#He even whipped out a calculator 😭

[kaithespud]

no cuz why did cdot start doing my geometry homework on stream

[loveharlow]

hi :)

i love your writing! could i request an ajax x reader fic where the reader gets hurt and ajax gets all protective over them and angry with the person who hurt them, sort of angsty

thank you!!

ARE YOU ALRIGHT?

PAIRING ‧₊˚ Ajax Petropolus x Fem!Reader

SYNOPSIS ‧₊˚ [1.7k] Ajax is bit protective of his girlfriend and wants to keep her safe. So when a recently erratic redhead catches her in the Nightshades archives, he isn't too pleased.

WARNING(S) ‧₊˚ swearing, fluff, hurt/comfort, mild violence, Rowan loosing his shit, angry!ajax, mild angst

A/N ‧₊˚ I'm not tryna villainize Rowan , I just needed a conflict. RIP ma boy. PS - To all my gif makers, we need more Ajax gifs please, I will pay you 😭 (not literally I'm broke)

Hope this is good enough for you, anon!

˗ˏˋ ajax masterlist ˎˊ˗

I WAS IN THE NIGHTSHADES LIBRARY, SLUMPED AGAINST ONE OF THE SUPPORT BEAMS AS I READ THE BOOK I’D BEEN STUCK ON FOR THE PAST WEEK. A bowl of grapes on one side of me, occasionally dipping my hand in to grab a few and plop them in my mouth, eyes scanning word after word, paying no mind to my surroundings.

That was, until I heard the familiar screeching of the statue opening to the library. My face screwed in mild confusion, not expecting anyone to be coming. Especially at this hour — it was half past 11 and I should have very well been in my dorm, sleeping. But what Weems and the other staff didn’t know couldn’t hurt them, right?

The footsteps that descended the curved staircases were heavy and frantic, tattered sneakers coming into view as they practically flew down the steps. Fully lifting my head from the worn pages of the novel I was reading, I waited to see who had entered the library — seeing as only a handful of people knew it existed.

However, the face that followed was unexpected. A head of red hair and glasses — what was Rowan doing here? He got kicked out weeks ago. 

He didn’t seem to notice me as he eagerly scanned the bookshelves for…whatever it was he was looking for.

He looked stressed…erratic. Almost like a wild animal, if I’m being honest. He’d been acting strange ever since the new girl showed up but he looked worse than he did when we told him we couldn’t keep him around a couple weeks back. He had deep, red bags under his eyes and his hair looked like he either hadn’t touched it in days or couldn’t stop touching it. 

I let the grape clenched between my fingers fall into the bowl and let the book fall shut, the sudden noise causing the boy to whip around until he set his eyes on me. His shaky gaze went wide before hardening into a glare that I chose to ignore.

Setting the book on the ground, I stood slowly, dusting off my pants as I did so. “Rowan, shouldn’t be in here. You’re not a Nightshade, anymore.” I stated, keeping my distance.

“Y/n…” He muttered my name as if he was scared, putting his hands palm-side down in front of him as he inched closer. “I just need one thing. You don’t have to tell anyone I was here. I’ll be in and out, ’kay? I-I swear.”

I shook my head with regret, hugging myself close with the sleeves of my sweater pulled over my hands. “Rowan, I can’t- It’s not up to me. And even if it was, I'd tell you the same thing. You’ve been off lately…” I spoke meekly, not wanting to set him off as it has been easy to do that lately. Too easy. Dangerously easy.

His eyes squinted, his motions to come closer halting in a heartbeat. A deep scowl formed on his face. “Off? I’ve been off?” He laughed bitterly, looking up at the library ceiling. “That’s really funny coming from one of the elitist assholes who kicked me out of their little secret society the second I didn’t fit your standards anymore.” He snapped, throwing his hand out at me.

My head fell to the side as he spoke, lips parting to speak. “We kicked you out, Rowan, because you were losing your shit and we got sick of your tantrums. It seems not much has changed.” I reprimanded sternly. He started to take slow, calculated steps towards me. So, I started to walk around him, my back going from facing the support beams to me standing in front of the bookshelf, Rowan never taking his eyes off of me. We circled one another, almost taking the others place, with him now standing close to my abandoned book and bowl of grapes. “You’re dangerous. To yourself and us. And we don’t want to get caught up with whatever theory you’re chasing.”

“It's not a theory! It’s-” He took a deep breath, pinching the skin between his brows. “Damn it! Why are all of you so oblivious?! You can’t see the real danger that’s right in front of you-”

He was becoming volatile and unpredictable, in his words and movements. Grasping at his hair as his face became a deep, angry shade of red. “Rowan, you should leave.”

“NO! No, I’m not leaving until I get what I came here for-” He spoke quickly, his words jumbling together. He started towards me, in long strides and I almost didn’t see him coming. I wasn’t thinking clearly and he was starting to scare me.

“Rowan!” I shouted, the sound echoing of the walls and halting his movements. “Just go! I don’t want to hurt you but you’re making this more difficult than it needs to be.”

“I need the book…” He muttered, eyes glancing over the tiles on the floor frantically.

“What-”

“Just give me the damn book!” He shouted, finally snapping.

His right hand shot out and I could feel my body leave the floor as I flew back, my head hitting the wood of the bookshelves, disorienting me for a few moments. My head was spinning and the room was split into two as I tried to regain my consciousness. 

All of a sudden, what sounded like two pairs of footsteps were trampling down the steps, two blurry figures coming into view and shouting at Rowan. Inaudible statements I couldn’t make out. 

When my senses balanced back out, I could finally see the two people who’d entered the hidden library — Ajax and Bianca, shouting worriedly at Rowan.

“What the hell?! Stop!”

“Rowan, let her go!”

Rowan was simply shaking his head and squinting his eyes so tight, it had to have hurt. It looked like he was trying to block out his own thoughts and failing miserably. 

“Mmm.. shut up!” The angry boy shouted, causing his psychic hold on me to somehow put more pressure on my chest, constricting my airflow as I gasped for air — my chest was caving in. And if he didn't let me down, I knew I might die.

“You’re gonna kill her! Put her down!” Bianca pleaded. None of us were thinking straight. I looked ahead at my best friend and boyfriend, my eyes watering in struggle as my fists clenched at nothing. 

They spared a glance at one another before Ajax was reaching up at his beanie, going to tug it off before Bianca stopped him — shaking her head ‘no’ before she was marching up to Rowan and throwing his shoulder back.

Using her siren voice to force him into capitulation. “Put her down.”

Rowan's hands fell to his side limply, my lungs filling with air as my body slid rapidly down the wood of bookshelves and Ajax sped across the room as fast as he could to catch my frame before it collided with the hard floor.

His arms went under me, holding me bridal style before sitting down and lifting my head onto his lap, rubbing my cheek with one hand as I gripped the sleeve of his hoodie with mine.

“Breathe, it’s okay. You’re okay, it's alright. I got you...” he coaxed as I caught my breath.

Once I was breathing, shakily but breathing nonetheless, his head snapped to Rowan who was arguing to Bianca. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” He growled. “You could have killed her!”

“Ajax, it’s fine.” His gaze whipped back down to me, his glare harsh and angry — frightened. 

“Fine?” He said incredulously. “That wasn’t fine! He isn’t even supposed to be here. This is why we kicked him to the curb in the first place.” He ranted, turning back to Rowan who looked regretful about his actions but not necessarily sorry. “Because we knew some shit like this was bound to happen!” 

“I didn’t mean to...She was-”

“I don’t give a fuck.” Ajax said lowly, his eyes hard and dark. 

“You need to leave.” Bianca said sternly, arms crossed and eyes dead-set on him. Rowan stood in his place, stuttering like a fish out of water before she spoke again, much more conviction in her tone. “Now.”

Then the boy was dipping his head down and rushing up the stairs and out of the library. “Next time I see you, I’ll kick your ass!” Ajax shouted after him. He wasn’t the type to make threats but stoners had a type of strength like no other, so it wasn't one to be taken lightly.

Bianca rushed over to me who was now sitting up slow out of Ajax’s lap.

“Are you alright?” She asked worriedly. I nodded, coughing lightly once or twice. Ajax had a hand set on my back as I allowed my head to fall onto his chest, his free hand coming up to cradle my head.

“Thank you.” I muttered, voice still shaky. “But, why were you guys down here?”

Bianca smiled pitifully and rubbed her hand up and down my forearm. “I woke up and you weren't in the dorm, I got worried. I asked Ajax if you were with him and he said no, said he had an idea where you might be.”

“I told you to stop coming down here alone.” Ajax reminded firmly, looking down at me from where I was perched against his chest. I muttered an ‘I know’ and a ‘sorry’ before letting my arms go around his waist and hug him closer. Bianca let her hand fall from my arm, sending us both a look before bidding goodnight and leaving the library. 

Ajax and I sat like that for a while before he moved to stand, my arms falling from him as he rose. Dusting off his pajama pants, he outstretched a hand to help me stand. I wrapped both of my arms around one of his as we left the library together — my bowl of grapes and book abandoned and long forgotten.

When we got outside, I clung to him tighter as a chill swept by, my lungs thanking the breeze. “Can I sleep with you tonight?”

He didn’t stop walking as he leaned to kiss the top of my forehead. “‘Course you can.” He replied as we continued to walk together.

