#Milk n' Honey Cows

[goostiebee]

🍀Moo Leaf Clover is Reborn! Not having the greatest of luck lately? Bad dreams? Don't worry, they're here to help! They have all sorts of items you can use to make your day better 💚

This is another cow I have redesigned!~ I think they look so much better like this, major glow up <33

[bunnis-monsters]

Ride a cow save the farm

Various!Male Hybrids x Fem!Cow Hybrid Reader

Bunni’s Monstertober Event

Oct 16th

Oct 15

Oct 17

summary: to help your farm stay afloat, you take a few cocks.

warnings: breeding, belly bulge, lactation

a/n: sorry this is short, I’m trying to catch up… maybe I’ll do something more with this concept when I have more time

During the annual fall fest at the farm, locals and tourists alike came to take a look at the attractions.

You could bob for apples, do a hayride, get your face painted, or pay $5 to fuck one of the farmers cow hybrids.

During that time of year, the cow hybrids on his farm were in mating season and weren’t satisfied with just their bulls and cows, and needed an outlet to get their sexual needs met without exhausting the males in the herd.

This was your first year participating, because you had been too young the year before. You could feel your pussy drooling at the thought of being used by various hybrids in need of a quick fuck.

You were led to the middle of the fall fest, allowed to rest your upper half on some hay while a line formed behind you.

First up with a bunny hybrid. He was small, struggling a bit at first to get a hold of your fat hips, but he was able to push his cock in.

Although smaller than you’d like, he moved his hips rapidly and kept hitting the best spots, making you cum quick. He came a lot too, his load sticky and warm inside you.

The next was a wolf hybrid. He was a lot bigger than the friendly livestock dog hybrid that roamed the grounds, and he was a bit rough with you.

He bit at your shoulders and neck, dangling into your ear as he slammed his hips into yours, knotting you while you clenched around him.

The third was a bull from your farm. He’d been eyeing you since you’d become breeding age, and now he had a chance to properly breed you.

He was a bit huffy that he was third in line, but wasted no time pushing in, using the twos previous creampies as lubricant as he rammed his fat cock in.

Feeling it kiss your cervix was… strange and uncomfortable, but this was what your body was made for. Taking the bull’s cock, carrying his cum in your womb and bearing his calf was what you waste meant to do!

Unfortunately, the line was very long. You lost count after the 15th person, and passed out not long after.

When you woke up, your belly was bulging with cum, the farmer counting his money.

“This’ll be enough to keep the farm running another year… good girl.”

He patted your head, then led you back to the barn to rest.

By the next year, you had already birthed a few calves and all you could think of was how much your customers that fall would love that your fat tits could squirt milk now…

And they indeed loved it.

Puppy hybrids and bunnies lapped at each tit while your cunt was stretched out by an eager tiger hybrid. Males from all around the were there to get a chance to breed with you, to make their mark on your womb…

And you just loved it.

————————

NSFW TAGLIST: @sunset-214 @strawberrypoundtown @avalordream @icommitwarcrimes @bazpire @im-eating-rn @anglingforlevels @kinshenewa @pasteldaze @unforgettablewhvre @yoongiigolden @peachesdabunny @murder-hobo @leiselotte @misswonderfrojustice @dij-ology @i8kaeya @lollboogurl @h3110-dar1in9 @keikokashi @aliceattheart @mssmil3y @spicyspicyliving @namjoons-t1ddies @izarosf1833 @healanette @lem-hhn @spufflepuff @honey-crypt @karljra @zyettemoon1800 @exodiam @vexillum-moeru @imperfectlyperfectprincess1 @binnieonabike @enchantedsylveon @mysticranger575 @readeryn68 @danielle143 @kittenlover614 @filthybunny420 @annavittoria-mm @makimamybelovedwife @blubearxy @omglovelylaila @toocollectionchaos-universe-blog @fruk-you-usuk-fans @wil10wthetree @hammerhead96-blog @slightlyusedfloormat

[fieldsofwriting]

Shut up and let me help you!

Summary: Reader is sick, and March tries to help you out…but it does not go well.

Warnings: None!

It was truly just a cold. One that left you cooped up in bed all day shivering and sweating at the same time. Your nose was red and raw, stuffy and runny; it felt like your head would explode with all the pressure. Your limbs were achy and sore. All you wanted was to be in bed and sleeping it away. It was just a cold, but god you felt miserable.

Besides that? You were a farmer. You couldn’t stop watering your crops- lest you want to have no money for the next week. You couldn’t refuse to refill your chickens feed. The cows still needed to be milked. So despite the ache deep within your bones, you got up and got dressed. Making your way out of the farmhouse to water your crops, which felt like it too even longer than before due to your cold. Then you trudged over to your chickens, letting them outside and giving them all pets and feeding them. Same to the cows, adding the bonus step of milking them. When did that leave you breathless? You wanted to curl back up in bed, but you couldn’t. You needed more seeds. So, off to the general store you went.

What you were expecting though was to stand, only to get so light headed you nearly buckled under the weight of your body. But a pair of strong arms caught you just under your arms. “Jesus, Y/N you looks awful.” March’s voice rings out. His tone laced with disappointment. You frown a little, you thought you were past his disappointment voice.

When you finally got your footing back, you blinked slowly. “March…? What are you doing here?” You asked, your voice scratchy. Putting a hand on your throat you frowned- Great. Another symptom.

March’s frown deepens. “You were late. You always come up at lunch and eat with me. You weren’t there.” Your eyes widen, quickly looking at your phone to see it was well past noon. “If you’re sick, you shouldn’t be farming.” He continues, crossing his arms as he scans you over for anymore ailments.

“I’m fine. I’m fine.” You dismiss, only for it to turn into a coughing fit. March firmly patting your back to help you through it. “I’m fine.” You croak out.

“Bullshit.” He grumbles, picking you up and throwing you over his shoulder. Almost immediately you melt into the warmth of his skin, wanting to curl up in his arms and sleep it all away. He brings you inside and sets you on the bed. Kneeling down and helping to take off your shoes, “Can you get into your pajamas okay?”

You manage a nod. Getting up and quickly throwing them back on. March doesn’t let you protest before he drapes a blanket around your shoulders and gets you tucked into bed. “What needs to be done?” He asks softly, for him at least.

“I need to replant my seeds.” You sigh, “And then water those ones. I also need to clear an area for my orchard. And call in the chickens and cows tonight.” You tell him, trying to sit up to protest him helping. But his gently pushes you down.

“Don’t insult me. I can chop wood and break rocks. And how hard could be planting seeds be? I’ve got this, you just rest.” He tells you, his voice is surprisingly gentle but still stern as he speaks. He tucks you back in, pressing a kiss to your head before he frowns. He’d have to stop Valen and see if she knew how to get your fever down.

After a few more minutes of him assuring you that your farm would survive him. He was off, going up. and getting the seeds from Nora. Who was surprised nonetheless.

“March? Buying…seeds?” She asks with a raised eyebrow as she looks at the piles he’d place on the counter. He followed your list to a tee. Every single seed accounted for.

He looks away, scoffing a little. “Yeah. Y/N’s sick. They’ve got a cold.” He grumbles out. “Idiot was trying to farm.”

Nora gasps, “Oh no! Here.” She leaves the counter for a second before she comes back and sets down a bottle of cold medicine and honey. “Put some of the medicine on a spoon, add a couple drops of honey. It should help.”

March blinks at the kindness, but nodded and gathered everything up after paying. “Thanks Nora.” He nods before stepping out, he looks over at the Inn. Frowning, he couldn’t believe he was doing this. He walked into the Inn to be greeted by Hemlock.

“March! Hey I was wondering when you’d stop in.” He grins.

“I don’t have time to talk.” March says quickly,

“Y/N’s sick…is there anyway I can take some soup to go?”

Hemlocks eyes widen, “For sure. Hang tight for a second.” He says as he rushes off. March waits impatiently, tapping his foot. He was loosing daylight quick and he still needed to do so much…is this why you were always running around? Fuck. He’d have to help you out more often so you didn’t work yourself sick.

Hemlock returns with a large container of soup. “Here, it’s on us for all they do.” He nods, “Tell her to get better.” March blinks again, shocked by the kindness on display. This whole town really did love you, huh.

March nods in thanks and makes his way back to the farm. Dropping the seeds outside your fenced in crops, and carefully bringing in the soup and medicine. But he stops for a second, you’re sleeping so peacefully. He couldn’t wake you and ask you anything… He sighed heavily. Putting everything away inside and moving to your side to feel if your fever has subsided.

It didn’t. And he frowned. Layering another blanket over you in hopes it would make you sweat it out.

Moving outside, he sighed. It was already almost evening. But he rolled up his sleeves and got to work. Grabbing the hoe he gave you, starting to till the soil like he’s seen you do a hundred times. It was harder than he gave you credit for. Not that he’d ever tell you. But once it was done, albeit sloppily. He got down and started to scatter the seeds. Did he need to…plant them more? Was that a thing? He remembers Celine once saying to use your pinky…no way you did that to every seed…

But he does it. Kneeling down and painstakingly pressing each one in. Only to hear a laugh, his head snaps up to see you standing in the doorway. Blanket wrapped around you, “Are you pressing all the seeds in?”

He goes red. “N-no!” He lies. Like a liar. “What are you doing up! You’re sick get back in bed!” He commands, standing and brushing his hands on his apron. Trying to shoo you back inside. You’re laughter filling the air again.

“I just woke up, you worry wart.” You smile at your boyfriend. “You still need to water them. I usually do that and then sprinkle the dirt on.”

He blinks, that. made so much more sense than what he was doing. “There’s a method to my madness.” He frowns, still ushering you back to bed. “Go lay down.”

You roll your eyes, “Thank you March.” You grin.

He scoffs, but there’s a slight blush. And then he goes outside, grabbing your watering can- why was it so old?! Did you not upgrade?! He lets out a frustrated sigh. You were getting an all new set of tools when he was done here. You got scrapped up in the mines, all the time. You have him ore- you little shit. You gave him all your copper so he would like you-?!

He is so gonna- a low moo catches his attention. He’s looking over at your Cow now who is staring at him. “…what?”

“Mooooooo.”

“…Mooo?” He says back confused. He quickly finishes watering your crops before leaning on the fence to look at the cow. “What.”

“Moooooo.”

He blinks, fuck. Trying to figure out what a cow wants is going to be hard. “Uh, okay.” He hops over the fence and looks around. “Here, food.” He says walking into the barn and offering a hand of feed. But the cow just huffs. “What? you eat out of Y/N’s hand all the time.” He huffs more when the cow fully turns and ignores him. “You fuckin-“ He grumbles. “Well if you’re gonna be an asshole go inside.” He moves to ring the bell but the cows merely just look at him. He points, “Inside. Go.” He tries to usher them in.

The cows do not move. March groans, “You stupid-“ He’s interrupted by the bell ringing again. His head whips around and sees you ringing it. “Y/N!” He frowns, “What part of fucking relax do you not understand?”

“You were struggling.” You shrugs, “Besides I ate some soup. I feel better now.” You smile and nod at him.

March squints, picking you up just under your bottom. Carrying you like nothing over to the chicken coop and letting you ring the bell as the run in. Then he once again deposits you into bed. “You need better equipment, and I swear to god if you run around like a madman because you’re busy out here I’m gonna personally come farm with you.”

You laugh, “Got it. I’ll go to the mines-“

“No. Shut up I still have all that fuckin ore you gave me. You’re getting new shit. Now lay down.” He gently pushes you back into bed. “Sleep. Be better I don’t wanna farm in the morning.”

You feel a smirk. “Too much work for you?”

“…Shut up.” You let out a loud laugh, pulling him down into bed with you as you snuggle in.

“Thank you March.” You smile kissing his cheek. He sighs, his cheeks flushing as he wraps an arm around you.

“…don’t mention it.”

A/N: I know it wasn’t exactly chaotic but I still hope you enjoyed it!

[slutfactory]

‘MILKING’ COW. ★ w. ushijima x m!reader. [requested!]

request by anon. “Ayo, idk if ur reqs are open, but can i request a cow Ushijima fic? Kinda down bad for him. Nothing specific so do whatever! Ty!

warnings. cow!ushi + m!farmer!reader, animal features (cow ears n horns), light overstimulation. nothin much tbh, just soft(?) sex w ushi. <3

author's note. same, anon. same. we love ushi gushi on this blog. also, soft boi hours + horny hours actually go pretty well together?? who would've thunk it?

