 

“Yes,” Seokjin says. 

You both turn to glare at each other as Nathan—no, maybe Noah—furrows his brows, clearly having not received the response he was aiming for. Seokjin makes a bunch of aggressive and dramatic facial gestures to remind you that you two are fucking dating, remember? Even though it’s not actually real, and that was the part you were focusing on. The not real part. 

“We are,” you correct awkwardly, even though Whatshisface seems to have moved on from the topic. “He’s my plus-one.”

“I’m not as tight with the bride as I am with one of her closest friends,” Seokjin says jokingly, even though you’re the only one who laughs. 

“Yeah,” one of the girls chimes in. “You guys were best friends in college.”

“Still are,” you say, grinning. At least you don’t have to lie about that. 

“So cute,” the same girl says romantically. “I wish I could fall in love with my best friend,” she turns to the man she’s with who clearly doesn’t want to be here whatsoever. “You guys must be so happy.”

“It’s not always a walk in the park,” Seokjin warns, and you don’t have time to smack him in the chest and ask him what the hell he means by that, as the officiant taps onto the microphone to begin to announce the entrance of the wedding party. 

As each couple, each bridesmaid and groomsman, walk through the door, you can’t help but wonder why Seokjin said it wasn’t always a walk in the park to be together. Are you that awful to fake date? 

“Can I have everyone’s attention, please?” Cynthia’s father asks, tapping his teaspoon against the wine glass in his hand. “I’d just like to make a toast.” He turns to where Cynthia and her fiancé are seated, and he looks on the verge of tears. “For as long as I’ve lived, I’ve never seen two people love each other so selflessly. When they’re together, they make grey skies turn blue, turn night into day. All I can wish for you both is that you will forever be each other’s best friend, each other’s rock. There is no greater joy in life than to get to spend the entirety of it with your best friend. Congratulations, Cynthia and James. We are so lucky to know you both.”

Everybody begins to clap. 

Everybody, except Seokjin. 

You notice that his hands are resting in his lap, and when you turn to look at him, you see his eyes welling up, his smile soft and wistful. 

“You alright?” You ask quietly, giving him a nudge with your shoulder. 

Seokjin looks back at you like you’ve caught him off guard. “Me? Yeah.”

“You’re crying,” you point out. 

He shrugs, blinking to let the tears roll down his cheeks. “I just love that,” he explains. “Love knowing that some of us can be so lucky to spend the rest of our lives with our best friends by our sides.”

 According to the ancient law of weddings, the reception is where all guests are mandated to get out of their seats and boogie-oogie-oogie. At least, that’s what Seokjin says, when the food gets whisked away and the space morphs into a dance floor, tables in the center cleared as the bride goes to change in her mandated second dress, because one just isn’t expensive enough as it is. Seokjin just seems to know everything about weddings. It’s almost as if he’s planned one himself. 

“Just wait until all of the stuffy, traditional dances are over,” Seokjin whispers into your ear as Cynthia and her father share a dance. Seokjin looks like he’s about to jump out of his seat, desperate to get onto the dance floor. “You’ve never seen me dance at a wedding.”

“I’ve never seen you dance at all,” you correct, excluding all of the dabbing he did in 2016 when it was still a cool thing to dab. 

“Then you’re in for a real treat,” he says smugly. 

Sure enough, the moment the rest of the guests are invited onto the dance floor to drop it low, Seokjin is the first one out of his chair, and you, the second, begrudgingly dragged to the center by your over-enthusiastic best friend. He’s always been absolutely shameless in everything he does, which makes for high confidence and low embarrassment, two things you are certainly not the strongest in. Which is exactly why you end up side-stepping awkwardly like a geek at senior prom, while he uses every single one of his limbs to express his passion for whatever generic pop song is blasting through the speakers. 

Cynthia’s never been one for niche, hipster music.

“Come on, Y/N, have a little fun!” Seokjin encourages, grabbing onto your wrist and rapidly waving it up and down, making you shake. 

“You can have enough fun for the both of us,” you tell him, still just as aware of everybody else’s opinion of you as you were in high school. Some things really never change. 

“Impossible! Come on!” He says, and you have no idea what dance move he’s about to break into from his positioning, and then you suppose you’ll never know, because the song immediately switches to an acoustic one by Ed Sheeran, which is the most generic type of slow song you could possibly think of. 

“Grab your boys and girls, everyone,” the DJ says, a random white guy who definitely would prefer to make mixtapes in his basement than do this shit. “This one’s for love!”

You don’t even have time to take another step before Seokjin is grabbing your hand with his own and pulling you in close to him. He holds your one hand out and places his other on your waist, and instinctively, you rest your hand on his shoulder. 

When you went to senior prom in high school, your date was this terribly nervous friend of a friend, who asked you because you both didn’t have a real date to go with, and you figured it would be better to go with an acquaintance than nobody at all. And it was sort of fun, because you sat at a table with all of your friends and ate decent senior prom food, and it wasn’t in your stinky high school gymnasium but a fairly nice country club. But when the only slow song of the night came on, thus ensued the most awkward three minutes of your entire high school career. 

This is by no means an exact science, but you figure that the people you are closest to are the people you can slow dance with without it being terrible and awkward and awful. You did it with your parents when you were a little girl in the living room of your family home. You did it with Cynthia at two in the morning one night when she had just gotten dumped by this absolutely rotten boy. 

And now, you’re doing it with Seokjin. And it isn’t terrible or awkward or awful at all. You sway to the soft strums of the guitar and it feels just right. The feeling of his hand in yours, on your waist, of yours on his shoulder. There’s less than a six inches of distance and you feel as close as you have always been. Seokjin feels so natural. He always has, and you know that he always will. There’s no doubt when it comes to him, no regret. 

“Isn’t this nice?” Seokjin asks, grinning at you. 

“Only because it’s with you,” you say back with a smile. Seokjin beams. 

Later, when the slow dance is over and you make your way back to your table so you can watch your best friend make a fool of himself from a distance. Cynthia drops by, blissful. 

“I knew you’d bring Seokjin! He’s charming the pants off of my mom as we speak,” Cynthia says happily. You both crane your neck to see him teaching Cynthia’s mom the floss, outdated as per usual. 

“Yeah, I mean,” you say with a shrug, “who else was I going to bring?”

“He makes you happy, doesn’t he?” Cynthia asks. She looks proud. She deserves it. 

You turn back to look at Seokjin, on the verge of tears of laughter as Cynthia’s mom successfully flosses for the first time. He’s so wonderful. The light of your damn life. “Yeah. He does.”

When the fair comes to town, you don’t find out from posters stapled to utility posts and taped to traffic lights. Nor do you find out from word of mouth, from the two strangers in your favorite (slightly overpriced) coffee shop ahead of you in line. It’s not even your coworkers who mention it to you in passing one day because their eight-year-old has been begging them to go but they can’t because they have a dentist appointment.

It is, because who else would it be, of course, Seokjin, who texts you at 4:18PM on that Saturday and says:

[May 27th, 4:18PM]

Seokjin: I’m on my way over to your apartment to pick you up Seokjin: Don’t ask questions

And it is, in every possible way, the scariest thing you have ever received on your phone. Seokjin’s always been one for spontaneity, but ever since the two of you graduated and stopped feeling the urge to go out to McDonald’s at three in the morning, random activities have become less of a rule and more of an exception. But it’s a Saturday, which means you don’t have to go to work, and it’s near-evening, which means you’ve been sitting at home doing absolutely nothing all day as it is. And it’s May, which means that the sun only sets at seven at night and there is so much to be done in this wonderful weather. 

So, Seokjin’s on his way. 

You spend the next seven minutes (Seokjin lives approximately eight minutes by car from where you live, not that you’re counting, or anything) changing out of the yoga pants you’ve been wearing since you returned from work Friday evening and trying to make yourself look as presentable as possible. You don’t know where he’s taking you. He could be bringing you to an alley to murder you for your inheritance. He’s definitely on your will, that’s for sure. You want to look nice. 

Seven minutes later, you see his tiny white Volkswagen pull up outside your apartment complex as you’re slipping on some sandals. He hops out of the driver’s seat and scurries into the lobby, which signals to you that he is a man on a mission, and you are simply the best friend who gets roped along for the ride. He knocks on your door thirty seconds after that, and you linger for a few moments so as not to seem like you’ve been anxiously awaiting his arrival. 

“Let’s go,” Seokjin declares in lieu of a hello. He reaches out to grab onto your wrist, pulling you out of the door as you frantically make sure you have your bag with you, otherwise you’ll be phone-less, key-less, and lip-balm-less. Three equally terrible fates. 

“What? Now? No explanation, nothing?”

“I parked in the no parking fire lane with my blinkers on, which means we have to go right now. We also have to go because I am very excited about where we are going,” Seokjin elaborates, though it does nothing to clarify the situation at hand. Other than the fact that if you don’t get into his car right now, he’s got a ticket to pay. 

“But where are we going?” You ask again, as Seokjin and you scramble down the stairs to make it to his Volkswagen before the security guard in the lobby starts shouting at him for his illegal parking job. 

“The fair!” Seokjin says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Did you see it was in town?”

“No,” you say dumbly. 

“Oh,” Seokjin says awkwardly. “Well, it is, and I feel like we haven’t seen each other in a while—”

“It’s been three days.”

“—and we haven’t gone out on a real date yet, you and me.” Seokjin explains as you get to his car. Luckily, there is no angry security guard nor a ticket underneath his windshield wiper, so you slide into the passenger seat and he drives off. 

“Yes, we have,” you object. “Cynthia’s wedding counts as a real date.” He was literally your plus-one. What more could define the word ‘date’?

Seokjin scrunches his nose up in clear disagreement. “No, it doesn’t,” he argues back. “Cynthia was going to tear your arm off if you didn’t bring me with. That was a date out of obligation.”

“Aren’t all of these dates out of obligation?”

You expect some sort of witty response, but instead, you’re met with silence as Seokjin opens the driver’s side door, the two of you looking over the top of his Volkswagen wordlessly, each waiting for something. 

What? It’s not like you’re wrong. Seokjin is taking you out on dates to get a feel for what a real, blossoming relationship is like. Except this isn’t real, and your relationship is far from blossoming. It’s bloomed, already. Into an irreplaceable friendship. 

“Yeah, well,” Seokjin sputters, for once in his life, speechless. “It doesn’t matter,” he says, sitting roughly in the driver’s seat as you get into the passenger side, watch as he fumbles to put the keys into the ignition. “Don’t you want to know what a first date is supposed to be like?”

“You don’t have to take me on a fake first date just to spend time with me,” you tell him, the two of you facing forward, staring at the road in front of you as he drives. The radio is playing, some generic alternative rock song that neither of you are familiar enough to warrant turning up the volume for. Seokjin’s always preferred listening to the radio over his own music. Something about ambience while he drives. “We can spend time together wherever. Even if we’re just in my apartment.”

Seokjin’s wonderful and the best and one of the (if not the) greatest people you’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing, but he doesn’t need to do all of this for you. It’s enough for him to text you in the morning to remind you to drink a glass of water before you eat anything to wake your body up. Enough for him to leave leftovers from your dinner nights in your fridge, so you can savor the taste of his food after he’s gone home. Enough for the two of you to be as you used to be, as you always have been and always will be. 

Seokjin scoffs, honking at a driver who sped through a red light. “Those aren’t dates, Y/N,” he explains like it’s the most obvious thing in the entire world. “They’re just ways that we spend time with each other.”

“So then what makes this a date? What’s the difference?” You demand. Seokjin’s not making any sense. Sure, you aren’t nearly as well-versed in the dating scene as he is, certainly haven’t been on as many as he has, but from your limited knowledge, you’d always thought that what makes a date is not the setting, not the time or location, but the person you spend it with. 

Arguably, that would mean that all of the nights and days you’ve spent with Seokjin could, by that definition, be dates, but that’s obviously not the case. You’ve always just been friends. 

“It’s a date because I say it is,” Seokjin declares. “You wanna know what makes a date? It’s when the two people—or more, depending on how you swing—decide that it is a date. It’s just a label.”

“If it’s just a label, then why are you making such a big deal out of it?” You ask. You know you’re being a bit annoying with all of the questions at this point, but who’s to say you couldn’t have spent the evening curled up in your apartment and called that a date as well? 

“Because,” Seokjin begins, sighing. His hands are gripping the steering wheel so hard, his knuckles are turning white. “Because,” he repeats, “if someone really wants to impress you, then they will make a big deal out of it. Because you deserve it.”

Eventually, Seokjin pulls into the giant open field designated for parked cars, and expertly squeezes into this tiny space between two absolutely massive SUVs, likely once filled with five children and two very, very tired parents. Sure, you both only have about six inches of space to shimmy out of his car, but it was a good parking job nonetheless. 

“Get you a boyfriend who can park as well as I can,” Seokjin says, patting himself on the back as you head towards the entrance. 

“Why would I need a boyfriend when I have you?” You tease back.

You wait for a cheeky response from Seokjin, turning to look at him when he delivers the blow, but it never arrives. Instead, Seokjin reaches a hand down to grab onto yours, and you walk hand in hand towards the entrance, wordless. He pays, which makes you angry, but he tells you that you can buy a funnel cake for you to share to make up for it, and that’s good enough. 

In movies and books, a fair is a very high-school event for people to attend. Lots of bright flashes of color, loud noises, and junk food, which are three things that society believes deters anyone over the age of nineteen from attending. You can’t name a single piece of pop culture that features two fully-grown adults eating cotton candy and sitting in a ferris wheel carriage. Because the moment you turn twenty, your back starts to permanently ache and noises louder than the sound of your refrigerator making ice give you a headache, of course. 

Seokjin, of course, has never been one to let the media define him. 

He lights up like New Year’s Eve the moment you walk through the gates. Like a child on Christmas day. 

There’s a difference between being immature and being youthful that people often fail to realize, confusing the two, or worse, thinking they’re the same thing. But there are sixteen-year-olds out there who are more mature than middle-aged adults, and there are middle-aged adults who still act like they’re going through puberty. Seokjin was immature when you first met him, the same way all college freshmen are, but over the years lost that mindset while still never parting with the youthful part of himself, the part filled with childlike wonder, with innocence and hopefulness. It has always been part of him. 

When Seokjin looks at the world, he sees it bathed in light, in color. He sees people in their most wonderful form. Sees every day, every moment, as something worth remembering. Sees the future as something worth looking forward to. 

You’ve always envied that about him. Perhaps it’s just in your nature, but you’ve always been jaded, a little cynical. 

A realist and a dreamer. 

And they always say that opposites don’t really attract. 

Here at the fair, Seokjin is more than prepared and willing to have enough fun for the both of you, even as you pull up to one of those impossible-to-win water-squirter games. He’s already pulling out his wallet to hand a couple of bills to the angsty-looking teenager behind the booth. 

“You know that these are totally rigged, right?” You ask, chuckling to yourself as Seokjin rubs his hands together with a wide-eyed excitement. 

“Just because they’re rigged doesn’t mean winning is impossible,” Seojin says confidently, taking a seat and gearing up to begin. You stand to the side, arms crossed, waiting to be sufficiently unimpressed. “What are you doing standing there? I paid for both of us.”

Before you know it, Seokjin is pulling you down into the seat next to him as the teen counts down, giving you a very monotonous three seconds before the bell rings and you have to aim weakly-pressurized water into the mouth of a faded plastic clown. 

You’ve never had the best hand-eye coordination. On multiple occasions, Seokjin has tossed you a fruit, a bag of rice, something non-dangerous and relatively large, and on multiple occasions, you fumble to grab it and it eventually ends up on your kitchen floor. It takes you about half of the minute you’re given to blow up the balloon to get your aim straight, and by then, Seokjin’s balloon could eat yours for lunch. 

“Pick up the pace, Y/N!” Seokjin teases, relishing in his lead. This is embarrassing, and you’re better than this. And yet.

“It’s working against me and you know it!” You defend yourself. Because their unfairness is the reason Seokjin’s about to win and you’re about to lose. 

“How can you say that when I’m doing so well?” Seokjin laughs, and his balloon pops the moment that the sixty-second countdown ends, an underwhelming blare of celebratory music playing through the speakers at the corners of the tent. 

A sad little “Better luck next time!” echoes from the clown in front of you, and you slam your water gun on the table as Seokjin gloats in your face, the teenager coming over to hand Seokjin his prize, looking dead on his feet. 

“What should I get, hmm?” Seokjin asks. 

The selection is pretty weak. A lot of Frozen merchandise, two-dollar stuffed Olafs and capes with Anna and Elsa’s faces on the back. A couple of nondescript stuffed animals, from glittery lizards to pastel teddy bears. What looks like a generic-brand Whoopee cushion. 