We made it to his room without being caught, going inside and getting comfortable under his covers. It wasn’t long before we clung to each so close, you couldn’t tell where he started and I ended.

“I’m sorry that happened to you. But I promise I won’t let it happen again.” He assured me sleepily.

“I know., but it wasn't your fault.” I mumbled, burying my face in his chest. “Love you.” 

“I love you, too.” He muttered, lifting my chin to peck my lips before allowing me to bury my face into his chest once more. His arms tugged me closer. I knew he was still fuming from what happened and I'd have to try and talk him down from potentially killing Rowan, or recruit Xavier to do it for me. In a weird way, I found it endearing to know he cared so much. But I don't like to see him upset.

And even though my chest still felt heavy and achy, and I’d have to sneak back to the girl’s dorm at the crack of dawn praying not to be spotted by Weems or the teachers — I knew it’d be okay.

feedback is appreciated! thanks for reading.

©loveharlow

[scaranation]

༊*·˚ 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒’ 𝐆𝐀𝐌𝐁𝐈𝐓

header art by @/kkaags on twitter

Pairing: chess captain!Ayato x reader

Content: fluff, headcannons, modern high school au, ayato is slightly a red flag on this one

You joined the chess club as a newcomer to the game, where Ayato introduces himself as a fellow beginner. You think he's just terrible at chess - after all, how could he lose to you so often? However, as time goes on, you begin to question if you're the one who's been playing into his hands all this time...

a/n - was just rereading ayato lore and remembered he plays chess, so i wanted to write about him doing it in a modern chess setting where he's absolutely whipped for the reader 😭 i cant stop writing about desperate genshin men im so sorry

chess captain!ayato, who’s been harbouring a small crush on you ever since you stepped foot in campus. despite taking different classes, you’d always be the centre of his attention, even if you rarely interacted with him.

chess captain!ayato, who’s elated to see you join the club. the moment you confess to being a beginner, he flashed you a smile before asserting that he, too, was new to the game.

chess captain!ayato, who revelled in the gleeful look on your face whenever you won a game against him. he’d take care to fumble right into your victory each time, just to feel his heart flutter when you smiled.

chess captain!ayato, who’d play exactly as you wanted when you tried book moves for the first time. oh, you were attempting a scholar’s mate? he’d ‘accidentally’ fall right into the trap, feigning shock as you smugly pushed your queen to F7.

chess captain!ayato, who ignored the incredulous looks everyone else shot him when he blundered his way through every game with you. as a highly accomplished player - winning all the tournaments he competed in - it certainly was a sight to see the kamisato ayato open with pawn to H4.

chess captain!ayato, who would only play at his true level when you weren’t looking. his favourite hobby was to push the worst move possible and watch your thinly veiled happiness as you won yet again, pretending to be annoyed when you teased him for his ‘stupidity’.

chess captain!ayato, who would leave ayaka to run the club as his vice captain whenever he was busy in a game with you. he enjoyed the expression on your face as you thought, the light twitching of your lips to murmur ghostly syllables to yourself. he liked to imagine how those lips would feel on his.

chess captain!ayato, who would desperately try to prevent you from realising he wasn’t exactly as bad as you thought he was. when you were talking to your friends about how absolutely hopeless he was at chess, he’d shoot them a silencing look to staunch their shocked expressions. if you tried to look up previous records from tournaments, you’d somehow find yourself in conversation with him and forget about what you were doing entirely.

chess captain!ayato, who’d nod eagerly and let you ‘coach’ him in chess. he’d smile so delicately as you bid him good luck before a tournament, whilst everyone else idly wondered why on earth the feared ayato would need help to be reminded of piece value.

chess captain!ayato, who’d be too immersed to notice you if you walked in on him playing a proper game. you’d be stunned at the way his fingers gracefully snapped the pieces into position without hesitation, the subtle clink of lacquered wood against the board reasonating through the room as he claimed piece after piece. he was nothing like the foolish, impulsive player you’d versed countless other times.

chess captain!ayato, who’d study his opponents with an almost terrifying look of sheer calculation. his eyes would skim emotionlessly over the board, lithe hands almost flying between the pieces and the timer. occasionally, a cold smirk or two would escape - indicative of his incoming victory.

chess captain!ayato, who’d look so wounded when you found out - acting like you’d caught him cheating on your non-existent relationship. you’d only feel embarrassed at having thought you were better than this absolute menace of a player, whilst he apologised time and time again before (timidly) asking you to play one more round.

chess captain!ayato, who’d then offer to properly teach you outside of school hours. of course, he didn’t view them as tutoring sessions - he saw them as dates. or, perhaps, just opportunities for him to admire your face until he reached the stage of his plan where he could ask you out, and you’d be too equally infatuated to refuse.

Checkmate.

༊*·˚

[theunholybastard]

Hi! I saw that your requests were open and I have one. If you are up for it can you write a fic involving Mountain. It really doesn't matter which ghoulette you choose. I'm happy with any of them. Inhuman, so claws, tails, fangs etc. Porn over plot. I would like a breeding kink, knotting, and pregnancy.

Thank you so much!!!

Hi, lovely! 👋 I am more than up to oblige your request! I hope this is to your satisfaction, my apologies though if it feels a little rushed, I wrote like half of this while on my work break lol 😭🙏 Enjoy xx

A Heated Encounter (Mountain x Aurora smut)

Tags: Porn with no plot, Size Kink, Monster-Fucking, Biting/Scratching, Praise, Pet Names, Marking, Marathon Sex, Overstimulation, Heat/Rut, Breeding, Knotting, Mentions Of Pregnancy At The End, MountainxAurora is my favorite ghoul ship so this is very self indulgent lolol

They've lost count of how many rounds they've been going at it at this point. Mountain must've pumped a dozen loads into her by now, and that's hardly an exaggeration. Ghouls are notorious for their unwavering stamina on an average day, but when both of the ghouls are in heat? They could go all day. And believe me, they have been.

Aurora was tucked underneath Mountain, her legs hooked over his shoulders, folded in a mating press. Mountain towers over the small-framed ghoulette, pressing his body impossibly close to hers. His fat cock pulses within her, stretching out her tiny cunt, so deep she could practically feel him in her stomach. She can't help but squirm in his restricting embrace, wiggling her hips against his, pushing him even deeper into her.

"C- C'mon, 'Rora. You gotta stop moving around. You're driving me crazy, princess." Mountain groans, low and gravely, his sore cock beginning to harden again, ready for another round. Aurora laughs deliriously, too fucked-out and cock-drunk to think of anything else but her own primal desires. "Need more..." She whines, her tail flicking in agitation and wrapping around Mountains thigh, pulling him closer.

"I know princess, I know. Gonna give it to you, 'promise. Gonna pump you full till I can't anymore..." Mountain sighs, starting to thrust again, slowly and shallowly at first. Despite his meager beginner thrusts, it's still painfully overstimulating for the both of them, Auroras long claws involuntarily digging into his back as she lets out a desperate, throaty cry. The pain only spurs them on further, mixing so beautifully with the pleasure.

Mountain, achieving full hardness, begins to fuck into her harder, slamming against her cervix with every calculated thrust. His mouth moved across her collarbone, his fangs gently nipping at the sensitive skin there. His lips began trailing down towards her chest, pausing to leave marks against her pale, grey skin along the way, all while pounding into her at an inhuman pace. His hands had moved to her hips, holding her firmly in place. He was determined to savor every moment, every touch, every taste.

"Good girl, 'Rora. T-take it all." He grunts. "Gonna stuff you full of my seed, fill you up with my kits. You want that, love? You want me to breed you?" Aurora wails incoherently, eyes rolled back and mouth hung open, panting like a bitch in heat. (which, technically, she was.) "Yes! Yes, yes, oh Satanas, yes!" She squeals excitedly, her sopping cunt clenching around Mountains length, ripping another gutteral growl from his throat.

Mountains tail twitches aggressively, swishing back and forth like a whip, signifying he was close. Aurora notices, wrapping her legs tightly around his waist, giving him no possible chance of pulling out, not that he would want to anyway. "Fuck yes! G-give me your knot, Mounty, get me pregnant! Fill me up, please baby, please!"

With one last snap of his hips, Mountain releases a loud, animalistic moan, flooding her womb with his seed, his huge knot popping and stretching her out so much she felt as if she was going to explode. Mountain collapsed on top of her in exhaustion, unable to move, unable to think. All they could do now is try to catch their breath as they wait for his knot to deflate so he could slide out of her overused, leaking hole, and fall asleep together in a sweaty, sticky embrace.

As the months go by, Auroras stomach swells with child, body growing and readying to sustain the life that she was creating in her womb. Mountain, of course, is fiercely protective over her in this state, by her side constantly as he anxiously awaits the arrival of his little ghouls. But regardless of how much time passes, neither Mountain nor Aurora will ever forget the fateful day that brought them their growing family.

