#a shrimp is for life not just for christmas

[husbandhoshi]

title: eat. play. love.

pairing: seungcheol x f!reader

wc: 19.4k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Looking forward to talking with the two of you.

Wait—two?

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

CC: Choi Seungcheol.

"Choi Seungcheol?!"

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

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

"I—he," you stammer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Choi Seungcheol's name stares back at you.

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The meeting goes exactly how you would expect.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You know what?"

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

"What?"

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

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

"I'd rather starve."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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"You'll never guess what I have."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And a seat at Momofuku."

"And that."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hide behind your computer screen.

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

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

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

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

Seungkwan works hard, but the devil always works harder.

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing you can do to stop him, huh?

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

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Beware the wrath of a woman scorned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hook, line, and sinker.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Seungcheol?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who said I was pretending?"

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

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

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

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

"I never said that."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How To Antagonize Your Date In 5 Easy Steps.

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm no quitter."

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

Definitely not that one.

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

"Why, so you can steal my job?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In your periphery hovers his wry, wanting smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, pity looks good on you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fair. You gonna ask me about mine?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Running away?"

"Bored," you lie.

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

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

"Unfortunate."

"How do you think I feel?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Field trip?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"N-not both ways?" you croak.

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

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

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

Whatever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But, thank you."

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

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

"I'm retracting my thank you."

"I'm devastated. Really."

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

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

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

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

"Thought you knew it was Wonwoo."

"Yeah, but why?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who hurt you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I wouldn't say nothing."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You in a rush?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Definitely bad at food, you muse to yourself.

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

Now that—nothing could have prepared you for that.

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

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

"Stop that."

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

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

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

"Is it working?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Seungcheol is my enemy, remember?"

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

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

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

You almost choke on a blueberry.

"Absolutely not."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm running out of options."

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

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

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

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

Your entire body heaves with the sigh that escapes you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Lucky you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A gift. A pithless, wrinkly one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, you're definitely going to cry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You count the seconds till he walks away.

One. Two. Three.

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

"Hey, you ok?"

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

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

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

"Whoa," he breathes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah, I-I think so."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And no text from Seungcheol. (Damn.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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"Here. Drink."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Thanks…?"

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

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

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

"You're literally the definition of easy."

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

"This is not a date. Dream on."

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

"It wasn't."

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

"Chicago."

"Same difference."

Your conversation continues as such.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hi."

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

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

The elevator dings.

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

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You have three reasons to get drunk.

1. It's Friday.

2. You finished your article.

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

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

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

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

So you get drunk.

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

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

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

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

"You got that right."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yours or mine?"

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

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

How To Ruin The Moment In One Easy Step!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Just dates. Nothing serious."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Holy shit. You live like this?"

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

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

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

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

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

You tentatively nod before dropping the noodles in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What, too many dates to cover?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The table stops rocking.

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

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

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

"You asked."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Wh—"

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

"Get. Out."

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

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

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

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Celery. Red wine. Short rib.

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

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

Fingerling potatoes, the red ones. A Vidalia onion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

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.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

[icyg4l]

Should You Shoot Your Shot?

hello beautiful people! i have been so busy with school & honestly, i haven’t been feeling up to par. i have some ideas drafted up but i would like to hear some suggestions from you guys. i am gonna turn my ask box on again! i would like to hear more than just fs readings though. also, i will continue with my halloween themed tarot series! look out for two drops in one day, my lovelies. if you would like to book a reading with me, go to my very first pinned post. thank you! :) without further ado, please select the pile that you are drawn to!

top left-to-bottom right: (1-4)

pile one: you are a strong soldier, my love. i feel like the person you're interested in has a lot of suitors and because of that, it will be hard to fully capture their attention. i feel like you need to soften your approach. if you're the type to post thirst traps or to post obvious subliminal, this person will overlook you. i honestly think that your best bet is to act unbothered. in your case, being laidback will work great in your case. also, I keep hearing "come harder just because". what I am getting from this is that you need to be more creative with the way that you shoot your shot. you may be surprised at who you may attract.

cards used: ace of flags, the high priestess, five of flags, elder of pentacles.

extras: butterfly shrimp. princess fiona. it's my d*ck in a box! christmas carols. new video game record. papa's pizzeria. shuffle the deck. gardener. fast-paced. fish hooks (2010).

pile two: i can tell that you have a type, pile two. you're the loving, nurturing type. you probably spoil your lovers with gifts and affection. however, you need to know when to pull back when you aren't receiving what you want. in your situation, you should go for it. shoot your shot! however, there is nothing wrong with wanting to take some initiative. however, based on your past experiences, you should try not to go all out this time. take your time. in the past, you could have been ghosted frequently or taken advantage of. you need to assert your boundaries. you are the prize, babe. go in with the attitude that this is not someone you need, but rather someone that you'd like to keep you company. if they want you, then they'd show you that through reciprocated action. remember that.

cards used: ace of lanterns, three of chalices, nine of flags, child of chalices, queen of lanterns, four of flags, child of flags, the house mother.

extras: wasted liquor. "spectacular". popular by demi lovato. hair in the wind. focusing on myself. self-worth. "sweetpea". diamonds dancing. parental issues. abandonment wounds.

pile three: baby, you don't have no business being romantically involved with anyone at this time. i heard the phrase "emotional turmoil". you recently could have gone through a drastic change in your life, specifically more to do with a loss (breakup, loss of a family member, job loss, etc). right now, there is a focus on your time of healing. you need to build up your spiritual endurance. if you are ready to give up on yourself, how can you give to others properly? if you decide to go and deal with this person, you won't be satisfied. this reminds me of a child getting attached to a toy and then ends up getting attached to another because it's newer. that's not healthy. people's emotions are not to be toyed with, pile three. it's possible that your gut issues will intensify if you decide to go against the grain and deal with this person. it's not worth it, babe. just wait your turn.

cards used: death, the star, the castle, queen of chalices, four of chalices, child of lanterns, the moon, eight of lanterns.

extras: sweet potato fries. count your blessings. paint the perfect picture. saweetie. 2000s photos. overly-emotional. comfort foods. sock-it-to-me cake. foreplay. rush. high rise.

pile four: pile four, it looks really good for you. not only should you shoot your shot, but there is a high chance of you connecting with this person on a spiritual level. therefore, this will actually result in something serious. i feel that this is a divinely orchestrated union. it's possible that you two could have mutual connections. it's possible that you could have been in the same place at the same time as them (red string theory hahaaa). i feel like your spirit guides are waiting for you to initiate the conversation. it's time to make shit happen. send the dm/message. it'll all be worth it. this is your time to shine, lovely.

cards used: eight of plants, the brujx, three of chalices, the grande dame.

extras: rose. sade listener. hijab. sweat. forty five degrees. kisses down low. i love the color pink. long legs. picky eater. choosey lover. secure attachment style. papa grande.

[warnadudenexttime]

Ep1: "Filmed Before a Live Studio Audience" 1950s era

Thank you to my wonderful pal Bri for letting me commission them for my tss!Wandavision AU! :D Where as you can see Virgil is in the role of Wanda. (Logan is vision because I love analogical? What? Who said that.)

BRI DID SUCH A GOOD JOB ON THIS, ISNT IT SO GOOD? BEST ARTIST!

notice all the easter eggs? If ya didn't I'll just tell ya. I asked for references to crofters (which bri did an ADORABLE old timey design they came up with for crofters based off old jam jars) and the shrimp pasta is a reference to the pasta from the 12 days of Christmas episode (as Patton gifted Roman pasta and a truckload bubba gump shrimp.) ALSO bri added the cute cereal in the corner saying "mind mix" that I didn't even notice and was so coolllll of a detail.

THE LITTLE THINGS! I LOVE BRI! I'm so happy we could work together with brainstorming ideas to make my AU come to life! I'm hoping to do a series with Bri of a piece throughout the decades/episodes to mirror wandavision!

Here’s the original scene we based this drawing off of!

If you have any thoughts or comments or questions let me know! I love this AU like it's my baby.

[javelinbk]

They did not generally host Christmas parties, but they did entertain in a manner of speaking. And though their guest lists were extremely limited, they could sometimes be filled with stunning surprises. I remember one year when Paul and Linda McCartney turned up at the Dakota for Christmas lunch. I’d never met either of them, and I’d been given no indication they were coming—I’d assumed John and Yoko and I would be spending the day alone with Sean. But here were the four of them—John and Paul and Yoko and Linda—together again for the first time in years.