<500 words yeh kinda short

you couldn't quite put your finger on it, but something about this felt oddly.. backwards..??

ushijima, as he had been doing for the past fifteen minutes, whorishly bounced up and down on your cock. even after both of you having orgasmed not too long ago, he didn't stop—

—oh. right. he was milking you. that's what it was.

wet plap noises, along with wakatoshi's mewls of pleasure filled the room, echoing against the walls. feeling a bit too sensitive, you stopped him, holding his hips in place when he lowered himself. the sight of your beloved, prized cow breeding himself on your cock and moaning like a slut was almost enough to make you cum again. right then and there.

the olive haired man looked at you, eyes filled with pure lust and desire. “i wan’ more.. please-.. ” he whined, squirming on your lap—you stifled a groan at this. “milking master feels so good.. ”

your dick twitched, hearing ushijima's pleas. he was so cute, and that made you want to ruin him. but, he wanted to be the one to do the milking this time—and after hearing him beg, you just couldn't say no. honestly, how could you? why would you?

releasing ushi's hips, you gave him an approving nod. he let out a few whines, quiet at first, but slowly increasing in volume, as he began to move again; at the same speed he did before you stopped him. you in turn, let out your own share of grunts and moans, much to his pleasure.

apparently, ushijima was also sensitive after orgasming earlier– or at least you assumed that from how his inner walls twitched and tightened around your shaft much more than before. adorable. “gonna cum already, baby?” he nodded, holding onto your shoulders a little tighter. “me too. let's cum together, 'kay?” you purred.

about thirty seconds of sloppy riding passed before ushijima came, spilling his load on his and your stomachs. this did not stop him, though—he was overstimulating himself now, but he wanted you to cum inside of him.

you of course granted his wish, as his cunt tightened around you as he continued riding you; which almost immediately brought you to orgasm. a strained groan left your lips as you did so. wakatoshi let out a broken whine as he felt your hot seed filling him up inside. “'s so hot.. ngh.. ” he muttered while trying to catch his breath. “master felt good too, right?”

also breathless, you chuckled softly and kissed his forehead. “of course, honey.” again, you chuckled, seeing his ears twitch slightly as his face lit up—seemingly with happiness and a bit of embarrassment. ushi buried his face in the crook of your neck, and you tried to ignore one of his horns lightly stabbing at your skin.

“c'mon. we have to clean up. i'll make your favorite food for dinner, alright?” you pat him on the head. a content 'mm.' was all you got in response.

[kaznejis]

Forever is the sweetest con- Dutch Van Der Linde x Reader

Turning your gaze to the paper, your eyes instantly zoned in on a particular collection of capitalised words. Your breath stuttered in your throat, lodging itself there as you felt John’s mournful gaze burning into the side of your face. His name. The notorious reputation that followed him no matter how far he ran was proceeding him, though it appeared that he hadn’t run far this time. Dutch Van Der Linde was in Tall Trees- the same patch of forest located only a short ride from the Beecher’s Hope's front gate.

A/N: Hi! I actually wrote and posted this to AO3 YEARS ago, but after a recent replay of RDR2 I decided to fix up some mistakes in this fic and post it on here! I hope you enjoy.

Word Count: 9287 / Read it on AO3!

NOTORIOUS BAD MAN ALIVE —--------------------------------------------

A dispatch from Tall Trees reports a sighting of infamous outlaw Dutch Van Der Linde, who has been on a bloody run from the law for many years now. The notorious Dutch’s Boys gang once plagued this state, but it was believed to have disbanded as long ago as 1899. Two of his henchmen - Hosea Matthews and Arthur Morgan - were both killed in separate raids by Pinkerton agents that same year. Gang members Bill Williamson, Micah Bell, John Marston, and Charles Smith are still believed to be at large. But most notably, Dutch’s supposed lover - rumored to have allied with the opposing powers during the gang’s infamous civil war - Y/N L/N has been seen haunting our states, donning bounty hunter wear. Will our young outlaw-turned-heroine be the one to finally end Van Der Linde’s tyranny?

Either way, law enforcement have pledged to continue searching for Van Der Linde, who still has one of the largest bounties on his head for kill or capture.

-

Eventually, the hands that were once calloused from gun slinging and knife wielding grew used to the arduous task of milking Betsy, Beecher's Hope’s famed prize cow- tuning to the rhythm of milking a cow that only really took a liking to the young Jack Marston. Swiping a palm through the mounting sweat on your forehead, you glared at the cow as it huffed.

“I hate this as much as you do, honey,” You turned slightly to retrieve the second bucket to be filled, “But we all want to eat, so you’re going to give me every last drop of that milk of yours.”

The cow’s ears merely twitched, the animal equivalent to a relenting eye roll.

You gave one right back.

“You tell her.” Abigail chuckled from behind you, pacing forward to lean against Betsy’s stall, “I’m not surprised John has you down here today, Ol’ Missy here tried to feed him a hoof at the slightest sign that he was about to milk her.”

You snorted, an image of John’s hat flying from his head and into the neighboring stall entering your mind, “She’s just stubborn is all, she’ll like me more than Jack soon, you’ll see.”

“I don’t doubt it,” She laughed, easing the weight of one of the buckets brimming with milk as you stood, ”Hey, walk back to the house with me. John said he has something to show you.”

“Oh?” You furrowed your eyebrows, a thick feeling began to lodge in your throat. The cautiousness of years on the run still lingering despite the secure life you now lived. “Any idea what it was?”

She shrugged, “He refused to tell me so probably some bounty hunting stuff. The silly man.”

You nodded; calming yourself as you deposited the contents of the bucket into a jug. You were safe, things had been relatively safe since you’d stumbled into the last remnants of the gang in the Blackwater Saloon. You had entered the building desperate for a comfortable bed and a hot meal- only to leave brimming with whiskey and laughter, a permanent room available to you mere minutes from your original destination. You had stared up at the stars that night, laying in the comfortable night time breeze upon the house’s deck as Rufus had snuffled at your hands, excited at the premise of a new friend.

Fatigue rotted the depths of your being, having followed the cold trail of Micah Bell for the better part of eight years. You had vowed that fateful night, as he forced you to point a gun at the only man you had and would ever truly love, that you would kill him. Globs of spit and blood flickered from your mouth as you had fled upon your steed, screaming likewise threats of revenge and murder as he had hunted you- the red of his vest merging with the rage in his eyes.

Micah had always wanted you dead.

You had been an obstacle before his beloved leader, the gem in the notorious Dutch Van Der Linde’s eyes. His sweet, his darling, his largest weakness.

The O’Driscolls had known it, the Pinkertons had known it and Micah Bell had known it.

His hackles raised everytime you neared, steering Dutch away in order to discuss his new “plan”. It had grown severe in Beaver Hollow, the drapes of Dutch’s once-welcoming tent consistently closed as he drowned within his own mind. You had moved into Tilly’s tent, terrified of Dutch’s inherent darkness breaching your own soul even despite the love you felt for him.

Micah had pounced then- Dutch’s last flicker of lightness being efficiently snuffed out. His once dormant toxicities were pampered and brought to life; riches and Micah became the forefront of his racing thoughts. You were simply lost in the tide.

“Now that I come to think of it,” Abigail placed her jug into the cart and spun to face you, “John looked like he was holding a newspaper of some sort- I think there was something of interest in it.”

Squinting, you turned to face the house- sure enough, John was sitting upon the front steps; a newspaper open within his hands. His face uncharacteristically devoid of emotion, “I’ll head over to him now, thanks Abigail.”

You spared a wave as you both went your separate ways, meeting eyes with John as he somberly raised his eyes, “Who died?” You joked, standing before him with your hands on your hips, “You look like you’re preparing to draw.”

John only swallowed, his jaw tightening as he looked away- almost as if he couldn’t bring himself to look into your eyes.

“John?”

“I think you’ll need to sit down, Y/N.” You quickly obliged, the scratch of his accent carrying a sorrowful timber; rougher than ever. lowering yourself beside him and wringing your hands together- the previous dread now returned at a higher fervor, taking residence within the pit of your stomach.

“What’s going on?”

John finally turned to you, his eyes filled with a dangerous mix of pity and anger, “I’m so sorry Y/N, I knew I shouldn’t have bought this place. I really should have looked into the area first.” he stood suddenly, his boots scuffing against the gravel as scrubbed at his face. Almost as if he was punishing himself for his supposed mistake.

“John?” You guffawed, straightening in your seat as you gaped at him, “What are you talking about? We’ve been over this, this is the perfect place for your family. It’s where Abigail wanted to be!”

The gravity of the situation weighed upon your conscience suddenly, John hadn’t been this stressed in months- having left the life of an outlaw to become an established father and farm handler. Whilst the weight of his past did prevail, the future had not previously posed any issue.

John nodded somberly, his eyes fixing upon a huddle of trees in the too-near distance.

“You know what happens in Tall Trees, don’t you?” You nodded and turned towards the trees yourself, urging him to continue. You’d had many runs in with the Skinner Brothers since moving in. “It’s filled with dangerous people, a fugitive paradise for people who are still like how we used to be.”

He stopped then, looking down to the newspaper within his hands. You noted that it was heavily crumpled, as if he’d been about to tear it up though decided against it at the last second, “You need to read this for yourself, I think.”

“Okay.” You spoke tentatively, peeling the newspaper from his hands as he gripped it reluctantly- as if to protect you from what you were about to read. You loved that about John, always willing to take the brunt at his own expense in order to protect the ones he loved. A trait carried from Arthur, you thought, stealing a look at the worn hat upon John’s head.

You looked away, the pain of loss forever present at the back of your mind. It lingered like a festering wound- oozing and growing at the merest memory of the pain. Arthur had given up everything for the safety of the remnants of the group; sometimes you wondered if it should have been you.

Turning your gaze to the paper, your eyes instantly zoned in on a particular collection of capitalized words. Your breath stuttered in your throat, lodging itself there as you felt John’s mournful gaze burning into the side of your face.

His name.

The notorious reputation that followed him no matter how far he ran was proceeding him, though it appeared that he hadn’t run far this time. Dutch Van Der Linde was in Tall Trees- the same patch of forest located only a short ride from the Beecher’s Hope front gate.

-

“So, to dismiss the elephant in the room, are you going to hunt the bastard down?”

“Sadie!” Abigail choked, glaring at the woman across from her- having just barely managed to coax you out of your room and into a seat at the dinner table.The news had left you partially catatonic- a haze feeding into your limbs as you had fled from John, curling up against the wall of your room until the cool glaze of Abigail’s palm had rubbed your shoulder. The usual buzzing cacophony of sound during dinner had become a mournful silence prior to Sadie’s announcement; each member treading on eggshells around you. Even Jack had barely spoken, having heard scattered tales of the time of the Van Der Linde gang, much to Abigail’s disapproval.

“What?” Sadie shook her head, stabbing a lump of beef with her fork threateningly. “The only reason I’m not already knee deep in those woods is for Y/N,” she turned to you then, her blonde plait glowing in the evening tint, “It’s your call hun. If anyone other than me had taken action against those damn O’Driscolls in Jake’s name; I’d never have forgiven ‘em.”

Abigail nodded in agreement, placing a hand beside your plate barely skimming your fingers, “We will support you in whatever you do Y/N.”

A scoff sounded from the end of the table, Uncle spat crumbs across the table as he spoke, mouth filled with stew, “I say we kill the bastard, especially if he’s allied with those wretched Skinner Brothers.”

The group stayed silent at that- all too aware of the extent of Uncle’s horrific injuries. You or Charles would regularly return from a hunt with ointment, to which Abigail would apply to Uncle’s injuries; her hums attempting to drown out his screams and cries. But nothing could amount to the nightmares that Uncle endured- reliving the torture he endured night after night. His alcohol dependency had only seemed to worsen. Not taking action against a Skinner-allied Dutch would only feel like betrayal.

John was the first to speak up, taking on the authoritative tone he seemed to muster during severe circumstances, “Either way, we need to decide what we’re doing fast.” John spoke, ever the strategic, “No matter the connections we used to have with Dutch, he’s going to be as unpredictable as ever. He cannot be trusted, not so close to Jack.”

“He could be here for us.” Charles regarded the matter for the first time, his deep baritone carrying a rougher tone, “It’s too much of a coincidence that he’s here so soon after you properly settled down.”

The sound of your spoon dropping filled the silence that followed, everyone turned as you placed your head into your hands- grinding your palms into the tears that filled your eyes, “I’ve gone so long.”

“Y/N it’s okay-”

“I’ve gone so long,” You repeated, dribbles of snot clouding upon your upper lip, “'I've been able to forget about him. All these years, I’ve been able to focus on other things-” A sob escaped from your lips as you refused to meet the sympathetic eyes surrounding you. “Why did he have to do this now?”

You broke down then, folding into Abigail’s embrace as she stroked your hair, coaxing the pained cries out of you. “Why don’t we run you a bath? A hot bath and a good nights’ sleep will do your mind some good.”