-

[blue--ingenue]

Scorbus - "Dear Soulmate"

Based on this prompt:

Author's Note: i've finally finished with this request from the wonderful @abbie-scorbus01. i'm so sorry this took so very long 😭i hope you enjoy! [Title taken from the Laufey song, "Dear Soulmate"]

Content Warning: mention of slight violence from a bully

It was a well-established fact that Slytherin threw the best parties. Its location beneath the Black Lake ensured that most of the music and shouting was muffled by several feet of water and stone. (And it certainly didn’t hurt that most of Hogwarts’ wealthiest students were Slytherins, meaning top-shelf firewhiskey and kegs of butterbeer were always in abundance.) After an intense quidditch match between Gryffindor and Slytherin ended in a landslide victory for the latter team, word quickly spread of the celebration to be held in the common room. 

Scorpius could think of several things he’d rather be doing than spending the night surrounded by his raucous, intoxicated classmates, but Albus would be there, which meant Scorpius’ absence was out of the question. He set his battered copy of A History Of Magic on the closest side table and scanned the room for the hundredth time. Most of the other students present were still setting up for the party. A couple of seventh-years were levitating green and silver streamers to hang from the vaulted ceilings, while the rest conjured tables for the awaiting treats and liquor. Still no sign of his best friend. Perhaps he was still changing out of his uniform? Albus was always the last to leave the dormitory in the morning, but even he couldn’t need an entire hour to change out of his quidditch uniform. Not even one as spectacularly form-fitting as his had grown to be since the start of term. 

Scorpius’ gaze had been locked on Albus’ breathtaking form for the entire match. He played flawlessly. Every dive was calculated, each quaffle pass deliberate and ruthless. Halfway through the game Scorpius realized with a jolt how closely his playing style mirrored his personality. He was ever-vigilant, adapting quickly to the Gryffindors’ offensives. Brutally efficient and viciously agile, he was an unstoppable force once the quaffle was in his hands and his eyes locked onto the goal posts.  Albus had pushed his goggles into his unruly curls to keep them from flying into his eyes while he rolled and dove. It had taken his breath away and, not for the first time, he was reminded of how utterly in love he was with his best friend.

It was a secret Scorpius planned to take to his grave. There was no way that Albus - kind, perfect, beautiful Albus - returned his feelings. He and Albus shared everything; nothing remained hidden for long between the two of them. But all the love he felt for Al, every moment that had Scorpius blushing like mad and imagining a future together, those moments he poured into his diary. And so he waited for Albus to return from the pitch. He filled page after page with vivid descriptions of Albus’ flushed cheeks, wind-whipped hair, and the way he searched for Scorpius in the crowd after every goal he scored. He allowed his heart to bleed onto the pages, permitted his mind to wander into a timeline where he could hold Albus’ hand and murmur every word on his tucked-away pages. 

Scorpius didn’t realize the party had begun around him until a Gryffindor student, clearly drunk, stumbled into the back of the couch and broke his concentration. He set down his journal and took in the scene around him. Now that he was paying attention, he noticed the ceiling had gone dark. The lack of rippling light streaming through the Black Lake told him he had been writing for nearly an hour. The once-barren tables were now overflowing with sweets pilfered from the kitchens. Upon a table placed at the center of the common room, a small fountain bubbled with firewhiskey. Surrounding it were kegs of butterbeer and several red plastic cups that he’d only ever seen the muggles use in films Albus had shown him over the summer. 

A commotion near the common room entrance snared his attention and Scorpius turned to see Albus picking his way down the marble steps. Students from every house were sitting on nearly every available inch of the stairs, but when they realized the Potter brothers had arrived, they parted like a curtain. Scorpius stood, allowed his journal to fall from his lap, and stared. Anyone who didn’t know the Potters would never guess that James and Albus were related. James, with his broad shoulders and fiery red hair, and Al, with his lithe frame and raven locks - slightly curled from the shower he undoubtedly took after the match. Albus detested having all eyes on him, but James gladly soaked up the attention focussed entirely on the pair as they wove their way through the common room. From the corner of his eye Scorpius heard the rustling of parchment, and then - 

“Biggest rager of the year and you’re still doing homework?” Scorpius sucked in a ragged breath and spun to face the voice’s owner. Eliot Green, Gryffindor Beater, was holding his journal. Years of torment at the end of Eliot’s wand automatically sent his pulse jackrabbiting into his throat. He stood, petrified, trying to decide whether to take a safe step back or rush forward to grab the journal out of his hands. Eliot sneered at his hesitance and held the journal tight to his chest.

“You really are an enormous geek, you know,” he mocked in a sing-song tone. Scorpius clenched his fists, obscured by his long cloak sleeves, but he didn’t dare move. Eliot must’ve overheard him and Al talking in the common room last night. 

-

Albus had been fraught at the prospect of letting down the team at the upcoming match. Scorpius begun rattling off every Chaser strategy he’d memorized from the book on Albus’ bedside table in an effort to calm his nerves. Al had mastered nearly every one, and Scorpius was just getting around to assuring him he could’ve possibly fail when he found himself swept into a hug. The shock had worn off after a few seconds, but Scorpius registered that they were still holding each other. 

“That’s the third time you’ve done that,” he’d squeaked. But Al only held him tighter and murmured, “You really are an enormous geek, you know?” Even with his face nestled into Al’s shoulder, he could hear the soft smile in his voice. 

“I’m so glad to have a friend like you,” were the words that pulled him back to reality. The cold reminder that Albus saw him as a friend -  and nothing more.

-

Scorpius’ eyes burned, unshed tears stinging at such a vulnerable moment being thrown back in his face by Eliot of all people. 

“I would’ve thought Voldemort’s son would be eager to celebrate such a phenomenal win for his own house. Daddy would be so disappointed. Now, let’s see what we have here-” he wrenched the journal open, hard enough that Scorpius heard the spine crack, and opened to the most recent page.

Scorpius forgot how to breathe as his eyes scanned the page, a cruel grin slicing across his face as he realized exactly what he was reading. 

He stepped up onto the nearest table and grinned. “I think this is something everyone would enjoy hearing, don’t you?”

Rational thought abandoned Scorpius. A primal fear possessed him and he rushed forward and made a grab for the journal. Eliot anticipated his move and sent a half-hearted stinging hex his way. It sliced across his cheek, and Scorpius cried out in pain. The common room went deadly silent in seconds as people noticed the commotion. Scorpius had tripped over a table leg and fallen onto the unforgiving marble floor. He held his cheek with one hand, and the cut stung as salty tears ran across the wound. All eyes were on Eliot as he held the journal above his head and crowed:

“Before we all get too drunk to remember anything, Scorpius Malfoy has something he’d like to say. He’s too much of a coward to say it, so I’ve graciously volunteered to be his voice.”

It was a nightmare. The scene before him blurred from tears, silence except for Eliot’s grating voice scraping his heart raw to everyone in the room, and Albus  - oh god. Albus was here. He’s going to hear everything. They’ll never be able to come back from this - 

And then Scorpius’ own words were echoing throughout the vaulted ceilings and into the ears of everyone in the common room:

 “I know that loving someone and being in love with someone are two entirely different things, but with him I feel both. I love him. I’ve always loved him as a friend, but for a while now it’s felt different. I reread my previous entries, and now I know why they sounded so familiar. They sound like the stories dad tells me about mum. I love how beautiful he looks as he’s falling asleep in our dorm, and how he’s always grumpy at breakfast. I love how passionate he is about the causes he believes in, and how fiercely he cares for his family (even if he tries to hide it). I love that I can feel the sun inside my chest when he’s close, but I can’t bear to be apart from him. But most of all, I love him. I’m in love with Albus. And it feels like this is the type of love one only reads about in fairytales. It’s a love some people spend their whole lives searching for, and sometimes never even find. I think it’s a love worth fighting for. And when I was in the alternate timeline- What the hell? Malfoy, enlighten us on what you meant by that last part!”

 Scorpius couldn’t breathe. There were a few snorted laughs scattered across the crowd, but mostly it was silent. His hands were trembling. If he weren’t already on the floor, he would’ve fallen over. He used the table to pull himself up, intent on running somewhere, anywhere but here, when his gaze snagged on Albus and James. Albus, whose eyes were filled with pity. And James, eyes blazing with anger and face flushing so red it nearly matched his hair. His eyes were locked on Scorpius, chest heaving and fists clenched. He stalked forward, the crowd parting to let him pass. Scorpius took an instinctive step back. James was going to hit him. He knew Scorpius had feelings for his little brother. James swung his fist back - Scorpius flinched away - and a crack cleaved the silence as Eliot cried out and fell flat on his back.

Scorpius opened his eyes just enough to see that James and Eliot were wrestling on the ground before he pulled himself together and ran.

He shoved against bodies, babbled apologies, and ran. Up the winding staircase, past the common room doors, and down the corridors. Left turn, right turn, up stairs, through the courtyard. He ran and ran until his lungs burned and his legs felt like jelly. He collapsed into a heap, pain registering dully as his knees hit the boathouse floor. He felt the full reality of what transpired hit him all at once, and he broke. This was vivisection. His heart felt scrubbed raw for all the world to see. And the worst of it - Albus’ pitying gaze. A single look that told him everything he needed to know. Albus would find a way to let him down gently, but Scorpius doubted they’d ever really come back from this. Nothing would be the same. He shuffled back against a column and pulled his knees up to his chest. Every sob felt drawn from his well of sorrow, something that had remained untouched since his mum’s funeral.