“You don’t want a stuffed Olaf?” You ask innocently. The design is a little off, so it looks like Olaf is staring into your soul, Mona Lisa-style. 

“Hmm,” Seokjin says, pretending to think about it. The poor kid looks like he’s about to faint from boredom, desperate for two fully-grown adults to stop acting like they don’t know what prize to pick from an amusement park booth. “How about the pink teddy bear?”

Very on-brand for him. The teen hands it to Seokjin and the two of you go on your merry way, Seokjin demanding the two of you go to stuff your faces with funnel cake before rounding out the night on the ferris wheel. 

“For you,” Seokjin says, holding the teddy bear out to you as the two of you stand in the surprisingly-long line for funnel cake. 

“Me?” You ask, eyebrows raised in disbelief as your fingers curl around the fluffy fabric. It’s softer than you thought it would be. 

“Yeah,” Seokjin says, certain. “To remind you of me.”

You grin, holding the bear close to you. Sure, it’s a little bit kindergarten, like the cute boy on the playground placing a quick kiss on your lips before the teacher calls everybody in after recess ends, but the gesture is more than enough. To know that Seokjin won something, even something as plain and inexpensive as a prize from a fair, and his first and only thought was to give it to you, well, that makes you happy. “I don’t need a bear to be reminded of you,” you muse. Not when there are pieces of your friendship lingering everywhere you walk, from your apartment to your old university to your mind. 

“Can’t hurt to know you’re always thinking about me,” Seokjin says, and it’s not greasy or smug or weird. It’s honest.

You laugh. “When am I not?”

Funnel cake starts with a black t-shirt and the two of you arguing over who’s going to foot the ten dollar bill, much to your dismay. Even though Seokjin had explicitly said that you could pay, since he covered your entrance ticket, he still makes a big deal about doing it himself in front of the poor funnel cake girl, who definitely doesn’t get paid nearly enough to watch two grown adults fight over a ten dollar funnel cake. Eventually, you get your way and successfully hand the girl a ten dollar bill and she hands you a paper plate piled high with funnel cake as you begin to search for an open place to sit. 

“Just because I said that you could pay for the funnel cake doesn’t mean I actually meant it,” Seokjin says with a frown as you scope out a place to sit. At evening’s peak, it’s nearly impossible, which leads the both of you to a curb next to a recycling bin piled high with plastic cups, stained with Coca Cola and Fanta, knees up to your chin as you crouch over a single plate of funnel cake.

“Isn’t this cozy,” Seokjin says with a grin as a burly middle-aged dad steps on Seokjin’s clean white sneakers to throw something away. 

“We’ve been in more cramped quarters before,” you say. One of the many instances that immediately comes to mind is when the two of you were trapped in a closet in a frat house for nearly two hours because two people on the other side were having sex, the entire time. It was a good bonding experience. The two of you got very acquainted with each other’s scents. 

Seokjin’s hasn’t changed. Still sweet, sugary and vanilla from all of the baking he does, and a little bit like raindrops.

You wonder if Seokjin thinks the same about yours. 

“You know I don’t mind where we are and what we’re doing when I’m with you,” Seokjin says, and it sounds like a line straight out of a Hallmark movie, cheesy and cliche and rehearsed. But it’s none of those things. Seokjin says it and it’s real. And it’s the sort of thing that makes you wonder if you’re ever as true with him as he is with you. 

“Even when we’re sitting on the ground and eating funnel cake next to a recycling bin in a fair filled with messy children and their deadbeat parents?” You ask. 

Seokjin nods, taking an enormous bite of funnel cake. “Yes, even then.”

“True love,” you muse. Very few people would you do this for. Seokjin is one of them. 

Seokjin coughs at the words, his whole body shaking, and the powdered sugar from the piece in his hands goes flying, like a tiny little blizzard, falling onto his skin, his shirt, his lips, and everywhere in between. Snowflakes. 

Funnel cake ends with Seokjin trying to wipe the white dust on the front of his pitch black t-shirt away with a napkin, and only smearing it further into the fabric, cotton turning sticky from the sugar. It looks like a cocaine bust gone wrong. It looks only slightly not-kid-friendly. 

“Am I addicted to cocaine or did I just spill powdered sugar on myself?” Seokjin jokes, much to the horror of a family passing by, the mom giving you and Seokjin an alarmed expression as she picks up the pace. “It was powdered sugar!” Seokjin calls after them, making the two of you laugh. “Or it was cocaine. Whatever you want to believe.”

“You’re too soft to do cocaine,” you tell Seokjin, a very strange sort of compliment. 

“Maybe powdered sugar, though,” Seokjin says with a laugh as you heave yourselves off of the curb, tossing out the paper plate and dusting off your hands, flakes of powdered sugar falling to the ground. “Ferris wheel?”

“Anything you want,” you tell him, letting him lead you towards the ride, lit up like a Christmas tree. 

It’s as if every possible holiday threw up on the damn thing, a jumble of rainbow flights flashing erratically as a generic carnival tune plays in the background, sluggishly moving on its axis. It couldn’t have been built before this century. 

You squeeze into the carriage, clearly built to fit a child and their father at most, let alone two adults who both don’t have a regular exercise schedule. In order to fit, you have to stretch a leg over Seokjin’s lap and lean so that part of your shoulder is against his chest. It’s… cozy. It’s most definitely not the most cramped either of you have ever felt. 

“This is the part where I pretend to yawn and then stretch my arm over you,” Seokjin says matter-of-factly, as if that particular action is a mandatory part of the date.

“Oh, is that proper first-date etiquette?” You tease. 

“Only for me,” Seokjin says, cheeky, and it’s the greasiest thing you’ve ever had the misfortune of hearing. Even so, you let him fake yawn, melodramatic and totally contrived, feel as his arm comes to rest on your shoulder, hand swinging down over your side. Instinctively, you reach up to grab it with your arm, letting the two of you sit like this as the ferris wheel creaks, slowly moving you upwards. “Aren’t you having the best first date ever?”

“It’s the only one I can remember,” you admit, especially since it’s still in progress. 

“That means it’s the best.” Seokjin grins. 

“And the worst,” you add on, making Seokjin laugh. 

Finally, finally, finally, you reach the top, overlooking the entire fair, lit up in the night in a warm pink and yellow haze. At this hour, only the teenagers are left, families having gone home for the night, and you can hear the cheers even from up here, hear the laughter and jokes and chatter. it’s a sort of ambience you’ve never had the pleasure of listening to before. One of an active night, filled with people, and you, far away enough to be out of the action but close enough to enjoy it nonetheless. 

“Isn’t this nice, Y/N?” Seokjin asks, the two of you looking out into the distance, wishing you could stay like this forever. “When we’re up here, it feels like I can forget about everything and just think about now.” If only you could stay like this forever.

“And what are you thinking about, right now?” You ask, head resting on his shoulders. 

Instinctively, his arm moves from your shoulder to your waist, tugging you into his side, letting you rest your legs on top of his own. Seokjin’s never needed to be more honest than he already is. He says what he means, and he means what he says.

It’s always been so easy when it comes to him. 

He lets out a breath, and you can feel his chest rising beneath your hand on his torso, feel the subtle beat of his heart beneath your fingers. 

Ba-dump. Ba-dump. Ba-dump.

He rests his head atop yours. “You,” he says.

Seokjin, a man of his word, holds up his end of the deal like he does everything else: honestly and fully. Little has really changed about your relationship dynamic—he still sends you good morning texts and reminds you that you need to drink your eight glasses of water (which you never do, and he consistently does because he’s an organized man with perfect skin). Still randomly comes to your apartment with two brown bags filled with groceries to last you the next two weeks. Still makes time for you.

But now, it’s all being done under the guise of courtship. Of what it’s like to have someone romantically interested in you. 

Of course, Seokjin’s not actually romantically interested in you, but he does a damn good job of pretending to be. For the sake of this whole thing. Seokjin still has one objective in mind: get you to believe in love again, and that all of these things he’s been doing, from taking you to the fair to dancing with you at Cynthia’s wedding, are means to accomplish an end. 

(The stuff in between, the texts, the calls, the visits, those are just part of your routine.)

It feels completely normal and totally unnatural, all at once. Like a new kind of relationship neither of you have really ever delved in before, toeing the line between friendship and this other feeling, one without a name. Seokjin will do something that you and he have always done, long before any of this was in motion, like ordering Indian takeout to your place unprompted, and then he will say that that’s what people are supposed to do when they’re courting someone. As if he is the end-all be-all of chivalry. 

Truth be told, you can’t wait for this to end, for things to go back to the way they were. You never did set an official fake breakup date (if that’s what it’s even called), but you suppose that that means that you can just call it off whenever you’d like. You don’t feel as though anything he’s doing is working. He treats you just the same. What is there to fall in love with, other than familiarity?

But Seokjin’s diligence makes you diligent, too, which is why you’re standing in your kitchen, outnumbered by vegetables (ten to one, which means they could definitely kill you if given the chance—and opposable thumbs), a gigantic pot on your creaky gas stove, boiling soup swirling inside. Even though your kitchen is nowhere near the level of organized and systematic as the Chopped set, it certainly smells like it. Your cooking can hardly compare to Seokjin’s (you roughly chopped vegetables and put them in broth, he makes kimbap for fun), but, like all other aspects of your life, he rubs off on you, one way or another. 

Seokjin seems to think that this transference of his personality will apply to how he feels about love, too. But time can only work so much magic, and ever since freshman year of college, for the seven years you’ve known him, it’s always been like this. 

You let the soup simmer on your stove as you begin to pack up the food scattered on your counter, unsure when next you’re going to use it, especially since your daily meals usually consist of leftovers and, if you’re feeling exotic, stir-fry. It’s then that you hear the knock on your door, and you don’t even need to think before you’re scurrying over to pull it open, revealing Seokjin leaning over to peek happily into your peephole.  

“Look who it is, for a change,” you say sarcastically.

“You mean your favorite human being in the entire world who is about to take you to see his mom and enjoy a nice home-cooked mom meal?” Seokjin corrects obnoxiously, making you laugh as you let him inside. 

“You blackmailed me into this,” you remind him, pointing an accusing metal soup ladle his way. “You convinced me that you’re doing me a favor by treating me like someone you’d want to court, and tricked me into making an enormous pot of soup for your mother!” A lose-lose situation. 

“I am doing you a favor,” Seokjin defends. “Don’t you love having a doting, attractive young professional taking you out to fairs and ordering you take-out? This is what the beginning of a relationship is supposed to look like.” Emphasis on supposed to. “Also, I accompanied you to Cynthia’s wedding after she had been talking your ear off trying to get you to bring a plus-one, so…”

A dirty, dirty play. 

“Fine, you win,” you concede. You did really appreciate him coming, especially so last minute. “I better hear nothing but pure, unadulterated praise coming from your lips when you eat my soup, or else.”

“I would have showered compliments on your soup even if you hadn’t sent me a thinly-veiled threat,” Seokjin says proudly. “What kind of a best friend would I be if I didn’t?”

Perhaps one that confused you a little less. 

You spend the entire car ride to Seokjin’s mom’s house (who lives forty-minutes out of the city) listening to him ramble on about how desperately his mother wants him to get married, settle down and have kids or a dog or two. The two of you still have half of your twenties to go, but the moment he graduated, Seokjin got a steady job and a nice apartment in the city, which immediately equates to marriage material. 

At least, that’s what his mom thinks. 

But those aren’t the sort of things that make Seokjin marriage material. You’ve known him for years. Ever since he first spoke to you, it was immediately obvious he was always the sort of perfect, dreamboat husband material that teenage girls fawn over, that characters in anime fantasize about. 

At the most basic level, Seokjin is goddamn attractive, and even if you’ve seen him in nothing but tighty-whities as a nervous eighteen-year-old, seen him with tomato sauce in his hair, seen him sick with a cold and strep throat, you can’t deny him that. He’d got the sort of looks that make people on the street take photos of him, thinking he’s a celebrity. 

But not only is Seokjin undoubtedly gorgeous, he’s an entire package. He’s an excellent cook, capable of impressing any and all parents, hilarious, charming and charismatic. Professional but never dull. He does his part in group projects, studies for his exams, listens to the music recommendations you give him even if they aren’t his style. The girls he dated in college knew exactly what they were doing when they went out with him. They were attempting to secure their future. It’s a shame none of them stuck, not like you, Elmer’s glue on his skin. 

Seokjin’s mom, the lovely woman she is, is under the impression that Seokjin became husband material when he graduated, got a job and moved to the city. But you know better than anyone—Seokjin’s always been husband material. Now, he’s just old enough that he knows he could be looking for himself. 

When you pull into Seokjin’s mom’s driveway, a little suburban home with a freshly-mowed font lawn and flowers by the mailbox, she’s already opening the front door and scurrying out, still wearing her slippers. 

“Eomma!” Seokjin says happily, getting out of the driver’s seat as she bounds towards him, the two of them wearing the same smiles on their faces. Like mother, like son. “It’s been a while.”

“Too long!” She chides, smacking him slightly. “You have to come and visit me more often. I don’t live that far away from you.”

“I’m busy, Ma,” Seokjin says with a roll of his eyes. “I have a job.”

“A job and no wife!” She exclaims, though her attitude immediately changes the moment you exit the car, pot of soup still warm in your hands. “Y/N!” 

She rushes over to give you a hug as well, albeit a much more careful one. She looks positively thrilled to see you. Seokjin’s mom has always liked you, even when you were an insufferable eighteen-year-old. They would invite you over for their Chuseok celebrations every year, and sometimes to their New Year’s Eve parties, if you were in the area over winter break. 

“No wife yet, Eomma,” Seokjin says. 

“You look so pretty, Y/N,” Seokjin’s mother tells you. She takes the pot from your hands wordlessly, refusing to listen to your protests as she shoos you both inside. 

The house smells of a home-cooked meal, savory and salty and sweet all at once, and you can see several dishes already laid out on the table. It’s both a familiar sight and scent, something you all too frequently experience whenever you barge into Seokjin’s apartment around mealtime. Seokjin immediately joins his mother in the kitchen, scrambling around to help her finish cooking, as you wait awkwardly by the table, easily the most inexperienced of the three of you. 

“Is this your soup?” His mother asks. 

“Yes, I thought to make some to bring tonight,” you say with a smile. Seokjin’s mother beams. 

“Delicious! Seokjinie always tells me how much he loves having it when he’s sick. You take care of him very well,” his mother grins. She places it on the stove, turning on the heat to warm it up. 

“Only because he does the same for me,” you say, sending a grin Seokjin’s way, one he returns instantly. 

The rest of the meal preparation (which doesn’t take long, especially with an extra pair of equally-gifted hands) goes by like this, Seokjin’s mother heaping compliments onto you as you stand there, helpless, watching as the two add the final dishes to the dining table. Seokjin dodges every question about his lack of engagement, always deflecting and shifting the topic to something you’ve done. Maybe this is why he wanted you around…

Finally, when dinner is ready, the three of you sit down, eager to pick up your chopsticks and dive in. 

“Seokjin’s father is away on business,” his mother explains after you note the empty place setting. “He sends his love!”

“I knew I was missing the dad jokes,” Seokjin says with a shake of his head. “Luckily, I can make up for them with my own.”

Seokjin’s mother laughs. “You must get a lot of this, don’t you?” She shoves an extra serving of fish onto your plate, letting it plop on top of the kimchi she had previously spooned onto the dish. “Eat, eat. I made it for you.”

“Oh, thank you,” you say with a smile. You’ll probably walk out of this house with a food baby the size of Jupiter. You always do. “And yes, but it’s nice. I like spending time with him.”

“Oh, thank God,” Seokjin says dramatically, a hand to his chest. “I was worried about that, for a second.”

“You two have always been inseparable,” his mother comments. “Don’t tell me this is why you haven’t married yet, Seokjin-ah.”

“What do you mean, Ma?” He asks over a mouthful of naengmyeon. “You know that I’m waiting to get married.”

Seokjin’s mother scoffs, shocked. “What? But Y/N’s right here! You two make an excellent couple.”

“Eomma!” Seokjin admonishes, even a little taken aback himself. You had no idea this was the secret plan his mother’s been plotting, all this time. It seems both you and him were just operating under the assumption that she was doing what all mothers do when their children are adults—dreaming out loud for grandchildren. 

“I’m sorry, did I misread something? You two are a couple, aren’t you?” His mother asks, positively bewildered. No wonder she’s been grilling Seokjin so hard about getting married. She had thought he was halfway there, already. 

You open your mouth to correct her, but your mind gets the best of you. Isn’t this what Seokjin wants? For people to think you’re a couple? For the true dating experience—are they, aren’t they? 