Nodding slowly, you wiped your face without a care towards the stains that would now grace your sleeves. Abigail led you towards the comfort of the chair before the fireplace as Charles jogged ahead to prepare you a bath- promising to add an array of the herbs he had recently discovered to be of abundance in the area. The joy you had felt during previous dinners had been long abandoned.

-

When the bathwater had long gone still and cold, the longer-lasting bubbles floating alongside the waves traced upon the water- the memories finally set themselves free, the tranquility of the soak loosening the long-secured walls within your mind.

The days spent leading up to the initial heist in a camp not far from your own, long morning’s tucked up in animal furs and Dutch’s arms as the Blackwater heat and assurance of soon-to-come-riches washed over you. The subsequent plight, Dutch’s eyes constantly swiveling back towards you from his wagon as you had chosen to ride upon your own horse; the way he had protested against this decision, digging his heels in even despite the fangs of the law snapping at them mere minutes away. Your safety being his first priority.

You had shut him out during the short stay at Colter- furious that he had prioritized you before his duties as the leader of the gang. Furious that he had put you before young Jack, the other women, the wide span of injuries slowing the gang to a desperate stagger. But no, he had snapped at you; waving desperately towards the wagon the last of the women were piling into as you shook your head- tightening your horse’s reins. He had cast your wrist into his iron grip then, his eyes hard and swarming with anger; a mirror image to the swaths of the law’s blood coating his shirt sleeves. The blood of an innocent woman.

With shaking limbs, you had snatched your hand away and mounted before kicking your horse into a gallop, following the others who had already enacted their hasty departure.

With only mere seconds free to himself during those cold days, Dutch had tried- he’d stared determinedly at you during every speech and attempted to corner you at every given moment. You had successfully evaded his advances every time, opting to escape into the mounting snow outside of your cabin in opposition to being with a man you weren’t sure you could trust anymore. It was Arthur who successfully infiltrated your movement, joining you at one of the scarce campfires the gang had managed to light.

“You’re driving him mad, Y/N.”

“Oh, Arthur.” You shook your head, poking the embers with a stick. “You of all people know that he’s already there.”

He sniffed, a short flash of amusement crossing his face before it was replaced with sobriety. “Maybe. I wasn’t at the massacre, I didn’t see exactly what he did-”

“He killed an innocent woman, Arthur. Right in front of me and then had the audacity to claim that my safety was the most important thing to him.”

“Yes, I want to beat him senseless for the way he’s damned us too, I promise you.” He scratched his beard tentatively, almost searching for the correct words to say, “But… no matter what he did, we need to stick together, Y/N.” A pause. “And if his only source of light is snuffed out, there’s no way we’re getting out of here.”

“Don’t make this my fault, Arthur.”

“I’m not, Y/N. You know I’m not. But we are all starving and cold and tired. We need a right-minded leader to get out of here and once we do, we can judge Dutch all we want.”

You laughed then, a foreign sound in the somber setting; Arthur had grinned crookedly too, wrapping an arm around shoulder as he pulled you into his side. “Alright, I’ll talk to him..soon.”

Arthur had simply huffed, rolling his eyes and giving you a pat on the head as he rose- behind on his schedule of carrying the burden of the gang. You had remained at that campfire for some time after that, dwelling within your own conflicting thoughts.

Sitting in the bathtub, you felt the same affliction as you did all of those long years ago, even despite being so much younger and naïve at that time. You wanted to run out there, into the darkness of the forests and deep troughs of moss, into the arms of your lost love. But another part of you, the part that had grown and hardened with age, the part that hated Dutch Van Der Linde with every fiber of its existence- wanted vengeance. It wanted to provide Sadie and John with your vital blessing to go out there and capture him, kill him even.

Despite the years you had garnered since settling eyes on Dutch, you didn’t trust yourself to follow through with ending it all yourself; you didn’t trust yourself not to melt entirely within his presence. His charisma would sway you, his ability to flirt and coerce would be an instant match for your own stoic toughness. You couldn’t possibly know what he looked like anymore- but your betraying conscience conjured an image of his trimmed mustache complimenting his sharp jaw, his towering stature and taut muscles- those same muscles that had pinned you down night after night, the same ones that belonged to the only body that had ever truly pleasured you. The rings that adorned his fingers, each one a symbol of masculinity and fabrication, glinting in the moonlight as he smoked his complimentary, post-orgasm cigar.

Your insides tingled as you recalled the way he used to ravage you, the hungry glint of his eyes from between your thighs or the heavy pants that would spill from his lips as he buried his head into the sweaty base of your throat, his sex-tousled hair drawing paths against your skin, lighting the fuses beneath your jaw and throat.

Mr. Van De Linde had always been the embodiment of seduction- whether in his manipulative nature or in the coital bed you shared. You doubted that this feature had hardly changed.

Which is why you could-

“Y/N?”

You sprung from your dazed position within the tub, jumping and wrapping linens around your soaked body, “Sorry- uh- Yes?”

“Are you okay? You’ve been in there for a while now?” It was Jack, probably worried sick about you alongside the rest of the family.

“I’m fine.” you spluttered, desperately wringing out your sopping hair as you opened the door, plastering on a half-convincing smile, “I won’t burst into tears on you again, I promise.”

He simply nodded, a concerned look in his eyes that frighteningly reminded you of his own father. A look far too old for his youthful features, “I just wanted to check that you weren’t drowning in there. The bath is far too deep for me sometimes.”

Ruffling his hair, you laughed- mood slightly improved, “Don’t worry about me Jackie- just had a little blast from the past is all.”

He nodded, though a pensive look flashed across his face.

“What?”

“I don’t have many memories from back then,” you nodded, encouraging him to continue, “but I do remember you and Uncle- sorry, you and Mr. Van Der Linde.” He looked at you sadly, possibly seeing the shock and grief that instantly sunk into your face, “Sometimes, you’d be so happy but then other days all that could be heard was your fights… I remember once it got so bad that Ma wouldn’t let me out of that room in that big house. But I also remember when you went missing for a day or two, he’d practically torn the place apart with the worry that you’d been taken.” He paused again as you watched him through tear-blurred eyes, “I’m sorry that he’s come back Y/N.”

Sniffling, you wrapped your arms around Jack, allowing your tears to slip into his hair, “I’m sorry that you had to experience that, Jackie,” you pulled back, cupping his cheeks and tightening your lips, “I hope to God that you never have to deal with something like that. Promise me you won’t let it happen?”

“I promise, Y/N,”

“Good. Good boy.”

“But… Do you still love him Y/N?”

Your teeth clacked shut, the sound resounding throughout the thin hallway. Not even when you and Dutch had been together had anybody dared question the true status of your relationship- opting for sympathetic smiles or knowing looks alike in respect for their brash leader. Shaking your thoughts, you attempted a warm smile, guiding Jack towards the living room. “Love is a complicated thing Jack, part of me hopes that you’ll never have to experience the woes of it but the happiness it brings outweighs everything,” tightening your robe around your chest, you sat beside Jack before the hearth of the fireplace, “Dutch could render me happy or sad at any given moment, the power he held over me was…terrifying.” Jack nodded, his eyes glinting curiously with the fire’s light, “But I think I did love him. Maybe I still do, but that doesn’t matter anymore because he’s not a good man.”

“You deserve a good man, Y/N.”

You chuckled, a real source of warmth and comfort finally replacing the cold of the bathwater, “Maybe. I look forward to the day that I finally meet one.”

“I think Uncle Arthur was a good man.”

“Yeah.” A lone buck sauntered along the hills surrounding Beecher’s Hope, its ears pricking towards Tall Trees. “He was.”

-

Shadows of branches intertwined and floated amongst the ceiling of your room, a light breeze filtering in from the opened window. You had opted to retire to bed early, skipping the usual drinks you would share with the rest of the family around the fire. You couldn’t face them, the pitious glances and the sway of alcohol would be too much, an easy passageway into spilling your darkest secrets.

The smell of alcohol had a tendency to remind you of Dutch, anyway. The acrid taste of whiskey and cigars mixed to create an unashamedly addictive scent; the taste of it upon his lips practically doubling the initial effect.

Not only had Dutch Van Der Linde always been an object of seduction, but he had become an object of addiction too. He had been the one to tie your dependency to cigarettes during your time in the gang, having quickly picked up his habit of smoking a cigarette in the event of anything extraordinary. You would regularly smoke together post-sex, bathing in the privilege of sharing one, or even two, of his prized cigars- picking up on his ever-watchful eyes as you wrapped your lips around the blunt and puffed; always making sure to add an air of extravagance as you exhaled.

The thought had you scrambling at the bottom of your mattress, searching for the stash of cigarettes you had stowed there for the event of emergency. You swore to yourself you had quit, but living a Dutch-less existence required other outlets.

Low and behold, you had smoked the last of them after attempting to round up a herd of sheep the week prior.

You swore, jumping out of bed and pulling the mattress back further to no avail. “It’s fine.” You mumbled to yourself, checking your wardrobe and dresser subsequently, “It’s fine.”

In all honesty, you could do with the fresh air- your room had quickly begun to forego the open window and grow stuffy with the weight of your own sinful mind. Though, your objection to facing the others still remained steady- leading you to hoist yourself out of the bedroom window and onto the saddle of your horse.

Blackwater remained a constant bustle of energy even within the darkness of night, having returned to its pre-Van Der Linde glory as a portside town. The city itself acted as a constant reminder to what Dutch had done, marking the beginning of his true tyranny as the blood of the innocent Heidi McCourt had splattered along the sidewalk and his very own shirt sleeves. You had only learned her name from the bench before the boardwalk- “We remember Heidi McCourt” scratched into the base of the wood, only a minute of research informed you of exactly who that was. But upon further residence within Blackwater- you learned of the hatred felt towards the notorious members of the gang; cutouts of previous gang members pinned to dartboards and littered with darts and even bullets alike.

Despite your pardons, the people of Blackwater had never forgotten what you had done.

Your hair was longer now, providing the disguise necessary to lay low. Besides, your bounty hunter escapades had quickly taken over any true resemblance to the you that had resided within the gang; the very newspaper detailing Dutch’s return had coined you a “heroine”. It was good to know that people knew you mostly for your good, the version of yourself eight years prior would have feared your very being.

Dismounting your steed, you patted her side as you pulled out a set of twin revolvers- ever aware of the new threat that lurked nearby. The thought that he could be anywhere made you shiver despite the warmth of Summer as you jogged towards the grocer, apologizing for your late arrival as it was near closing time. The man waved you off, rolling his eyes as he continued to sweep the shop floor.

Maybe chivalry was dead, you smirked to yourself as you requested a pack of premiums. The man nodded, but before he could bend to grab the cigarettes he paled, sweat beginning to bead at his temple as he whimpered- seemingly catatonic in place. Rising your eyes to the dusty window, your lips pursed as you spotted at least four figures behind you in the reflection, all obviously armed.

“Raise your hands darlin’.” A gruff voice spoke, the traditional accent carried by the Skinner brothers.

“I’m just grabbing some cigarettes,” You spoke firmly, your hands lowering towards your revolvers, “Just let me leave and we don’t need to have any issues.”

The men began to cackle at that, you could hear the sound of them clapping at each other’s backs and howling like dogs. The shopkeeper remained cowered beneath the counter, frozen in place as his eyes pleaded at you to do something- the stoic shopkeeper from mere minutes ago was no longer present.

“You think we’re just gonna let an infamous bounty hunter like you leave just like that?” The speaker spat at the ground, a display of disgust. “Do you know how many of our brothers you’ve killed?”

Chuckling, you rose your eyes. “I think they use the word infamous for a reason, you know.” You turned, spinning your revolvers and executing two of the men in a split second; time slowing as bullets lodged into each of their skulls. Tearing through skin and bone, the sound of the bullets pinging into the wall shattered their amusement, the fallout spraying their faces with blood.

The remaining men had barely even reached for their weapons before you delivered bullets into their heart and kneecaps respectively, the latter would live but never walk again; able to enforce the resounding fear of your presence into the outlaw community. Stepping over the bodies, you leaned over the survivor- clutching his shattered legs as he screamed and cried.

“Never underestimate me again.” You spat, mimicking his revolting action from earlier.

Despite his cries, the man laughed at your statement- his rotten teeth and stringy hair coated in the blood of his assailants. “Oh, Sweetheart,” he rose to rest on his elbow, his hitched breath releasing in pained pants, “We didn’t.”

Your eyes widened, you were only rewarded for a split second to prepare for the barrage of gunfire that attacked the storefront. Rolling backwards, you surveyed the frenetic gunfire from behind one of the many shelves and calculated how grossly outnumbered you truly were- at least ten men awaited outside, the group very obviously having not underestimated you.