“Scorpius?” Albus’ tentative voice halted his sobs momentarily. He didn’t dare look up. As soon as he did, it would be the beginning of the end. As long as he kept his eyes shut, he could hang onto whatever hope he had that things wouldn’t change. Shuffling, and then a hand beneath his chin, gently guiding his head up. The smell of firewood and fresh linen, Albus, and then - “Could you open your eyes for me?” He obeyed. Albus could ask him for anything, and Scorpius would comply, knowing it was already his.

“There you are,” he smiled softly. Scorpius slowly took in his surroundings and let his gaze linger on Albus’ face. His cheeks were flushed, his hair was messier than usual, like he’d been raking his hand through the curls, and his eyes were so impossibly green Scorpius could drown in them. A weight was placed next to him.

“I believe this belongs to you,” he murmured tentatively. Scorpius knew without looking that it was his journal. He couldn’t bear the sight of it. 

“I thought James was going to hit me,” he blurted. Albus reared back as though he’d been slapped. “He would never! James loves you. Everyone loves you…,” he trailed off.

Scorpius felt a sudden surge of bravery push a single word from his chest: “Everyone?” Everything felt suspended in the air. It was the feeling of missing a step on a darkened staircase, the stretched-out moment when you couldn’t tell if your feet would meet the next step or you’d end up sprawled at the bottom. Albus seemed to cast about for something, and when he found it, he set his shoulders and met Scorpius’ gaze head-on.

“Everyone,” he assured. Scorpius felt confusion and hope in equal measures. “Those things I wrote about you - ”

“I’m glad you did,” Al cut in. Scorpius gaped, but he continued. “I feel awful for listening, but I’m so glad you did. Before it got to the part with my name, the only thing I could think of was how badly I wanted those thoughts to be about me.” He shuffled closer, knees brushing against Scorpius’.

“I wanted that because - Because I know that loving someone and being in love with someone are different, but I feel both of those things. For you. And only you. I have for a while now, but I didn’t understand it until tonight.”

Scorpius sniffled as tears traced down his cheeks for an entirely different reason. A breathy laugh escaped him, high and a bit hysterical. “You can’t remember your class schedule, but you memorized that in one go?”

Al’s face softened into a relieved grin. He seemed to fold in on himself with relief as he bunched up his cloak sleeve and gently wiped the tears from his cheeks. The fabric grazed the cut on his cheek and Scorpius hissed. Albus stilled completely, eyes blazing just as James’ had been minutes ago.

“Did he do this to you?” His fist shook with rage as he touched the tip of his wand to Scorpius’ cheek, but the healing magic that flowed from him was gentle, the kiss of a breeze. Albus ran his thumb along the newly-healed cut, and Scorpius leaned into his touch, greedy for more. The warmth disappeared as Albus stood. “He’s dead.”

Scorpius hand shot out, catching Albus’ hand at the last second. “Please don’t,” he begged. “Just stay here with me?” Albus scowled up at the castle, but dropped to his knees next to Scorpius. 

“I’d rather be where you are, anyway,” he breathed. He looked at Scorpius for a moment before pulling him into a hug. Scorpius laughed, holding Al to his chest and allowing himself great lungfuls of air, taking in his best friend’s familiar scent. Scorpius voice was slightly muffled where his face pressed against Albus’ chest as he asked, “Is this a thing we do now?”

Albus pulled away and gently cupped his face, his touch gentle, heavenly. “I want it to be,” he replied, with more resolve than Scorpius had ever heard from him.

He bit his lip nervously and Scorpius eye’s followed the motion, shameless staring. Albus’ thumb drifted up to gently rest against his bottom lip. “May I?” he begged.

Scorpius replied by gripping his cloak with both hands and kissing him with the desperation of a drowning man. Albus’ lips were warm, supple, his kiss impossibly gentle and maddeningly hungry all at once. It could’ve been forever or a moment when they finally pulled away, breathless and smiling like lovesick fools. Albus opened his arms in invitation and Scorpius tucked himself against his chest. They sat in silence for a few minutes, enjoying the feel of being so close. It was Scorpius who broke the silence first. 

“Nothing will ever be the same, will it?” he murmured. Albus gazed down at him. He brushed a stray lock from his forehead and placed a gentle kiss in its stead. 

“No. It’ll be better.”

.

.

.

.

.

[yenforfairytales]

Sure sure, Daniel has a bratty, sassy, flirty ‘Jersey’ side—but folks seem to forget just how sweet, earnest, naive, and innocent he was in the KK trilogy. One of my favourite scenes is in the first film at the start, when Daniel sees a dog in his flat complex and moments later fetches water for it—without being asked! What an angel. Anyway, this sweet innocence is probably why Terry had him totally blindsided for a while in KK3, and did it with such ease. And because Silverusso has always had my heart, let’s not forget this clueless, adorable Danny is exactly the one that piqued Terry’s demented, decades long obsession. That sweet and spicy combination is just so winning—along with the looks. I don’t blame Terry for being totally overwhelmed by the boy, it was inevitable. Terry Silver is the very definition of whipped. Lol.

Yes! Completely agree. Daniel is a perfect mix of tough but sweet. Slutty but innocent. It's a maddening blend.

He stands out. Unforgettable to everyone he's ever met even 35yrs later.

Oh, anon, are you me? Daniel giving the dog some water is one of my all time favorite scenes too!!

It's so subtle. Miyagi saw that in him. When he gifted Daniel the bonsai embroidery and Daniel said he'd understand if Miyagi ever wanted it back. And Miyagi smiled, "I know you understand." HUUUUU 😭 brb crying

There's other sweet examples, but Daniel is so thoughtful!! The most thoughtful and considerate.

Sure, his temper can override that sometimes, but even though he has attitude, he remains observant and so empathetic that he feels guilty about everything and can't sleep unless he apologizes.

That's a sensitive soul who never wanted to fight anyone and ended up constantly under attack. But look how much everyone loves him and will do anything for him. HIS LOVE SAVES PEOPLE. His forgiveness. He's truly a light.

Not to get off track but, another favorite innocent moment of mine is in kk2 when they're getting on the airplane and Daniel goes, "Airsick? What's airsick?!" :U

Just super loud and confused. Lmao

Again speaks to his innocence at that time. Maybe more Jersey street smarts than book smarts but the poor baby went through like a lifetime of maturity in one year because of the events of all three movies.

A little heartbreaking that CK Daniel is so... world weary. He's quieter. He's more observant. Meaning, he's more calculated in every interaction. Ten times smarter than when he was a kid.

I definitely blame Terry for that. He broke Daniel's heart. And according to Jessica, it took him some time to recover. (Although we know it was not completely)

Luckily for everyone, Daniel is such an angel that he never lost his sweetness or his instinct to help others even if he is cautious. He's willing to forgive but he tried his damndest to become people and business savvy as to never get hurt again.

He's intelligent. He's refined. He's a leader.

The irony that the parts of Daniel that Terry liked best he helped destroy. That trust and innocence. The irony that Terry was denied the forgiving nature of Daniel he knows is there because of his own actions.

Terry remembered that sweet, naive boy and imagined being forgiven right away and was legit shocked at Daniel's anger. Not necessarily at the rejection, but at Daniel's angerrr.

Daniel's comment about Terry being in a padded cell really struck a nerve.

I will say this - both men would not have such hurt and anger after 35 YEARS if there was no love involved at all.

The reason Daniel could forgive everyone else was because he never loved them. They were never friends.

He loved Terry. He mourned someone who never existed. And Terry wouldn't care so much about being forgiven if he felt nothing either.

THIS IS GETTING TOO ANGSTY I'M SORRY

One day someone will have to do a gifset of all the times Terry and Daniel eye-fucked each other in CK. There were so many secret smiles y'all.

I think they missed each other as much as they're mad at each other.

Anyway

This sweet innocence is probably why Terry had him totally blindsided for a while in KK3, and did it with such ease. And because Silverusso has always had my heart, let’s not forget this clueless, adorable Danny is exactly the one that piqued Terry’s demented, decades long obsession.

Let's think for a moment the picture that Kreese painted to Terry about this "punk kid" and his sensei.

Some prissy troublemaker that unfairly beat up the Cobra Kai students and made a fool of Kreese.

Then Terry meets Daniel and he's tiny and sweet and can barely meet Terry's eyes.

They spent months together. Terry's not stupid, he quickly learned the truth. He just desperately wanted to make Kreese happy.

And then years later, we see that Terry doesn't believe Kreese about the past anymore. He scoffs and rolls his eyes!

And if Terry was being honest with himself, he'd admit that he wanted to be a sensei(but couldn't because of his father's business) and loved having his own student. I and others think he was a little hurt when Daniel didn't want to be in Cobra Kai anymore and quit.

(Terry was like Bill in Kill Bill. "I... overreacted.")

That sweet and spicy combination is just so winning—along with the looks. I don’t blame Terry for being totally overwhelmed by the boy, it was inevitable.

Who wouldn't love having Daniel's full attention? Daniel was like... enamoured with everything about Terry. He did everything he said.

That's intoxicating.

Terry already thought of himself as godlike. Wealthy. Handsome. Powerful. Getting away with crimes and tricking this sweet young thing.

And then said sweet young thing looks up to you and hangs on your every word? AND he's actually a pretty good student, a fast learner?

BUT Daniel has enough attitude that he does give Terry a bit of a challenge. All the more sweeter for when Daniel eventually gives in. What fun!