“No, Eomma,” Seokjin says, interrupting your thoughts. You turn to him, brows furrowed in confusion. “We’re just friends.”

Nobody mentions marriage, dating, or love for the rest of the meal. 

You excuse yourself to the bathroom once everyone is finished, Seokjin’s mother shooing you away from the kitchen sink, refusing to let you partake in any sort of clean up as the honorary guest. You’re glad to get away, the tension palpable and thick, looming over your heads, a reminder to all three of you that friends is all you have been, and friends is all you will ever be. Strangely enough, Seokjin had seemed the most disappointed out of all of you, even more so than his mother, whose dreams of grandchildren were crushed before her eyes. 

You wonder why. 

If Seokjin had been so adamant about the two of you calling yourselves a couple at the wedding, then why did he backtrack here? Was it his mother? Was it you? What could have made him change his mind?

As you walk back to the kitchen, you can hear the two of them having a conversation, hushed voices so as not to alert you. You take a step back from the entryway, hiding behind the wall to eavesdrop. 

“You must see the way she looks at you, Seokjin-ah,” his mother says. 

“No, Ma, that doesn’t mean anything,” Seokjin says, voice cold. 

“Yes it does, my boy,” she says. “Can’t you see it? The way she cares for you.”

“That’s just how it’s always been.”

“Seokjin-ah, please. You’re being stubborn.”

“Eomma, believe me, I know better than anyone else that we’re only ever going to be friends.”

“You don’t see it, then?” His mother’s voice is sad, helpless. “The way she loves you.”

You hear Seokjin suck in a breath, a deep, heavy inhale, weighed down by his thoughts. At that moment, you decide to round the corner, pretending like you haven’t hear a thing. 

“Y/N!” Seokjin’s mother exclaims happily. “Your soup was delicious. You’ll have to come over more often so I can keep having it.”

“I’ll have Seokjin send home a thermos with it,” you joke, lightening the tension you can still feel lingering in the air. 

“Ah, you’re too kind!” She says, sending you a warm smile. Seokjin hasn’t turned around from where he’s facing the sink, yellow rubber gloves up to his elbows as he scrubs the dishes clean. “Seokjin-ah, you must remember to bring Y/N more often. I love seeing her.”

“Yes, Eomma,” Seokjin says dutifully. When he finishes, he packs up the leftovers his mother is sending him home with, placing tupperware after tupperware into a plain brown bag. “Y/N, ready to go?”

“Yes, it’s getting late,” you say, the words stiff on your tongue. Seokjin seems closed off, bottled up. There’s something he’s not saying, and you can feel it weighing on his tongue. “it was lovely to see you again.”

“Of course!” Seokjin’s mother grins. “You must visit me again soon. I’ll be waiting!”

“Bye, Eomma,” Seokjin says as you head to the front door, pulling on your shoes as he opens the door. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Remember what I said, alright, Seokjin-ah?” His mother says, pulling him in for a hug. “You mustn't ignore what’s right in front of you.” You can’t help but wonder if maybe, you had overheard something you weren’t supposed to. 

In the car, you ask, “What was your mom talking about? When we were saying goodbye?”

Seokjin shrugs, nonchalant and calm. It’s so plain that it’s uncharacteristic of him. “Oh, nothing.” You hate not knowing what really lingers in his thoughts, rests deep in the pit of his heart. You want nothing more than to reach over and promise him that, no matter what, you’ll always be by his side. “She just wants me to look out for myself.”

Even on this clear night, the moon and stars visible above your heads, your mind (and heart) couldn’t be foggier. 

In your freshman year of college, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part 2 had just been released on DVD, digital, and Blu-ray. Seokjin, the eighteen-year-old genius he was, had brought a projector to school that year, and so, one chilly November weekend, you and him set up in an empty lounge with a perfectly white wall and watched (spoiler alert) Voldemort get Avada Kedavra-ed at one in the morning. 

Ever since, monthly movie nights have been ingrained into your routine, even when Seokjin was in London for a semester in your junior year and you used a shady website so you could stream Netflix movies together. You think, that semester, you watched every Certified Rotten movie on Netflix possible, relishing in being able to joke about how terrible the films you were watching with your best friend. You almost thought you would break your tradition, just because of how difficult it was to organize. 

But still, you persisted. 

Of course, now, in the age of platform subscriptions and renting on YouTube, it’s a lot easier. Seokjin has a subscription to every movie-streaming platform under the sun, which means that by default, so do you. One of the many perks of having Seokjin as your best friend. 

As two mostly-functioning adults in the real world, this is how your movie nights typically go: you will alternate apartments as the designated living room of the weekend, the host is in charge of arranging a pre-show dinner, and the guest is in charge of bringing a bottle of wine as a gift. You eat dinner, drink wine, and watch a movie together, either on the couch, or, in emergencies, in bed. The host always chooses. Three years out of college and running, neither of you have been able to come up with a system more foolproof than this. 

Tonight, it is Seokjin’s turn to host, which you always prefer because he cooks dinner on his own instead of giving up and ordering takeout like you always do, and because his couch and bed are much more comfortable than your own. Not that you frequent his bed. Because you don’t. You just know that from your limited experience, it’s much more comfortable than your own bed. It’s probably his mattress. 

When you arrive at his apartment, his door is already cracked open, resting on the door frame as you can hear him whistling a tune you don’t recognize. Almost like he’s been expecting you, or something. 

“If you leave your door open like this, you’re gonna get robbed,” you announce, forgoing a hello as you barge inside, the apartment smelling of smokiness. “Whoa, what the hell are you cooking? Lava?”

“I accidentally set off the fire alarm,” Seokjin explains, back turned towards you as he bends down to pull something out of the oven. “That’s why the door’s open.”

“Oh, not because you were expecting a guest?” You tease, placing the bottle of wine on the counter as you join him in the kitchen. 

Seokjin turns around to reveal a baking dish with four chicken legs, drenched in a sauce that smells of spice and flavor, charred on the skin. Gourmet restaurants couldn’t even compare. 

“No,” he jokes. “I was gonna eat all of this food and drink this wine by myself.”

“Hey, that is my wine!” You shout, making grabby hands towards the neck of the bottle. Seokjin raises a single eyebrow, unimpressed, as he dishes up the food, two chicken legs a piece on some luxurious paper plates. “Fine, I guess we can share.”

“You know you can’t resist me,” Seokjin tells you, and you hate it, because it’s true. 

 As you finish up, washing the pots and pans as Seokjin puts away the various bottles of seasoning on his counter, some of which you can’t even name, he asks, “Couch or bed?”

You turn, scandalized, swatting him with a fork lathered with soap, “So forward!”

Seokjin rolls his eyes. “Ugh, you know what I mean. You know I don’t mind where we watch our movie.”

(So long as he’s with you.)

You give the two options not another second worth of thought. You’re in the mood to lounge around on Seokjin’s terribly comfortable mattress tonight. You’ve had a rough past week at work, and sometimes, if you complain enough, Seokjin will massage your shoulders as you watch the movie. 

“Hmm… bed, please!” You say like a child, wrapping up the dishwashing as Seokjin grabs his laptop from the coffee table by the couch. You skip into his bedroom, giddy and only the tiniest bit wine-drunk, Seokjin following like the heavyweight best friend he is. 

Seokjin’s bedroom space has always felt so familiar to you. Plants along the windowsill, shelves with photos of his family, an enormous full-length mirror for gratuitous outfit-of-the-day pictures. Even in college, it felt this warm, this cozy. When you knocked on the wooden door of his dormitory at midnight to go out and get McDonald’s, coming back and gorging out on your McNuggets, it felt like this. 

People always say that your bedroom should be your little sanctuary, a home within a house. But instead of your own bedroom giving you that comfort, it’s Seokjin’s. Here, more so than anywhere else, you feel safe. Warm. Loved. There’s something magical to it. 

“What are we watching?” You ask happily, jumping onto his bed and grabbing the nearest plushie to hold onto. Seokjin plugs his laptop charger into the nearest outlet and sets it up on a couple of pillows for optimal viewing pleasure, the two of you leaning against a mountain of pillows as he pulls up Netflix. 

“To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before, have you heard of it?” Seokjin asks, clicking play on the movie. 

You furrow your brows as you curl into him, letting your head rest on his chest. “Really? I thought you were gonna pick something cool, like Interstellar, or something. Not something my fifteen-year-old cousin loves.”

“First of all, your fifteen-year-old cousin has great taste,” Seokjin tells you, offended. “Secondly, just because this is a teenage romantic comedy doesn’t mean it’s any less cool than Matthew McConaughey in a spacesuit, okay?”

You’re still skeptical. The New York Times gave To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before a pretty decent review, but you have long outgrown your teenage coming-of-age romantic-comedy movie phase, even if you still quote Clueless regularly. As you’ve gotten older, your movie nights have transitioned away from young adult books turned into movies and more towards films that people like Lupita Nyong’o star in, movies with sad endings on purpose. So this is very out of character, especially for a movie junkie like Seokjin, who sends you weekly movie reviews of the latest indie divorce drama.

You snuggle in closer, accepting defeat. It is Seokjin’s turn to choose, after all. And you suppose, that after a long week of unforgiving work, you could use this time to unwind, mindlessly watch a movie geared towards high-schoolers instead of analyzing some unknown French historical drama. “Alright then,” you tell him. “I trust you.”

Famous last words. 

You always have a habit of putting your trust into your best friend at the absolute worst times. Example One: In junior year, when he swore that the new salad place on campus was delicious until you got food poisoning from their chicken. Example Two: The summer after you graduated, when he promised you that roller skating was “easy” and “fun”. Example Three: Two months ago, when he blackmailed you into letting him take you out on dates after promising to go with you to Cynthia’s wedding. 

Example Four: Right now, as you’re snuggled up together like two birds of a feather, watching two sixteen-year-olds agree to fake date for personal gain. And even though they’re high schoolers, and even though he’s going through with it to get back at an ex-girlfriend and she’s trying to recover from her disastrously-mailed love letters, it feels too similar to be something that Seokjin just happened to stumble upon. 

You turn to look up at Seokjin, the movie a distant hum in the background, hardly at the forefront of your mind, but he doesn’t spare you a second glance. Instead, he pulls you in closer, wrapping an arm around your torso as his fingers dance across your own, mindless. He doesn’t have a damn thing to say, a rarity in your relationship, letting the movie do the talking. 

I think it’s funny, the boy says as the two main characters sit in this absolutely ancient diner, you say that you’re scared of commitment and relationships, but you don’t seem to be afraid to be with me. 

Well, there’s no reason to be, the girl responds casually. Unbothered. 

Why’s that? He asks. 

She shrugs, nonchalant. Because we’re just pretending. 

You feel Seokjin’s grip tighten, feel his skin pressing against your own, the exposed part of your stomach where your shirt has ridden up. It’s almost like he’s afraid to lose you. The mere sensation, one you have felt hundreds, if not thousands of times before, sends shivers down your spine. 

“You cold?” He asks softly, pulling up the blanket that’s crumpled up by your feet, placing it gently over your bodies. 

You couldn’t care less about the movie playing in front of you. Not when Seokjin’s this close, not when he’s got his arms wrapped around you, not as you feel his soft breaths against your forehead, as he tucks you underneath a blanket. You’re frozen still next to him. You think that even your heart has stopped. 

Dozens of movie nights, but never one like this. Dozens of cuddle sessions, dozens of nights in. But this one feels brand new. 

Seokjin adjusts himself, turning in towards you. You can’t even feel yourself breathing. 

When did this start happening? You ask yourself. Why do your palms feel clammy? Why does his touch leave little embers along your skin? 

Traitorously, your mind responds, a question to a question. 

Hasn’t it always been like this?

Tuesdays have always been your least favorite day, because they’re Monday’s shitty cousin. They’re far enough into the week to have you not complain about it being the beginning of the week, but they’re too soon into the week to warrant any excitement about it ending. At least, when you wake up to go to work on a Monday, you know it’s a Monday. When you wake up to go to work on a Tuesday, you think it’s a Wednesday. Tuesday is the day of the week that wears a mask and tries to make you think it’s something else. 

After the printer jamming, salad dressing getting spilled on your pants, and your coworker losing his cool in the break room and breaking a cabinet door off of its hinges, you think that, when you get called into your boss’s office in the middle of the afternoon, there could be nothing worse for him to tell you. 

Instead, you walk out of his office with a brand new job title and a salary increase to match, positively ecstatic as you bounce all the way to your desk, whipping out your phone to text, well, who else?

[June 16, 2:43PM]

You: I GOT IT!!!

Seokjin: OMG SERIOUSLY?? Seokjin: CONGRATS YOU DESERVE IT !!!!

You: thank u jinie 8) now i can buy us more expensive wine for our movie nights

Seokjin: :D Seokjin: I’m so proud of you, you’re amazing!

And it’s the sort of text exchange that makes your heart soar, even more so than the promotion itself, because there is truly nothing more fulfilling than sharing your accomplishments with the people closest to you. 

You pack up later than usual that day, sitting at your desk for a little bit longer as you wrap up some emails and reorganize the space, determined to make it suitable for someone who just got a kick-ass raise. You’re leaning underneath your desk to gather your belongings, plopping your phone charger and a couple of nice blue pens into your bag, when you feel a sudden tap on your shoulder, scaring the absolute bejeezus out of you.

“Ow!” You shout as you bang the back of your head on the underside of your desk. Angry and in pain, you turn to face the asshole that’s just given you a bump on your scalp for the next week, only to find your expression lightening the moment you lay eyes on Seokjin, fresh from work with a bouquet of flowers in his hand. Shocked and pleasantly surprised, you say, “Oh.”

“Don’t sound so excited to see me,” Seokjin jokes, rolling his eyes as he reaches a hand out to help you up. “You alright? I didn’t mean to scare you like that.”

Rubbing the nape of your neck, you shake your head. “No, no, I’m alright. You just caught me by surprise. What’s all this?” You ask as Seokjin reaches his hand towards you, the flowery scent permeating the air around you. The bouquet in his hand is a collection of various pastel-colored flowers, baby’s breath and lilies, carnations and hydrangeas. 

“A congratulations,” Seokjin says in lieu of any other sort of explanation. “You deserve it.”

“You make it sound like I’m pregnant,” you tell him, grabbing your bag as you double-check your desk, making sure you haven’t left anything behind. 

“Oh my God, are you?” Seokjin asks, eyes wide. 

You laugh, shaking your head as you accept the flowers graciously, immediately holding them up to your nose. “No, I’m not, Seokjin. You’d be the first to know. But this is so sweet of you, you didn’t have to come to my work like this.”

“Well, how else am I supposed to pick you up for dinner?” 

Stopping in your tracks, you knit your brows together in confusion. “Dinner?”

“The reservation is at 5:45 so we’re already cutting it close,” Seokjin informs you, offering no explanation. “Come on. I had to pull a few strings to get this, so over my dead body will we arrive late.”

Seokjin reaches down to take your hand in his own, giving you no time to ask any more questions as he tugs you out of your office and into his little white Volkswagen, the scent of the flowers filling the air in between the two of you. 

When Seokjin somehow manages to get a parking spot a block away from the restaurant in question, your mouth practically drops open. 

It’s a cozy Lebanese place, complete with more plants you could ever dream of owning, and an outdoor patio decorated with warm fairy lights, lanterns hanging from strings above your head. It’s been ranked one of the best restaurants in the city for years now, and it is practically impossible to get a table (that is, unless you book a year in advance). 

“Seriously?” You ask, in awe, as Seokjin leads you towards the restaurant, the flowers resting safely on the passenger seat. 

“Of course,” Seokjin says like it’s nothing. “You deserve it.”

You aren’t a moment too late, the hostess happily seating the both of you at a corner table on the outside patio, the evening breeze sending flutters through your napkins as she hands you your menus and the wine list. 

“How did you swing this?” You ask, blown away as Seokjin grins. 

“Well, you know my friend, Yoongi?” He asks. You remember him, having met him a couple of times at Seokjin’s few-and-far-between house gatherings. He’s a dainty man with colorful hair who’s got the biggest alcohol tolerance you’ve ever seen. “He’s a food critic, so I had him do me a favor…”

“You didn’t have to do all of that for me,” you say. Seokjin probably owes Yoongi his first-born child, now. 

“But I wanted to,” Seokjin says firmly. “What kind of a best friend would I be if I didn’t celebrate something like this with you?”

Seokjin must know, after all of these years, that you aren’t one to make a big deal out of things. That you vastly prefer staying inside, curled up with a good book or an even better best friend, over going out and getting wasted, over eating at a too-expensive restaurant with portions the size of your fingernail, because that’s who you are. And still, he insists, because that’s who he is. Someone who thinks that everybody deserves a little celebration in their lives, a little love from the people closest to them. 