You quickly discovered that the shopkeeper had locked himself in the back room- leaving you isolated with the threat of the Skinner Brothers. Without a second thought, you scaled the shop counter- loading your revolvers with bullets and replacing the empty space with the money in your pockets; it would serve you little purpose now.

You had no choice but to fight, your stubbornness making cowering and hiding not an option- if you went down, it had to happen fighting. You knew that your death would be gruesome, the feeling of the rough, splintering wood against your back and the tight press of your boots against the wall would not be the last thing you ever saw. You knew that you would be waking up again. Closing your eyes, you said a prayer- for your family. For Jack’s strength and innocence, for Abigail’s love, for John’s unwavering loyalty and for Sadie’s strength. You prayed for Dutch, prayed that despite all of his evil and wrongdoing, that he would not see you in the condition you were bound to be in. That he would not be the one to inflict the pain to come upon you.

Time slowed once again as you rose, meeting the men as they slammed open the shop door- grossly outnumbered as you had calculated. Vision blurring, you shot widely- fighting for your life as men collapsed throughout the room. The flash of gunfire and the glint of throwing knives blinded you.

Finally, you ran out of bullets. The bodies of vile, disgusting men surrounded you. The bodies of the men that had terrorized your family. As an arrow lodged itself into your unguarded chest, you felt nothing but vindication.

-

Blinking, the sound of dripping rang throughout your brain as your senses faltered. Slower than usual.

You couldn’t move your arms or legs.

“I can’t-” You stuttered, fidgeting and shaking, “I- can’t…I can’t move.”

No one replied, only the sounds of your unsteady breaths could be heard, each one followed by that dripping sound. The horror of the situation dawned upon you, you had been right. You had woken up.

The skinner brothers hadn’t killed you.

Your cheeks felt wet, slicken with tears and something else as you heaved and pushed against your confinements.

Boots crunched along grass then, the sound of a rolling glass bottle rung beside your head.

“Who’s going to shut her up this time then?” A misty voice spoke nearby, it was followed by a mixture of sounds, to which your brain couldn’t decipher. It almost sounded like they were fighting over who would finish you off. You continued to cry then, your brain running at a speed faster than you could manage as the pain outweighed any coherent conscience. Finally, your eyes managed to peel themselves open.

To your horror, the dripping sound was your own blood- oozing from a cut on your arm that dribbled down through your fingers and onto the gravel below. You were tied to a wooden frame, similar to what Uncle had been tied to- though the fire had not yet been lit below you. The shine of the sun above you told you that not only had it been multiple hours, but that they were saving your sacrifice for the following night. Your body adorned a number of cuts though the arrow wound within your stomach had been messily patched up.

“They’re keeping me alive.” You mouthed, your eyes flitting around your surroundings as they welled with tears. You were within tall trees- deep in the forest and past the border lines you had previously ventured towards; they were ensuring that you would not be found.

“Have you found any takers for her?”

“Hm?” A large man looked towards a smaller man only a few steps from you.

“Any takers?” the smaller man rolled his eyes, socking the larger man in the arm, “Has anyone posed any offers to purchase her?”

Your ears rung as you squeezed your eyes closed, feigning sleep as you listened in on the conversation. They were keeping you alive to sell you, they were aware of your worth as a ruthless bounty hunter. It was their job to strip you of everything you had so they could sell a bounty hunter reduced to nothing to the highest bidder- a fate potentially worse than the fate of the Skinner brothers.

Before you could squirm frantically, the larger man spoke, “We have actually- some man spotted the poster up near Manzanita Post, claims he has some personal business to settle. Hefty sum, he’ll be here within the hour.”

The younger man grinned, his molten teeth dull in the sun’s light, “Personal? Damn, she must have taken out someone close.”

The larger man hummed as they departed their posts, moving towards the larger group of men. Your heart thumped in your chest as you squirmed- using any tactic you had ever learned from your fellow outlaws to perform any attempt at escape. But all was to no avail- the Skinners knew damn well how to hold a hostage.

Closing your eyes, you laid back. Every ounce of fight that had resided within you during that initial fight had vanished. There was nothing left, you had nothing left- all you could do was wait for what came next.

“Look at this pretty lady.” A voice spoke above you soon after that thought, a Skinner with a patchy ginger beard hovered in your eye line, a menacing grin upon your face. “What are we gonna do with you?

Fellow skinners laughed as a sharp pain, a knife, punctured your side- you’d experienced stabbings before, but not in this state. You succumbed to the urge to scream, the sound tearing from your throat and laced with terror. The man grinned, twisting the knife before wrenching it out and watching as you panted through the pain.

“It’s alright Darlin’. We all have to pay penance for our actions sometimes, seeing as you killed my father and all.”

You grinned, the feeling of blood dripping from your scabbing lips pushed aside as humor filled you, “Am I supposed to know who you’re referring to?” The mans’ eyes darkened at that, though just as he went to resume his torture, a deafening shot resounded throughout the forest.

You could only watch as the man collapsed backwards, blood spraying your already coated skin in thick beads. The background noise within the camp instantly dropped, all present turning to face their attacker- though none dared to retaliate.

“For the sum I’m paying, I’d hope my investment would be in pristine condition.”

The worst of your nightmares paled in comparison to what you saw as you turned. Dutch Van Der Linde stood at the edge of camp, tall and boisterous as ever. A repeater laid pointed within his hands, complimented by black rings adorning his fingers and aimed ready for whoever dared to step forward. The black waistcoat and linen shirts had been replaced with a silk black shirt, the sleeves rolled and the top button undone in respect of the humidity of West Elizabeth. No hat laid upon his head now, his hair curling at the nape of his neck and slicked back with pomade. He looked rich, luxurious. He didn’t look like the most wanted man in America.

It seemed that his obsession with finery had never dispersed.

You heaved, grappling at the wooden frame as you hoped, prayed, and begged for any way to escape. Any route other than having to go with him. The mere sight of him invoked sickness, suffering and fear- you felt like you had regressed, all progression made dispersed at the sound of his voice.

“Sir…You are free to take her.” The larger man whimpered, despite Dutch’s smaller frame, the man lowered himself to one knee; bowing his head. You scoffed, shaking your head as tears of anguish and defeat rolled down your face.

“Free?” Dutch sneered, his lips curling as he stepped before the cowering man, “I would hope so- seeing the state of her. What am I supposed to do with her if she looks like that?”

“Of- of course, Sir.” Multiple Skinners nodded in agreement, joining in bowing before the renowned criminal mastermind.

“Good.” Dutch spoke calmly, his features void of all emotion. You shook, in fear of what was to happen. In fear of the man you had previously thought you had left behind, the man you had presumed long dead. But part of you, the long cold and dormant part that had loved him. The part of you that yearned and starved, that had dragged you on that late-night outing in the first place- it longed for him.

Before anyone could blink, fathom the possibility of Dutch’s evolved tyranny over the years- he pressed the repeater’s trigger; ending the lives of the men bent to his will with a parade of clean headshots. You were no stranger to brutality, especially not Dutch’s, but your position was significantly more vulnerable than theirs; you could do nothing but bend to Dutch’s will.

As the last bullet sounded and the last man fell, Dutch wasted no time in slinging the repeater upon his shoulder and advancing towards you. Dutch reached you then, staring down at your dwindling and shivering form. Your groggy brain registered the crease of his brow, the red lining of his eyes and the worried curl in his lips.

He composed himself quickly, a mask settling as he moved to cut open your bindings. “The man was right, what am I going to do with you Y/N?”

-

You faded in and out of consciousness in the back of a cart- effectively bleeding out onto what felt like boar pelts. Dutch had instructed you to hold on as he fled from the camp, leaving the Skinner’s to decompose in his wake- a fleeing devil and all. The canopy above Tall Trees swirled above you, the sun remaining high in the sky throughout the journey. It could have been minutes or hours.

“Alright Princess,” Dutch said from the driver’s speech above, refusing to look back at you, “Hold on, we’re nearly there now.”

The use of your old, long unused nickname made you recoil- Dutch had always been one for sweet remarks, but he especially favored Princess- he was the beast, you were the innocent beauty. It created the rhetoric that you were to be protected, despite the major contributions you had made towards the camp on many occasions. You had to fight to be sent on missions, Dutch would respond with cold refusal; opting to insult you brashly in order to supposedly keep you safe. At his worst, you had stormed from camp; jumping onto the back of your horse and galloping away, ignoring the pleas of the gang. It was only when you didn’t return that worry had set in, three days you had been missing- later found by Arthur near Emerald Ranch. You had later learned that Dutch had practically torn the camp and nearby settlements apart; his shirtsleeves painted in red as he had searched for you- knocking down anyone in his way.

“Don’t call me that.” You mumbled groggily, using all of your energy to deliver a retort.

“What? Princess?”

You gritted your teeth, Dutch-induced-irritation felt like home- the gritting of your teeth and press of fingernails all too familiar when in his company. As the cart halted to a stop, Dutch leaped over the back of the wagon, instantly picking you up and taking you into a nearby tent.

“Okay Y/N,” he spoke hastily, flitting around the tent as he artfully bandaged up your wounds and poured health cure down your throat, “You’re going to stay alive because even though I did get you for free in the end- I’ve put a lot on the line for this.”

The utterance of your name blindsided you, the specific phonetic variation of your name on Dutch’s lips a foreign concept to you. Though at the same time, it felt right. Like returning home. But he hadn’t changed, you told yourself. He was still rude, materialistic, and conniving. You may have been better off staying with the Skinners. As he pressed into the stab wound in your side- you felt your consciousness fading, the pain blurring your vision and eliciting shouts from your throat.

“Go to sleep,” he mumbled as you felt a hand ridden with jewels caress your hair, “We have a lot to discuss.”

When you next awoke, the hum of night surrounded you as the crackling of a fire sounded nearby. You were laid upon a pile of warm pelts, a thin cross stitch blanket laid over your frame, covering the injuries that each individually created a cold ache. The tent you laid in was a decent size, though smaller than what you had previously slept in with Dutch- it was filled with mismatched furniture; pieces that he had presumably scavenged due to the inability to show his face anywhere. A thin cloth shirt lay beside you; to which you awkwardly pulled on, careful to avoid the extent of your injuries, in favor of losing your long destroyed and stained clothes. From your position you could see a horse, the Count, strong and faithful as ever though its once pristine, shining coat was greyer with what could be presumed as turmoil and age.

Dutch filtered into your vision next, sat beside the horse and facing away from you- his back solid and strong as ever, posture perfect as he cleaned the repeater that you had only seen to inflict pain. You attempted to rise from the bed, instantly wincing as a burn resounded within your side- that gained Dutch’s attention as he spun, his features wearing a look of shock.

“Finally,” He smirked, placing the gun on the ground and rising to come and meet you, “I thought you’d never wake up Princess.”

You glared at him, both for the nickname and his forceful attempts to lay you back down, “I’m a renowned bounty hunter now, you know.”

“Oh, I know that,” A grin marred his features, though it didn’t quite meet his eyes, “I’ve seen you all over the papers- the wonderful tales of justice and empowerment. Always a great read.”

“It isn’t a fantasy story to enjoy over breakfast,” You snapped, “I’m finally doing something good with my life, going straight and working alongside the law. Not against it.”

Dutch scoffed, always the cynic in the face of accomplishment “You’re nothing but a tool to them Y/N- one wrong move, one slightly unlawful kill and you’re finished.”

You cut him off with a laugh then, scrubbing a hand against your eyes in disbelief, “You are seeing me for the first time in eight years and you are seriously giving me a lecture right now?” You paused, preparing to deliver a punch, “The public are betting on me to do it you know, to kill you.”

Dutch stood then, an unbridled rage in his eyes as he towered over you, though he only spoke two words. “You wouldn’t.”

You shrugged, smirking up at him cynically, “How would you know? We haven’t seen each other in eight years, Dutch- the last time we did see each other, you betrayed me.”

“Betrayed you?” Dutch raged, “I never betrayed you; my gun never faltered in your direction though I remember you sending a number of shots my way.”

“You killed Arthur.”

Dutch swallowed, his throat bobbing; the weight of your accusation infecting the strength of his shoulders and setting stone within his chest. He spoke slowly, each word laced with venom as spit flew from the lips, “How would you know?”

“I saw,” your voice shook with anger, “I followed him up there. I saw what you did. I saw the way he begged. I saw the way you left his body lying there. If I hadn’t been there- he would have been left behind to rot.”

“I did what had to be done.” His voice cracked, emotion tiding the way over any rational thought, “I did…what had to be done.”