Terry Silver is the very definition of whipped. Lol.

What is this?! Terry, explain!!!

Where were you going with this??

"That was beautiful!"

35 years later...

"You were powerful, free..."

Legit Terry would have done anything Daniel asked if he had been greeted with a warm reception in CK.

Lest you all forget! Terry was happy to see Daniel again. He was not happy to see Kreese.

Terry called Kreese his weakness because he was a weight around his neck and had to be removed. But Terry refused to get rid of Daniel, who all but jumped on Terry's back like a spider monkey and caused more trouble for Terry than Kreese ever did! Amazing!

I was going to say more about that and lost my train of thought.

Still waiting for the au where Daniel reigns in the righteous anger a bit and manipulates Terry to be on his side over Kreese's.

[97-liners]

ok sorry it took me forever to get to this, i was moving when you posted it and believe me i've been on the edge of my seat waiting for this ever since you posted the first snippet of the wip last year and nearly killed me

as always review under the cut:

literally from the very first sentence, you knock it out of the park... i've said this before but you're SO GOOD at prose and i love the turns of phrase you use. just technically, you're sooo good. like you're too good to be writing on tumblr

It's underneath a layer of paper-thin egg yolk pasta where you think you see god. Spoon meets whipped ricotta, white truffle, sage oil. A sip of 1979 cabernet, punishing and oaky. Rinse and repeat. None of these words are in the Bible, yet you are having nothing short of a religious experience.

like come onnnnnn 😭😭

"So Joshua decided to quit. Just like you said," Jeonghan says, but it's like he's speaking to you through a wet paper bag because it takes every working brain cell of yours to read the email. As you may know, Joshua has decided to step down from his position as our current Lifestyle editor.

this part was so funny to me also aflsjdfl

and also

This whole situation is so cosmically awful that all you can do is ask for dessert in a takeout box and watch Jeonghan calculate tip without a calculator because that's all you learn in business school.

lmao u bitch 😭😭😭😭😭 ur the funniest writer on this fucking website

also of course seungcheol wars a rolex.... ostentatious and ugly. the banter between y/n and coups is also so funny. like, you pack in sooo much humor in the details

You wait for the door to Wonwoo's office to close before looking at him right in his wet, cow eyes with the most malice you can possibly muster.

SHUT UP NOT THE BIG WET BABY COW EYES......

at the end of the office scene and beginning into the bagel shop, i love how there's so much malice and derision directed towards seungcheol, but y/n still doesn't miss the chance to talk about how attractive he is..... so true...

and then when you launch into y/n's plan to crash seungcheol's date and cause a scene i was sitting here like noooo babygirl no

i love how through the interactions with seungcheol at the restaurant, you intersperse little column titles... it's so funny 😭

lily i need to know. how many food stories and restaurant reviews did you read in research for this fic. the way you write about food is incredible, like YOU could be an award-winning nyt food columnist if you wanted to be

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

DFSHKJAJFL

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

again, you're just so good at writing, like idk how else to say it. you're good at writing!!!

and then i got to this part, the part that you posted last year and has been living in my head ever since

That’s how you end up in the parking lot of a random 7/11 off the freeway. In any other circumstances, it would be a cruel and unusual punishment, but you've already been whittled down enough to actually care about Seungcheol, even if just a little. That's what you tell yourself, anyway, as you watch him finish the last of the takeout. "So I'm bad at food, and you're bad at love. Why the fuck did Wonwoo even think of promoting either of us?" Seungcheol kicks his shoes off and props his feet up on the dashboard. You notice his socks have dogs on them, little linty brown ones, and you feel a little worse about openly bullying him about his fashion taste in front of the entirety of copy staff. "I may be bad at love, but you're worse. Especially for someone who does it for a living," you retort. "Don't think I forgot our earlier conversation." You try to read the tiny text on a receipt he's got stashed in the center console, among his graveyard of snack wrappers. (2) CHEESY GORDITA CRUNCH…8.78. (1) M MT DEW BAJA BLAST…1.00. Definitely bad at food, you muse to yourself. "You think I'm not kicking myself right now? That I have a beautiful girl in my car right now, and all we do is argue?"

like, damn, you really know how to make a moment, huh? like, creating a little snowglobe within a fic, a moment that's like,,, so real ...

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

aauuggghhghghghhhhhh

What a wonderful, terrible thing to see all your history on a plate, the I could never eat peas, the once I ate mangos till I was sick, the guilty spoon in the vanilla ice cream after a bad day and the dark chocolate you keep in your purse. He remembered that you like your noodles just a little bit overcooked, and you don't even think you told him that.

you're insane you're so good

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

and not only are you so good you're also so funny "Of course. If it was, I'd be asking stuff like…Where you're from. But I already know—h, e, double hockey—" "Chicago."

YOU BITCH HAHAHAHA

ok and then this is the part where i stopped writing down my reactions and thoughts because i got sucked soooo hard into the story and the progression. i love y/n in this story-- i love how you make her so earnest. and the fight over ramen. "It was serious for me. I'm sorry it wasn't for you." was a punch to the gut. and then the swift transition into grocery shopping, like even after the fight, the next scene is still so full of love.

the parking lot scene was cute and it felt good, it didn't feel like a hamfisted reconciliation just for the purpose of having all the loose ends pull together. it felt real and it felt like something teetering on the edge of a happy ending, which in the end is a lot more real than "and then we kissed and everything was fine"

also loved wonwoo being a little loser through this whole fic, i loved seeing him, and also i loved shua being insane and annoying, and seungkwan being the best.

anyways. what can i say that hasn't been said before? lily, you're such a good writer. like truly. like you're too good for fanfiction, let alone tumblr fanfiction. you could write professionally if you wanted to. how do you do it!???? the characterizations, the perfect impeccable humor and prose that rolls off the tongue, the pacing and structuring of the whole fic, the way the first half is a perfect slow burn, the way there's soooooo much romcom energy infused in every crevice of this fic...... like. i wish i could write like you do. i'm going to be revisiting this fic over and over again.

title: eat. play. love.

pairing: seungcheol x f!reader

wc: 19.4k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Looking forward to talking with the two of you.

Wait—two?

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

CC: Choi Seungcheol.

"Choi Seungcheol?!"

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

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

"I—he," you stammer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Choi Seungcheol's name stares back at you.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

The meeting goes exactly how you would expect.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You know what?"

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

"What?"

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

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

"I'd rather starve."

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

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

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

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

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

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

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

"You'll never guess what I have."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And a seat at Momofuku."

"And that."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hide behind your computer screen.

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

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

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

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

Seungkwan works hard, but the devil always works harder.

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing you can do to stop him, huh?

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

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Beware the wrath of a woman scorned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hook, line, and sinker.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Seungcheol?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who said I was pretending?"

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

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

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

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

"I never said that."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How To Antagonize Your Date In 5 Easy Steps.

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm no quitter."

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

Definitely not that one.

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

"Why, so you can steal my job?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In your periphery hovers his wry, wanting smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, pity looks good on you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fair. You gonna ask me about mine?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Running away?"

"Bored," you lie.

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

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

"Unfortunate."

"How do you think I feel?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Field trip?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"N-not both ways?" you croak.

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

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

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

Whatever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But, thank you."

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

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

"I'm retracting my thank you."

"I'm devastated. Really."

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

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

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

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

"Thought you knew it was Wonwoo."

"Yeah, but why?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who hurt you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I wouldn't say nothing."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You in a rush?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Definitely bad at food, you muse to yourself.

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

Now that—nothing could have prepared you for that.

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

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

"Stop that."

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

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

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

"Is it working?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Seungcheol is my enemy, remember?"

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

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

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

You almost choke on a blueberry.

"Absolutely not."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm running out of options."

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

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

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

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

Your entire body heaves with the sigh that escapes you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Lucky you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A gift. A pithless, wrinkly one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, you're definitely going to cry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You count the seconds till he walks away.

One. Two. Three.

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

"Hey, you ok?"

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

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

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

"Whoa," he breathes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah, I-I think so."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And no text from Seungcheol. (Damn.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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"Here. Drink."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Thanks…?"

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

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

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

"You're literally the definition of easy."

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

"This is not a date. Dream on."

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

"It wasn't."

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

"Chicago."

"Same difference."

Your conversation continues as such.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hi."

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

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

The elevator dings.

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

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You have three reasons to get drunk.

1. It's Friday.

2. You finished your article.

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

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

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

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

So you get drunk.

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

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

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

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

"You got that right."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yours or mine?"

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

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

How To Ruin The Moment In One Easy Step!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Just dates. Nothing serious."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Holy shit. You live like this?"

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

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

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

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

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

You tentatively nod before dropping the noodles in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What, too many dates to cover?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The table stops rocking.

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

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

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

"You asked."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Wh—"

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

"Get. Out."

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

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

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

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Celery. Red wine. Short rib.

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

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

Fingerling potatoes, the red ones. A Vidalia onion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Monday feels tilted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You wonder what you'll be:

10 Signs She Is Clinically Insane.

It's Not You, It's Them!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Ask Samuel!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Congrats."

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

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

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

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

"No need."

"What about Seungcheol? Does he know?"

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

"What?!"