“You’d be my best friend no matter what,” you tell him, because it’s true. Because Seokjin has always been and will always be that person: the one you’ll never second-guess. “Even if you had gone home after work and passed out on your couch, you’d still be my most favorite person.”

Seokjin grins. “I’m your favorite person?”

“Well, other than Yoongi,” you tease. “After all, he did get us this reservation.”

“Can’t believe that I’m second best to a friend you’ve met like, twice,” Seokjin says, mock-offended. “How am I supposed to compete with that?”

“You’ll find a way,” you muse. He always does. It’s incredible—ever since you met Seokjin, you don’t think anyone’s ever quite stacked up to him. Nobody has ever compared. 

“I’m really proud of you, Y/N,” Seokjin says, the two of you clinking your wine glasses together to celebrate your promotion, celebrate the night, celebrate being together. “You deserved that position more than anybody else.”

“You don’t even know half of my coworkers,” you joke. 

“But I know you,” Seokjin reminds you. “And I know that you’re the most hardworking, determined, focused person I’ve ever met. When you want something, you get it.”

“What?” You ask, a hand reaching out over the table to caress his own, thumb rubbing against the back of his hand. “You’re like that, too. You’re honest and real and certain.” They’re traits you’ve always admired about him, things that you wish you could be but know that you’ll never compare to him. 

“No,” Seokjin says, with a shake of his head. “I’m really not. I wish, though.”

Seokjin’s the truest person you know. What secret could he be keeping? Why hasn’t he told you? Doesn’t he know that you’d care for him, stay by his side no matter what? Not a damn thing in the world could ever make you leave him. 

Your waiter comes around to take your order, and you and Seokjin order a variety of appetizers that you fully intend on sharing with each other. You’ve never really been able to keep to your own plates. There is something so genuinely wonderful about sharing. Afterwards, Seokjin launches into this hilarious story about some old college friends that he had recently heard back from, ones that you’d met once or twice during university but never cemented a real friendship with, unlike Seokjin. 

Quite honestly, you couldn’t care less for them or what they’re doing, but Seokjin is so animated, so vivacious and excited to be telling you about them, that his words are music to your ears. Nothing makes you quite as happy as Seokjin when he smiles, when he laughs, when he’s fucking effervescent. His joy brings you joy, and you suppose that that’s really what it means to care for someone. To love them. When even something as simple as being in their presence makes your heart feel lighter. 

In the evening light, illuminated by the warm flame of the lanterns littering the sky above you, the fairy lights along the fence that encloses the patio, the house lights from the building next door, Seokjin glows. The way his body bounces as he speaks makes it look like a yellow halo surrounds him, his gold jewelry glinting when it catches the light, shimmering. He looks straight out of a movie, straight off of a red carpet, warm brown eyes and an honest smile to match, charismatic and golden and real. 

The craziest part is that he’s always looked like this. Always outshined everybody, no matter his surroundings. Every day, you wonder how on Earth you could have gotten so lucky to have been able to meet him. How blessed you are to be his best friend. How fortunate you are to love him. 

When your meal arrives, the two of you take a break from laughing aloud in this ambient, cozy restaurant, likely bothering all of the people within a twenty-feet radius of your table, and dig in, only emitting the occasional groan of pleasure. It’s no wonder this restaurant has been ranked the best in the city for years on end. Every bite explodes on your tongue, decorates your taste buds. You won’t be surprised if, next time you go over, Seokjin’s recreating every dish you have tonight. He’s always had a knack for it, anyway. 

“You know,” he says over a mouthful of zucchini, “you’re my favorite person, too.”

Normally you’d say something cheesy and dramatic, something along the lines of a sarcastic I’m touched or even a self-deprecating At least I’m number one at something, but instead, you smile softly to yourself. You always knew you and Seokjin were entwined with each other, but it makes your heart flutter to hear him say it for himself. 

“I know,” you murmur. “I’ll never forget that.”

“I don’t know, I just—” Seokjin begins, pausing. It’s not the sort of stop where he’s trying to figure out what words to say. He already knows. He’s just waiting to see if they’re the right ones. “You know, it’s always been you, Y/N. A lot of my life has always been uncertain, but you—you’re the only thing I’m always sure of.”

Afterwards, Seokjin walks you to the door of your apartment, the two of you lingering in the doorway, him refusing to leave and you refusing to say goodbye. 

“Don’t forget these,” Seokjin says, handing you the brown paper bag filled with your leftovers, various to-go boxes filled with treats. 

“What? I thought you wanted them,” you say, eyes wide. “Don’t you want them as reference for a recipe?”

“No, it’s alright,” Seokjin tells you with a shake of his head. “I’ll remember.” 

“Are you sure?” You ask. Seokjin nods, certain. He’s got a steely expression to him, one filled with determination. There’s something he’s not saying, and you’re almost positive it’ll come out tonight. Maybe he knows that you ate that Pop-Tart in junior year. Maybe he’s about to get his revenge. To protect yourself, you smile, telling him, “I had a really nice time tonight, Seokjin. You didn’t have to do all of this for me.”

“I wanted to,” Seokjin repeats. He need offer no other explanation. “Any excuse to spend time with you, I’ll take.”

You laugh. “I suppose that that’s what this whole pretend-dating thing is about, right?” 

Seokjin’s face goes blank.

“What?”

“Well,” you say, shrugging as you reach out to grab his hand. “Dinner tonight, isn’t that the sort of thing you’d do on a date? That’s why you took me out to celebrate instead of just bringing over some wine and takeout. I have to admit, you’re pretty good at this whole dating thing. Must be why you offered, right?”

“Y/N, I—”

“All of those romantic things you said, us playing footsie underneath the table, getting the reservation from Yoongi, I mean. You’ve always loved pulling out all of the stops. You’re giving me such unrealistic expectations for dating, you know?” You chide, grinning as you toy with Seokjin’s fingers amongst your own. Looking up at him, he looks frozen solid, gazing at you with an unreadable expression. “Hey, is everything alright?” Your hand trails up to his shoulder, forcing him to meet your eyes with his own. 

They’re swirling in ink. 

And then, he leans down, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you in, and presses his lips against your own. Shocked, you gasp into his mouth, feel the heat of his lips on yours as he kisses you, fervent and desperate, like he’s got something to prove. You feel your heart race, dropping the brown paper bag by your side on your hardwood floor as he presses in closer, insistent. It’s as if your entire body shuts down at his touch, at the feeling of him against you, on you, surrounding you. 

Eventually, your mind comes to, flickering back to life after being entirely short-circuited, and you pull out of his grasp, pushing him away with your palms against his chest, gasping for air. 

“Seokjin, what the—”

“I’ve wanted to do that since I met you,” Seokjin tells you, and no longer does what he say sound like a line straight out of the Dating 101 Handbook. It sounds honest, and what once was something you treasured about him has morphed into fear, into words you dread coming from in between his lips. 

“No, that’s not—”

“What do you mean?” He asks, insistent. He takes a step towards you, and it makes you take a bigger step back. Being far away from him makes you ache, but being close to him is absolutely unbearable. It’s impossible to know which one your heart would prefer. “That’s how I feel. That’s how I’ve always felt.”

“I can’t—I need—” You stumble over your words, backing up into your living room, hand reaching out to the doorknob. You don’t know what you can’t do. You don’t know what you need. All you know is that your heart hasn’t stopped racing the moment his lips met yours, and that you aren’t sure what will happen if Seokjin stands outside your apartment any longer. “I just—”

“I know,” Seokjin says with a nod. His face is beet red and he looks just as breathless, sending your way a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I know that you don’t feel the same. But I just—I wanted you to know.”

“I don’t know what I feel,” you whisper to yourself, eyes boring holes into your shoes. “How could I?”

“Y/N,” Seokjin says, reaching a hand out. “I’m sorry—”

“No,” you interrupt. “Don’t apologize. Just—please, just go. Please.”

Seokjin doesn’t protest. Not as you shoo him away, not as you begin to close the door in front of him. 

The door is nearly shut, barely inches away from the door frame, when you hear him call your name. “Y/N,” he says. If you were any more heartless, you’d shut the door, let the last thing you hear from him be your own name. But you aren’t, and not once have you ever closed the door on Seokjin. Not now. Not ever. 

“Yes?” You whisper, terrified of what he might say but too desperate to avoid it altogether. 

You hear him hiccup. You don’t want to see him cry. 

“You’re my best friend.”

(Kim Seokjin prides himself for being a man of few mistakes. He has good time-management skills, triple checks his entire apartment every time he leaves, and only illegally parks in the fire lane when he knows he won’t get a ticket. He’s got great foresight, makes educated decisions, and generally feels as though everything he does will benefit somebody, in the long run. 

You always tell him that you envy how put-together his life is, how picture perfect it seems—stable job, nice apartment, meals prepped and ready to go in his fridge. And even if you aren’t nearly as obsessed with falling in love as he is (and he’s willing to admit that, at least), you tell him that it’s admirable that he has all of this time to go on dates with women he’s met off of Bumble or through a friend of a friend, making an effort to go out into the world and do something with his love life. 

The truth is, Seokjin has been on more dates in the past year than to work events in the evenings and on weekends, but he’s never seen the same person twice. Sometimes, he ends up with a phone number punched into his contacts and a promise to meet again as friends, but most of the time they pat him on the back after it’s over and tell him that they hope he’ll get over his ex soon. 

Seokjin hasn’t had a real ex, a real breakup, since sophomore year of college, when his long-distance girlfriend from high school told him she couldn’t bear to listen to him how much he loves his new best friend any longer. 

It doesn’t take a genius to guess who that best friend is. 

Seokjin’s always been sort of foolish, a little too forward at the best of times and terribly obvious at the worst of times. Always holding out hope that maybe one day you’ll pick up on all of his slip-ups, and he’ll stop acting like a bumbling idiot around you. 

Admittedly, he had gotten pretty fed-up by the time he invited you to dinner to celebrate your promotion. He rolled up to your office in a silk button down and a bouquet of the nicest flowers Hoseok could find, brought you to a restaurant you had been dying to go to ever since you moved to the city, and told you that you were the one constant in his life. And he thought that maybe, just maybe, you would realize. And he wouldn’t have to do everything by himself. 

It’s a wonder that you hadn’t figured it out. 

At least, not until you said goodbye to him, standing underneath the wooden door frame to your apartment, and he leaned down and kissed you. 

Seokjin is a man of few mistakes, but he’s almost positive that that one was the most costly. He had been psyching himself up in his head the entire ride home, telling himself I can do it, I’m gonna tell her, what’s the worst you could do? 

As it turns out, the worst you could do is reject him. 

Seokjin knows you don’t feel the same way. He doesn’t need to go on any dates, doesn’t need to read any more novels or watch any more movies to know that. Maybe you had known all along, you just never knew how to let him down easy. Maybe you were just hoping that if you never acknowledged it, it would go away, age like fine wine, bottled up for an eternity. 

But when he was standing in the flower shop, lingering behind the counter as Hoseok insisted he knew the perfect bouquet to make, there was a little spark in his heart that thought, maybe. Just maybe. 

“Think she’ll like it?” Seokjin had asked hesitantly, fingers curling around one of the petals of the lilies in the bouquet as Hoseok rang him up. 

“What do mean, of course she will!” Hoseok says. He has long been witness to Seokjin’s fruitless efforts to get you to see how he feels. “She’d be a fool not to realize.”

Seokjin’s never been sure if you were the fool, or if he has been, all along. 

“I don’t know, Hoseok,” he had said with a sigh, handing over his credit card. “I feel like telling her might be the wrong move.”

“Why? From what it sounds like, you two are really close,” Hoseok had asked innocently. He even shimmied in a tulip, squeezing it into the middle of the bouquet with nimble fingers. “Are you afraid she’ll say no?”

“I’m afraid I’ll ruin everything,” Seokjin had told him. He’d rather keep you close as a best friend than lose you entirely in the hopes of confessing. That has always been his priority. It always will be. 

Hoseok had laughed, disbelieving. Seokjin had bitterly assumed that he’s never been in love with a best friend. It sucks hard, but Seokjin was in no position to ruin Hoseok’s day by telling him that. “You won’t ruin everything, Jin. You’re a wonderful guy with a great personality. I think it’s worth telling her, you know?” Seokjin did not know. “Like, if you don’t, you’ll never know what could have been.”

And perhaps that was the reason that he leaned down to press his lips against yours. On the off chance, the miniscule possibility that you might feel the same way. His mother had been absolutely insistent that you were in love with him, and while he trusts his mother’s instincts, Seokjin’s known you much longer and much closer than she ever will. And you were never in love with him. Friends is all you have ever known with him. It’s all that the two of you will ever be. 

You’re lucky, Seokjin thinks as he sulks around in his apartment, having decided to give your relationship some space after he completely annihilated it the Tuesday prior. Unrequited love isn’t something he’d wish on his worst enemy. It’s a ray of sunshine surrounded by clouds. It’s the constant reminder that even though what you already have will never be enough, losing it entirely is a fate much worse. 

On the bright side, at least you still tag him in Facebook memes.

Seokjin gets a phone call from an unknown number that Saturday evening, as he cooks a meal for one and pretends that his apartment doesn’t feel bone-crushingly empty without you to fill up the space. He lets the phone ring all the way through the first time—he’s not in the mood to bait those scammy telemarketers tonight, and gets back to cooking. And then his phone rings a second time, same number, and suddenly Seokjin feels as though it might be something urgent. What if it’s a coworker whose number he doesn’t have? Oh God, what if it’s his boss?

“Hello?” Seokjin asks, picking up the call and holding his phone between his ear and his shoulder. 

“Seokjin?”

It’s Cynthia.

“Cynthia?” Seokjin asks, just to make sure he’s not wrong. “How did you get my number?”

“I looked you up on the White Pages,” Cynthia tells him. Oh, yes. He forgot that that existed. “I would have asked Y/N, but she would have gotten suspicious.”

“Oh, uh…” Seokjin hesitates, chuckling nervously. “Y/N? Have you, uh, spoken to her recently?”

Cynthia lets out a deep sigh on the other end, what sounds like a billion thoughts weighing her down. “Yeah, she and I had a girls’ night last night. My husband’s away on business.”

“Oh, how are you both doing?” Seokjin asks. He has the decency to pretend that he hasn’t been positively miserable the past few days.

“Wonderful, thanks,” Cynthia said. “Seokjin, did you kiss Y/N?”

“It was a mistake,” Seokjin immediately says. He shouldn’t have done it and now he’s paying the price. He has no idea how long it will take to repair your relationship, or, even worse, if you’ll just go back to the way it was before and pretend it never happened in the first place. “I wanted to tell her that, but I haven’t seen her recently.”

“Don’t,” Cynthia says harshly, making Seokjin jump a bit, wincing as some hot steam hits his bare skin. “Don’t tell her it was a mistake.”

“What do you mean?” Seokjin frowns. Isn’t that what you want? It’s blatantly obvious that you don’t really want a relationship at all, let alone with him. Seokjin doesn’t know what he was thinking when he thought he could change your mind. He was just being selfish. The chance to get to date you under the guise of guidance, and he snatched it up at the first opportunity. 

Well, look at him now. 

“She’ll be heartbroken if you tell her that,” Cynthia tells him, and Seokjin nearly pours boiling hot water all over his arm at the words. “You can’t.”

“What do you mean, heartbroken? She doesn’t want to date me. I’m the one in love with her. I’m the one who should be suffering,” Seokjin says into the phone, his heart starting to race. He wills himself to calm down, to act like everything is normal, but he can’t stop thinking about you. About what Cynthia had said. 

“No, you’re wrong,” Cynthia says. “You couldn’t be more wrong even if you tried. You might be in love with her but she loves you back. She does, I swear.”

Seokjin’s brain nearly short-circuits, the power sparking. “What?” He asks, too hopeful for his own good. “She can’t. I’ve loved her for so long, but we’ve always just been friends. That’s what she wanted.”

“She wants you, Seokjin,” Cynthia says firmly, almost as if she’s reaching through the phone to knock some sense into him. “She didn’t realize that she loved you until you kissed her. And then everything fell into place.”

“You’re lying,” Seokjin says, even though he knows that Cynthia isn’t. 

“Want to know why she hasn’t really dated anyone since midway through college?”

Is it the same reason Seokjin hasn’t, either?

“She was waiting for you,” Cynthia tells you. “She just didn’t know it.”

Seokjin’s about to faint. 

He can hear Cynthia smiling through the phone. “She’s always been waiting for you.”)

[June 21st, 1:22PM]

Seokjin: I’m on my way over to your apartment Seokjin: Don’t ask questions

You’ve long learned by now to listen to Seokjin, to never question his methods. And for once, when you receive a suspicious text out of the blue that says Don’t ask questions, you aren’t scared. You’re thrilled. 