Shaking your head, you turned from him; the severity of your injuries rendering you useless, unable to run. Dutch refused to move from your peripheral, his gaze heady and severe upon the back of your head. “Leave me alone.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Dutch paused, his fists clenched and hair falling into his eyes, the pomade long worn off, “Because, I miss you Y/N.”

“Bullshit.”

“Y/N,” Dutch was pleading now, grasping at your shoulders and arms, his hands skimming any skin he could find; the actions of a starved man, “No matter what I do, no matter where I go, who I’m with, what semblance of riches I am able to grasp- you never leave my mind,” He gulped, no stopping now, “I’ve been reading about you for years but when I saw that poster up in Manzanita Post, I went insane with worry- I thought I’d be collecting your dead body but when I saw you strung up there I felt even worse; I practically felt the pain you felt.”

“Seriously?” You spat, “You felt my pain? I was being tortured and you spin this to be about you?”

“Princess that’s not-”

“Leave it Dutch,” You growled, slapping away his encroaching hands, “You haven’t changed.”

“What was wrong with me before? I was a leader, I kept you all alive. And what do I get for that? Nothing.”

“You ruined us!” You yelled, “You ruined me! My life since leaving you has been reduced to nothing but surviving, I can’t fade into the background anymore because of the target you placed upon our backs Dutch.”

“You had a choice, you could have left whenever you wanted.”

“But, I couldn’t. Anytime I left I’d be watched like a hawk Dutch. I was finally free, but now you’ve reigned me in again.”

Dutch laughed then, a fabricated cackle as he clutched his stomach- though the grin above his face did not reach his eyes. “I saved your life, Princess.”

“My fate there would have been better than this.”

“Ah, I see.”

The two of you sat in petulant silence then, too stubborn to back down as the weight of trauma and regret outweighed any semblance of forgiveness. The stale air of silence continued for days as you recovered- Dutch would check your injuries and bring you meals whilst you were still bedbound; allowing for only small glimpses of contact as he opted to spend as much time as possible outside of the tent; favoring humidity and his horse over your company. As you recovered, you began to venture outside of the warmth of the bed- opting to explore the surrounding wilderness, ignoring Dutch’s ever watchful gaze. It seemed his possessive streak had never ended, possibly having worsened seeing as though he had the gall to stroll into the camp of some of the most ruthless killers in the state.

In your solitude, you thought of home. You thought of your little bedroom in Beecher’s Hope, a place you could finally call your own. You thought of the family dinners you were missing; Abigail’s horrendous cooking feeling like a distant memory as you ate only scavenged animal meat and local berries. You thought of nighttime bonfires, morning coffee and the glow of the sun upon the crops during the afternoons; sweat congregating at your forehead as you had earned your keep. You missed home, you missed home like you had once missed Dutch.

The knowledge that you couldn’t have both was heartbreaking- serenity and Dutch was not an amicable match. Dutch only brought destruction and suffering; you hadn’t spoken properly in days due to his inability to see the point of others, his leading mindset never faltering. Dutch could simply never be a part of a family. You glanced over at him from your perch then, watched as he brushed down The Count; taking care to smooth down its hair and whisper sweet nothings into its ear.

Everytime he acted contrary to his real self you felt your heart shatter.

You stood then, unable to bear the weight of loaded silence any longer. “I spotted a river down the hill, I’m going to go and wash myself down.”

Dutch paused, seemingly shocked by the sound of your voice, “I’ll join you.”

“Dutch-”

“No, Y/N.” Dutch spoke firmly, raising a hand towards you, “Your injuries are too severe, if you slip and open up your side, your death will be in my hands.”

Rolling your eyes, you pushed past him and sauntered down the hill; listening as his footsteps followed. The silence continued as you walked, all too aware that you would have to remove at least some articles of clothing before him. It was nothing he’d never seen before of course, but it had been years since a man had seen your body in that way- you couldn’t account for your actions if his heated gaze met yours after so long.

“Turn around.”

Dutch grinned, turning slowly with his hands on his hips, “It’s nothing I’ve never seen before, Princess.”

You knew he would say that. You merely scoffed in reply.

As you stripped, you became too aware of the sensitivity of your injuries; the ache in your shoulder, the sting in your stomach and the pain in your side. “Shit.”

“What’s wrong, Y/N?” Dutch called, back still turned.

“I don’t-” You screwed your eyes shut, dreading what was to come, “I don’t think I can wash myself.”

“Okay,” Dutch spoke slowly, turning though his eyes remained closed, “Do you want me to help you?”

Gulping, you nodded frantically, “Yes.” You spoke hastily- terrified that if you didn’t respond quick enough then the moment would be over. Part of you felt disgusted at yourself, disgusted at your lack of resistance towards the man that had broken your heart. But, the other part of you felt thrilled; electrified, brought back to life at the thought of him truly touching your skin again. Rolling back his shirt sleeves, he approached; his uncaring facade refusing to break as he helped you peel your shirt from your arms, instantly exposing your bare breasts as you had foregone upper undergarments in favor of allowing your injuries to heal. You gulped, refusing to look at him as he moved to unbutton your pants, stifling groans as you felt the linen brush over a sore spot. He shushed you comfortingly, discarding your pants to the side. Beads of sweat had formed at the base of his temple.

He began to lower you into the cool tide then, cupping water within his palm and pouring it onto your head; shushing you soothingly as he did so. His finger constantly skimmed your body- the edges of your breasts, the inside of your thighs, the corners of your mouth. Your lips pursed as you stared up into his eyes; to which he resolutely stared back, the mask finally breaking. He could’ve done anything to you in that moment- pinned you down beneath the water, stolen your last breaths.

You dwelled on whether that would be the case if anyone other than you laid within his arms.

“Dutch,” you gulped, your throat running dry as you attempted to voice your feelings, “We shouldn’t be doing this.” Your voice came out as a whisper.

Dutch blinked at you, his finger tracing a path down the side of your face- his voice croaked as he spoke, half-speaking half-groaning, “Princess.” The sound of his resistance breaking was mesmerizing and you laid compliantly as his finger began to circle your nipple; creating goosebumps in its wake.

“Tell me to stop, Y/N.”

“I- I can’t.” Your head spun as he moved his hand downwards, holding you steady as he reached down to swirl a ringed finger around your clit. The feeling of the stark cold of the ring matched with the heat of his skin elicited a guttural moan, your eyes rolling backwards as he began to pleasure you. His throat bobbed as he stared down at you, his eyes darkening and intense as he watched you break apart, a familiar mirage of the past. The semblance of a woman could break even the strongest of men.

You broke entirely, gripping Dutch’s hair and smashing your faces together; drenching his shirt in water and kissing him messily. His tongue dove into your mouth as he pinned your face against his own with his free hand, continuing his ministrations upon your clit. You groaned into his mouth, working at the sopping buttons of his shirt. You were all too accustomed to his rough nature during intimacy, often opting to pin you down and clutch your hair over soft, sweet actions. You had cared in the past, but now you couldn’t, opting to claw at his back and hair; scratching his scalp and drawing lines down his back.

Just as you reached for his pants, he stopped; pulling away with swollen lips and ruffled, wet hair- “I’m sorry Darling, we can’t do this here,” he breathed, moving his hand upwards to cup at your breast, “Let’s get you up to my tent and then we can continue.”

You shook your head, eyes pleading and begging, “We can do it on the shoreline, please we can’t stop now.” You knew that if you stopped, you wouldn’t be able to continue; the disgust and horror would set in. Dutch nodded reluctantly, a tinge of suspicion lingering in his eyes. You stumbled out of the water; collapsing together as you hastily pulled his pants from his body before lowering yourself onto his cock. He groaned huskily, his hands flying to your hips as he threw his head back. He had been craving this.

As you rocked and rolled together- you knew that this couldn't happen again. Dutch Van Der Linde was not safe- you could not let him enter your sphere any further. You moaned and cried and whimpered- relishing every last touch and taste and feeling. The sweat congregating between your bodies was slick and hot- connecting every last fiber of skin.

This couldn’t happen again, you told yourself, this couldn’t happen again.

Afterwards, you laid together at the shoreline- naked and bare to the forest as you laid in Dutch’s arms. He told you stories- stories of his time on the run, moments where he thought of you, moments where he caught glimpses of you in the paper, glimpses of you told in the fireside tales of other outlaws. You laughed, smiled, complied- gave him exactly what he wanted- you told him stories of the gang; neglecting important details though providing him with the skeletons of true stories. He too smiled, his lips curling genuinely as he placed a kiss into your hair.

Just before sleep overruled him, he informed you of his plan. His plan for the two of you, how you would travel together in his wagon; find a farmhouse and make a living there. You smiled, agreeing.

But it was the life you already had.

When dawn hit, you crawled out of his arms; allowing yourself one last look before you fled- into the dangers of Tall Trees and the semblance of home that lay just past it. You had to return to your family.

[theamazingdigitalraceway]

RACEWAY AU INCORRECT QUOTES

~~~

Kinger: "Do you think God stays in heaven because he too fears what he has created?"

Abel: "What the [%$!#] are you on?"

~

Gangle: "This is so sad...Bubble, play Despacito."

~

Caine: "I don't know if I give the air of knowing things, but I really don't."

Seth: "Your secret is safe with my indifference.

~

Loo: "Why are you smiling?"

Gummigoo: "Can't I just be happy?"

Pomni: "Jax crashed on the final lap."

~

Pomni: "Caine and I don’t use pet names."

Ragatha: "I see. Hey, what do bees make?"

Pomni: "Honey?"

Caine: "Yes, dear?"

Pomni: *sweats*

Ragatha: "Don't ever lie to my face again."

~

Pomni: "MY LIFE IS IN THE HANDS OF AN IDIOT!!"

Caine: *gesturing to himself and Seth* "No, no, TWO idiots."

~

Gangle: "I actually have a black belt."

Ragatha: "In karate?"

Gangle: "No, from Gucci."

~

Jax: "Look. I may not be a saint, but it's not like I’ve killed anybody. I’m not an arsonist (mostly). I’ve never found a wallet outside of an IHOP and thought about returning it but saw the owner lived out of state so just took the cash and dropped the wallet back on the ground."

Zooble: "Okay, that's really specific, and that makes me think that you definitely did do that."

~

Kinger: "A theif."

Zooble: "Thief?"

Kinger: "Theif."

Zooble: "I before E, except after C."

Kinger: "...Thceif."

Zooble: "No."

~

Caine: "Bad things keep happening to me, like I have bad luck or something."

Seth: "You don't have bad luck. The reason bad things happen to you is because you're a dumbass."

~

Ragatha: "If you had to choose between Jax and all the money I have in my wallet, which would you choose?"

Gummigoo: "That depends, how much money are we taking about?"

Jax: "Hey!"

Ragatha: "63 cents."

Gummigoo: "I'll take the money."

Jax: "HEY!!"

~

Loo: "WHY. why did you give Gangle a KNIFE?!"

Ragatha: "She said she felt unsafe."

Loo: "Now I feel unsafe!"

Ragatha: "I’m sorry... would you like a knife?"

~

Caine: "How's the most beautiful person here~?"

Pomni: "I don't know, how are they~?"

Caine: *flustered* "I-"

Seth: *from across the room* "I'm doing great, thanks!"

~

Jax: "We need to get through this locked door. Kinger, give me your credit card."

Kinger: Here.

Jax: "Thanks." *Pockets the card* "Zooble, kick down the door."

~

Pomni: "Seth, can I talk to you for a second?"

Seth: "Yeah, what’s up? Lemme guess. You and Caine are having problems and you want me to teach you how to kiss?"

Pomni: *blushing furiously* "What? No, stop that. I know how to kiss. I’ve read books."

Seth: *snorts*

~

Gangle: "Come on, I wasn’t that drunk last night."

Ragatha: "You were flirting with Zooble."

Gangle: "So what? They're my partner."

Ragatha: "You asked them if they were single."

Gangle:

Ragatha: "And then you cried when they said they weren't."

~

Caine: "Pomni, what do IDK, LY, and TTYL mean?"

Pomni: "I don’t know, love you, talk to you later."

Caine: "Ok, I love you too, I’ll just ask Kinger."

Pomni: *realizing* "WAIT-"

~

Pomni: "You have to apologize to Caine."

Seth: "Fine....Unfuck you or whatever."

~

Jax: "Sometimes I drink milk straight out of the container."

Kinger: "The cow???"

Jax: "What?"

Ragatha: "Kinger, W H Y?"

~

Pomni: "Do you have any skeletons in your closet?"

Abel: "You mean literally or figuratively?"

Pomni: "Honestly, the fact that I have to specify..."