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

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

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

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

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

Instead you stand motionless, waiting, emptied.

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

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

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

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

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

He gave up.

None of this should matter to you.

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

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

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

"You're an idiot, Seungcheol."

That does the trick.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"H-how?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Afternoon, boss."

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

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

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

"Friendly reminder we're at work."

"Everyone's at lunch, genius."

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

"You are the worst."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eat, Play, Love: A Guide.

Maybe you'd put it through. Maybe.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

[lordtraco-fanfics]

I would like to order a venti ⬆️⬇️⚡️♦️😭 please. ^^

A venti Nimbasa Trio Reunion with a shot of Angst, eh? We're running a special on that today XD

(I made it extra sad but added silly at the end to sweeten it up. Please enjoy!)

"It's not him, Emmet." Elesa said, patting her friend's hands. "Just keep walking."

"It is him. I see him, he's here every day! He- he doesn't recognize me, not without the coat, I need my-" Emmet's words tumbled out quickly.

"Emmet!" She stopped, whipping around with an angry expression that caught him off guard. "Let it go."

Emmet balled his hands into fists. "This time-"

"This time, if it is him, Ingo can find us for a ch-" her spiteful words died on her tongue when she noticed the man clearly too old and ragged to be Ingo approaching.

"My apologies for the delay on your route, but I believe I overheard a familiar name?"

Emmet looked up. It was Ingo. Yet the man before him looked right through his own brother without a lick of recognition. That broke something inside him.

There was a spiteful little serenity that washed over Emmet's heart. He'd been forgotten, perhaps that was for the best. At least now he knew Ingo was alive, that could be enough.

It wasn't like his life was anything worth sharing these days. A mere commuter, no longer the beloved Subway Boss. His biggest claim to fame now was his friendship with a gym leader, sparking gossip articles so often it was annoying. No one wanted to talk to him about pokemon. They shied away from the topic of Gear Station.

Ingo could change that, if he'd been the same as before. But he wasn't.

"You misheard." Emmet said, putting in an effort to frown as he tugged Elesa's sleeve.

"Wait, Emmet, maybe he needs-"

"Emmet…" The thoughtful way Ingo pondered the name only further broke Emmet's heart. That wasn't how his name should sound in that voice! It should be full of emotion! It should come out as a warning because he'd done something dumb! It should sound casual, accompanying a little nod to look at something. It should be huffed out in exasperation. It should be part of an introduction to a potential opponent.

"Go away." Emmet let go of Elesa's sleeve, walking off on his own.

"Please, sir-"

"You don't know me!" Emmet yelled, tears in his eyes. "You don't! So leave!"

"Emmet, stop!" Elesa reached for him, but he ran.

Unknown to him, Ingo blinked as recognition flooded in. "EMMET!"

He froze mid-step. Standing with his hat feebly trying to cover his sobbing face as the crowd of people graciously gave him a wide berth. That had sounded right. For just a moment, that had sounded right.

The hug that followed felt right too. Just a bit of pressure, calculated so it wasn't taken as a challenge to squeeze the life out of each other, but still enough to give a grounding bit of comfort.

"I do know you, Emmet, please just allow the trains to return to the right stations."

Elesa held back, letting them have a moment before deciding, nah, she needed a hug too.

"I'm so sorry I doubted you, Emmet, it really is Ingo."

"It is, I'm home."

Emmet couldn't form words for a long time, but that didn't stop the reunion from being full of more hugs and excited ramblings by Ingo and Elesa about the years apart.

Maybe… Emmet looked to the bench they sat on, folding his hands together. Maybe it didn't matter. Ingo had wanted to come back, even without remembering him. Maybe it was ok that nothing was like it used to be. If the soft smile his twin kept giving between rambling was any indication, he was happy to be back.

And he'd told Ingo to leave. Emmet's heart caught in his throat and he tried desperately not to make a sound, but it hurt. It hurt, he'd gotten Ingo back and a little amnesia was enough to make him push away his own brother!?

"Emmet?" There it was, the inquisitive tone. The one that said Ingo knew him. Knew him enough to know he was hurting. Emmet buried his head in his hands, trying to cut out the world from seeing his anguish over his own stupid words.

"Hey. Emmet, look at us." Elesa's voice was so gentle, a far cry from the anger she'd held earlier. It wasn't like he'd blame her for the way she lashed out. Not when so many times he'd derail their plans chasing down any dude in black. But he couldn't apply that forgiveness to himself.

"Please." Ingo's voice carried alongside Elesa's.

He looked up, opening his mouth to speak, but all the doubt piled up like cotton in his throat, suffocating him. He watched as two pairs of eyes fixed him with looks of concern.

Pulling out his phone, he wrote out the words before the guilt they carried swallowed him whole.

I told you to leave. I didn't mean it. I'm sorry.

"Well you're in luck. Whether you mean it or not, you're stuck with me again, Emmet." He laughed softly, mumbling the rest under his breath, "Because I don't think anyone takes ancient Hisuian currency here."

Emmet coughed out a laugh, his bright smile returning. He messed around on his phone for a bit before showing the two a meme of the situation.

Emmet and Elesa's ears rang for a good day from the volume of Ingo's laugh.

The meme:

[tsukki-lover]

Can you please write about Touya catching his lover with a vibrator after work with the LOV and at first the reader thinks he is understanding but then he keeps edging her then after so much begging he overstimulates till she breaks,, ignore if it’s too much bestie 😭

i swear you guys spoil me with these ideas

cw: overstimulation, orgasm denial, vaginal penetration, no protection, head f!receiving , dom!dabi, fem!reader

Oh, you poor thing

MINORS DNI

——————————

dabi had been gone all day on a mission and don’t get me wrong, you understand the high stakes and love your boyfriend dearly but fuck.. you missed him. you felt guilty as you reached over to your bed side drawer, pulling out a vibe. you knew it was against the rules but the ache between your legs was unbearable at this point. you had already waited hours. what’s the harm right.. right?

“oh you sweet, idiotic little thing” your head whipped to the side as you saw him, leaning against the door way, arms crossed, as he watched you pleasure yourself. he looked amused. almost like he was mocking you. you were frozen in place, terrified really with absolutely no idea what was coming. he shot you a fake pout and slowly walked over to the bed “mm too needy to wait doll?” he asked as he set his hand down on your thigh. you were completely naked, dripping from your core, ragged breaths, and so so nervous. “i-im sorry i didn’t mean to i just-“ “shh shh shh it’s okay baby” he smiled at you and slowly rubbed your thigh

“a-are you sure?” “would i ever lie to you?” you calmed down a little bit letting your body relax and dabi grabbed the vibe “let me help you sweet thing.” he pushed you legs up to your chest before commanding you to hold them and settling himself infront of you. “god.. so wet” he studied your face with a smirk as he pressed the vibrator down on your clit. you moaned softly, already a bit riled up from before, and closed your eyes. dabi left harsh hickeys and even some bites on the inside of your thighs as he watched you whimper and moan

he teasingly ran his fingers along your slit, only pushing the tips in. “touya.. more” he clocked his tongue and looked up at you “that’s not how we ask for things and you know that.” you bit your lip before giving in “daddy please! i want your fingers.. need ‘em” he harshly pushed his fingers into you while groaning “mm that’s my girl” you threw your head back as he curled his fingers into your gummy walls and continued his assault on your clit. “fuckfuckfuckfuck mm cumming!” all of a sudden everything stopped. touyas fingers were pulled out, the vibrator was removed, and all you could see was dabis cocky grin. “you really thought i was gonna let you get away with that? touching what’s mine? god.. you’re dumber than i thought.”

you didn’t know what to do. your mouth was open but no words were seeming to come out. he laughed and put the vibrator back down. “buckle up baby. it’s gonna be a long night.” your thighs twitched and your eyes rolled back as you felt him dip the vibe into you and him shoving his head between your legs. the calculated circles around your clit, the vibe angling to hit your g-spot, the toe curling suction he had with his mouth, it was all too much and you could feel your knot getting tighter again. you were not going to let this one slip away. you didn’t care what punishment would come afterwards. you needed this. you decided not to say anything about you being close. good thing dabi knows your body better than you do. he felt the tell tale signs, your pussy quivering, breathing getting harder, moans getting more high pitched. you couldn’t hide shit from him.

once again he stopped and oh boy, did you cry. “PLEASE TOUYA- IM SORRY I DIDNT MEAN TO I JUST MISSED YOU” he got up and wiped a stray tear rolling down your cheek. “if only you didn’t break a rule.” he slapped your cheek, not super hard but definitely with a little force. you watched as he got up and stripped himself. “now, that pretty little pussy is gonna wrap around my cock ‘mkay? and you’re not going to cum ONCE. i don’t even want to hear you asking for it. you’re gonna sit there and take what i give you. alright?” you sniffled and looked at him “y-yes sir” he hummed satisfied and pushed his tip inside you “such a good slut f’me” he groaned and he went at an agonizingly slow pace. he wanted you to feel the stretch and burn of his cock. he wanted you to memorize every vein and curve. after all you were his. and he was gonna make sure you never fucking forget that.

—————

wooo this one was fun! sorry if it’s not that good babe i was rushing cuz i’m working on 2 other fics that i want to get out tonight AND i have the flu :( pls leave any sort of tips! they’re very appreciated!!