…The lunch didn’t take place at the Dakota; we decided to eat at Elaine’s on Eighty-Eighth Street and Second Avenue. But everyone congregated in the white room first, where Yoko and Linda immediately gravitated to each other and just started talking. Paul and John seemed very convivial at first. They seemed like they might have just bumped into each other a month before, like not much time had passed.

…With all due respect to its late proprietor, Elaine Kaufman, the food from her kitchen was infamously unpalatable. Somehow, Elaine’s could turn a basic dish like chicken parmigiana into a goopy soup; the scampi there was so overcooked, you’d need the Jaws of Life to pry the shrimp from the shell. After perusing the small-printed menu, nobody at our table could find anything they wanted to risk ordering.

“You know,” Linda finally offered, “there’s a great pizza place not far from here. Maybe they could deliver?”

I had a hunch this would be a social faux pas—but I was also quite certain Elaine wasn’t going to eject John and Paul and their wives from her restaurant for any reason. I found a pay phone in the back and ordered a couple of pies. They were delivered to the kitchen, where they were removed from their cardboard boxes and decoratively placed on Elaine’s own platters.

Excerpt From ‘We All Shine On’, Elliot Mintz

[theghostavocadoe]

my username is Certified Remnants Enjoyer but I've barely posted anything Remnants related so. Here's some headcanons for a post-advent children remnants AU I've been working on

Kadaj:

He does things purely out of spite 99% of the time

Someone once told him that wielding his sword backwards was stupid. So now he specifically wields it backwards just to spite them

He's secretly a neat freak but that's mostly because he hates seeing things worn down (because he hates the passage of time)

He cannot stand the smell of vinegar or bleach, he has to physically leave if he smells something overly bitter.

Has the back posture of a shrimp

Hates The Big Light. He either has to live in complete darkness or with Minimal lighting. His room has those plug in Christmas lights because they're dim and cover his whole room

Picks up slang really quickly and uses it correctly

He genuinely loves his brothers and would actually take a bullet for them

Sometimes Loz will hug him and he'll be like "ugh get off" but secretly he enjoys it

Yazoo:

Hyper extended knees

Sits like a pretzel

seriously his flexibility is off the charts

Hypermobility + double jointed in his elbows and waist

Bayonetta is his idol in life

His hair care routine is the main reason the water bill is so high

He constantly gets asked "what makeup do you use" but he doesn't use any. He just Looks Like That.

If he pulls his hair back he almost looks identical to Loz minus the muscles

Can sprint in high heels

Constantly pokes fun at Loz, but if someone else tries to make fun of Loz he will point a gun at them

Loz:

Hates strong smells overall

He may cry a lot but he doesn't just cry when he's sad. He cries when he's happy or angry or scared as well.

May look dumb but is actually really good at card/strategy games

can and will destroy a child in a Yu-Gi-Oh match

Probably owns a DS

Cries about snakes (they don't have any arms /ref)

He knows that Yazoo only teases him in good fun and isn't really insulted by it.

if Yazoo does cross the line though, he will tell him to stop and Yazoo respects that

Loves helping people carry heavy stuff and will carry like 8 grocery bags in each hand if he's allowed to

He also carries Yazoo and Kadaj when their feet get sore

He uses his super speed to get practically everywhere even if it's only a few feet away. kadaj calls him sonic the hedgehog

These are what I have for now but if anyone wants to add their own headcanons PLEASE do, they deserve more love

[scribs-dibs]

SYSTEM ERROR: A SECOND EXCEPTION

RAHHHHH MERRY CHRISTMAS!!! THIS IS MY SECRET SANTA GIF FOR THE SUPER DUPER REALLY COOL SHRIMP LOVER @tetrachrxmacy !!!!! i hope you like it !@!1!1!1!1!1

not explicitly romantic (kinda a found family typa thing. youve been RECRUITED!1!!1!1!1), depictions of (minor) blood and injuries, reader is referred to using they/them, svarog mightttt be ooc....but I DID TRY!1!1!1!, Clara is in here quite a bit, i think that's it?

wc; ~2.2k

"Inquiry," Comes the thundering pulse of Svarog's voice, "Why did you risk your life for Clara?"

The unfortunate drawback to humans is their inherent weakness.

Emotionally and physically unstable. Failure to adapt to a multitude of climates. Consistently distracted by irrelevant matters.

Weak.

Svarog is a machine, and as such, knows very little of empathy. There is no need for feelings, for they imply a lack of logic. There is nothing logical about the way humans feel, with their emotions so influential it often becomes their undoing. There is little point to it all, he thinks. If anything, it seems the most logical course of action is to discard emotions altogether, so humans can function and think better. Survive better.

So matters such as this can be avoided.

This is yet another deficiency in humans: their impulse. It is your impulse, your lack of thought that has landed you here.

The Overworld has changed, compared to the stone-cold tomb he was to protect the Underground from. But it is still starkly bright, an expanse of pure white and tall, sharp trees. Against it, a figure– yours, no doubt, for his calculations of faultless, laying in hiding against some rock and rubble. Blood has stained the fresh white snow, blotches of crimson dragged along in an unsightly path to you. Your hand is dyed a shocking red, too, inadequately covering a gash near your side.

Analysis: Across your abdomen, a long, superficial gash. The cause: Likely the result of an altercation, as is normal with your recklessness. On your face, a smile. Conflicting information.

Such matters are none of his concern. You are, and have always been, a human as ordinary as any other. As such, it is only logical you are just as weak as any other human. The only reason he's stepped foot up here is because–

"M-Mr. Svarog, do you...think you can help?"

The automaton takes a moment. This is the voice of Clara. His precious Clara. Who has flushed, tear-stained cheeks from stressing the urgency of your situation. He kneels and rests a hand on her head. It is his best effort at comfort.

Svarog doesn't want much to do with you. You are unpredictable, brash, and quite obviously lack self preservation skills. Most notably, these traits are all horrible examples for Clara, but despite this you are her dear friend. As such, he has been forced to tolerate you, time and time again. You have accompanied Clara on a number of excursions, but none of them involved danger. Part of him, tempted by the technicality of you not technically being from the Underground, wants to just leave you here as payback for putting Clara in this position.

But as Svarog gazes at his daughter again, panicked, ruby eyes illuminated by the pink light of his singular one, he cannot bring himself to say that saving you is a waste like he wants to. This is another thing that sets Clara apart from every other human: It is always difficult to say no to her.

He lets out a sound, then. One that would expel steam if he produced it, heavy and almost tired-sounding...if he were human, it would be a sigh.

"Very well. For you, Clara."

(And from what you can tell, further away and with your heartbeat ringing in your ears, you swear his tone is softer with her. You are almost warmed from the brutal cold at the sight of it. When Svarog stands again, and the soft, near-fuzzy light of his eye sharpens again as he focuses on stepping closer to you.)

It is Clara who takes the lead, running and almost tripping over herself just to land at your side. Svarog tenses. (Your threat level is low, but not zero.) Vaguely, he makes out the sound of her desperate apologies, but for what he does not know. Humans find themselves hurt for a number of reasons, none of which are the fault of his dear daughter.

But then--

"I'm so sorry! Yo-you saved me- and then…and then I left! And- and there's so much blood--"

"You only left to get help, Clara. It's okay, see?"

He appreciates that you use your unbloodied hand to point to him, your smile unwavering but still tense.

"Help is here."

Svarog supposes that changes his view of you, slightly. Your injuries were not the result of your own ever-foolish recklessness, but out of responsibility for Clara's safety. What Clara wields is a strong will and a kind heart, never a weapon. You, an outsider to him, put your life on the line to keep her safe.

He runs a careful eye over Clara again.

Assessment: Not a scratch to be found. You have been successful in your goal.

So perhaps you are worth saving.

Blood-stained snow crunches beneath his feet. The automaton stands just behind Clara, peering down at you pensively. He can see how the light of his eye wavers as he analyzes you, recalling the fatal flaw of all humans. You are weak. He needs to be careful.

No. Correction. He needs to be gentle.

It is strange. He hadn't considered extending such a kindness for someone other than his daughter. But Clara herself is trying her very best to support your weight enough so you can stand, and the movement is enough to have more dribbles of crimson slipping from your gash. That won't do.

"I will take them, instead."