~~~

A/N: Heh, these where fun. I might need to do more

[sleepyfaequeen]

Demon Slayer Headcanons + Short Stories

Warnings: Fluff, Milk

Pairings: Mitsuri, Shinobu, reader

Mitsuri Kanroji:

♡ Mitsuri is the type of lover who will easily swoon. Anything you do with her would be so romantic, and she just thinks you're utterly perfect. So when you two became a married couple, she was head over heels for just you. ♡

"Pfft! Bwahaha~!" By now, that sudden muffled laugh doesn't surprise you. Nor does the hands that now suddenly cover your eyes from continuing to cut the food you were preparing for your fiancé. The day you asked Mitsuri to be yours was a memorable one.

"Mitsuri-chan, my beloved." She let's go immediately as she settles to just hug you now. "I can't finish making your lunch if you cover my vision."

"Oh, I'm sorry." She let's go and looks over before covering her mouth.

"What? Surprised I'm making you something? I would've thought you'd be used to it by now." (Y/n) said as she placed the sushi rolls into the cute pink bento boxes before closing it and tying it in a bow. Mitsuri couldn't help but squeal as she bites the sleeve of her haori.

"What is it, Mitsuri?"

"I feel so luckyyyy!!" She cries out as she burries her face into your chest. Holding you into an almost vice-like grip.

"Mitsuri! I can't breathe!"

This Hashira will never stop falling for you.

Shinobu Kocho:

♡ Shinobu is just so sweet towards you, and she can't help the opportunity to tease you some days. Still, she seems to be the one always taking care of you. She perfers it that way though. ♡

A few small breaths leaves your lips before you began feeling something tickling your nose. Your nose crinkled as you opened your eyes, seeing two indigo eyes looking back at you with a spark in them.

"Honey?" A groggy voice you didn't recognize said. Shinobu sat back as she laughed, hearing your groggy voice.

"Morning, (Y/n)-chan/kun!" She greets as she sits back and watches as you sit up to rub your eyes. A shudder comes to your shoulders as a cool mug is pressed to your lips. "Drink. I made sure to make you some morning matcha tea."

"Matcha?" You stuck your tongue out in disgust. "But it taste so weird. I'm not so much of a bitter drinker, Shinobu-chan."

"I added something special to this tea." She smiles as she again hands you the small mug of the 'green gunk.'

"I swear.. they should feed this to demons as a punishment." You murmured as you held the mug to your lips and take a small sip.

"Well, how is it?"

"It taste.. sweet." Shinobu smiles as you go in for another sip.

"What did you add to it?" A small giggle leaves Shinobu's lips as she touches her cheek.

"Milk."

"Milk..? From a cow, right?" (Y/n) tilts her head as Shinobu keeps her same closed eyed smile. "Shinobu-chan, from a cow, right!?" Her laugh seems to only grow as she watches your concerned face go bright red.

[greekstar]

Warrior cat name Ideas Prefixes - A-Z A Acorn Adder Amber Ant Apple Arch Arrow Aspen Ash Asher Alder Amber B Badger Bark Beech Bellow Birch Berry Bird Black Blizzard Brave Breeze Bright Brown Bell Bug Beetle Bluebell Blue Bounce Brindle Brush Bush Buzzard Buzz Bee Bumble Bass Basil Bubble Brine Beaver Bison (I feel like this only goes good with ‘horn’ or Bisonpelt/fur.) Bat Bone Butterfly Burdock Broken Bramble Bracken Bay Brisk Blossom Briar Boil Branch Bud C Cloud Cloudy Crystal Cold Cricket Cliff Cardinal Crying Cougar Coyote Cobweb Chick Cow Cave Cheetah Carrot Coral Cactus Claw Cedar Cherry Cinder Clover Copper Creek Crooked Crouch Crow D Dew Dewy Duck Dusty Dust Dune Down Dagger Dodge Dolphin Daisy Doe Dapple Dappled Dark Dawn Dead Dove Drift Dusk E Eagle Ebony Echo Egg Eel Ember F Fallen Fallow Fawn Feather Fennel Fern Ferret Finch Fire Flame Fleet Flint Flower Flow Fly Fox Freckle Frog Frost Furze Fuzzy Foal Falling Fall G Gale Gust Golden Gold Goose Gorse Gorge Grass Gray Green Grass Goldfish Guppy Ghost H Hail Half Hare Hawk Hay Hoot Hazel Heather Heavy Hollow Holly Honey Honeycomb Hummingbird Horse Happy Hornet Hound Heron I Ice Ivy J Jagged Jay Joy Jaguar Jackdaw Jump Juniper K Kestrel Kink Koi L Lake Larch Leaf Lark Leopard Lichen Lightning Lily Lion Little Lizard Log Long Lost Loud Low Lynx M Maggot Mallow Maple Marsh Meadow Milk Minnow Mint Mist Misty Mole Moon Morning Moss Mossy Moth Mottle Mouse Mouth Mud Mumble Mink Muddy Moonlight Mountain Mushroom Monkey N Nettle Needle Nut Newt Night Nimble O Oak Oat Odd Olive One Otter Owl Orange Ocean Orca Opal P Pale Perch Pool Pike Peak Prickle Pounce Pine Petal Petal Pebble Pear Patch Pirate(kittypet or loner) Polar Peach Panda Pond Pigeon Plum Q Quail Quick R Rabbit Rain Ragged Rat Rattle Root Raspberry Reed Red Robin Rock Rose Rowan Rubble Running Rushing Rush Russet Rust Rye Raven Raccoon Rustle Rattlesnake Ravine Rapid S Sage Short Sheep Sedge Shrew Slate Slow Snail Sneeze Sorrel Soot Spider Spruce Sun Sunny Swallow Shallow Shade Sharp Scorch Sand Sandy Sky Silver Smoke Snake Soft Snow Sparrow Speckle Splash Spotted Squirrel Stalking Stalk Stalker Starling Stone Storm Stumpy Stump Sweet Swift Shred Sloe Shell Seed Shimmer Shimmering Skunk Spirit Squid Shy Sound Summer Sapphire Spiraling Spiral Shark Saturn T Tall Talon Tooth Timber Tiger Twig Tumble Thorn Thistle Thrush Tawny Tangle Ting Trout Torn Toad Tiny V Vine Vixen Void Vole W Wasp Weasel Web Weed Wet Whisker White Whale Wild Willow Wind Wolf Winter Wisteria Whisper Whispering Water Wave Waver Whisper Watermelon Whistle Wood Y Yellow

Yew

Yarrow- suggested

You guys DONT WANNA KNOW how LONG this took. I’m crying. And I might’ve missed some so feel free to send me messages in chat to request me editing it and putting it in some (not like messaging but the. Chat in this post lol.)

@cryptidclaw I also did this for our Au to help us with renaming.

I will get to suffixes soon I promise.

[wooahaes]

I now really want to know what the names for the chickens are and who the only one that can handle them is? Because I lowkey think Jun would think it is him, but it is actually woozi

Also, based on that the boys in UtS are either eating completely vegan or there is at least one person ready to kill for meat/fish👀 and no cows or goats means no dairy or do they have a magic refrigerator?

(Also, also a while ago I asked for something in the ask game and I've never been a certified anon™️ but yes I would like to be 🌼 anon)

omg hi then!!! <3

honestly i haven't put much thought into names for the chickens yet but i feel like there'd just... be a variety of names. one day i'll return to this and reblog w what i'm thinkin lmao but mind blank and all i've got are my stardew chickens on the brain (the lovely squad of ladies for ur consideration: honey, biscuit, peanutbuttr, pesto, cheerios, and fruit loop) lmao

tbh. i think pretty much everyone would be like 'yeah i can totally handle this' (immediate sounds of swearing as they get chased away by the One mean chicken) and it rly would be jihoon who can handle all of them. tbh it'd probs be both jihoon And vernon bc i think jihoon would be patient enough w them and vernon's just radiating chill vibes.

they do have fish occasionally btw! its mentioned in the second part (and then never brought up again i think... oops) that they'll occasionally fish. it's just kind of a hassle to catch enough for everyone and then clean (and likely gut) said fish. there is absolutely some 'i want beef :(' n 'i want chicken :(((' thoughts n whatnot going around but they just kinda have to take what they can get.

honestly. the rules of this universe are so up in the air bc it operates on 'if i want to include it here, then i include it and excuse it as the universe just gifting it to them' hence why they just Have electricity n running water n whatnot. its kinda intentionally supposed to be questionable How they all have these things but something they never push because 'if there's an outside force ensuring that we survive, then are we gonna piss it off by questioning too much?' + the focus on just living life one day at a time and enjoying one another's company while they all have it

i feel like if i was going to include something like milk/cheese/butter/etc it'd be one of those things that if they find it and create it themselves, they'll just find that they like... never run out. like with the honey where it's absolutely had moments where it should have run out, yet it was refilled the next morning without anyone doing it. kind of a 'okay, you did the hard thing, now you can have this without too much stress if its used regularly enough' if that makes sense?

truly a world i love deeply but also a world i don't put too much thought into bc im just happy with the overall vibes haha

[goostiebee]

🎃Walk in the moonlight with Mookin~🎃

it is fall every day with this cow around. making all the baked goods, walking in cozy sweaters and scarves...the best part, though, is seeing the moon slowly come up. won't you watch with them?

...

I've actually been working on some cows while I've been gone, too! I'm practicing making stickers right now. Hasn't been the absolute greatest so far, but we'll see if I can do any better tomorrow. For now, you can have a pumpkin cow!

[thewondelandifulcafe]

𝕎𝔼𝕃ℂ𝕆𝕄𝔼𝕋𝕆𝕋ℍ𝔼𝕎𝕆ℕ𝔻𝔼ℝ𝕃𝔸ℕ𝔻𝕀𝔽𝕌𝕃ℂ𝔸𝔽𝔼!

Welcome to the WONDERLANDIFUL CAFE! 

🕰️About Me!!🕰️. I’m Peruvian I like reading WEBTOONS, manga, novels, Rick Riordan books, and fanfics. I like watching Disney movies, anime, animated movies/shows. I like playing Obey me, tears of Themis, twisted wonderland

🕰️Rules🕰️

    🫖 READ EVERYTHING HERE TO KNOW WHAT TO DO

    🫖 Limitations of Characters: 7

    🫖 No lemons 🍋 

    🫖 Don’t be afraid to make as many requests as you want (just don’t expect to be finished quickly)

    🫖 If anything is unclear please tell me and I’ll clear it up. Just make an ordinary request. 

    🫖 Be polite if you are rude then more likely than not your order won’t be made

A/N: I think that’s it if not then I will add it. 

We have a many Menu Sections to chose from. Each Section has a selection of beverages. 