The last time you went this long without contacting each other was when you were just starting to become friends in college, during orientation week where you met five hundred people a day and forgot all of them by the next morning. You and Seokjin eventually caught up with each other when you started seeing each other in the halls of your dorm, living onto a few doors down from each other. 

You didn’t want to be the one to initiate contact. Seokjin had kissed you and then instantly looked like he regretted the entire thing. He had been sitting on his feelings long before you knew that yours even existed. He deserved the space. 

You, well. Cynthia, the wise, wedded woman she is, seems to think that communication is key. Perhaps that’s why she’s been so successful in her love life. 

There’s a knock on your door six minutes after you received the text, the fastest he’s ever gotten to your apartment. 

When you open it, you find a familiar sight: Seokjin, wearing a t-shirt and jeans, a bouquet of flowers in his hand, and a nervous grin on his face, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet like a teenager about to ask his crush to the school dance. 

“Long time no see,” you tell him. 

“I missed you,” Seokjin says honestly. “I really, really did.”

“I did, too,” you tell him. It’s impossible to be away from him. You figured that out briefly when he went abroad in junior year, but were brutally reminded this past week what life is like without him to light it up. And it’s dull. Empty. Missing something. 

“These are for you,” Seokjin says. It’s an entire bouquet of tulips, red and yellow and orange and pink. The scent immediately wafts through the air, brightening up your sullen apartment. 

“They’re beautiful, Seokjin,” you tell him, pressing your nose against the petals as you take in the aroma. The flowers are gorgeous, but Seokjin, as always, steals the show. 

“I was going to bring takeout, but then I thought that you might have already eaten lunch,” Seokjin tells you. 

“Then we can do takeout for dinner,” you suggest as an alternative, fishing through your kitchen cabinets for a vase to put out on your countertop, filled with the tulips and carnations and lilies and hydrangeas. The bouquet he had given you on Tuesday is sitting in your bedroom, and you’re giving it all the plant food you can get your hands on, determined to make them last. 

“You want me to stay for dinner?” Seokjin asks, an eyebrow raised. 

It’s high time you were honest, too. 

“I want you to stay forever,” you admit, and it feels as though the dam has broken, like the first droplet has been spilled and the rest is soon to follow. “I can’t tell you how much I hated being away from you like this. Everything in my life revolves around you.”

“I think about you, every day,” Seokjin says as he comes up to you, joining you in the kitchen as you fill an oversized mason jar with water. “Scratch that. Every hour. Every minute, every second. You’re always on my mind.”

“I thought that was just how you were best friends with someone,” you tell him, feeling the warmth of his body as he stands next to you. “I thought that all of the kind gestures, the traditions, the words, that was what being best friends was. And it is. But I never realized that that was what being in love was like, as well.”

“I thought you’d never figure it out,” Seokjin muses, and it sounds so sad but he looks so happy. “I was ready to never tell you. I was too nervous, every time I’m near you I get all sweaty.”

“You were just going to be in love with me forever?” You ask, turning to him. The thought devastates you, the idea that he was willing to never tell you, to love you silently, for the rest of time. He would have never known what could have been, would have never allowed himself that luxury. And he was okay with it.

“I would rather love you on my own than lose you,” Seokjin tells you firmly. “You’re my best friend. That will never change.”

“But—”

“But nothing,” Seokjin interrupts. “I had made that decision. I was willing to live with it.”

“That’s what people do, isn’t it?” You ask, reaching out to hold his hand in your own, as you have done so many times before, and will do so many times more. The feeling never gets old. The spark never fades. “When they’re in love.”

“I don’t know how you never noticed,” Seokjin jokes, laughing more at himself than you. “I thought I was being so goddamn obvious. Any time I said or did anything that even slightly alluded to the fact that I was in love with you, I started panicking because I thought you’d figure me out. And you never did.”

“I think I just needed a bit of coaxing,” you tell him, hand reaching up to turn his face towards you, palms resting on your cheek. “I would have loved you, forever. I just needed you to tell me that you’d love me, forever, too.”

“I’ll do you one better,” Seokjin promises with a grin. “I’ll love you forever and a day.”

Seokjin leans down, big palms resting on your waist as he finally, fucking finally, presses his lips against yours. It’s soft and warm and cozy, the heat enveloping you as you hold his cheeks in your hands, let him push closer and closer, refusing to let you go. The feeling sends warmth through your veins, sparks a fire in your body that you wouldn’t will away even if you wanted to. Seokjin kisses you, and you kiss back, and it feels like a promise. With your lips against his, and his against yours, you tell each other, that you were meant to be together, and that you always will be. 

You had always wondered why you were never really interested in dating anyone. Never wanted to find someone new, a relationship filled with love and laughter and joy, never wanted to go out on fancy dates and tiptoe around each other, a nervous confession on the tips of your tongues. But now, as Seokjin giggles into another kiss he presses against your lips, you know: you already had exactly what you were looking for. 

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[majesticbrownjawn]

Delicate Part Three

Part One

Part Two

They rode quietly back to their side of town, Violet in a contemplative state of awe the whole way.

How'd he know her name? Maybe it was a freaky, weird coincidence.

She was completely taken by E. How'd he will her to give herself to him so quickly? She hadn't done anything like since her 20's. Her entire being wanted to stay there in Oakland, which let her brain know she had to do the opposite.

She had to stay away from him.

"You have to stay away from him," Trina said as she was climbing out of Violet's car. It was like her best friend had heard her thoughts and repeated them to make sure your got the picture.

"What?"

"He's no good, Vi," she asserted.

"How would you know? You just met him yourself." Violet's tone was defensive and she didn't know why, but Trina was absolutely right.

"I-I just know his type...AND know he had you with your drawers hanging around your ankles when I found you," she answered with an air of satisfaction in her voice. "God knows how many other women he's had like looking that."

Violet's eyes bulged in horror. She was always the more level-headed of the two. Sensible and practical were her middle names. Her role in their relationship was the responsible one. Violet relished in being the wise friend who always seemed to have it together and just a few hours with E was already tarnishing her image.

"Did you see him though?" Violet was trying her best to appeal to Trina's weakness for attractive men. She couldn't pick a guy with character to save her life, but they were almost always fine, and Violet was an eyewitness to Trina's inventory of E when she introduced them at the party.

Trina huffed and folded her arms at Violet disapprovingly.

"Fine. I already decided I would stay away from him. That's why I ran out of there so fast."

****

Violet loved food.

It was no wonder, though. She didn't just magically wake up one day in her pillowy-soft body.

But she turned that love for food into a craft, and studied culinary arts in Paris. Chef V's years of experience working under the best chefs in Europe made her a shoe-in for one of the few Michelin-starred restaurants in the States. She was the only Black woman executive chef of a restaurant of this caliber, which was both an honor and a shame to her. She wanted nothing more than to help other Black women in the her industry come up, but found the balance of trying to stay on top of her game and making time to give back a challenge. Doing anything other than working was a challenge for her. Maybe that was why she was so easily swayed by someone like E.

Her thoughts briefly went back to that day, now two months in the past—and she shuttered a bit at the thought of him. She would have been lying if she said she was glad he never contacted her. But she knew not hearing from him was for the best.

The sound of clanking fine china and sizzling kobe beef buzzed around her as she stood in the center of an upscale kitchen barking out orders like Gordon Ramsey. This kind of power gave her a high that was as exhilarating as it was exhausting. Everyone looked to her for direction and approval, a position she was quite familiar with.

Her younger siblings looked to her for guidance after her parents' death as a teenager and from then on, people kind of just sensed the leader in her. She was forced into being this person at a young age—maybe too young – but eventually embraced it. The consequence was that she came off as a snobby, slightly controlling bitch who thought she was smarter than everyone else.

Almost everyone.

Violet ran a tight ship and mistakes were not tolerated, so when her sous chef Suzie ran into the kitchen with beet-red cheeks and a half-eaten plate, she was curious as to what the flustered woman would say.

"There's a man out there," Suzie whispered.

"Speak up, Suzie. I can barely hear you."

"He said his steak is undercooked."

A collective silence fell over the kitchen as everyone stopped to see what Chef V would do next. She jerked her head back and studied the steak on the returned plate.

It was cooked to perfection.

She smacked her teeth before heading to the kitchen doors to peer out of its circular windows. She scanned the restaurant briefly, trying to pick up on who she thought the picky customer might be. She usually had an eye for patrons who liked to complain in hopes of a free meal, but she couldn't quite figure it out tonight.

"Who sent it back?"

"Him...over there at table 46."

Table 46 was the best table in the house. You could see the entire city skyline from its positioning and it was purposefully tucked away for the sake of privacy. Violet had served numerous celebrities and wealthy diners at table 46. She didn't think to look over there initially. When she did, the silhouette of strong, broad shoulders caught her eye. She pushed the doors open with frustration, ready to take on this tasteless customer, but as she marched forward, more of the man's physique came into focus. And the man's physique was familiar.

His hair—locs – specifically, was finally what caused her to stop dead in her tracks. Suzie, following a bit too closely, crashed into Violet, sending the returned plate cascading to the floor. The commotion caused half the restaurant to look in their direction and had Violet not been so caught up in the man, she would have been embarrassed.

But she was caught up.

Violet audibly gasped when he turned to face her. But it wasn't him. It wasn't E. As she dismissed herself back to the kitchen, she felt a bit of sadness that the picky customer wasn't the man who so easily made her feel open enough to do things she'd never done, but always dreamed of doing—especially as it pertained to sex. Unfortunately, there was a side of her that she'd never explored. She'd never found the right person she felt safe enough to do those things with, so she fantasized about them instead. That is, until she met him.

"Just cook him another one," she flatly told Suzie, completely defeated. Her sous chef quickly got to work on a replacement steak, while Violet slipped away to her small office in the rear of the kitchen.

"You would work at a bougie ass place like this, wouldn’t you?”

His voice caused an immediate reaction from her body, though she refused to let him know it. Part of her was angry, seeing him after all this time, smiling smugly at her in her office. She stared at him sternly before speaking.

"How'd you get back here?"

"You thought that nigga was me, didn't you?"

"Ye—you didn't answer my question."

"You didn't answer mine, babygirl." Her stomach fluttered at that name. Then she thought about him figuring out her real name.

"How'd you know my name?"

"Lucky guess," he smirked. "Your name is really Violet?" He said sarcastically.

She huffed and pointed to the embroidered script of her name and title on her chef coat.

"Lucky guess, my ass. How'd you get back here, E?"

He took a seat in front of her, as confident and fine as ever. The fitted turtleneck he wore had her feeling vulnerable. A bearded gentleman in a turtleneck was something she could hardly ever resist. So this man, though far from what she considered a gentleman, would certainly be a challenge to overcome. She'd already succumb to his charm once and she couldn't blame that time on piece of clothing.

She remained standing in between his obnoxiously widespread legs. He leaned back into the cushiony chair, totally relaxed.

And in control.

"One of my girls—" he cleared his throat unnecessarily. "I know one of the hostesses."

"Why are you here? Did you know I worked here?"

"Why you asking all these questions? You not happy to see me?" He leaned forward and rested an elbow to his knee.

"I don't have time for this. You come up in here playing games on the busiest night of the week. You can see yourself out, E."

She quickly side-stepped his legs on a mission to make it to the door, but he caught her hand just before she was out of reach.

"Where are you going, Violet." His question wasn't a question at all.

"What do you want from me?" She was sincere in her query. Why'd he show up here, two months later?

"I wanna fuck you, girl. Make them pretty ass eyes roll to the back of your head again."

Them eyes—her eyes, broke contact with his and drifted to his crotch. His dick print was visible on his inner thigh. She wanted to touch it so badly. She hadn't gotten the chance to the first time.

"You see it," he smirked.

It was hard to miss.

"Got me hard as fuck watching you do your thing, Chef V," he teased.

His hand led her back in front of him.

"Maybe I'll let you boss me around one day like you do these peons in yo kitchen."

She gulped loudly when he stood up, his physical presence looming over her making her feel small again, just how she liked.

E kissed her with enough power to topple her over, but the desk was there to catch her.

He didn't stop when her position suddenly lowered under him, he just readjusted and leaned down into her. She moaned shamefully when his tongue wiggled into her mouth and his hand groped her breast. The thick chambray material of her chef jacket was getting in the way of her feeling the full sensation of his hands and it frustrated her. The way his adept fingers teased her nipples the day they met was all she could think about when she moved his hand under her top.

"I guess you did miss me, Chef V."

"Shut up," she groaned. She didn't need him reminding her of the obvious. Reminding her what she was doing was uncharacteristic and stupid.

"I missed you."

Did he really just try that playa shit on her? I missed you? The sirens she heard when she met him at his house party had officially made their return.

"I said shut up."

"Aye," his voice was calm but his eyes were ablaze.

There was a passion in them that quickly reminded her of E choking her in his workroom. She was terrified at first, but when he realized it was her and his hands loosened around her neck, she realized she very much liked the way they felt. Warm and firm.

Invigorating.

"I said you could boss me around one day, not

TO-day."

His hands roughly gripped the back of her knees and pulled her closer. Their middles met and she couldn't help but grind up against his erection as he nibbled and sucked on her lips.

"You really just came here to fuck me, E?" She managed to get out.

"Yea."

Violet didn't expect such a direct answer. She kind of wished he'd lied to her. That he told her she was special and that he wanted to get to know her.

But who was she kidding?

She didn't really want to get to know him. He was dangerous and not the type of man she could settle down with. This was all they could ever have.

Good sex.

No—great, amazing, superb sex.

Top two, not two sex.

The best sex she'd ever had.

She prayed it wouldn't be the best she would ever have. But was fantastic sex worth the space he took up in her head the last few months?

E started kissing her again, successfully distracting her from overthinking. He'd started unbuttoning her jacket when a loud knock on the door startled her. She stared at him like she was looking for him to tell her what to do. He shrugged and kissed her again.

"They'll go away," he whispered.

Another knock.

"Hold on!" She yelled, trying her best to quickly button herself back up. E rolled his eyes as he watched her frantically try to gather herself.

"...Stay," he said, calmly unbuttoning each button right after she'd fasten them. He hoped a kiss to her temple would convince her to remain in his presence a while longer. She contemplated it until she saw the handle of her office door turning.

She yanked herself loose from his grasp and stormed out of her office. She didn't even look at the person who'd been knocking. All she saw was a blur of someone in black. Violet didn't even get mad that they'd opened her door without her permission. She was grateful in a way. Grateful for an escape. God knows how long and how loud they would have been in there hunching.

She took a moment to compose herself before returning to her duties. Violet was literally hot all over. She stealthily grabbed a cup of ice from a machine towards the back of the kitchen. There was a spot just past her office that was a hideaway for her when she didn't want to be found by the few people brave enough to knock on her door, which made her wonder who knocked on her door tonight. It wasn't someone from the kitchen. All of her staff wore white. The thoughts of what the mystery person had interrupted with E quickly flooded her thoughts.

The few top buttons of her jacket were still unfastened thanks to E. She slid a piece of ice up and down her neck and across the top of her chest. Her mind raced back to him. His hot hands grazing her flesh, inching closer to her breasts. Her mind was gone and her hands, with the ice in them, were making circles over her sensitive, hardened tips. She wanted to cum so badly. She focused on him. The way his turtleneck clung to his muscular arms, hinting at the wonder that was his scar-laden body. His scent was still on her from being so close moments ago.

Mahogany.

Coconut.

Cedar.

The way his tongue explored her mouth. The way he grabbed her like she belonged to him. The ice between her fingers soon melted and her digits quickly found their way into her panties, hungrily applying pressure to her clit. It didn't take much effort to make herself cum after being deprived of him for eight weeks. The thrill of seeing him was more than enough to excite her in ways she'd never felt before.

But why?

She chuckled to herself as she washed her hands before heading back to the main area of the kitchen. He had her acting totally different and part of her liked it.

The look of relief on her sous chef Suzie's face was comical as he drew close to her.

"Thank God you're back, Chef V."

"Everything okay?"

"Yea, I guess. You know I just get nervous without you here. I just don't want anything bad to happen when you leave me in charge."

Suzie was a young woman in her mid-twenties. Violet took her under her wing because she had great potential and because she was Black. Mentoring her was the least she could do to give back to the next generation, but sometimes Suzie was a worrywart and annoyed Violet to no end. She could already feel the high of her orgasm wearing off.

"Did you remake table 46's steak?"

"Yes. He loved it."

"Okay and did the kitchen catch on fire while I was gone?" She looked around in an extra manner for added effect.

Suzie shook her head no.

"See? Everything is fine. You need to relax."