It stalls him for 2.5 seconds, trying to comfortably balance you on one of his arms. You rest against his torso, solid and cool, contrasting this warmth of your body as more blood smears across the surface of him. He has to be quick.

Clara reaches for one of his hands and walks alongside you both. Though she seems relieved, the subtle signs of worry across her features are not lost upon him.

"Inquiry," Comes the thundering pulse of Svarog's voice, "Why did you risk your life for Clara?"

You hum, but he knows this sound is not contemplative.

"It was the right thing to do. Clara's a kid after all,"

"B-but! But I could've- You shouldn't have had to protect me!" The girl grows teary-eyed once more, and Svarog can see how your brow furrows at the sight.

"And," you start, cutting off Clara's self-deprecating ramble, "I wanted Clara to be safe. I can handle this fine," (False: This is a lie, you're hurting. You're uncomfortable, too, but have said nothing. These actions go against his idea of what ordinary humans would do. Perhaps you're not as ordinary as he thought.)

"But Clara? I don't wanna think about what would happen if those jerks got to her, you know?"

Highly unusual behavior, on your part. Humans will do anything to survive. Taking a risk this grave for someone else, for his Clara...

Something within him stirs. Getting you to safety suddenly becomes much higher of a priority than he had estimated.

Svarog sinks down and scoops up Clara with his opposite arm. He doesn't know much about healing humans other than his daughter, but your survival is important to him now. He'll do whatever he can.

Softly, Clara calls for you. You must look particularly hurt, because the more she stares, the more guilt seems to consume her. You try to offer her one of your best smiles.

"It'll be okay...Mr. Svarog will help you feel better, I promise!"

You want to respond, but you suppose your body's weariness finally caught up to you.

You drift off in Svarog's arms, the clink of metal rocking you softly to sleep.

⋆★⋆

It takes very little time for Svarog to get you to safety. He is unable to fully understand the intricacies of the human body, just as you would be clueless when faced with inspecting the mechanics of an automaton. But though the injury you sustained was less than ideal as was the process of stopping the bleeding and wrapping the wound, his task had been completed.

His posture is less rigid. He feels his guard lower significantly. Assessment: Relief.

When he had taken Clara in, she was but a child. He supposes there was no reason for him to care enough to take her in, other than the clear, irrefutable orders to preserve humanity within the underground. But just as he was mistaken in thinking “true rationality” was the key to helping Clara and the rest of the underground, perhaps he was also mistaken in thinking that you were ordinary and insignificant to him.

At the very least, you make Clara immeasurably happy. That in itself is enough to value you just a bit more.

Furthermore, you’ve become somewhat of a common presence here. Clara talks highly of you when you help around the settlement, and though he still thinks you are reckless and brash…you still have enough sense to keep the ones important to you safe. You aren’t the hard-headed fool he had initially taken you for.

Svarog finds himself just a bit more empathetic, then. Though you are weak now, you’re clearly strong enough to hold out for this long on your own.

He is alerted again when you start to stir. Your eyes flutter open, and for a moment he can see panic threaded into your features.

“You are awake,”

When your gaze flickers to his, he sees the way you deflate on your exhale.

“Hi Svar-”

“It has taken one hour, forty-five minutes, and fifteen seconds for you to wake up after we brought you down. How are you feeling?”

He is strangely eager. Though your vitals are stable, it is a different matter entirely to hear that you’re fine from you.

You seem taken aback by his sudden interest at first. Briefly, the automaton ponders if he should back away and give you some space. But then you smile softly up at him, a true smile, without pain dulling its purity.

“I’m much better now,” Your fingers move to trace over the bandages wrapped around your middle. They aren’t verysecure, like the person who wrapped them was overly-cautious about squeezing you too tightly, “Did you do this?”

If he had a visible expression, you’re sure it would be tense. Instead, as if trying to keep calm and collected, he offers a slight tilt to his head.

“Is it unsatisfactory?”

“Oh, no! It’s fine,” You trace over it again, this time in the opposite direction. You can almost picture it: Svarog tentatively wrapping the gauze around you, Clara guiding him with worried, gentle instructions. It’s a cute thought– if only you were conscious to see it.

“It’s perfect, actually.”

Svarog feels himself relax again.

The call of your name alerts the two of you immediately, and he would usually be concerned if not for the fact that he recognizes that tone. It’s Clara, clearly excited to see you both upright and awake.

“You’re okay–! I was so, so worried!”

For some reason, Svarog feels at peace when you hold Clara tightly in your arms. You smile sheepishly at the sudden affection, softly petting at her head.

It's a strange feeling. Truly, Svarog did not pay any mind to you before. But now, when you're under his care, and Clara runs to you as she would a second home, the automaton feels himself starting to shift. You, previously a thorn in his side, insistent and unyielding, has also been a constant presence for Clara. You, who he thought to be nothing more than a foolhardy adventurer, has saved his daughter from harm. And now, shy as she is, Clara embraces you tenderly, ardently, with all the love in her heart.

"Love" itself is a concept hard to quantify. But if "love" is what he feels when Clara runs up to him and hugs him in that same way, and you return these affections without so much as batting an eye...

If risking your life, too, is an act of love, then he supposes you must love Clara that much more.

"Mr. Svarog, they can stay with us for a bit, right? Until they fully get better?"

Assessment: Clara adores this individual. This individual adores Clara, in turn. Threat level has decreased significantly over time. This individual has taken great risks to ensure Clara's safety. Ensuring their safety, in turn, has become a priority.

You blink, seemingly taken aback.

"O-oh! I wouldn't want to cause more trouble–"

"No,"

That tone was too harsh.  You jolt at the sudden sound, clearly surprised at his quick answer. He attempts it again:

"No. You should stay. Your chances of recovery will increase at least 20% if you do so,"

Svarog takes a look at his daughter, still wrapped tightly around you as if you will disappear.

"Clara will enjoy spending more time with you, as well."

There is a soft purse in your lips, like you contemplate speaking. He keeps his glowing gaze trained on you, hoping to encourage you to speak your mind.

Success.

"...Will you enjoy me staying here, Svarog?"

The automaton pauses. This is not about him and his preferences, Clara's benefit has been at the forefront of any decisions regarding you. But, strangely, he finds himself..warmed at the idea of you staying with the two of them. Not as a meddlesome, ordinary human, but as a part of them. Weak on your own, no doubt, but stronger together.

"Conclusion: You belong here. You’re a part of our family."

⋆★⋆⋆★⋆⋆★⋆⋆★⋆⋆★⋆⋆★⋆⋆★⋆⋆★⋆⋆★⋆

RAHHHH TY FOR READING!!!! comments and rbs appreciated <3

[yjhgvf]

Good Day, how has life been treating you? I hope it has been good. I personally had a bad last few weeks, So as a way to destress I am gushing random ideas I had about the Cage fighting 4 Kids AU/Concept since I havent spoke with anyone about these ideas and I desire to gush.

-I thought of how the entire concept as a whole would likely put into question Milli's morals in regards of being a hero. Especially if she is someone who isn't exactly eager to fight people in physical fisticuffs. Maybe she even badly hurts someone by accident instead of just dispatching them safely which would probably make Milli feel really bad about herself because she's meant to help people, but she just hurt someone for real. (Additionally worsened by my headcanon of Milli's strength being something with negative connotations to it because she hurt her family with it.)

-I thought of a combatant in the fight pit that would be someone that Milli's strength would not make it an easy win to deal with them. Basically someone that is physically stronger than even Milli's strength allows her to be, putting her in a genuinely dangerous situation and making Milli realise the stakes here. So I went with a mantis shrimp + Pistol Shrimp fusion. Look them up and you'll know why.

-A cool idea I thought of was for Milli to use her pattern power to turn her disguised suit into her other Gimmick or trope based Costumes (Knight, Cop, Ninja, etc.) Alongside any gear associated with that costume. Mostly because it'd make certain fights more interesting as Milli would be able to change the course of a fight by sorta swapping around different costumes. (Maybe some would have specific advantages she needs to make use of, also because themeing for other fights.)

-Not really anything about this AU/Concept, But I do hope you are having a good day. If you are unfortunately not, I send you good vibes. Even if you are having a good day, I still send good vibes. Everyone that sees this gets good vibes too. Good Vibes for everyone.

-fun fact: I am writing a Fanfic about this and have like every fight scene replaying in my head and are memorized consistently to perfection. I'm stuck at writing the buildup to the fight pit in the first place. I just think this is funny as heck.