🕰️Menu Sections 🕰️

🧋Twisted Wonderland🧋

Riddle RoseHeart - Rose Milk Tea

Trey Clover - White Clover Iced Tea

Cater Diamond - Unsweetened Raspberry Black Iced Tea

Deuce Spade - Butterfly Pea Flower Tea

Ace Trapola - Hibiscus Tea

Leona Kingscholar- Thai Bubble Tea

Ruggie Buggie - Teavana Hot Tea

Jack Howl - Classic Milk Bubble Tea

Azul Ashengrotto - Lavender Lemonade Tea

Jade Leech - Taro Bubble Tea 

Floyd Leech - Blue Coral Bubble Tea

Kalim Al-Asim - Honeydew Milk Tea

Jamil Viper - Watermelon Bubble Tea

Vil Schoenheit - Ube Milk Tea

Rook Hunt - Iced Lemon Tea

Epel Felmier - Spiced Apple Tea

Idia Shroud - Coconut Butterfly Pea Flower Milk Tea

Ortho Shroud - Royal Milk Tea

Malleus Draconia - Green Tea

Lilia Vanrouge - Strawberry Matcha Latte 

Sliver - Passionflower Tea

Sebek Zigvolt - Matcha Milk Tea

☕️Tears of Themis☕️

Artem Wing - Black Coffee

Vyn Richter - White Tea

Luke Pearce - Witch Hazel Tea

Marius von Hagen - Blueberry Milk Tea

🍵Obey Me🍵

Lucifer - Lychee Black Tea

Mammon - Tiger Milk Tea

Leviathan - BlackBerry Jasmine Tea

Satan - Pineapple Iced Tea

Asmodeus - Salted Sakura Tea

Beelzebub - Pumpkin Spice Milk Tea

Belphegor - Chamomile Tea

Diavolo - Iced Passionfruit Tango

Barbatos - Oolong Tea

Mephistopheles- English Lavender Tea

Luke (Only Platonic) - Honey Milk Tea

Simeon - White Pearl Milk Tea

Raphael - Peach Bubble Tea

Solomon - Solomon's Seal Tea

Thirteen - Dragon Fruit Tea

🧋Demon Slayer🧋

Tanjiro Kamado - Jasmine Pearl Green Tea

Nezuko Kamado - Pink Lemonade 

Zenitsu Agatsuma - Fresh Mango Bubble Tea

Inosuke Hashibira - Wild Berry Bubble Tea

Kanao Tsuyuri - White Tea

Genya Shinazugawa - Brown Sugar Iced Espresso

Aoi Kanzaki - Blue Raspberry Italian Soda

Giyu Tomioka - Classic Iced Tea

Kyojuro Rengoku - Blood Orange Tea

Tengen Uzui - Caramelized Brown Sugar Boba Fresh Milk

Shinobu Kocho - Blackberry Banana Breakfast Shake

Muichiro Tokito - Cotton Candy Milkshake

Mitsuri Kanroji - Sakura Bubble Tea

Obanai Iguro - Black Sesame Boba Tea

Sanemi Shinazugawa - Espresso

Gyomei Himejimo - Earl Grey Tea

Kanae Kocho - French Rose Tea

Murata - Coffee

Sabito - Peach Iced Tea

Makomo - Strawberry Milk Tea

Yoriichi Tsugikuni - Mint Tea

Yushiro - Peppermint Tea

Tamayo - Purple Tea

Muzan Kibutsuji - Classic Black Tea

Kokushibo - Red Velvet Milkshake 

Doma - Rainbow Refresher 

Akaza - Kashmiri Pink Tea

Nakime - Black Milk Tea

Hantengu - Saffron Tea 

Gyokko - Rainbow Smoothie 

Kaigaku - Blue Raspberry Milkshake

Daki - Thai Pink Milk

Gyutaro - Green Coffee

Enmu - Chocolate Dream Shake

☕️Jujutsu Kaisen☕️ 

Gojo Satoru - Blue Moon Milkshake

Itadori Yuji - Hot Chocolate 

Megumi Fushiguro - Charcoal Lemonade

Nobara Kugisaki - Italian Raspberry Cream Soda 

Sukuna - Rose Tea

Maki Zenin - Jasmine Milk Tea

Mai Zenin - Jasmine Tea

Inumaki Toge - Purple Cow Milkshake

Yuta Okkotsu - Iced Coffee 

Junpei Yoshino - Lavender Mint Cream Soda

Nanami Kento - Mango Milkshake

Mahito - Boozy Blue Lagoon Milkshake

A/N: This is what is here so far I’ll add more later. Also if you like my writing but don’t like the fandom request! I even do WEBTOONS or myths (Greek, Norse, etc)

🕰️Main Dish🕰️

Headcannons - Croissants

Short Story - Bagels 

Scenarios (Croissants + Bagels) - Macarons

Oneshots - Donuts 

🕰️Side Dishes🕰️

Angst - Dark Chocolate Cookies

Fluff - Ice Cream Sandwich 

Alternate Universe - Galaxy Cakesicles

Hurt/Comfort - Chocolate Gâteau

Romance - Pie

     Poly - Apple Pie

     Character x Character - Cherry Pie

     Character x Reader - Pumpkin Pie

Platonic - Orange Crush Pound Cake

🕰️Order Types🕰️

A typical order for headcannons/croissants is 1-9 beverages, 1-2 side orders.

A typical order for short story/bagel is 1-4, 1-2 side orders.

A typical order for scenarios/macarons is 1-3, 1-4 side orders.

A typical order for oneshots/donuts  is 1, 1-5 side orders. 

Note you can only pick Romance or Platonic you can’t choose both.

Ex: Hi, I would like to order/request character/beverage and genre/side dish in format/main dish; (be specific of what you what)

A/N: Free feel to modify as needed, make sure to leave a two things specified and the rest blank.

[monpalace]

Modern Songbird definitely has a cottage core YouTube and tik tok about but not like one of those alt right pipeline ones. Her videos are just her tending to the kids and horses and giving Twi the longest “honey-do” list known to man she will get her wrap around porch the kids faces are blurred out because she doesn’t believe in having them shown to the world, overall her aesthetic and vibe is cute and people love it and they really love how whipped twi is for her like she could ask him to capture the sun and he would try his hardest -🧚🏽‍♀️

🧚🏽‍♀️ anon stop you're making me think about unattainable futures 😭😭

thinking about that made me think about this youtuber which in turn made me think about twi having more conventional farm animals (cows, chickens, etc) who they use (don't kill) for food, but songbird has her own array of animals to help around the house like cinderella or something

she documents her routine with making breakfast, helping the kids get ready for school, making lunch for them and twi (she cuts cute shapes into the sandwiches and make stuff out of the crust, adds candy and things to trade with other kids or give to the other farmhands, and adds the sweetest, most heartfelt notes), and then moves onto her chores around the house and then all the comments are just filled to the brim with "where did you find your husband" "where can i find someone like you" "i need your life" "me n who" and then the occasional "i hate everyone happier than me 🙏🏽"

whenever twi drops off or picks up the kids from school, he always brings their horses with him so that they can flex on the other kids like in that one video. whenever he picks them up, they usually stay with him at the ranch until he leaves and they have the time of their life laying on the animals while doing their homework (they get distracted easily so twi trained epona to keep them on task until they finish) (in turn, epona stops caring once they give her a few rubs and a treat)

during show and tell at school, either twin bring in something from one of their parents. one brings some milk from twi's cows that almost knock the whole class out with sip and the other brings something songbird baked and it's literally heaven on earth

[luckyxcharm]

Halloween Candy Match - Up

1. A large amount of money. H ~ 100 Grand 2. Ditzy people. R ~ Air Head 3. A famous, New York City street. DD ~ Fifth Avenue 4. Large, handsome male. M ~ Big Hunk 5. Happy nut. E ~ Almond Joy 6. Famous former baseball player. AA ~ Babe Ruth 7. Dry cows. T ~ Milk Duds 8. Red planet. L ~ Mars 9. A small gift from a bee. F ~ Bit O' Honey 10. Galaxy. BB ~ Milky Way 11. A famous swashbuckling trio. Y ~ 3 Musketeers 12. Result from a joke. P ~ Snickers   13. Double M’s. K ~ M&Ms 14. Cheerful cowboy. D ~ Jolly Rancher 15. A show of affection. W ~ Kisses 16. Chew noisily. B ~ Crunch 17. Spicy Mexican dish. Z ~ Hot Tamales 18. Favorite day of working people. U ~ Pay Day   19. Big fat lie. G ~ Whoopers   20. Sun explosion. S ~ Starbursts 21. Can’t remember the name. A ~ Whatchamacallit 22. Not very smart. FF ~ Dum Dum   23. Flotation device. O ~ Lifesaver 24. A studious group. Q ~ Nerds 25. Make a goal. X ~ Skor 26. Venomous Snake. CC ~ Mamba 27. Twists you can’t resist. C ~ Twizzlers 28. Taste the rainbow. N ~ Skittles 29. Say it with a kiss. J ~ Hershey's Kisses 30. Sour, sweet, gone. EE ~ Sour Patch Kids 31. Two for me, none for you. V ~ Twix 32. Can’t hold on to anything. I ~ Butterfingers

[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.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

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.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

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.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

"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.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

"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.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

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.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

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.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

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.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

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.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

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.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

"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.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

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.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

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.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

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.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

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.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

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?

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Monday feels tilted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You wonder what you'll be:

10 Signs She Is Clinically Insane.

It's Not You, It's Them!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Ask Samuel!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Congrats."

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

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

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

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

"No need."

"What about Seungcheol? Does he know?"

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

"What?!"

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

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

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

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

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

Instead you stand motionless, waiting, emptied.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

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

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

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

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

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

He gave up.

None of this should matter to you.

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

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

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

"You're an idiot, Seungcheol."

That does the trick.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"H-how?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Afternoon, boss."

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

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

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

"Friendly reminder we're at work."

"Everyone's at lunch, genius."

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

"You are the worst."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eat, Play, Love: A Guide.

Maybe you'd put it through. Maybe.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

[torahtantra]

"The Sun Stands Still." From Joshua, Chapter 10.

From Chapter 9:

24 They answered Joshua, “Your servants were clearly told how the Lord your God had commanded his servant Moses to give you the whole land and to wipe out all its inhabitants from before you. So we feared for our lives because of you, and that is why we did this. 25 We are now in your hands. Do to us whatever seems good and right to you.”

26 So Joshua saved them from the Israelites, and they did not kill them. 27 That day he made the Gibeonites woodcutters and water carriers for the assembly, to provide for the needs of the altar of the Lord at the place the Lord would choose. And that is what they are to this day.

Here begins Chapter 10:

10 Now Adoni-Zedek "The Lord of Justice", the king of Jerusalem heard that Joshua had taken Ai "ruins" and totally destroyed[a] it, doing to Ai and its king as he had done to Jericho and its king, and that the people of Gibeon "hillbillies" had made a treaty of peace with Israel and had become their allies. 2 He and his people were very much alarmed at this, because Gibeon was an important city, like one of the royal cities; it was larger than Ai, and all its men were good fighters. 3 So Adoni-Zedek king of Jerusalem appealed to Hoham king of Hebron, Piram king of Jarmuth, Japhia king of Lachish and Debir king of Eglon. 4 “Come up and help me attack Gibeon,” he said, “because it has made peace with Joshua and the Israelites.”

The Five Kings are:

->Adoni-Zedek "The Lord of Justice"

-> Hoham King of Hebron= The Mountain of Friendship

 -> Piram king of Jarmuth= Wild Donkey from the Heights= Brotherhood

-> Japhia king of Lachish= Illustrious, May He Cause To Shine Forth, the Lion King= Protection

-> Debir king of Eglon= Place of the honey bee= the Place of Milk and Honey, = the Place of the Word, Eglon= "A fine bull calf." ruff. = Intelligence, leadership, prosperity

Eglon, The Bull Calf is the male version of the Leah, the leading cow, synonymous with a male deacon.

For Layish, the Lion read here.

Obviously these men had fallen from their positions of greatness if the Torah is now calling them Amorites:

5 Then the five kings of the Amorites "talkers" —the kings of Jerusalem, Hebron, Jarmuth, Lachish and Eglon—joined forces. They moved up with all their troops and took up positions against Gibeon and attacked it.

-> As for why the King of Jerusalem and his "roaring lions" were also Amorites, and wanted to attack an allied force of Gibeonites and Israelites "hillbillies and overcomers" is not revealed until the end of this chapter. Hint- it has to do with empire.

-> ->The earliest mention of the Amorites and their kings comes from Noach. The Torah does not focus all that much on the five senses, or the First Five commandments, talkers violate all of these, so the problems facing the former, must be the Five Plagues- Five Sins of Speech, which should go away by the Fifth Day, when the Trumpets sound and the water teems.

“Through the power of speech, the Fire, God gives happiness to the humble. By speaking of the Seven Oaths, the Drunkard, Noah,  broke through the circle, defeated the violent, and led the gentlemen to peace.” 

*Noah opens a window in the Ark, I think that is what is meant by breaking through. 

8 Cush fathered Nimrod “the rebel”; he was the first on earth to be a mighty man.[n]9 He was a mighty hunter before the Lord. Therefore it is said, “Like Nimrod a mighty hunter before the Lord.” 10 The beginning of his kingdom was Babel “the gate of God”, Erech (length), Accad (to bake, to make glow), and Calneh (center of the world, beautifying), in the land of Shinar (that which is young and growls!).

“Men of Might hunt at length for the gate of God, where the Glowing makes the young man’s vessel bake and glow until he growls.” 

  11 From that land he went into Assyria (level, plain, happy) and built Nineveh (the fish place, the seat of government), Rehoboth-Ir, (wide city) Calah (like new) , and 12 Resen (head of a spring) between Nineveh and Calah; that is the great city. 

“Men who mature and glow these make new the seat of government and expand its horizons like the head of a spring contributes fresh water to a river. They are the antidote of the propaganda that causes the Flood of Violence.” 

13 Egypt fathered Ludim (from the Tree or standing pool), Anamim (responding water), Lehabim (flaming), Naphtuhim (engraver) , 14 Pathrusim (southland), Casluhim (a mental invertebrate), and Caphtorim (the crowned).

“The power of speech produces the water needed to crown the dumbass, engraving the knowledge of the Southern Fire on him, giving him a brain.”

15 Canaan fathered Sidon (hunting place) his firstborn and Heth (terror), 16 and the Jebusites (to trample down) , the Amorites (gossipers), the Girgashites (dwellers in clay), 17 the Hivites (tent villagers) , the Arkites, (fugitives, gnawers) the Sinites (thorn bush), 18 the Arvadites (wanderers), the Zemarites (wooly), and the Hamathites (people of hotness). Afterward the clans of the Canaanites dispersed. 