Violet took her place back at the center of the kitchen, putting finishing touches on plates in the special way she's been gifted to, and even took moments to praise or constructively critique the work of her staff. She could see how pleased they were to have her working side-by-side with them and made a mental note to have more nights in the kitchen like tonight.

Minus the part with E.

And her private moment with the ice.

***

The restaurant was not only heralded for some of the best dishes in the world, but it was also home to one of the country's most expensive delicacies—a chocolate cake covered in gold leaves. It was rare someone ordered it, because despite the wealthy clientele they served, a $15,000 dessert wasn't something people ordered every day. When Suzie told Violet table 46 had ordered the expensive ass cake, she gave her an impressed look and headed for the refrigerated safe where they kept the golden flecks.

She made her way to the back of the kitchen, just past her office and private corner. As she strolled back by her office with the gold leaves in hand, she thought she heard something — a voice — on the other side of her office door. She brushed it off and kept walking, but then remembered she never saw him leave. But to be fair, she never saw his creepy ass enter the kitchen in the first place, so whatever she thought she heard had to be her mind playing with her.

Violet dropped the leaves off with her pastry chef and tried to busy herself with work that did nothing to keep her brain from thinking about who may or may not be still in her office. Finally frustrated enough with herself and him for making her crazy, she marched back to her office, her chest filled with air and ready to go off of need be.

She flung the door open but was quickly deflated by the sight in front of her. Her eyes immediately zeroed in on E standing in the corner of her office with a woman on her knees in front of him. His brows were knitted together tightly and the intense look of pleasure on his face made her pussy throb with want. E slowly brought his eyes to Violet standing at the door watching him getting his dick sucked. She knew that he knew she had been there a few moments before giving her his attention. It felt like he knew she'd arrive at the exact time she did. Just in time for his show.

Violet stood there frozen, mouth slightly agape in a mixture of shock, jealousy and desire.

The woman on her knees wore all black and was sporting hair extensions that trailed down her back. Violet concluded she was the woman who knocked on her office door earlier, likely the hostess E slipped up and called one of his "girls." Violet could see why she was. She could suck a mean dick. The woman's mouth slowly trailed up his shaft, saliva dripping down her chin. The chef looked in awe at his cock, seeing him fully hard from this vantage point had her wondering how she took him so easily. E's dick disappeared into the hostesses' throat and it was enough to make him groan.

"Yea. Just like that." He was staring at Violet when he said it, like she was the one on her knees in front of him. The hostesses moaned at his praise, but he wasn't talking to her.

Violet had quietly closed the door behind her and was palming her sensitive breasts. Her eyes closed as she listened to the sounds in the room.

His labored breathing.

The hostesses' lude slurping and gagging.

Her own barely audible mewls.

"Look at me."

Violet knew he was talking to her without opening her eyes. Somehow, the hostess was still unaware of a third party in the room with her and E, stealing his attention from the good work she was doing on his dick.

Violet's eyes remained closed.

"Open your eyes." His command was surprisingly sweet, but laced with urgency.

"Iljshfhro," the hostess garbled. Violet assumed the woman was trying to tell E was indeed looking at him, but the hot dick in her mouth was prohibiting her from being fully understood.

Violet's eyes opened involuntarily from quietly laughing at how ridiculous the woman on her knees sounded. E smirked at Violet, unable to control his smile as he looked at her amused expression.

"C'mere, baby."

The smile had widened across his face, making the caps on his bottom row gleam against the soft lighting in the office. Perhaps the warm smile he gave her was the trick to getting her close to him. He felt relieved when she took a step forward, he was growing impatient and was dangerously close to begging her to come to him. E's desire for her had ballooned over the course of eight weeks and was on the verge of exploding. After meeting and subsequently fucking her that day, his mind frequently revisited their dalliance, sometimes in the most inopportune moments, like when he was blowing the backs out of other women. The most recent time it happened, he went fully soft inside one of his favorites when he looked down and realized she wasn't Violet.

He thought not only of the way her ample backside bounced beautifully against his scarred flesh, but of her wit and bold personality. Then there was the way he naturally felt possessive of her. E's teeth gritted together when he thought of how his homeboy looked at her gripping onto his bannister as they had sex. He came to the conclusion that he had to have her again, despite the nagging voice in his head telling him otherwise. At the least, he hoped sexing her again would get her out of his system. But in the moments when he was honest with himself, he knew the opposite was a more likely outcome.The hostess' head shifted in the direction of the door, but E's voice stopped her before she saw Violet approaching them.

"Don't look at her," he told the woman. Her head snapped back to its original positioning. E said it like he wanted to protect Violet. Like he knew Violet wouldn't be ok with the thirsty hostess knowing she was just as parched and needy for him.

E looked back at V with more tender eyes than he'd just had with the other woman. Violet was unsure if she was okay with his tone with hostess, even if it was to her advantage. Nevertheless, she moved until she was standing in front of him, the hostess wedged between them on the floor and looking to E for permission to do anything.Violet was captivated once again by his masculine beauty. And she didn't know it, but he was just as taken by her. He licked his lips as he stared at her plump ones, longing to tug and taste them again. He broke eye contact with her to look down at the pitiful soul under him. Waiting for direction on what she should do next.

"Get back to sucking my dick. Now," he commanded.

He shoved the woman's head into his groin and she happily continued gagging on him. Violet stepped even closer to him. Close enough that her stance called for her to straddle each of her feet just outside the hostesses' legs. Ever the obedient sub, the woman never looked behind her to see the woman hovering over her. She only did want he wanted, and E wanted her servicing his dick at the moment.

E reached out to grab the back of Violet's neck and kissed her feverishly. Her hands instantly found a place on his pebbled chest. The sensation of his scars against her palms sent tingles throughout her body and she fleetingly wondered again just what they meant and how he got them. She watched as he painfully pulled himself away from her and took a long look at his dick making its way in and out of the hostesses' mouth. He watched it like he didn't recognize it as an extension of himself.

"You see how fat my shit is for you?"

Violet didn't answer. She only continued staring with her lip wedged between her teeth at the scene she'd now become a part of. Her eyes struggled to keep focus on just his dick, though. E was too entrancing just to focus on one thing, even if that thing was his long, thick and currently, sinfully shiny dick.

Violet watched the way his fingers massaged the hostess' scalp while she swallowed him, making his biceps flex in a way that made Violet want to snatch the other woman off of him and take her place on her knees—mouth open and tongue out.

"You wanna suck it, don't you?"

"Yes," Violet squeaked before she realized what she was doing. E really had her caught up. She covered her mouth in shame.

He shook his head at her, laughing at her slip up. "Not yet, babygirl. Sit your cute ass over there."

Violet quickly plopped down in an upholstered chair a few feet behind her.

"Pull them titties out for me. I want to see you play with them while I cum for you."

V felt an uncontrollable shiver come over her that literally rattled every muscle in her body. It felt eerily similar to the feeling she got right before she orgasmed. She unbuttoned her chef coat and just barely touched herself. The light passes over her nipples were sending her in a way that felt as intense as squeezing them normally would. The sight before him was too much for him to hold on to any longer. E's mouth curled into the shape of an 'O' before his eyes briefly fluttered shut.

"I'm bout to cuuum...Gotdamn, shit baby."

His eyes opened to look at Violet and he pulled himself out of the hostess' mouth, preferring to use his hand to finish himself off. He tugged at his dick while looking at her gently rolling her fingertips across her engorged nipples. The waitress knew him well enough to calculate the exact moment he would cum. She stuck her tongue out in excitement and anticipation of his seed, admittedly in love with the feeling of his hot cum plastered across her face and tits. It was always her reward for being a good girl for him.

But she wouldn't enjoy one of her favorite parts of sex with him today. Instead of painting her with his orgasm, E shot his cum over her shoulder and in the direction of the woman sitting in the chair behind her. It shot out of him like nothing Violet had ever seen, so much so that some of it landed on the hem of her top. She stared down at the creamy substance and licked her lips, tempted to taste it.

"Get out." E's voice was low and void of energy. That nut took a lot out of him.

Violet remained in place, fixated on the jizz on her jacket.

"Babygirl," he called again. Violet looked up at him. His eyelids were heavy, but the look was sexy on him. He tilted his head and looked at her for a moment before shifting his head in the direction of the door. "You should leave."

"But I—," she started. He shook his head at her, silently telling her not to speak. In this moment, Violet didn't care about the waitress knowing who she was. All she cared about was staying with him. She knew what eight weeks without him was like and the yearning she felt for a man she'd only been around for a few hours was agonizing. And pitiful. She stood her ground—silently–for a few moments, hoping he'd demand the other woman to leave instead.

"Go," he told Violet once more. This time she finally turned to make her way to the door, but not before giving him a pout that she was completely oblivious of. Her feet were going one way, but her head was turned and looking at E. He kept eye contact with her until the hostess tugged on him.

"Why didn't you give me your cum?" the woman whined. "Wasn't I good for you?"

E let out a sigh, but it didn't feel like a frustrated one.

"We need to talk," he told the hostess as Violet reluctantly left them alone in her office again.

————————

I low key have no idea where this is going lol. It was a supposed to be a one shot. We’ll see what happens. Thanks for all the love on this series so far🖤

Tags

@harleycativy @queenflaws @theogbadbitch @goddessofthundathighs @syndrlla97 @soufcakmistress @killmonger-fics

[aforrestofstuff]

I'd like to know if you have any cooking skills headcanons!! Like, from who's able to make a absolute meal to who burns microwaved instant noodles.

I’ve done a few individual headcanons about cooking before, but I think it’s time for a refresher. You could call this... the main course.

Okay, enough of that bullshit. Here’s the hcs. Thanks for your ask, anon! ❤️❤️💞

Disclaimer: this shit is crack as fuck because I have very strong feelings about cooking lmfao. FOH don’t interact.

Tornado of Terror: She’d find a way to burn ice cream, honestly. She tries so hard (by god she tries) but her meals always come out as a convoluted mess with ingredients that have no reason being together. She eats her steaks well done and boils hamburgers. It’s a nightmare. She doesn’t really spend too much time in the kitchen, however, because she knows she sucks at cooking and because of this, makes 90% of her diet consist of takeout. But if she did spend more of her day cooking, she’d probably discover the recipe to meth accidentally. It’s that bad.

Silverfang: Stubborn old grandpa way of cooking. He’s got a handful of recipes that have been passed down for generations and he’s gonna carry those fuckers to his grave. When Garou was living at the dojo, the little bastard would try to make some changes to these recipes and Bang had to will every molecule in his arthritis-riddled body to not RKO this kid (not really, Bang wouldn’t hurt a fly). But I digress. He’s a decent cook, knows all the fundamentals and all of that shit.

Atomic Samurai: Can’t cook or bake for shit although he, of course, talks himself up like he can. The extent of his cooking knowledge is only within the realm of “shit you can roast over a campfire when your cheap ass can’t scrape together enough coin to pay the electricity bill”. But now that he’s got that S-Class paycheck and three other disciples to freeload off of, they pretty much cater to his every food-related need. He’s useless in the kitchen. Utterly fucking useless.

Child Emperor: Doesn’t know how to cook (little bastard ain’t even tall enough to reach the stove imo) but luckily he’s got that PHAT BRAIN so he can easily just build a Gordon Ramsey bot 3000 to replace his incompetence in the kitchen. His diet consists of Dino nuggets and microwaveable noodles so it’s not like he’s doing the world a great disservice by not learning how to cook properly.

Metal Knight: Same as Child Emperor except he’s a rich bastard and programs his bots to make that fancy shit with only the finest ingredients. He’s got enough cash from doing black market tech trades and building up his robo-army that this motherfucker could snort caviar for fun. He’s a real pompous asshole about it.

King: His mom taught him to cook a few things, nothing serious. He’s one of those dudes that doesn’t really know how to make much, but the few dishes that he does know how to cook are fucking BOMB. He’s got a cast iron skillet for making pancakes and everything, bitch is already halfway to being a chef himself. Other than that, however, he’s a ramen monster. His blood is practically pre-packaged bone broth.

Zombieman: I’ve said this in a previous hc but he’s a damn good cook. One problem though: he only knows how to make single servings of everything because he eats alone almost all the time. He specializes in meats. Bitch is a carnivore. He bought himself a set of those 500-dollar butcher knives so he can carve up cuts like a monster. He hemorrhages cash into fancy wood chips so he can get that smoky flavor juuuuust right. He’s got an Outdoor Chef setup on his patio. My mans is living the DREAM.

Drive Knight: He can eat but does he really need to? His cooking expertise is popping a new battery in. There you go.

Pig God: Oh my god if this man’s kitchen isn’t Michelin-Star quality. He eats a lot and he cooks a lot, it’s only natural. He’s got an indoor grill and pot chandelier and buys industrial-sized buckets of pickles and roast beef by the cow and— okay he just has a lot of food, alright? And he’s got that PHAT S-Class paycheck so my boy probably has a whole walk-in fridge just to put all the fucking food he eats. Bonus points if he hires a dishboy to work and a contractor to implement a three-sink dish station with “Clean-Rinse-Sanitize” stickers slapped on the steel, lol. But yeah, he cooks for 500 people at a time because he eats enough for 500 people at a time. Gotta maintain that figure, you know what I’m saying?

Superalloy Darkshine: He has. Oh my god— he has a full shelf dedicated to just. DOZENS OF JARS of whey protein. He has two blenders: one for fruit smoothies and one for protein shakes. His kitchen? Spotless. He knows how to cook and he eats like a bodybuilder (because he is one, duh) so he’s got that fridge STOCKED at all times. He cleans like he’s getting paid for it because nothing feels better than wiping down a gas stove until that bitch is spotless. However, his taste is garbage. He can throw down in the kitchen but does it taste good? No. Sometimes the ultra-healthy alternative to something isn’t always the greatest. He’s grown accustomed to putting zucchini in his cakes and almost damn well likes the texture of it, but don’t invite this guy to the potluck because he WILL show up with a vegetable nightmare that’s sure to make even vegans gag. Sorry bud, but nobody likes soy bacon.

Watchdog Man: furry ass.

Flashy Flash: I’ve said this before in a previous hc, but he’s pescatarian. He grew up on a coastal town before being sold of to the ninja village like a goddamned carpet and now fish is the only meat he eats. His cooking ability is about as good as one would expect from a homesless ninja. Like Atomic Samurai, he can throw it down over the campfire and still find a way to make a decent dish (in both presentation and taste) despite having limited knowledge and resources to work with. Bitch can whip up a five-star meal with some branches, a fish, and half a carrot like it was second nature. That’s about it though. He’s useless in an actual kitchen.

Genos: It’s canon. He’s a housewife. He only knows how to make the select few dishes that play an integral part in Saitama’s diet, though (because Genos can eat but he doesn’t really need to, so he only does it when he and Saitama are sharing a meal). Those dishes include things like: actual garbage. He cooks shit food. It’s not his fault. Saitama just eats like a fucking twat. There’s rats that live in the dumpster outside the restaurant I work in that have a better diet than him. Genos just works with what the poor bastard’s got and has gained a pretty mediocre grasp on cooking because of it. If he wanted to, though, he could easily be the best chef in all the land. Too bad he’s more focused on being an ultra-powerful speed demon.

Metal Bat: Tries his absolute best to cook healthy meals for him and Zenko when he almost always resorts to just popping a frozen pizza in the oven and calling it a day. I’ve said this before in a previous hc, but he eats his shit BURNT. Bitch like his steak well done, his yolks grey, and his chicken vaporized. The only exception to this is sushi because there really is no other way to enjoy it other than having it raw. Trust me, though. If there was a way to burn the fuck out of sashimi while still having it be sashimi, he’d find a way to do it and like it. But yeah, as I said: he sucks ass at cooking. He’s tried the tutorials, he’s bought the skillets, he’s sharpened the knives, but he just can’t fucking do it.

Tanktop Master: Same as Superalloy. They bond over gross-ass ultra-healthy recipes that only they enjoy. The Tanktop Gang loves him but they always kindly refuse to eat over at his house because they know he’s gonna try to make them ingest a broccoli loaf or some shit. He’s not too strict about his diet, though. He’ll chill out and have a pizza every once and a while, but only when he’s hanging out with the homies.

Puri-Puri Prisoner: He has a job in prison where he helps out in the kitchen for seventy-five cents an hour, but that’s about the extent of it. He’s got the bare basics down and could put together a decent meal for date night if he really tried (and had a damn kitchen to work with). On top of that, he can throw down some tasty prison food recipes, hand-crafted from the brick box itself. Ramen pad Thai, anyone?