My week's been getting better! My finals are done so i'm on christmas break! Been playing binding of isaac, pikmin 4, and dandy's world a lot lately!

Also AAAAH I love your cage fighting 4 kids ideas!!!!! I can't wait to see the fic once it comes out! I love the costume swapping idea too, reminds me of Princess Peach Showtime!

[rxvera]

i hear you have aizawa headcanons? 👀

OMG I thought you would never ask!! 🥰

First of all, and most obviously, he's an AMAZING dad. Before the Kira case, he showed up for everything, and took as much paternity leave as he could. During the case, he obviously struggles with work-life balance, but he knows his kids come first. I think before the time skip, he had a really hard time missing out. He hated how much he was gone, but he also struggles with the guilt of feeling like he abandoned Ukita, but as he heals his grief, he accepts that he can be there. And soon, he's there at almost every game, performance, concert, play, you name it. If he's not, Eriko is recording it for him. He's also the kind of dad to pack his kids' favorite lunches when he gets the chance. It doesn't matter how unhealthy they are, Aizawa just wants to see them happy. Eriko is a little annoyed when Yumi comes home with Cheeto fingers and a stomach ache though lol.

Speaking of Eriko, I know this is super niche, but I head canon her as Jewish. I know that's super rare in Japan, but as a part-Asian Jew, I love the mix lol. I imagine her making matzo ball ramen and lox sushi! I think Aizawa, while goyische, is super supportive. He's great on Shabbat. On Saturday, he makes breakfast before the kids and Eriko wake up so they can have something warm without needing to use appliances. Although, even after being married for ten years, he still forgets if shrimp is kosher, but he remembers when Eriko gets mad at him for putting his leftover tempura in the fridge ("I accepted a trief husband, but I will not accept a trief house!!!").

Oh and I totally imagine Matsuda making quite a few blunders about this hfkjdfhjdjk. He means well, but it comes out wrong sometimes. Like the first time he learns she's Jewish, he immediately says "Oh so that's why you guys never hosted the Christmas party" and Soichiro is quick to be like "MATSUDA." He definitely accidentally gifts Eriko a pentagram... Twice. He really did his research the second time, but they look so similar!!! He does finally get her a Magen David the third time though lol.

I also think Aizawa is a car guy, like the kind of car guy who can see a single frame of a car go past in a movie and identify the make, model, and, year. He's always browsing those vintage car auction sites and he regularly shows Eriko the old car he desperately needs, and she has to be like "your money needs to go feeding our children and not a 50 year old car" and he's like a little kid when he says "but I waaaaaaaant it," and I definitely think he takes Yumi to cars and coffee with him. He always gets her a pastry and hot chocolate. She always wants to try his coffee and every time she freaks out at how bitter it is, but he has such an emotional moment when he takes her as a teenager and she orders her own coffee, and he's like "my little girl is growing up 🥺."

And, going back in time a little bit, when Eriko is pregnant with Yumi, I don't imagine Aizawa being super open about it since he prefers to keep his work and private life more separate. So, it's not until his wife is like 8 and a half months pregnant that he goes to Soichiro to ask for paternity leave, and Soichiro is like "YOU'RE HAVING A BABY???? YOU'RE MARRIED???" and he gets absolutely peppered with questions and excitement that he has to awkwardly accept from the whole office before he gets his paternity leave approved lol.

That's just a few of my ideas! Let me know if you'd like to hear some more! I'm always up to chat about my Death Note guys!

[notthestarwar]

Rules: in a new post, post the names of all the files in your wip folder regardless of nom descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them and then post a little snippet and tell us about it!

I was tagged by @raphaerolo and while I did this at the start of the year and haven't really been writing since, I decided I wanted to do it again lol

I won't tag as many ppl as I've got wips cause there are a LOT lol but no pressure tags to @dontbelasagnax @anaclastic-azurite @syn0vial @chiliger @coline7373 @howdidthisevenhappenanyway @lttrsfrmlnrrgby @felixeis003 and anyone else who wants to join in as I'd love to see what you're up to!

So new ones:

Winter soldier au (kix in the future finds a brother long after he thinks they're all dead)

Shrimp fisher cody

Pikmin cody au

Purge trooper cody amnesia disco elysium inspired au

Jango Christmas carol au

Then, still in progress from my previous post:

Undead fox

Obi Wan and Jango’s dream(s)

Prime, the worst clone.

A violent product of a violent world

Those that are forgotten and those that are just lost- Jango/Obi Wan

More under the cut

The unwanted and unintentionally abandoned- Boba and Korkie

Who killed chancellor Palpatine

The dream/the pond obi wan/cody

Venators are haunted

Convoluted modern AU with baby fostering obi wan/cody

Din needs an orivod din&kix

Mama Mia au

Reverse Cody finds Obi Wan on Tatooine. Cody is not happy.

The cycle ends with me- Luke

The Orb

End credits- Codywan reverse happy ever after.

Bounty hunter ex purge trooper cody

Qui Gon turns up on obi wans doorstep with anakin & then dies.

Normal Suburban life-

Bedtime stories from an alternative universe

The absence of something is also it’s presence cody&jango

If you’re not really dead, I don’t want to be either cody/obi wan

You're good at being bad you're bad at being good

And my answers from before!

The island

Fox gets a job

Gold teeth and a taste for this town

Cody and boba spn au

[the-log-ffl]

S10:W14

Listen, This is my crazy time. I always fall off the radar a little bit when I get hit with the family Christmas tsunami of joy. I have dinners, parades, light tours, train rides, pj pictures, tree decorating, cocktail parties, and a few December birthdays sprinkled in there as well. I’m bursting with fucking holiday jolliness. So, please don’t be alarmed when I didn’t rush home to work on Maier’s 5th BDOTW.  It’s quite a feat, and it will end up winning him a hundred bucks, but the dude was talking shit about our matchup this week, saying shit like “I finally slayed all you sluts.” man, fuck that guy, he’s going to get what is coming to him. He has the curse of the #1 seed, and his fall will be great. Remember, the empty drum bangs the loudest.  But this week’s write up is not about him… it’s about the other him, you know who I’m talking about. Do you think he realizes that he’s left 90 free dollars on the table? 90 bucks for just reading high quality LOG write ups. Do you think I received a stinky pinky, new england clam chowder or a big bubba log thigh? I didn’t. And now this mother fucker who started a guy who was almost dead for three straight weeks is sitting in a prime position to sneak into the playoffs.  Now I know I am the asshole here. It’s not like we all have jobs and families and friends and cars and shit going on. This guy is working at a restaurant that, according to their own website, is open to the public 16 hours a week! That’s like 2 and half hours a day.  I compared that to one of my former employers, Bubba Gump Shrimp Company, and they are open 12 hours a day for a whopping 84 hours a week. So I get it, he’s swamped! Maybe he is reading these things, maybe he’s waiting for the pot to get juicier? I guess this will settle it once and for all. If Matthew John Peterson can take his dick out of his hand and text me the password “dongle drip” he will automatically earn 100 bucks to his venmo account. 

Kick back with a microdose boys, a heavy microdose.

LOG 4 life!

~mish

LOG WEEKLY DICK SIZE RECAP

Matt Maier has the BIG DICK OF THE WEEK: 159 Points

Dusty Gaebel has the small dick of the week: 78 Points

Shawn House has THE THROBBER - 190.64 (S9:W3)

Ethan App has the STINKY DICK - 48.14 Points (S10:W7)

SEASON X BIG DICKS OF THE WEEK - $100

Sarnia Slut Slayers 5

Odusty Beckham Jr. 3

DISCIPLINE = FREEDOM 2

Embarcadero Burd Turds 1

Papi Gringos 1

Sordidus 1

Spirit Halloween/OTS 1

Big Sur Buckle Nuggets 0

Redfield 49Knerrs 0

The Raj Hotel 0

BIGGEST DICK OF THE YEAR - $100

ODusty Beckham Jr - 177:Week 2

LOG CHANGES FOR 2025 

We are going back to our roots for draft day. We are going old school. Clip boards, paper and pens at the draft. No more phones or tablets to assist in the draft. Now I know the value in these modern gadgets. But I don’t want to see guys annoyed or upset that their gadget might get ruined by a pool dunk or a champagne squirt. I don’t want to see “Roman” avoiding the sticker board because he is catching up or having trouble with his app.  We put them away, we do paper and pen, we try to pay attention, it’s a shit show, if we find a violation, we will penalize accordingly, loss of keeper, loss of FAB or something. Clipboard, trunks and a positive attitude is all you need to bring to draft day moving forward! 