[teeth-farie]

Why do I feel like, strangely, Barbatos would be the first to catch your Dom Drop? 😳 After the first drop of blood, you might see him stretch out and flex his back where he wants to stretch the wound on purpose, but Barbatos that doesn't help MC! 😭 They panic, dropping the whip and moving to Barbatos' back. Barbatos turns a bit and after seeing your eyes and hearing your concern, gets up to take your hand and puts it against his chest lovingly and giving you positive affirmations, blushing.

You had wanted to indulge him, he wanted this after all. But the sight of his arms curled around the pillar in his room and his back bared to you felt all wrong. You didn’t want to hurt him, even if he wanted it. But he does so much for you, the least you could do is pay him back, right?

The first strike comes with his gentle coaxing. You’re trying to be gentle, a hit far too weak to give him the pleasure he craves. Barbatos gives an encouraging hum and you feel sick. You don’t like the agitation forming on his back, but you carry on. He pleads for you to hit harder, tells you how much he’d love it. And so you do. You strike hard and guilt burns up your throat like bile.

His skin splits around your whip and his moan would be delightful if you were in any other mindset. Your hands feel shaky and your skin burns hot and cold at the sight of the slow drip of blood down his back. Your nose starts to burn like you want to cry. You should be like this, this isn’t how a good dom is supposed to act, is it? You’re supposed to be calculated and unbreakable—you’re supposed to do the breaking, yet all you want to do is coddle him and hold him close.

The handle of the whip is falling from your hand and Barbatos turns around. He sees the distraught in your eyes and the tremble on your lip and immediately breaks from his headspace. He stumbles a little, letting go of the pillar and holding his arms out to you. You immediately kneel and cradle him close to your chest, sniffling against his hair.

Barbatos croons to you, circles his arms around your waist and rubs up and down your back. It’ll be ok, you don’t need to do this for him to be satisfied, he tells you. You’re enough just as you are.

[sems-diarie]

hii can u post a review of the new jjk movie when u watch it? i watched it and ITS SO GOOD i wanna see what u think abt it:)))

jjk 0 spoilers (obvi)

buckle up bc once i start talking, i don’t stop

the opening sequence felt cinematic. and i love how they used music to structure it like an anime op. god i love it here.

i ADOREDDDDD how we got to see yuuta function as the mc to his own story versus just adding him to yuuji’s story, because it helps establish the world of jjk and how it’s existed before yuuji was apart of the bigger picture. fantastic world building. i’m so jealous of akutami and isayama as writers ☹️

jjk 0 also made me realize the difference between a backstory and an origin story. like i’d say yuuta’s backstory was rika, but his origin story elaborates on to the final parts of the movie—when he fights getou and sets rika free after actualizing his goals as a character. and the goal-identifying part is what’s significant for establishing an origin story.

s’like in the mcu, how spider-man has three movies and they all work to establish his origin story? yuuta’s backstory had multiple components to it; the movie didn’t just show us his tragic past, but it also showed us how he comes to be yuuta okkotsu, the legend.

also!! i really liked the scene when maki is pressuring yuuta into identifying what his goals are as a character. there’s something addictive ab the line “i want to make sure no one else gets hurt” (or a variant of that, i can’t remember the whole line, but it occurs after he and maki get trapped in the curse belly.)

that dialogue tag, specifically, really set the movie on fire and added so much to yuuta’s character—yuuta isn’t just a sorcerer because of rika, or because of some blood debt he feels he owes her. he isn’t just a sorcerer because he has this melancholic view of the world and wants to use jujutsu to brood over it. he’s a sorcerer because he wants to protect everyone else from experiencing that kind of pain ever again. his learned optimism is his greatest strength i love him :(

i also LOVE that we got that little flash forward to the present <333 i need to know what he’s been up to, and what he has to do w the narrative now. i saw that one manga panel of yuuta dragging yuuji out of ?? SOMEHWERE by his scruff and i’ve had an eye on yuuta since. so it’s nice to have a personality for a face i’ve been seeing for a year now 😭

speaking of character depth, it was wonderful to see getou’s actual personality LOL?? i feel like s1 gave us absolutely nothing so knowing getou’s motivations as the villain helps me understand s1 better.

that being said, his philosophy is GARBAGE LMAOOOO the most obvious flaw in his plan is that jujutsu sorcery is a naturally-occurring phenomenon. anyone can encounter curses, and just like that they’d go from being a “monkey” to a sorcerer. yuuji and yuuta, for example. i’m kinda disappointed bc i thought getou’s motivations were a little more calculated than this but i don’t particularly care for him enough to be super angry ab it

THAT being said, gojo’s relationship with getou will forever stay with me. even after all this time, gojo STILL TRUSTS HIM?? “he was my best friend! the only one i ever had.” my fucking stomach hurts. and the way gojo sounded so happy to call getou his best friend?? i know he might be keeping up appearances but there was sumn genuine in that fr. sumn wistful.

ALSO WHAT DID GOJO SAY?? WHEN HE SQUATTED DOWN TO TALK TO GETOU WHEN BRO WAS BEAT UP IN THE ALLEY WAY???

the fight scenes were fucking spectacular. maki and yuuta’s sparring session was so clean. also—they hyped maki up so MUCH in this movie!!!! i just fucking adore how everyone looks up to her 😭 she’s so influential and she doesn’t even know it. been that bitch, still that bitch LOLLL

gojo beat that poor man’s ass 😕 AND NO THEY DIDNT GIVE THE BLACK MAN A WHIP TO FIGHT WITH 😭😒

inumaki’s look in this movie is the superior look. panda was goofy as always <333

RIKAAA MY BELOVED!!!! she was the star of the show. when yuuta let her out and she tore that fucking curse apart ???? THE RAINING BLOOD??? i forget how easily jjk switches between child-friendly and… not. the gruesome scenes never disappointed, too.

anyways, back to rika—there was this one part where the screen goes black and then all you hear is rika’s, “it’s a promise!” i don’t know what facet of story telling / movie making that is, but the visual and auditory structuring of her narrative was fucking insane. I GOT CHILLS.

and she, herself, was amazing. i cherished every bit of screen time she had. her and yuuta’s relationship was very sweet. childhood-friends-gone-wrong is always a beautiful trope to display the corrruption of innocence.

i do have to say that rika’s face didn’t look babyish to me??? like it felt like they drew a grown woman’s face into a little girl’s body and that was so uncomfortable 😭😭 they might have done that to prep us for when she’s finally set free at the end of the movie, and looks to be older than she was when she died. but maybe i’m just tripping.

the yuuta obsession was also very much felt 😭 one thing ab rika? she gon go to war for hers! i did get so sad though, when yuuta snapped at her to put maki down and she was begging him not to hate her. i’m glad she’s set free from that bc it seemed like such a burden to be tied to someone so feverishly. exhausting for the spirit.

is there anything i missed 😭

NANAMI OMG. i moaned when he came on screen i’m not sorry ab it either. and that one scene w gojo switching from his glasses to his bandages. the kitty was purring.

lastly, my favorite scene is definitely getou calling yuuta a womanizer LMAOOO getou said verbatim what i was thinking, but it’s ok bc like yuuta said—“it’s true love!” he’s so annoying omg. i miss him i need to go see the movie again.

[sscarchiyo]

dating them

paring: masumi x gn!reader

type: headcanons

warnings: none

genre: fluff

🖇a/n: to the anon who thought i'd forget him the first time, you made me sad. you'll never be forgiven/j 😭 from this day forward he's been added to my faves :) hope you enjoy and feedback is always appreciated, have a good day <3

he's a vine man, you can't change my mind. Knows all of them by heart. the both of you are always re-creating them when yall have the chance. he has 3 all time favorites (1, 2 & 3)

speaks his mind and is always up front, he's smart too. so when he confessed to you, he probably calculated multiple different ways it could go down, but he was straightforward with it. "hey y/n, ur hot and i'm hot. so lets go out, yeah" (bonus: karou was hiding somewhere near you guys, eavesdropping in case something went wrong)

he’s also a prankster, you’re always falling victim to them😔at first they were basic; toothpaste in oreos, plastic wrap in the door, fake bugs? but once you guys actually got together, oh lord he kicked em up by 5x

50% a flirt, always trying to get you flustered. he's always seen smiling too, so he'll be teasing you with a that hot signature smile that you just wanna slap off his face 😒 the other 50% is his seriousness, not afraid to be up front about anything and everything.

takes your food with no remorse, even going as far too buy you more JUST to steal it again.

a equally balanced talker and listener

hype man 3.0, loves going places with you; especially shopping for clothes. the type to say "gimme a 360", making you do a full turn so he can view you in all ur attractiveness ( he's so whipped 😌)

I feel like masumi isn't one who really cares for dates, he doesn't care what you guys are gonna do. as long as he gets to spend time with you. 101% the type to say, "a date? what are you talking about? this is a date" "we're getting gas" "exactly a date".