“The servants, the most humble before God, hunted down the gossipers, the self-masturbators, liars, the corrupt, the unshaven, wild, and violent, always hot with rage and trampled them.” 

19 And the territory of the Canaanites extended from Sidon in the direction of Gerar (sojourning) as far as Gaza (strong), and in the direction of Sodom (to burn) Gomorrah (people who shoot arrows tyrants), Admah (red earth, arable soil), and Zeboiim (gazelles), as far as Lasha (gaped at, delighted). 20 These are the sons of Ham, by their clans, their languages, their lands, and their nations.

“The servants of God overpower those consumed by the lust for power, who work for tyrants, using the Fire free the citizens of oppressed nations and create herds of happy, delighted little gazelles!”

21 To Shem (supreme knowledge) also, the father of all the children of Eber (who has passed over), the elder brother of Japheth (boundless civilization), children were born. 22 The sons of Shem: Elam (hidden),  Asshur (level, happy, just), Arpachshad= chesed= mercy, Lud (standing water), and Aram (high citadel). 

“The supreme knowledge, hidden within the happy, balanced, just and merciful is the standing water that reflects the Most High.” 

= the mirror image of a flood of violence. 

23 The sons of Aram: Uz (inner strength), Hul (writhing circle), Gether (winepress of vision), and Mash (drawn out). 

“Through contemplation and strength of will, the writhing mind is pressed and made to draw out the essence of the Most High.” 

24 Arpachshad (bordered by mercy) fathered Shelah (the mission); and Shelah fathered Eber (the region beyond). 25 To Eber were born two sons: the name of the one was Peleg (divided canal),[p] for in his days the earth was divided, and his brother's name was Joktan (he will be small) . 26

“Through mercy the mission can reach the farthest regions, and the divided earth can became one.” 

Joktan fathered Almodad (immeasurable is how God loves!), Sheleph (draw out), Hazarmaveth (village of death), Jerah (the moon), 27 Hadoram (thunder is exalted), Uzal (vanish), Diklah (palm tree), 28 Obal (not clouded), Abimael (God is father), Sheba (seven oaths), 29 Ophir (mark of wealth), Havilah (the burning fort), and Jobab (Yah is father); all these were the sons of Joktan (he will be small). 

“The unified world is loved by God without measure. Those who follow His Voice, the Exalted Thunder will be drawn forth from the village of the damned, and their sins, their clouded judgement will vanish. If they swear the Seven Oaths, they will bear the mark of wealth, live under the Tallest Date Palm, which resides behind the Wall of Fire, within the Burning Fort.”

30 The territory in which they lived extended from Mesha (retreat or depart) in the direction of Sephar (the census) to the hill country of the east. 31 These are the sons of Shem, by their clans, their languages, their lands, and their nations.

32 These are the clans of the sons of Noah, according to their genealogies, in their nations, and from these the nations spread abroad on the earth after the flood.

“To face east, towards the rising sun, to grow up, evolve, depart from the masses and reach for the Knowledge of the Supreme, is to become a part of the Effort to create an effortless peace all around the world.”

6 The Gibeonites then sent word to Joshua in the camp at Gilgal- the place of anointing nobles: “Do not abandon your servants. Come up to us quickly and save us! Help us, because all the Amorite kings from the hill country have joined forces against us.”

7 So Joshua marched up from Gilgal with his entire army, including all the best fighting men. 8 The Lord said to Joshua, “Do not be afraid of them; I have given them into your hand. Not one of them will be able to withstand you.”

=Those who erect altars, which divide what is barbaric from what is civilized in men, and carry the "reflective surface" within them are not afraid of a bunch of gossips and perverts.

9 After an all-night march from Gilgal, Joshua took them by surprise. 10 The Lord threw them into confusion before Israel, so Joshua and the Israelites defeated them completely at Gibeon. Israel pursued them along the road going up to Beth Horon "House Of The Hollow, House Of Freedom" and cut them down all the way to Azekah "the hedge" and Makkedah "the place of shepherds" . 11 As they fled before Israel on the road down from Beth Horon to Azekah "up against the wall", the Lord hurled large hailstones down on them, and more of them died from the hail than were killed by the swords of the Israelites.

"The road up to the House of Freedom leads to the hedge of the place of shepherds and down the other side leads to the Wall. In between the Wall and the talkers, God destroys the five sins of speech with hail, and the swords of the Noble Qualities."

-> As for hail...the Torah calls it Perverted Rain:

When rain does falls in Egypt, it falls as hail—hail that is ice without and fire within. Thus the Torah describes the seventh of the "ten plagues" to visit the Egyptians:

And G‑d rained hail upon the land of Egypt. And there was hail, and fire burning within the hail... (Exodus 9:23-24)

We often speak of "warm" and "cold" personalities. A "warm" person is a passionate, loving, outgoing individual, always ready to extend a hand and a smile to a fellow. A "cold" person is reserved, self-centered, indifferent to the fate of others. But the cold individual is also aflame—fired with self-love, ablaze with egotistical passions. Indeed, it is his excess of inner heat that is the cause of his icy exterior.

-> the Torah says in Mattot, there is an Edom, a commitment to which we must pledge ourselves- to take revenge on those who smear the good names of others:

Vengeance on the Midianites- The Strifers.

31 The Lord said to Moses, 2 “Take vengeance on the Midianites for the Israelites. After that, you will be gathered to your people.”

3 So Moses said to the people, “Arm some of your men to go to war against the Midianites so that they may carry out the Lord’s vengeance on them. 4 Send into battle a thousand men from each of the tribes of Israel.” 5 So twelve thousand men armed for battle, a thousand from each tribe, were supplied from the clans of Israel. 6 Moses sent them into battle, a thousand from each tribe, along with Phinehas son of Eleazar, the priest, who took with him articles from the sanctuary and the trumpets for signaling.

-> This means there must be an anti-propaganda war against the Strifers, which we know is the case vs. physical violence as Moses tells the Oracle, Phinehas, to bring trumpets.

7 They fought against Midian, as the Lord commanded Moses, and killed every man. 8 Among their victims were Evi, Rekem, Zur, Hur and Reba—the five kings of Midian. They also killed Balaam "the destroyer of the the people, son of Beor "the burning"  with the sword. 

Evi= Lust

Rekem= vanity

Zur= "strange incense"

Hur= the central hub of heat, AKA anger

Reba= "to stretch out" as in to display one's ass.

"If you spread strife, signaling it is okay for lust, vanity, anger, and propaganda to rule the people instead of the Commitments, you need to die."

This is what is meant by the hail the Lord sent against the Kings of the Amorites.

Why Joshua trapped the Kings and their men between the wall and the mountain and hailed on them will be revealed soon.

12 On the day the Lord gave the Amorites over to Israel, Joshua said to the Lord in the presence of Israel:

“Sun, stand still over Gibeon,     and you, moon, over the Valley of Aijalon "the place or protrusions.” 13 So the sun stood still,     and the moon stopped,     till the nation avenged itself on[b] its enemies,

as it is written in the Book of Jashar "upright".

The sun stopped in the middle of the sky and delayed going down about a full day. 14 There has never been a day like it before or since, a day when the Lord listened to a human being. Surely the Lord was fighting for Israel!

-> The sun is always supposed to stand still when the Lord brings salvation or works a miracle:

Birkat Hachamah literally means "the Blessing on the Sun." Its text: "Blessed are You, Lord our G‑d, King of the universe, who reenacts the works of creation." 

Birkat Hachamah marks the sun reaching a specific (and not unusual) position – the same one it occupied at the moment of its creation – at the same time of the week when it was created.

-> Hear the miracle is a conversation between Joshua and God, who want the world trapped between the Gossipers and the Lion Kings, the fledgling Gibeonites and the Israelites who just put roots down in Jericho to have peace. Over all that noise of the multitudes, God listened only to one man:

There has never been a day like it before or since, a day when the Lord listened to a human being.

15 Then Joshua returned with all Israel to the camp at Gilgal.

Five Amorite Kings Killed

16 Now the five kings had fled and hidden in the cave at Makkedah. 17 When Joshua was told that the five kings had been found hiding in the cave at Makkedah "shepherd's place." 18 he said, “Roll large rocks up to the mouth of the cave, and post some men there to guard it. 19 But don’t stop; pursue your enemies! Attack them from the rear and don’t let them reach their cities, for the Lord your God has given them into your hand.”

->By the grace of the Shepherd, the rocks, the Noble Qualities were able to teach the talkers to be more discrete.

20 So Joshua and the Israelites defeated them completely, but a few survivors managed to reach their fortified cities. 21 The whole army then returned safely to Joshua in the camp at Makkedah, and no one uttered a word against the Israelites.

22 Joshua said, “Open the mouth of the cave and bring those five kings out to me.” 23 So they brought the five kings out of the cave—the kings of Jerusalem, Hebron, Jarmuth, Lachish and Eglon. 24 When they had brought these kings to Joshua, he summoned all the men of Israel and said to the army commanders who had come with him, “Come here and put your feet on the necks of these kings.” So they came forward and placed their feet on their necks.

25 Joshua said to them, “Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged. Be strong and courageous. This is what the Lord will do to all the enemies you are going to fight.” 26 Then Joshua put the kings to death and exposed their bodies on five poles, and they were left hanging on the poles until evening.

27 At sunset Joshua gave the order and they took them down from the poles and threw them into the cave where they had been hiding. At the mouth of the cave they placed large rocks, which are there to this day.

-> There must always be an "Israelite boot" on our necks, their rocks in our mouths and their poles up our...

There must be stillness, silence, and purpose throughout the day, otherwise, the sun will not stand still, God will not converse with us, He will not rescue us.

Southern Cities Conquered

28 That day Joshua took Makkedah. He put the city and its king to the sword and totally destroyed everyone in it. He left no survivors. And he did to the king of Makkedah as he had done to the king of Jericho.

=Remember the sword separates what is innocent from what is guilty, what is naive and what is experienced, etc. as in the story of Eden, it divides us from former states of ignominy to which we cannot return.

This is also what is meant by going South towards the Light of Realization.

29 Then Joshua and all Israel with him moved on from Makkedah "the shepherds house" to Libnah "purity"  and attacked it. 30 The Lord also gave that city and its king into Israel’s hand. The city and everyone in it Joshua put to the sword. He left no survivors there. And he did to its king as he had done to the king of Jericho.

31 Then Joshua and all Israel with him moved on from Libnah to Lachish; "from purity to the lion" he took up positions against it and attacked it. 32 The Lord gave Lachish into Israel’s hands, and Joshua took it on the second day. The city and everyone in it he put to the sword, just as he had done to Libnah. 33 Meanwhile, Horam king of Gezer "King of the Mountain Shape" had come up to help Lachish, but Joshua defeated him and his army—until no survivors were left.

34 Then Joshua and all Israel with him moved on from Lachish to Eglon "the fine bull boy"; they took up positions against it and attacked it. 35 They captured it that same day and put it to the sword and totally destroyed everyone in it, just as they had done to Lachish.

36 Then Joshua and all Israel with him went up from Eglon to Hebron "the place of joining" and attacked it. 37 They took the city and put it to the sword, together with its king, its villages and everyone in it. They left no survivors. Just as at Eglon, they totally destroyed it and everyone in it.

38 Then Joshua and all Israel with him turned around and attacked Debir "the place of honeycombs". 39 They took the city, its king and its villages, and put them to the sword. Everyone in it they totally destroyed. They left no survivors. They did to Debir and its king as they had done to Libnah and its king and to Hebron.

40 So Joshua subdued the whole region, including the hill country, the Negev "undulating hills" , the western foothills and the mountain slopes, together with all their kings. He left no survivors. He totally destroyed all who breathed, just as the Lord, the God of Israel, had commanded. 41 Joshua subdued them from Kadesh Barnea "Sacred Desert Of Wandering, Holy Purifying Staggerings" to Gaza "to be strong" and from the whole region of Goshen "to draw near" to Gibeon. 42 All these kings and their lands Joshua conquered in one campaign, because the Lord, the God of Israel, fought for Israel.

43 Then Joshua returned with all Israel to the camp at Gilgal.

-> A long, drawn out and windy way of saying:

="The Lord of Justice told the men to rely upon one another, and descend form the heights, illustrious with their knowledge of the Words, leading like fine bull calves, roaring the truth like lions."

Should we listen, creation will be ever new.

[goostiebee]

🍪Chocolate Chip Mookie! be prepared for endless amounts of sweets. this one will put you into a sugar coma. she can't help it, she love spoiling their friends! wait why does their tail have a chunk taken out?...someone call a doctor