Amai Mask: he’s rich as fuck, why does he need to cook? Bitch hired a chef and now all he does it drink skim milk and eat food from the top shelf. He couldn’t fry an egg if his life depended on it. Poor bastard doesn’t even know what a whisk is. And don’t even get me started on how much of a slob he is. The ten-minute process of making a single plate of spaghetti will have his kitchen in such a disgusting state that it’ll take him and a trusty Mister Clean Magic Eraser five hours just to clean it up. That is, if he even has the basic human decency to pick up after himself. He’ll probably just hire someone to do for him and then tip them a crisp 100-dollar bill for their troubles, only to make an even worse mess tomorrow.

Iaian: I’ve said this before in a previous hc, but yes: he can cook. It’s nothing special. He’s got a suburban dad sense of cooking where he, like King, can only make a select few dishes but makes those dishes taste magical. He’s got 0 utensils and shit kitchen to work with (because Kami’s place is probably like, centuries old on account of him still being a Samurai), but boy can Iaian whip up a feast like no other despite all that. It’s all protein-packed flavor bombs that look simple in comparison to, say, Zombieman or Metal Knight’s food, but it still tastes good all the same. Kama eats off of his plate all the time and it used to annoy him but they’ve grown so close that they might as well share forks at this point.

Okamaitachi: Can’t really cook, but they are a baking god. I don’t know much about baking but I know they’ve got a cupboard dedicated to their plethora of sourdough starters. They buy yeast by the pound and make enough bread to feed entire armies some days. Whatever the gang doesn’t eat, they donate it to the local homeless shelter and make it a habit to go out of their way performing good deeds that don’t always involve sword fighting (something Kami insists he instilled into them via his teachings— which is bullshit. Kama is just naturally good-hearted and sweet).

Bushidrill: Can’t cook or bake for shit but like Atomic Samurai and Flash, can throw it down on the campfire. Don’t let this man near any turkeys or pigs because he will spitroast the fuck out of them.

Fubuki: Okay, not only is she a great cook but she’s as dogmatic as a coked-out head chef. She and the Blizzard Group sometimes cook together in her massive kitchen (she poured all of her measly paycheck into it because by god, if her apartment doesn’t have a kitchen fit for a chef then it’s not worth living in), and she’ll be barking orders like a damn crow. She’s got the two-grand knife set, cast-iron everything, bronze accents on the sink, and the ability to deglaze a pan without starting a fire. She’s a natural. If she cooks for you, then that’s how you know she likes you. All in all, her food tastes and looks great. She’s a bit low on funds on account of being only Class-B, so she sometimes takes little shortcuts when plating her dishes, like using celery leaves in place of parsley and all that jazz.

Saitama: I’ve already said that his diet is absolute shit and part of that is due to being poor, but I will show mercy and say that he’s a decent cook. He only makes what he knows he’s gonna like and doesn’t leave any room for experimentation unless his budget allows it (which isn’t often). His kitchen only has the bare essentials. Genos has offered to buy him more equipment and even renovate the damn thing for him but Saitama refuses each time because then he’d have a bigass kitchen just for making a poor man’s omurice, and that would be a waste. His talent, though? Making a perfect omelet. He can fold the egg like a sheet with no tears and no brown spots. It tastes heavenly.

Mumen Rider: Ultra-safe in the kitchen. He doesn’t even own a knife sharpener because he’s clumsy enough to know he’ll cut himself the moment he even tries to use it. His pot handles all have coverings and he’s watched all of the food safety and fire safety videos out there. He could give a goddamned seminar on it. Food-wise, he’s a decent home cook. Nothing special. He does, however, share Superalloy and Tanktop’s nasty habit of over healthy-ing everything to oblivion and making it a tasteless, vegetative mess. It doesn’t matter if you invite him to the potluck or not because he’ll bring a cauliflower pizza anyway and y’all better fucking enjoy it or he’ll start crying.

Sonic: The same as Flashy Flash, minus the pescatarianism. He’d butcher a pig without blinking an eye, and often uses his katana in cooking (even though it poses like, 87 different safety hazards and is most definitely health violation). He can forage quite well and has taken a liking to wild mushrooms and berries over the years. It’s gotten so natural to him that he now knows by heart the specific time of year in which the wild berries are ripest, and which species of salmon inhabit certain streams on any given day.

Garou: Would burn water. End of story. His cooking is so bad and dangerous that everyone thinks he’s an arsonist when he really just starts fires on accident. Don’t let this fucker near a stove, for the love of god.

[olliethealright]

Three Steps From Home - Update #3

Hey everyone, I guess I’m back again. Today, I’m gonna update on the next two chapters of my current WIP. This will be about chapters nine and ten, AKA 3558 words of an honestly stupid amount of food description, Jude being emo, and Aaron deciding if he’s amused or horrified. This is a long one, so the update is under the break.

TRIGGER WARNING: homophobia, emotional abuse, religious content, mentions of conversion therapy

ALSO: these are all my personal words, characters and ideas, please do not use without my consent.

chapter nine - how you met my mother - 1944 words

theme song - let you down - NF

Okay so this chapter is kind of emo and every much a mess, sorry in advance. I’m going to rework this chapter because Aaron is just kind of there and he doesn’t pull his weight (or literally any weight oops), so keep that in mind.

Summary: Aaron and Jude meet Jude’s mom for brunch, and this chapter is basically just the drama that goes down at the brunch and then the fallout that happens afterwards.

excerpts:

Jude VS his mother feat. Aaron just trying to be nice

Maybe once a month, my mother remembered she was a competent cook and there’s more food to be eaten than microwave dinners and cheap takeout. She had recalled her cooking skills that day, and apart from her eggs, which were notoriously near-poisonous, the meal was almost enjoyable. 

My mother sat on one side of the table and we occupied the other, she served beans, fried potatoes, corn tortillas, and those damn eggs. We held a casual enough conversation, but your knee was already pressed into mine in case things went off the deep end. You wanted to feel my muscles contract, you wanted to drag me out before I said anything I would regret.  

“Why him?” my mother finally asked in Spanish when she had enough of our bullshit and pleasantries.

“Because,” I answered in English. “He’s a good guy, he looks out for me. We’re a good match, Ma, he makes me happy.”

You beamed at me as I avoided my mother’s gaze, and for a moment, I thought that would be the end of it. Across the table, she sighed as if I was the nurse who told her that her only son died. To be fair, I may have done the equivalent; in her universe, you weren’t supposed to make me happy, and nothing would have shattered that world, not even my smile when I looked at you.

and... Jude’s mom bringing up his MAJOR daddy issues

“Get rid of him, before he abandons you like your father did,” she hissed in Spanish the second you were gone. “No one can love you when you are like this, especially not that boy, and especially not me.”

I bit the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted blood and tried not to look like a kicked animal. “You don’t know Aaron, Ma,” I said carefully, finally answering her Spanish with my own. “He’s not Dad. He likes me as I am, just like you should.”

Her eyes shone, and I knew I had set her up to say exactly what she wanted, I had given her the perfect setup, the gasoline for her fire. “He’s worse than your father. He will always make you feel like an outsider, you will never know how he really feels. But, if you go now, the pastor will still take you. He agreed that you’d be a tough case, that you’re almost beyond help, but he can help you, Jude.”

The way she said it, the proposal almost sounded fair. Thankfully, you cut her off with desert balanced on your arms in a way that only a barista would know how. You set cups of caramel custard in front of us and I dug into mine before I said anything I shouldn’t have.

I’m not going to share anymore because I don’t really like this chapter, but essentially what happens is Jude’s mom is unpleasant, Jude and Aaron leave and Aaron almost talks about his mother, but doesn't (and no one is surprised). 

chapter ten - x (I cannot figure out what to call this one haha) - 1606 words

theme song - TALK ME DOWN - troye sivan

I actually don’t mind how this chapter turned out. I love the dynamic between Jude and Aaron in this one, it makes me strangely happy even though it’s not necessarily a happy chapter.

Summary: This one takes place a few months after the last one, Jude and his mother haven’t really talked and he’s finally starting to feel more free of her. Aaron surprises Jude on his birthday with breakfast and fake Amtrak tickets, and the two decide to move to Seattle together. There is a small flashback of the boys after the events of chapter ten where Aaron gets upset. 

excerpts: 

Aaron and Jude joking about the brunch with Jude’s mom (featuring my favorite piece of Aaron dialogue because he would totally become Gordon Ramsey if he thought he could pull it off)

Your breakfast was excellent. The pancakes were fluffy and sweat, they carried the telltale taste of Krusteaz mix, the kind my dad had made on special occasions. The sausages were as good as frozen supermarket sausages could get, and your eggs were miles better than my Mother’s, which were essentially my only point of reference.

“These might be the best eggs I’ve ever had,” I said.

“That’s only because your Mother’s eggs are, no offense, horrible. I think I saw her put cinnamon in those things. Cinnamon! That’s like the first rule they teach you at cooking school: don’t put cinnamon in your fucking eggs.”

A week later, it was decided. You wanted a place we could discover together. I wanted to get away from churchgoers who talked about Jesus like a cult leader and called me a sinner when they passed on the street, just loud enough for me to hear. I wanted to hold your hand without looking over my shoulder.

I insisted on buying the cardboard moving boxes, but you stole my computer when you saw the Amtrak website open in my browser, refusing to let me buy my own birthday present. We decided on Seattle because you wanted to smell the sea breeze wafting from the Pacific, the only ocean you’d never seen. Seattle because I had never seen an ocean or a big city, because I wanted to go to the top of the Space Needle every weekend, because it was far away from nowhere, Montana.

Our apartment was packed within a week, we didn’t have many possessions to speak of; most of yours were books that stacked neatly into boxes, and I barely had a trash bag’s worth of clothing to call my own. We surfed the internet until we could find an apartment we didn’t hate on a street that wasn’t claustrophobic, but was still close enough to the bustle of the city that we would still be able to hear the noise and taste the gasoline on every street corner. In another week, we would be gone, in a month, we would be forgotten altogether. 

Okay, well there it is! At this point, updates will probably all be 1-2 chapters each because I’ve almost caught up with myself. I hope you enjoyed this update, send me an ask if you have questions! Thanks for reading if you’ve gotten this far, and remember: don’t put cinnamon on your fucking eggs.

-ollie

[hakimbe]

Gigi (for Grandma)

by Hakim & Rasheed

 R: When you found her

amidst the perpetual clamor of

ball busting and laughter

that is her seven boys

             H (waving):         and Aunt Deb

  R: you were left to wonder

why if she is so quiet,

  H: they are so damn loud.

  R: Because,

as I later learned from her

  H: your children

serve as a monument to your character.

How they treat themselves,

   Both: others and each other

   H: says more about you than you ever could.

R: But don’t confuse her for the strong silent type

Grandma, now that you are an ancestor

    Both: we ask your permission to speak for you.

   H: Grandma always smelt like the calm after a Myrtle Beach hurricane

made of Butter Beans and back roads full of tradition.

Baptized in blood, sweat, and fears unwashed away in the moonshine swill

Both: but grandma still

H: and stay still prayed up

Always in the front pew

never in the back of the bus.

    R: Lived her own love story

up and down the hallways

of the Appalachian Mountains

and the Atlantic Ocean.

Sent a handful of kids to war,

be it Vietnam,

H: or North Philly streets,

R: boxing rings

H: or marriage rings,

    R: a testimony

to the kind of upbringing

that has outlived her,

that has seen her through

all the way to the credits.

    H: A life of service, on her feet

that deserves a standing ovation

almost as much as it desires to take a seat.

The family nurse

dishing miracles by the meal to the sick

type of cooking you get in line for

R: could teach Gordon Ramsey a few tricks

H: could make a multitude out of scratch.

   R: You ever heard the one about…?

    H: The Parable of Priscilla?

Five loaves

and two catfish

   Both: Grandma could break bread out of thin air!

   R: Even from her walker,

later wheelchair,

she let her resume

speak for itself

… in laughter.

    H: Even In momma jokes.

But greatgrandmama,

R: and her sweet potato pie,

H: was no joke.

    R: Her laugh

was a signature of approval

from a life well worked

and even weller lived.

     H: But see my Grandma, my sign

Got so gangsta sometimes

she put the Double “G” in Gause and Gemini.

     R: What he’s trying to say is

her smile was worth fighting for,

so much so stand-up became the family pastime.

   Both: But if she woke up on the wrong side of Sunday

H: you might meet your Maker for the last time!

   R: The type of saint that wouldn’t hesitate to grab an extension cord

H: to keep the lights on…

     R: The type of saint that would send you for your own switch

H: to cut the light on!

     R: Could have a church fan flapping like a hummingbird wing,

raise your hand if my grandma taught you why the caged bird sings

   Both: ...she sang cause she fly.

     H: But don’t let that church hat fool you,

her floss is all grind

and grace.

The wife of

R: "Take all you eat,

but eat all you take."

    Both: She lived through

sharecropping, the Great Migration, and Ronald Reagan,

JBM, Move, and Philly’s 1st Black Mayor

9-11, Grandpa's cancer, the 1st Black President

thirteen greatgrandchildren later…

    R: It makes her more than just a Grandmother

Both: she was history

H: in the making.

    H: Not an author, a preacher

or a writer,

she a “Boy, you better write til you got arthritis”

    R: She was more than a short story, more like a novel

she was a gospel

on to her next chapter…

     Both: So all that’s left to say is,

R: “Say Hi to Grandpa,

H: Grandma.”

      © Hakim Bellamy & Rasheed Bellamy June 5, 2019

[radiojamming]

Jacob cooking for the dep and being Not Good™️ at it please??? Maybe with some mention of the watery Mac n cheese

shoutout to one of my discord usernames

fc5 secret boss fight: jacob seed versus gordon ramsey

- - -

The Veterans Center’s kitchen is a mess. 

It’s an enormous space, clearly intended for high-quantity meals (to say nothing of quality) served at a quick pace. There are three full-sized stainless steel stovetops, two enormous refrigerators, one countertop made from butcher block, another made of steel, four stacked ovens, and a sink large enough to easily accommodate an entire deer carcass if need be. That’s not counting the meat locker and a pantry large enough to live inside. 

Every available space is used fully, although not tastefully, and clearly, Jacob hasn’t seen the benefit of getting someone to clean up. Meals for humans mix with meals for animals, so a chunk of questionable meat on the butcher block could just as easily be a Judge’s dinner as it could be Jacob’s. It’s anyone’s guess. 

Rook’s been relegated to a barstool in a corner, watching one Peggie peel potatoes one one end of the steel counter. But most of her focus is on Jacob, because first of all, he’s cooking. Second, he’s cooking for her.

It’s not as romantic as it sounds. For one thing, the atmosphere isn’t conducive to a nice one-on-one dinner. Rook can hear screaming and barking outside, and Pratt’s scurried his way by the door to the kitchen a few times now, looking in like he’s worried that Jacob’s forgone his first dinner plan and decided that filet à la Rook was a much better substitute. It’s also been raining pretty consistently for two days now, so everything has a gloomy, damp pall to it. And, judging by the interesting smells Rook’s picking up, Jacob’s not winning the Veterans Center a Michelin star any time soon.

The other issue that detracts romance from it is that Rook’s pretty sure this is some botched peace offering on Jacob’s part. It might also be an effort to circumvent classical conditioning and go straight for positive reinforcement, like, dinner from scratch equals Wolf’s Den location. 

Not like that’s an exchange that’s happening, but Rook’s at least relieved that he’s wielding a battered wooden spoon and not the music box.

He’s not even wielding the spoon very well. And there are a lot of curses that get progressively louder the longer he attempts to cook.

The Peggie in the corner looks up in alarm, but one glare from Jacob shuts him up immediately. 

Rook clears her throat and shifts warily. “D’you, uh–” He looks up from vigorously stirring a bowl of something alarmingly yellow and disturbingly variegated. “–need help?” she finishes lamely.

“No,” he says, although it almost sounds like it ends like a question. He doesn’t even sound sure if he needs help or not. Then he squares his shoulders. “It’s done.”

“It doesnt–”

Look done are the two words she was going to use, but Jacob is close to a wooden block full of various kitchen knives, and peace offering he may offer, she’s still in his territory, and he’s yet to say he doesn’t hate her or want her twisted up like a pretzel on a barbed wire fence. She clears her throat and offers a weak smile. “It doesn’t look bad,” she corrects.

No, it looks nightmarish. If they were in a cartoon, there would be ghastly spirits rising from it like it’s the grave, or noxious green fumes. When he moves it from the mixing bowl to a serving bowl, it comes out in an enormous cheese-like clump, and makes a very literal splat sound. Even the Peggie looks up in something a little like terror.

Rook suddenly recalls Nick’s story about the infamous watery macaroni and cheese, and she’s suddenly left to wonder which Seed sibling was responsible for that. Jacob is now a prime culprit, seeing as how the (potato?) salad leers like a nefarious little sewer creature from the bowl, chunks of celery(?) peeking up like a pair of eyes.