Loser of the league will sing the national anthem to kick off the following draft. (after the maier/hames bet is final)

The LOG is moving to the SLEEPER app in 2025

Draft weekend is now 2 weekends before Labor Day. Not the weekend before labor day, but the one before that. 

The throbber and stinky dick will be retired. There will be some other rule tweaks that affect scoring and those will be retired

The LOG championship belt will also be retired after year 10. LOG 2.0 will have a new belt and the old will be present for photos at draft weekends (not for losers).

[medusapelagia]

Steddie Week Day 6: The Party

May 27: True / Misunderstandings / You Looking At Me Looking At You by Ozzy Osbourne 

Rating: Teen and Up Relationship: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson WT: angst and feels, misunderstandings, angst with happy ending, alcohol WC: 2791

It’s not that Steve thinks that his birthday is a big deal because it’s not. He doesn’t even remember the last time he actually celebrated it. When he turned six, maybe? It’s that Robin told him that she would have made sure that they celebrate it this time. 

But they will not. 

She is going with her parents to see some relatives for Christmas.

Because, obviously, Steve's birthday is the 25th of December.

She said that it was easy to remember.

The truth is that it's easy to forget.

Too many things to think about.

Presents, trees, families.

Steve's birthday is not on anyone's calendar.

It never was.

He used to get drunk with Tommy when he was younger.

They used to raid his father's liquor cabinet, even when they were far too young to drink, and they drank what seemed the more expensive bottle. The day after Steve was usually in a hangover so he didn’t really miss the celebration, either for his birthday or for Christmas.

For the first couple of years, his parents used to send him some stupid presents. Things that he didn’t like or he already had, then they stopped.

“You got money. You can buy yourself what you want.” His father told him the one time when he asked why they didn’t send him any presents.

It was true.

He had money.

He could have bought whatever he wanted, but he really wanted a present.

He wanted to have something to open. Something that someone chose for him, even if it was his father's new secretary.

He took a lot of time making presents.

For Nancy, for the kids, for Robin.

They just assumed that he was loaded and he went in a fucking shop and buy something, but he wasn’t like that.

He took an entire week to choose the new camera for Byers, asking for every detail until he found the perfect one.

He took note of everything that Nancy looked at and then, for her birthday, he bought her that dress she looked at in the window shop for at least one month.

For this Christmas, he has bought her a beautiful necklace with a black tourmaline for protection. She probably didn’t even know.

He has a pink quartz bracelet for balancing the heart chakra ready for Robin. He will have to give her the present before she leaves.

“What are you thinking about Harrington?”

Steve shakes his head and looks at Eddie.

He just drove Dustin to Eddie’s new house and he is still parked in front of the house.

“Sorry man. I got lost in my thoughts. I’ll leave you to your game. Call me if the little shrimps are too much for you. If not, I'll come back at eight, ok?”

“You could stay with us.”

“It’s not my thing… but thanks.”

“So, please tell me, what is your thing?”

“Not complicated games with too many dice and too much math. I’m still the stupid guy with the bat if you forgot.”

“And I’m the stupid three-time senior.” Eddie replies with a cigarette in his hand.

“You should quit. Your doctor said that it’s bad.”

“Are you going to rat me out?”

Steve shakes his head.

“That’s what I thought.”

Steve puts the reverse but Eddie stops him “Are you busy tomorrow?”

“I have the morning shift at Family Video but I can be free at five. Why?”

“I’d like to go shopping with you.”

Steve snorts.

“What?”

“I don’t think we like the same kind of staff. Maybe you should ask Gareth or Jeff. Even Dustin could be more helpful than me. I could drive you both if that’s the problem.”

“Is it so unbelievable that I’d like to spend some time with the guy that saved my fucking life?”

“You did the same for me in the lake.”

“Nope. I followed the girls only because I couldn’t stand the thought of being called ‘The Coward’. ‘The Freak’ is good enough.”

“Eddie! Have you finished flirting with Steve? We have a game to play!” Erica calls from the door.

“Sorry, my people need me.” Eddie winks at him “Tomorrow at five. I’ll wait for you. Don’t make me wait.”

“It’s a date.”

It’s a date?! What the fuck is wrong with him?! Jesus…

***

Five fifteen, and he is still waiting for Eddie.

When he finally comes out of the house his face is white and tired.

“Did something happen?”

“The usual nightmares. I must have fallen asleep after lunch. Sorry for making you wait.”

“No problem. We don’t have to go shopping. We could just stay.”

“Are you proposing to pass the afternoon in my bed, Harrington?”

Steve blushes “That’s not what I meant!”

“I know. Come on. I have some shopping to do. Are you good at thrifting?”

“I… I have never been in a thrift shop.” He admits.

“Oh! That’s great! I’m gonna show you an entire new world!”

When they enter the thrift shop the owner, a woman in her forties, greets Eddie, and Steve takes a deep breath that he didn’t know he was holding.

“I have some t-shirts that you are going to like. And maybe we can find something for your friend too. What kind of music is he into?”

“Pop music I supposed, any favorite group Stevie?”

“Uhm? No, not really.”

Steve leaves Eddie and gets closer to the jewel section. 

“So you are a jewel kind of guy? You are quite full of surprises, Harrington. So, what are you into? Bracelets? Necklaces? Rings?”

“Oh, not really. I’m looking at the crystals.”

“You know a lot about crystals?”

“Not really but I did some research. I bought a necklace with a black tourmaline for Nancy, for protection. And I’m going to give Robin a pink quartz bracelet, for the heart.” But he has seen something between the jewels. A dragon claw ring with a Tiger Eye. It would be perfect for Eddie. He should have to come back.

“Seen anything that you like? I’m actually searching for some presents for Christmas but I really don’t know what I should buy for you… so if you see something that you like I’ll be happy to buy it for you.”

Steve doesn’t say anything but something inside him breaks a little.

Eddie knows exactly what to buy for the kids, probably even for Robin and Nancy, but he has no idea of what he could buy for him.

“You could just give me the money.” He answers too harshly.

“Steve…”

“Sorry. I have to go home. Did you find what you came for?”

“Steve, I’m sorry if I said something that offended you. I didn’t mean it.”

“I’m good. I’ll wait for you in the car.”

It was presumptuous to pretend that Eddie knew him well enough to know what to buy for him. He should be grateful that he even thought about making him a present.

“Shit…”

He hates this stupid present thing. He should just give money to everyone. Not spending time searching for the perfect gift.

They are just objects after all.

Eddie comes back and they drive back in silence.

“Steve. I’m really sorry. I don’t know what I did to upset you but I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. We are good. Really. I just… I have to go home. That’s all.”

Eddie nods, unconvinced, and then he leaves the car with his bags.

***

“So, are you coming?” Dustin asks him while he is driving him back home.

“Where?” 

“To Eddie’s place. On the 24th. We are all going to spend Christmas with our family but we wanted to spend some time together so we decided to make a campaign on the 24th, Robin and Nancy are coming too. It will be just a one-shot. You should come.”

“I don’t think so. You know that is not my thing.” 

“Come on! Eddie even gave me these, for you.” Steve looks at the little package with three black dice “It’s his lucky set! You should come!”

“You know what? I don’t want to come and I don’t want a fucking set of used dice for a game that I don’t know how to play!” he snaps giving him the dice back.

Dustin looks at him perplexed “Why are you so angry Steve?”

Because no one gives a fuck about him. No one took the time to understand what he likes and the only person that maybe gives a shit about him forgot about his fucking birthday when she said that she wouldn’t have.

Fuck them.

Fuck everyone.

He is fine.

He doesn’t need them.

He doesn’t need anything at all.

***

On the 24th he doesn’t drive Dustin to Eddie’s place, but he drives there nevertheless.

He has a big bag full of presents.

Presents that he chooses with love and care.

That he collected throughout the year.

He is not the kind of guy that goes to the first shop the day before Christmas.

He leaves the bag in front of Eddie’s house and then he goes back to his place.

He unplugs the phone and starts to drink, as tradition.

He doesn’t care if it’s just six in the evening.

He will keep drinking until he falls unconscious on the stupid Persian carpet.