LISTEN UP WHEN I SAY, HE IS NOT A DRY TEXTERRRRR

the point im trying to get across is, go manifest ur own masumi rn 😏

[hxnmantii]

Viktor relationship hc’s

Anon Requested~If you don’t mind, can you do general hc’s of viktor licht with a black fem reader

tw: fluff (none)

Pairings: Viktor licht x black fem!reader

Ratings: PG

A/n: welcoming new comer Viktor Licht to my fire force section😌

But anyways, although I don’t show it, Viktor is actually one of my favorite characters 😭 I love him so much so I hope I was able to portray him well. I also suggest looking at @astroavis account became they depict him (and some of the others) so well! But I hope you enjoy💞

When it came to physical fighting, he more or less wanted to avoid it at all cost, Being that he was a science guy who solved his problems with logic and not his fist

(And he’s very very aware that he is not heat resistant)

But if it were you, he would take anybody on-fire user or not, risking his life to protect you by doing something he would normally consider irrational and idiotic (even thought you’re capable of doing it yourself)

And that’s how he found out he wanted to be with you, mid fight and surrounded by pissed body guards with you behind him and him in a fighting stance sweating bullets

Now after the whole fight (company 8 came with backup just in time), he comes to you privately with a smile on his face and a hand on his neck

“Every time you’re around, my heart beats faster and my palms get sweater but I’m in perfect health....what I’m trying to say is will you go out with me?”

If you say yes, he’s ecstatic but doesn’t know how to end the conversation so he’ll say something like “great thank you” and shakes yours hand before walking away💀

Let bring attention to the fact that he can’t hide secrets—his whole face gives it away— so the first date, he’s immediately telling you that he’s a double agent

Now expect to be given a bunch of cds filled with music that you like or reminded him of you or just to vibe to in general

This also includes making CD’s for you when he has to be away for awhile so you have a piece of him when you’re gone

Because his hobby is DJing and that one of the way he shows his love for you.

That also means expect random Dance Parties but with you being the only one dancing.

“Beautiful, I make the music not dance to it”

But if you beg enough, he’ll give in but he dances just like he runs—funny and stiff, like he’s trying to calculate the best moves to do in a sequence

Don’t laugh at him, he’s super insecure about it and will never dance with you again if you make fun of him😭 but he is willing to learn whatever dance moves you wanna teach him (his favorite dance is the cha cha slide because there’s instructions in the song)

Viktor can cook but it doesn’t ever actually taste the best because he’s jus trying to intake the most beneficial proteins and vitamins so in other words,

He’s eating because he has to not because he wants to

So if you can cook, whip something up with that black girl magic. He’ll be so shocked that something can taste so good and still be a balanced meal that he’s going to ask if you can cook dinner for him all the time

And if you make dinner for him and then bring it to his desk?? He’s falling even harder for you.

He tends to overwork himself without realizing it because once he gets into his genius mode, his focus is on whatever problem he has at the moment so you bringing him dinner to remind him to take a break makes him feel important

And you’re always rewarded with a smile and kiss

Viktor is always making little concoctions for you whether it’s product for your hair, your skin or some type of jewelry and he’s gets so prideful when he sees you wearing/using them

However before he even thinks about giving you the new hair product he made, he always test it out on his head because he doesn’t wanna mess up your curls

Every once in a while, his brain hurts and thinking about anything becomes to much for him so he’ll turn on the messiest TV show that’s just pure entertainment And grab you to cuddle

This allows him to relax and focus on you and this meaningless show

(You guys always place bets on who will get into the first fight just by their introductions)

Viktor likes to rub coco butter on your skin, like massage it in to your skin because it helps him concentrate and gives his hands something to do when he’s thinking. 

(He also just likes the smell of the lotion and the softness of your skin and the bliss look on your face-)

He also just like holding you in general because if you let him, he’d lightly trace little patterns into your skin, taking note of how soft you are and how pretty you are

He tends to rant a lot to you about his current genius problems.

You don’t really understand what he’s talking about but when he talks out loud it helps gather his thought and connect his ideas so when he finally figures out his solution to his problem, You can see the light bulb go off in his head,

he’s grabbing you by the arms and giving you a kiss on the cheek before returning to his lair yelling a “thank you” even though you didn’t do anything but listen

He is a big hit at cookouts

He helped one of the uncles fix his hairline with one of his concoctions and then proceed to make remixes of twerk dance song

Now he’s on the dance floor why you’re family members are screaming “go white boy go”

Unless you ask, he’s not going to go out of his way to show you off to everybody because he’s more of a private man and doesn’t want any of his coworkers to try something

In fact when he finally introduce you to everybody over dinner nobody actually believed that you were his girlfriend and interrogated him for the truth

You were just too gorgeous and your personality was A-1

If he wasn’t grateful to have you before, after watching you interact with everybody he definitely was now

Because you are the perfect package to him

Reblogs are appreciated

[sketchguk]

Ohhhh okay I get that! it'd feel wrong to write it for a BTS member, Since this is inspired by your friend! Um I don't want to be rude and ik gryffindor soonyoung isn't in your fics and you don't have an ask your muse going on but 😭 I'm still so hung up on him!! If you don't mind, could you tell me how gryffindor soonyoung acts when mc does something careless or dangerous 👉🏼👈🏼 so far mc comes off as someone pretty put together and hoshi is ofcourse a gryffindor ( and a Gemini ) so he's no stranger to doing something rash right? But how would he react when the tables turn and it's mc doing it???? I'm sorry again if you don't wanna answer this I'll understand!!! Also ofcourse I'm interested in whatever you're writing, even if it's not bts! Your fics are so great!!!! Also I may not be into svt but I know hoshi 😭 everyone knows hoshi lol 😭 that's why I'm so invested!

OHH this is such a great question !! Sorry I'm late, but I've been thinking about it all week 🥺

Mc is definitely a calculated character! She tends to play it safe, and she weighs her decisions very carefully. Part of the reason why she doesn't get along with Soonyoung is because he's careless. However, she does have her moments. When she has her eyes set on something, there's no stopping her :')

Picture this: she's been busting her ass studying for her N.E.W.T.s. Arguably, potions is her toughest subject, so she's been brewing potions day and night to prepare, but some of the advanced recipes have been giving her a lot of trouble. One of the ingredients that she needs is the powdered root of asphodel, a pretty lily-like flower, and coincidentally, it's located in the Whomping Willow !!

Here comes Soonyoung, and I feel as though this scenario can have two different outcomes. 1) She has too much pride and dignity to ask him for help. But of course, he finds out, and oddly.. he's livid! But only because the mc was planning to venture out on her own, and she could get hurt. In that case, she'd be all on her own, and nobody would have known where she was! The thought of that worries him sick :-( He would prefer if she told him about it so that he could tag along and watch over her (which is what he eventually ends up doing). 2) Perhaps the mc does tell him, and he's thrilled. He loves the adrenaline, and he's ecstatic about the fact that she came to him with her problems ! That's ought to mean something to his liddol himbo brain aha. Also, he gets to play the big hero that he thinks he is. Likewise, he'd do his best to protect her as they make their way through the forest. He'd be the one to get her the asphodel and hand it off to her :-( Lowkey symbolic because giving flowers is a romantic gesture aha and he knows that she loves flowers !! It’s a win-win. +5 for Gryffindor Soonyoung 🥰

Thank you so much for asking !! I’m whipped for Soonyoung, it's ridiculous at this point, and I'm gonna make it everyone's probem! 💔

[millenialfanfictionaddiction]

Back again, with 3 more rankings :)

Kuroo - 8/10, it'll be a rocky first impression because of my families aforementioned hatred of pretty boys, but the moment he makes a science joke he'll be right at home. My grandpa used to be a science teacher, my fathers favourite subject was science and my brother once decided to calculate the amount of kittens it would take to fill up the earth because he was bored, which feels in character for Kuroo, so he'll be right at home among us nerds :)

Daichi - 10/10, just like Kita, they'd love him. They see a tall dependable man who takes good care of the people around him and they're already asking when the wedding is. No need to elaborate, he'd be right at home.

Bokuto - 7/10, now hear me out... Would the first meeting be perfect? No, not a chance in hell, BUT I think he could redeem himself. He wouldn't start any fights (unlike other people) and any trouble that he caused by dropping dishes would probably be forgiven after he apologized for the 100th time. They'd have to take some time to warm up to him, but I think he has potential (as long as he doesn't go into emo mode, that might make them raise some eyebrows)

Also, you are absolutely correct about my grandma asking me if I was drunk while meeting Oikawa. He would leave to the bathroom and everyone's heads would whip around on cue to give me disapproving looks and start trash-talking him. Also x 2, if Kita disappeared to go to the bathroom, I would be forced to listen to a lecture about how 'they don't make men like that anymore' and 'you better marry him or else' and 'what colour wedding dress do you want'

-1/9 anon

Omg I'm literally in love with these 😍😍

Kuroo- you hit the nail on the head with him! Dude he's so pretty but I think Kuroo is like less awake of how gorgeous he truly is. Like he's at least humble unlike someone *cough* OIKAWA *cough*. He also has the ability to like adapt to different people and situations

Bokuto- I think you are correct about Bokuto. Timeskip Bokuto is still a spas but like I think he's more aware he's an actual adult 🤣 plus I think Bokuto would be like Hinata where he just does random compliments and people just fall in love with him 🥰

Omg Oikawa 🤦‍♀️ he would not be invited back because he's way too over the too

Istg if you don't husband up Kita right now 🤣 thay man is so freaking amazing I can't even 😭 plus like he's such a good partner. So supportive and sweet 🥺