Jacob slides the bowl across the steel surface to her, followed by the rattle of a spoon.

Oh Jesus, Rook thinks. Oh Joseph motherfucking Seed and all his scrambled eggs. Oh weird monkey god that Hurk worships.

She picks up the spoon, because Jacob suddenly has this unguarded expression; a weird mutant offspring between boyish hope and the glare of a predator. Like, You’re going to eat this, and by god I hope you like it.

She tries it, scooping a mass (oh good lord it’s literally clinging to the spoon like it doesn’t want to go) and watching Jacob while she does so. And she tries it because Jacob’s done something bizarrely kind and considerate for her. He’s actually put in real effort, allowing her to drop in on an impromptu cooking session, because whatever weird shit is hovering between them (possibly made out of the same material as the potato salad) has allowed him to give her that little iota of trust. It’s more than she’s hoped to get since she came to Hope County.

And, yeah–

It tastes exactly how it looks.

Despite the fact that it immediately feels like her digestive system has set up a barricade the likes of which hasn’t been seen since Les Miserables, and all of her immediate senses rebel harder than the Militia, she swallows it and manages to outrun her natural muscle inclinations to grimace, screech, and make a complete idiot out of herself in front of someone who could snap her in half like a biscuit. She smiles at Jacob in what she hopes comes across as approval. The potato salad hangs like a bat in her throat, so she can’t voice anything, and instead gives him a thumbs up. Yay, you almost poisoned me!

Jacob watches her with his fierce, unmoving eyes. Something twitches at the corner of his lips. “You don’t like it,” he says.

The potato salad drops into her stomach, unbidden and definitely unwanted. It takes a lot of effort not to lurch like she’s been shot. 

Then, Rook sees that lip twitch turn into a smile that even crinkles the corners of his eyes. He actually looks like a fucking normal adult human instead of The Soldier or whatever terrifying moniker the cult’s bestowed on him. “It’s fine,” he says. “I’ve done worse to MREs, and we have frozen pizza, at least.”

In the end, the potato salad goes out somewhere behind the center, and even the wolves don’t eat it. In fact, in the decades to come, enthusiastic cryptid hunters and local teenagers will speak of the strange yellow mass that slinks around the Whitetail Mountains, unable to die and become part of the earth like it yearns for. 

Before that, though, Rook and Jacob Seed put away one oven-baked pizza apiece, and it’s awesome.

[knightofbalance-13]

Too bad: Don’t want drama, don’t be a jackass. Same for everyone on the internet.

0:24 No no, there’s a ton of drama about hate being passed off as criticism. Actual critics of RWBY have gotten off scott free and the only ones being affected are you assholes who try to sell your snakeoil opinions as fact and critics who don’t want to be associated with you. And quite frankly: You deserve for the shit you spew.

0:34 Rant huh? (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DBUJ3RrkZhU) Not even a minute...and a good third of that was Miles giving people credit and leniancy. Your video is more of a rant than his, complete with whiny bitching and rambling.

0:46 No, Lord Fatass whined that he was getting called out. That isn’t a response anymore than...well, any response he makes to anyone who doesn’t agree with him.

0:55 Lord fatass has a Patreon and all he does is bullshit all the damn time about RWBY. Fuck, you even compare yourself to a cult leader in that screenshot. Cults are defined by being irrational and rabid with the leader encouraging such behavior. I don’t care what you say your relationship with RWBY is: Lord Fatass calls himself a fan. Your ACTIONS are what I care about you DEFINITELY act like a cult leader.

1:01 Not helping your case that you sound pissed about a video essentially saying ‘‘don’t hate on the creators.”

1:20 Oh, someone’s being disingenuous! Miles never discredited the fandom as a whole or even critics as a whole. He just said ‘I don’t like know it alls and haters.’ You just said that because if you told the truth, no one would listen to you.

1:26 Bull fucking shit. Critics are revered in fandoms and it’s usually the CREATORS that are given a bad name. A critic can shrug off criticism and ignore their own flaws and continue making the same mistake over and over again while if a creator so much as thinks about not gulping down shit, they’re seen as egotistical. You’re lying.

1:30 Lord Fatass literally lies about the show numerous times in his ‘reviews’ and you will outright lose your shit if someone doesn’t call Volumes 3-5 shit. Pretty safe to assume you hate RWBY.

1:34 Yes. And it is literally every single point I’ve figured out on my own just said worse mixed in with personal gripes trying to be passed off as criticism. It just feels like you looked up what other people said and parroted it back to disguise your bullshit as criticism.

1:48 Your Volume 5 review was you rambling about fight scenes. That’s it. You apparently have the patience of a goldfish. P.S. You are literally contradicting what you did in the video you linked because you flipped your shit at people who were saying they liked Volume 5. You’re only doing this to try and build credit.

2:04 So basically, let people be irredeemable assholes, making personal attacks on creators until said creators become so desensitized to criticism due to the abuse they suffered they stop trying to improve because you’re shit at your job and can’t handle being professional in any way. Here’s another saying: “Git Gud.”

2:08 Yes and let’s here about all those dirty commies and how ugly and nasty they are while we’re doing propaganda.

2:16 And flat earthers say that a round Earth doesn’t exist either. Doesn’t make it make it true!

2:25 But if you ordered a steak that was suppose to be undercooked or went to a place that only served undercooked steaks: You’re wrong for bitching about it. Hey look, I broke your lengthy analogy in it’s infancy in under two seconds. Should say something about your critical thinking skills.

2:29 yes but a media student would know WHY it sucked on an objective level while you just pass off subjective as fuck opinions are objective reasons why a show sucks. A chief would be able to know why something sucks anbd why it sucks for being that particular meal while a normal customer would bitch and moan because they ordered a dish and they didn’t like it. Also, this has nothing to do with constructive criticism and is just kind of out of place. Plus your analogy was kind of...short to be honest. You should have looked over your script before writing and thought about it. ... Hey look, I just CONSTRUCTIVELY criticized you. And all it took was NOT being a complete douchebag. Almost as though your skill in critiquing has next to nothing to do with constructive criticism and is instead about HOW you go about criticizing.

2:42 Cept this analogy doesn’t work either. PLENTY of people make calm, constructive reviews of the show, both positive and negative, explaining why the show does/doesn’t work. While the angry reviews basically boil down to ‘this Volume wasn’t made for ME.” So whose more right? The people who can explain why the dish does/doesn’t work as the type of dish it is or the people bitching about the type of dish it is or the flavor of the dish not being a flavor they like?

2:46 Cept they CHOOSE to waste their time and the show is FREE. You only pay to see it early, not to view the show. This is like bitching about mayo being on a sandwitch that was said to have mayo on it and the sandwitch was FREE. I broke that analogy by just looking at it funny.

2:50 Yeah and then they assault the chiefs, sending them hatemail and death threats, attempting to ruin their business through fake controversies, invoking the memory of the dead friend who made the recipe and general act as though they fed them PEOPLE. All while complain about how the dish was too sour when it was advertised as sour. You just keep getting worse and worse at this.

3:03 While the reviews say there were bugs in it (which there wasn’t), saying the dish gave people food poisoning (which it didn’t), the reviwers tried assaulting the chief for using a certain ingreident to the point he doesn’t want to cook and instead of the morning news, it was a recording of the chief just relieving stress with friends. Now you sound like a fucking sociopath.

3:09 I mean, Gordon Ramsey actually knows what eh is saying, in the British version of the show Gordon is a lot nicer and in turn is more well respected, Gordon actually tries to help and encourage the chiefs instead of belittling them and Gordon doesn’t try to force his way of cooking down their throats while attempting to make them quit cooking.

... Now YOU sound like one of those chiefs from Kitchen Nightmares.

3:18 No, you’re going to assault the chief and essentially harass him into becoming your slave. I do not care how pissed you are: You ‘critics’ of RWBY have used up all my sympathy for you. You have to now EARN it and boy oh howdy will it be a HERCULEAN task for that to happen.

3:26 And yet I can, despite not being an animator myself. Also, if you can’t tell what is wrong with a dish then why should the chief listen to you when you could just be a whiny bitch? Also also: Miles is a WRITER and by virtue of making a script for this video, you are a writer. You have no excuses.

And finally: that’s actually a rather adept analogy with Yelp. Because yelp is FULL of people who will us either status as ‘critics’ to harass and bully restaurants into doing what they want. You wanna know what you are? You’re Cartman from the episode “You’re not Yelping!” And we all know how THAT ended (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pDlR_ccnZww)/ Fuck, I’ll make a RWDE version after this.

3:35 funny because that isn’t what constructive criticism is because it’s more akin to ‘this is how you should do this for these reasons’ and what he described is what YOU people do.

3:39 ... But you can help them. You’re just too lazy.

3:51 But you guys DON’T and in fact when people bring evidence of YOUR fuck ups, you’ll whine and moan and ignore it. See, that’s the biggest irony here. Miles is essentially being YOUR critic and you are acting EXACTLY as you perceive him to be. It’s like if a student came to teacher for help and all the teacher did was scream in his face and slap him.

4:03 But you will call the steak shit by saying it was cooked exactly as advertised and you didn’t want that despite nit letting them know otherwise. Also the steak was free.

4:08 And I can say you’re full of shit. Doesn’t make either one of us right. Except i can say WHY you’re full of shit and you can’t explain jackshit.

4:19 No but they’d give it a fair chance and move on if they don’t like it for personal reasons. Now forcing your opinion onto everyone else: THAT’S a hater move.

4:21 No you’re not. Your actions say otherwise.

4:28 You’re not the audience. You’ve made that abundantly clear. You’re like a chicken fan bitching about how a steak doesn’t taste like chicken.

4:37 Name one person and no, Shane doesn’t count. And even then, Shane even admits he was probably being biased.

4:42 Well, when you blow things out of proportion to ATTACK Miles, that would be the case...except if anything, they’re toning it down.

4:54 That’s fucking rich. Not only was Miles NOT talking about critics in general but HE was defending himself from YOU PEOPLE. And he’s ONE person when you’re fucking DOZENS.

5:06 And Miles shouldn’t have to grovel and beg for forgiveness. This is just your shit coming back at you. I do not care.

5:13 Cept that;s your JOB as a critic. Don't wanna do it? Stop calling yourself a critic.

5:22 yet here you are, fearmongering that Miles is gonna annihilate your poor defenseless critics in an age where critics are treated as infallible gods.

5:32 ... So you’re basically affirming what Miles said, that you don’t know what you are talking about. ... You just beat yourself.

5:43 Says the man who says ‘the customer is always right’ unironically.

5:51 ... Miles outright hates working on RWBY because of you. He is scared shitless of what people will do to him if Jaune gets any scenes. A Camp Camp blog got mistaken for Miles and was harassed to the point of leaving because of it. I’ve seen Miles’ life being threatened on this very site. ... Fuck you.

6:11 Yet when that happens for hating on RWBY and making Miles’ life a living hell, it’s A-Okay! ... You’re just fucking salty people aren’t listening to your shit and calling you out.

6:21 This is gonna be GOOD.

6:25 Cept he is in the UK and actually reviews food instead of screaming. Hell, even in kitchen nightmares he doesn’t insult anyone. That’s just Hell’s Kitchen, which is basically cooking Jerry Springer. Congratsm you're Jerry Springer.

6:36 Cept you gave the hatedom every fucking excuse to hate on Miles and make his life hell while parroting their points while also categorizing anyone who disagrees with you a fanboy.

6:52 ‘I’m not calling you out! ... But here's me calling you out indirectly like a pussy!’

6:57 And guess what? Most of RT’s fans have heard ENOUGH of YOU. And unlike YOU, they have an actual reason while you just wanna protect your ego.

My final thoughts? I don’t care how tired you are of it, you fucking deserve every last bit of this. You wanna be a total jackass? FIne, you can get hate for it Wanna be a hypocrite? Get hate for it. Wanna encourage harassment and hatred? Get fucking hate for it.

I do not care. You have lost ALL sympathy from me.

[quieteating]

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Cinnamon Kitchen

I find abbreviations quite interesting.

It is perhaps something which is more prevalent at work, on account of the very long names for processes, departments and people.  When used right it makes life more efficient.  Outside of the office, the short form also provide efficiency gains.  Life would be much more verbose without LOL (laugh out loud), ASAP (as soon as possible) and my personal favourite, YOLO (you only live once).

So taking into account the views of my friends, in particular that I should take a leap sometimes (YOLO), I ended up at Cinnamon Kitchen.  Touting its links to the lauded Cinnamon Club, it is an example of attempted expansion based on the laurels of its parent.  Not that it hasn’t been done before (see Gordon Ramsey and Jamie Oliver, no comment in this post about how successful those have been).  So YASJ (more about this later) person that I was, when I saw Cinnamon Kitchen had a special offer in January, I thought this would be my chance to visit with a lower amount of damage (money).

Aubergine with sesame, tamarind & peanut crumble.  Looked great but similar to many clothes I have seen, when I actually tried it, disappointment reigned.  It had too many things going on at the same time which unfortunately created a car crash of flavours. 

Chargrilled lamb fillet with pickling spices.  Perhaps a bit better than the eggplant but sadly rather tasteless.  Tasted almost as it had been boiled and then put under the grill for a minute.  The sauces were not enough to make up for the lack of cooking skill.

Chargrilled pork ribs with chilli and honey glaze.  Perhaps something better than the other starters but nothing special.  Rather insipid especially when considering the parting gesture of greens on the side.

Organic cured salmon, green pea wasabi ‘jhalmuri’.  Perhaps an attempt to show culinary excellence by mixing in a hint of Eastern influence through the wasabi (instead of mustard), it just didn’t work that well.  Maybe perhaps because most wasabi in the West (and the East) is actually dyed horseradish.  The real stuff tastes rather different (and is rather more expensive).

I noticed at this stage of the meal that the room was less than half full.  Which made it rather inexplicable that it was so HARD to get a waiter’s attention.  My constant waving and gesturing often failed to gain the serving staffs’ attention.  Then again, maybe it’s just my face (or something on it).  In which case, I can’t blame them that much as my scowl darkened throughout the meal.

Hyderabadi style lamb with 24 month aged Basmati rice.  Served with a spoon sticking up in a statement that I have to agree with. As this was one of the better dishes of the meal even if anywhere else it would just be ordinary.  Here, among its companions, it was good.

Char-grilled rump of lamb with Madras coconut sauce, pilau rice.  Again showing artful arrangement, it look good, tasted less so.  It seemed sadly bland and lacking in any real kick.

Tanjore style curry of king prawns, ghee rice, spinach poriyal.  Probably the best dish of the day.  Then again, that wasn’t particularly hard amongst present company.  Soft, tasty prawns in a creamy sauce.  Perhaps it tasted so good in comparison to what had come before.  Could have done with something more than the minuscule rice though.

Green spiced monkfish with tomato tamarind sauce, lemon rice.  Perhaps a slightly weird meal, although the description promised much, it was instead just rather tasteless.  

Chicken tikka with cheese naan.  Ordered out of curiosity, as it sounded a little bit like a stuffed pita or pizza.  It was worse than expected.  Soggy, dry and altogether unappetising.   

It was at this stage, my hunger (if not tastebuds) sated that I tried an arduous task again.  Trying to get a waiter’s attention.  After strenuous exercise and pulling faces, someone finally deigned to notice me.  With such efforts for dessert, I thought that they better be good.

Saffron malai kulfi, honeycomb crumble.  A colourful desert on the eye.  A less than pleasant reception on the tongue.

Spiced pistachio cake with peanut ice cream.  Actually rather good.  The was soft and moist, the ice cream with nutty hints.

Sadly, even the desserts failed to provide a modicum of reward for the effort of just getting them to arrive.  This contributed to how I came away in a less happy mood than I came in.  Food aside (small thing that that is for a restaurant) the service is so neglectful that I almost fainted of hunger.  Then again, maybe tortoise-like speed is on purpose so that the kitchen would not be overwhelmed by 10 tables worth of orders in a dining room able to sit far more.  Although on second thoughts, maybe if I had fainted in my food at an earlier stage, I would have been able to avoid the boredom of the rest of the meal.  Would have to faint in the right way though as if I drowned in my food, it would be an ignominious (although amusing) end.

So if you are still wondering, YASJ stands for young and stupid juvenile.  Not an entirely accurate description of me though as I’m not that young anymore.  However, as my choice of Cinnamon Kitchen shows, the other adjectives apply.  At least in this case.

  A quiet eating 5/10.

Dinner (3 courses) was GBP24 excluding drinks and service and with their introductory 2 for 1 offer.

  Cinnamon Kitchen

9 Devonshire Square, City of London, London EC2M 4YL