“Steve? Where the hell are you, dingus? Your line is always busy!”

Robin is here.

Shit.

He tries to say something but he is so drunk that he can’t even think.

He hears the sound of something that falls to the ground and then the feeling of cold hands on his face.

“Oh my god… Steve… what have you done?! Nance? Can you keep the kids in the kitchen? Eddie, please come here!” she sounds worried.

“Robs…”

“Oh god. Dingus. You scared the shit out of me! What the fuck did you do?”

“I’m celebrating…”

“No Steve, we were going to celebrate, you are just wasted. Eddie, can you help me? The bathroom is the last door on the left.”

“Come on big boy. Too much alcohol is not good for you.” He said to him, helping him on his feet.

“I’m fine…”

“No, you are fucking not.” The metalhead replies while bringing him toward the bathroom “Come on, Harrington. You know that that was too much alcohol, uhm?”

“I’m fine…” he slurs.

Eddie and Robin look at each other “Buckley, would you like to do the honors?”

“Nope. I think that your long fingers are perfect for this kind of situation.”

“Ok, ok, please don’t bite me.”

Steve is still trying to understand what they are talking about when Robin takes his head and Eddie sticks his fingers in his throat.

After a few seconds, he finds himself throwing up while Eddie makes some soothing caresses on his back and Robin keeps his hair away from his face.

When he is finally able to breathe again he looks at them with anger “Why that hell did you do it! And why the fuck are you here?!” he asks.

“Steve, you drank an entire bottle of whiskey on your own, I thought that you were going to die of alcohol poisoning!” Robin scolds him.

“It’s my way of celebrating…”

“Yeah, I know. But I thought that this year we were going to celebrate differently.”

“You are leaving. With your parents. What the hell are you doing here?”

“Well, dingus, let’s suppose, just for a moment, that that was an excuse? I knew you were going to sulk but I didn’t think that you were going to drink yourself to death!”

“An excuse? For what?”

“Maybe, and I say maybe, in your kitchen there are the kids and we made a little birthday party for the most lovely party boy. And maybe Eddie did an entire campaign just for you. And maybe, we convinced our family to spend Christmas’ afternoon at your place. And maybe you are a fucking idiot who left the biggest bag of presents on the fucking steps!”

Oh.

Oh.

“I thought…”

“You thought I forgot. Didn’t you?”

Steve nods still confused.

“I told you! Christmas day! Easy to remember! Now, you can’t go back into the kitchen like this. You are totally wasted. So I’ll say to the kid that you had company, they will not ask for details, and tomorrow afternoon we will be back to celebrate your stupid birthday. Ok?”

“Are we?” he asks, astonished.

“Of course, we are, dingus!” Robin looks at Steve and then at Eddie “Eddie do you mind driving the kids back and then come back to keep stupid Steve some company? There are too many expensive bottles in this house.”

“Sure, no problem.”

“You don’t have to. It’s Christmas Eve…”

“And Wayne is going to work all night. They pay double, so…”

“Sorry for being a dick, Rob…”

“Not a dick, just a dingus. As usual. So, go back to your room, drink plenty of water, and wait for Munson, ok? No more drinks. Promise me.”

He nods, waits to hear them all leaving, and then he goes back to his room.

An hour later he hears the familiar sound of Eddie’s van, then the boy enters with Robin’s key and goes directly to Steve’s room.

“I’m awake.” He says when the other boy waits too long.

“Sorry. I thought that maybe you had fallen asleep…”

“Thank you for tonight. And sorry if I was a dick the other day.”

“Everyone has bad days. I just don’t understand what I have done to piss you off.”

“It’s the present thing. It’s stupid.”

“Let me judge if it is stupid.”

“Well… you asked me if there was something that I liked. You offered to buy it for me. But that’s not what a present is. I… I love making presents. I try really hard to buy the perfect one. Sometimes I buy things months ahead to be sure to have the right present for that person. While my parents… my parents always said that I had the money and I could buy what the hell I wanted but… I just wanted someone to take the time to choose a present for me. And you were kind and I was a dick. And I’m sorry.”

“Steve… I understand what you mean. And I actually had a present for you. But I didn’t know if you would have liked it so… I wanted a backup present if that makes sense. Something that I know you would have loved.”

“What was your present?” he asks with curiosity.

“Are we exchanging presents now?”

“I left mine on your doorstep so…”

“I didn’t open it. Would you like to exchange our presents?”

Steve nods, still a little bit drunk.

“Ok, ok. But if you hate it it’s ok. Dustin told me you didn’t like my dice so…”

Eddie takes a notebook from his bag and shows him a picture.

It’s him, under the Lover Lake, with no shirt and a fucking bat in his hands.

“I draw this for you, to show you how fucking badass you were… but then I thought that maybe a picture that remembers you how you almost died was not the best present ever, but you don’t like music, don’t like games, you just like girls and I’m no girl so…”

“I like you.” He says, too honestly “And I love the picture. And I love that it took time and dedication and you did it for me.”

Eddie smiles “Good. Can I open mine now?”

Steve nods and Eddie opens his little package revealing the ring with the Tiger Eye.

“The Tiger Eyes gives strength, luck, and positive energy. And the ring is a dragon claw so… I thought you might like it.”

“I love it. But maybe you should take me on a real date before proposing with a ring.”

“I didn’t mean…”

“I know, I was joking.”

“But I’d like to.”

“Sorry?”

“I’d like to take you on a date. A real one. See a movie, eat something, maybe even kiss you goodnight.”

“You are drunk Harrington.”

“I am… but that doesn’t mean I’m not honest. Maybe I’m just too honest…”

Eddie laughs a little “Let’s make a deal. If tomorrow you will remember what you said tonight and you still want to take me on a date, I’ll say yes. If not, my lips are sealed and you secret it’s safe with me.” 

They remain in silence for a long moment, then Eddie looks at his watch “Oh. Look. Midnight. Happy birthday, Steve.”

“Merry Christmas, Eddie.”

They fall asleep like that. Steve in his bed, and Eddie over the blankets, waiting for the little shrimps to come back and celebrate Steve’s birthday.

[tenebrius-excellium]

It does suck to think that we can't do things as easily as other people, but sometimes we need things and it's not a bad thing. I need glasses to see. I need a therapist to keep me on track. I need medication to sleep. None of these things make me worse of a human being, even if it feels like it sometimes. So no, you are no less of a good or whole or useful person to need something to read to get you through anxiety. Keep on truckin' honeybunch. I love you.

Hey, Idk who you are but thank you so much. Yeahhhhh, taking up space and needing things (like a normal human being) is still an exercise in particular areas. I'm proud though of the areas where I've gotten better if not outright good!!!

Thinking about a line today that I was repeatedly told when I was 16: "Reddie, once you figure out what you want to do with your life, you will be unstoppable." I remember how nobody listened to me saying that I already knew what I wanted to do, I just couldn't *do* it I was so physically and mentally paralyzed by fear.

The switch slowly comes with being allowed to want.

I remember having been in a sort of consistent state of panic two years ago when I went on a week-long trip abroad with friends. Idk what happened, but I basically lay in bed all day because I was so frenzied out. I'm haunted by that experience, not just because it was exhausting, but it was new trauma. Panic like that adds to it. What.

I haven't recovered from that particular incident (still don't like to think of it), but I also had a panic attack before I went to buy my fish. After picking up the tank, however, this feeling was then replaced by sooooo much satisfaction and joy!!!!

Panic is beat by connection, by asking for help, by being allowed to need and want and by taking up space. Generally speaking, I know that now. Part of this stuff is on my panic sheet, for when I forget.

Today I was happy! I made three or four batches of Christmas cookies and I discovered a baby shrimp in my fish tank! Looks like some babies made it, and goooosh they're sooooo tiny!!! I'm neglecting my academic paper but I'm at peace today and I'm happy. I'm not allowing anxiety to take up more of my energy than absolutely necessary anymore. I'm beating it, step by step. Hooooorayyyyyy!!!

And every small victory I achieve makes me feel a little more "unstoppable". I just never dreamed it would come in the form of baby shrimp lol.

Tysm for your encouragement and lots of love right back at you 🎔

Reddie

[invsblstrngs]

INTRODUCING; LORELAI VIENNA MAXWELL

pinterest • wanted connections

BASICS

FULL NAME:  Lorelai Vienna Maxwell

NICKNAME(S): Lore, Rory, Lo.

AGE: 40

DATE OF BIRTH:  November 15 1984

CURRENT LOCATION:  Woodside Heights, Woodside, Michigan

PLACE OF BIRTH:  Hartford, Connecticut.

ETHNICITY: Caucasian 

GENDER: cis woman

PRONOUNS: she/her

SEXUAL ORIENTATION: queer, leaning towards bisexual.

RELIGION: Raised protestant, spiritual in that she gets her card read occasionally and dabbles in manifestation.

LANGUAGES: English, French.

OCCUPATION:  paleontologist/paleontology professor at Woodside College.

Character Parallels:  dr. ellie sattler, lorelai gilmore, january andrews.

FACECLAIM: Sophia Bush

PHYSICAL TRAITS

HEIGHT: 5'4

WEIGHT: 122 lbs

HAIR COLOR: brown/dark brown, she tends to get her hair color changed a lot.

EYE COLOR: Hazel

PIERCINGS: both of her ears are pierced three times each.

TATTOOS:  here

SCARS|MARKS: she has scattered freckles.

SIGNATURE SCENT:  Glossier You

PHOBIAS AND DISEASES

MENTAL ILLNESSES: anxiety, adhd.

PHYSICAL ILLNESSES:

PHOBIAS: 

RELATIONSHIPS

MOTHER:   Rita Victoria Maxwell (nee Lawerence)

FATHER:  Edward Charles Maxwell

CHILDREN: none

SIBLINGS:  none

RELATIONSHIPS: coming soon.

 PETS:  a calico cat named soosh (short for sushi)

PERSONALITY

ZODIAC SIGN: Scorpio

MORAL ALIGNMENT: Chaotic Neutral

FAVORITE FOODS:   a shrimp Caesar salad, lemony Greek potatoes, tacos al pastor, espresso martinis.

FAVORITE COLOR:  dusty lavender.

LIKES: curling up and reading during a thunderstorm, rainy days spent in a museum, that bubbly feeling having a crush gives you, the feeling of her feet burrowed into the sand on a warm day, the smell of bread fresh out of the oven, oatmilk lattes.

DISLIKES: she has a problem with authority and always has, she gets easily frustrated with ignorance, the smell of gasoline.

HOBBIES:  pilates and ballet for movement and strength, taking extra classes at the college just because she likes to learn, sewing her own clothes, though currently, she is a novice, traveling.

BIOGRAPHY

tw child birth, adhd mention?

Past

Edward Maxwell has it all, a law degree, a brand new wife, and a home he brought with his inheritance. He’s moving up and living up to the Maxwell name, establishing himself into society, in fact, he recently paid for a membership at the club for his wife and himself. All that’s left is starting a family, and carrying on the legacy. 

Connecticut, November 1984

  Rita Maxwell is giving birth to her first, and only child on the coldest November day in 5 years. She is twenty-two years old, married to the man of her dreams, living in a beautiful home, and giving birth to her perfect little girl. 

  Lorelai Vienna Maxwell is born at nine in the evening, after 36 hours, and Rita, as well as her husband Edward, are simply in love, with their little girl, with each other, and with the life they are beginning to build for themselves.

There is a certain kind of lifestyle that comes along with being the only child of Rita and Edward Maxwell, a Connecticut Society couple, and it’s learned quickly that Lorelai doesn’t exactly fit the mold as much as her mother tries to push her into it.  

  Lorelai is an enigma of a child, hyperactive and talkative, smart, sometimes too smart for her own good, but it’s the 80s and the doctors will say she’s just spirited. Somewhere down the line, when she’s 25 and fidgeting in a therapist's office, someone will mention ADHD, slide a prescription into her hand, and offer her some clarity, but we’ve got a long way to go until then.

they call her a hurricane, chaotic, feisty. Those words stick with her, and she decides that since she’s already been labeled she might as well follow through.  She is indeed, smart as a whip, and determined to boot, after all. Her mother tries to put her in white stockings for a Christmas party when she’s 6,  and she takes them off,  running off to find some way to get dirty. She’s pretty sure she liked the tights, but it was the principle of it all. Even then, Lorelai was a handful.

  As she ages, she uses the Maxwell name to get what she wants, but she still pushes the boundaries of proprietary, cutting her private school skirt shorter, listening to the god awful, in her mother's words, rock music, parties, and hookups and things her mother would simply not approve of, things her father would shake his head and sigh over. She was simply not a society girl. 

  On top of that, when her mother pushed her into Ballet or piano, debutante balls, and pageants,  she found herself gravitating towards STEM programs, a particular interest in science, and, a childhood special interest in dinosaurs, she joined the science club, and explanation, a reason for her spending so much time after school in the library. Her mother didn’t know what she was doing wrong that her daughter resisted their way of life so much.

  Family tradition was that she would go to an Ivy League, but Lorelai found herself enrolled at Wellesley College, with a focus in Biology, not exactly an ivy league, but it was the first step in her escape plan. 

  College became determination and self-discovery, she tried new things, kissed new people, boys and girls and everyone, and she tried on different hats, classes she would never take, and ones that she absolutely fell in love with, but her ideas were focused. Biology turned into paleontology, turned into grad school at the University of Michigan, further distancing herself from her parents, and their world, only really going home for holidays.  By the time she’s 30, she’s being scouted for an excursion in Morocco, and she spends four years digging, discovering, and indulging herself in her job and new experiences.  By the time she’s back home, she’s got an article published in a science journal, and a job offer on the horizon, woodside college is formidable, and she takes an offer as their resident paleontologist and paleontology professor.

present

Lorelai has been working at Woodside College for ten years, and after her sixth, she achieved tenure. When she's not teaching, she gets the chance to go on extraditions across the world, bringing her new knowledge back to the paleontology department at the college as well as the woodside museums. She lives in a two story townhouse in woodside heights with her calico cat named sushi, soosh for short.

Now that Lorelai has reached such amazing milestones in her career, she's trying to figure out what it is exactly she wants in her life, and that's currently bringing up a lot of emotions connected to expectations from her childhood.

[whataboutmyfries]

✩THE BEDTIME STORY PROJECT✩

Noot Special!

Hello hello hello! Welcome to a very special edition of the Bedtime story project!!! this could be read a love letter to all my beloved noot friends (it absolutely is btw) but also as a collection of some truly incredible fics by some equally incredible people. For those of you seeing this for the first time, this is not-quite regular post wherein i rec shorter, usually fluffy, fics in the hopes that you too find something to make your bedtime that little bit sweeter!

~

Oknutzy

✩Suburbia by @fruitcoops (T: rated by me)

Starting off so so so strong with Eve's wonderful writing. This fic feels like a big hug and I love it to bits oh gosh <333 Anyone that knows sweater weather knows Eve is an absolute GOD in this fandom and the fact that I get to interact with her on the daily and call her my friend still feels a wee bit like a fever dream. she's out here writing utter magic like countermoves and Land of light both of which have me climbing the walls and chewing at the floorboards cause holy SHIT (whoops, back to the fic) I'm not going to lie, it was so hard to pic just a few fics to rec, but I went with the one I'd read this week for the wee oneshot because oh GOSH it is so somft and lovely and adorable, i love it.

✩Frosted windowpanes by @heyitssmiller (G | 13.8K)

Piercing, bitter cold greeted Logan as he stepped outside for the first time that day. The kind of cold that made the entire body tense up and the breath hitch. It was a quiet early morning, with a stillness that only freshly-fallen snow could bring. Logan took a second to pull his toque further down over his head as he grabbed the chainsaw by the door before heading out to the truck, passing the sign with red, clean lettering that read Tremblay’s Christmas Trees.

Now anyone that's been on this blog for a while knows just how much I ADORE mills and her writing (hello my lovely E-fiancee!!) And this FIC oh GOSH!!!! Frosted wondowpanes recently had its two year anniversary (!!!) which is when it was published on Ao3. I won't lie, this au still lives in my head RENT FREE along with clandestine and also Rendezvous with destiny (both of which I am definitely NOT reccing in this list no sir, not AT ALL nuh uh please dont have the links to them (they're on the names) and also whatever you do DONT go and yell in milo's comments about how MAGNIFICENT her writing is, no sir, definitely not suggesting that) Because of just how adorable it is, so much blushy flirting and idiots in love, 100/10

✩Leo's plant corner by @we-are-swearwolves (G)

Finn/Leo/Logan: plants and domesticity and social media mishaps 

Oh lord, oh jesus. Anyone that's ever interacted with me for any amount of time on the SW discord know I am absolutely FERAL for Em's writing. This is one of her shorter fics but you should absolutely definitely decidedly NOT go read her other works which I am NOT rec-ing because they definitely did NOT make me cry sob eat my heart out and feel shrimp emotions like Québécois and also "Smile, Soleil." nuh uh, not at ALL ;)

✩I've got my love to keep me warm by @arrowofcarnations (M | 1.7K)

Okay so, most people know Kim as the incredible author behind the fandom classic Inked but oh my GOSH the way kim writes makes me so EMOSH it is unreal, her characters are so fleshed out and tangible and so so gorgeous and also i get to watch her to her magic word thing on the discord??? like hello??? little old me witness to this absolute SORCERY??? genuinely insane, i adore it so much. Alsooooo cute little fun fact: Kim and Em worked together to write the masterpiece that absolutely BROKE me Like Real People Do just flipping INCREDIBLE. absolutely showstopping. I love Kim and her writing so so much.

✩Regency AU by @peggyrose19 (E: rated by me)

oh my god oh my god oh my GOD. Audrey's writing is so fucking *chef's kiss* and watching this magic story come to life in the SW discord was an absolute DELIGHT. utterly filthy, completely delightful and wonderful in every single way. Of course, Auds is also our local St.Tweedle whisperer with fics like this one and also hold me closer. oh my GOD audrey's brain is so so big, i honestly have no idea how she comes up with all these incredible aus and fic ideas, such a cool human i love her &lt;3

Coops/ wolfstar

✩Christmas is home by ithilielthechosenone (T | 1.5K)

Remus gives him a mock shove with a shake of his head. “You are hopeless.” No, Sirius thinks. I was. I thought I had to be. I wrestled it down until I myself could no longer see it. You took my hand and gave it back to me. You all did. My hope lives within each and every smile of yours.

- Sirius and Remus enjoy the snow

Oh good gosh, oh jesus, oh boy, it's Ami's writing, my KRYPTONITE. The way Ami writes is like music. there's no other way I can think of to describe it. It flows so beautifully and the way her writing reads like lyrical prose and poetic storytelling has me weak in the knees EVERY single time. This fic was part of the SW discord winter fic exchange and it had me looking at my phone like 🥺🥰the whole time. Ami's writing is just INCREDIBLE and she blows me away with the way she words everytime she blesses us with her writing :)

✩First Burn by @fruitcoops

Okay folks, we've already established how much I ADORE Eve's writing but also oh my GOD I just had to bring up this au, which left me completely shooketh right from the moment the idea came up in the discord to the finished product of Eve's wonderful fic. I LOVE it so so much and I still reread it on a semi regular basis (but shhhh) bottom line, everyone needs to read this.

✩Washcloths and Wishes (A Sweater Weather Fanfic) by @veryspacecowboy (E | 1K)

oh goodness M's writing (and M themself) Is so flipping wonderful and this was one of her first fic's I've ever read (I think it might've actually been their first published fic I read) the way she writes is so flipping incredible and the way they weave all the character's stories together is so magical to witness, and to watch them do this wizardry on the discord (parkouring through allll the threads, so many of which are her brainchild because M is big brain and they are so so cool) has me making heart eyes at my phone/laptop. This fic is somft and also hot (which they are a MASTER at, the duality of M(tm)) and every SW fan HAS to read it, I promise you'll love it.

✩Sirius gets Re to communicate by the wonderful @tetedump/@arewelonely

LAUREL WRITING LAUREL WRITING OH MY LORDY. Laurel is such an incredible human oh my gosh my HEART!!! we haven't spoken very much but she's such a bright, kind, and comforting presence on the discord and I always have a little !!! moment when I see her in my notifications :')) This fic oh my GOSH this fic is EXACTLY what it says on the bottle, Sirius gets Re to communicate because he's a sexi sexi gentleman (Laurel's world not mine) She's such a lovely, caring human and honestly, you can really see that come through in her writing and it makes me so so 🥺🥹 I adore every single inch of it &lt;3

✩Neon moon podfic, written by @fruitcoops and read by @itsaash

So we all know that Ash is our resident podcast GOD, who's read and orchestrated the wonderful Sweater weather podfic along with a bunch of other noots (which everyone collectively lost their minds over) and also the podfic of the system which was originally written by @heyitssmiller (ahahahah triple noot whammy hehehe) but oh my GOSH Ash is so so cool, and such a delightful person to talk to and interact with, I adore her to bits, she's always so nice and kind whenever you interact with her and she's so wonderful about raising peeps up with her podfics, it makes me very very 🥺🥰

~

Thank you so so much to the lovely noots for putting all their wonderful works out there into the world and letting me rec their works in this silly little list :) I love you all so so so much, and AHHHH thank you so much!  Thank you, lovely reader for going through my first ever reclist! feel free to come yell about these lovely works with/at me, and you can send in your recs on the comments of this post, or my inbox!

Happy reading!

[seashellcosmos]

You mentioned it before so now I must know: Which bug has Gonta assigned each of his friends to and for what reason?

OKAY HERE WE GO BABY

Shuichi- blue noctuid moth! Shuichi has big moth vibes, and (according to research the author has done) this moth is sometimes associated with death :) but it is very pretty

Kirumi- orb weaver spider! Spiders are arachnids, not insects, but Gonta still likes them- and orb weavers are very delicate and organized spiders, often observed tearing down and rebuilding their web daily (i have seen this with my own eyes it rocks)

Korekiyo- praying mantis! Tall and thin, can come across as unsettling, but is sorta just minding its own business. Stares at you for too long.

Himiko- ladybug! Small and cute and round, with a similar color scheme and habit of just hanging out wherever they feel like. Also fall asleep like…. As soon as they are somewhere cold or dark. Which is endearing

Ryoma- June Bug! (June beetle) a small, round, endearing beetle in the scarab family. Are very small and resilient (despite their clumsy and self destructive flight patterns)often used to symbolize transformation? Apparently? Christmas beetle would also work for him tbh.

Kaito- firefly! (Lightning bug, fire bug, etc) while not as flashy as Kaito tends to be at first glance, these little show stoppers quite literally light up the night sky like little stars in lonely rural eras

Angie- painted lady butterfly! Maybe a little obvious, but this tiny butterfly has splattered oranges and white and black across its wings to make a vibrant pattern! They also fly around very excitedly, and are attracted to bright colored flowers like echinacea or sunflowers

Rantaro- Atlas Moth! A large, striking moth found in many parts of Asia, with beautiful eye markings and wings that bare a strange resemblance to cobra heads as well. Often used to symbolize travel and wandering

Miu- primrose moth! partially for her signature pink and yellow color scheme, partially for their pickiness when it comes to host plants, and partially because these little critters are often active day and night once they pupate and reach adulthood.

Kiibo- Pill bug! (Rolly Polly, Armadillo Bug, etc) a tiny isopod that’s more related to shrimp and crustaceans than true insects, with slate gray armored backs they have a tendency to hide behind if startled

Kokichi- Emperor Moth Caterpillar (and the moth itself) a very flashy little creature with eye designs and frills along its body to trick predators, known for that one metaphor that symbolizes life’s struggles

Kaede- Monarch Butterfly! A delicate but incredibly resilient butterfly with very vibrant colors!! Often used to symbolize strength and endurance

Tenko- Grasshopper! A high energy insect found all over the world, known for their high jumps and cute little chirps

Maki- Glasswing Butterfly! Small, delicate butterflies with translucent wings they used to blend in with their surroundings. Pollinate and lay their eggs on plants in the poisonous nightshade family

Tsumugi- Leaf Cutter Bee! While a little more plain looking than other bee species (heh heh) these bees are very unique! They cut parts of leaves to make their home, stitching together little nests for winter.

Gonta sees himself as a rhino beetle, big and silly and strong enough to protect his friends!!

[unhonestlymirror]

Rating food of the countries I've been to, from West to East:

Disclaimer: it's veeery subjective

***

Spain🇪🇸 : 7/10. It's okay. I expected their fish and seafood to be better, tho. A LOT of relatively cheap fresh juices, 10/10 for health. They also make surprisingly amazing pasta and surprisingly average paella.

France🇫🇷: 9/10. Never visited cafes or restaurants there, but Carrefour has an incredible variety of good meat. I love their pineapple pie, too. There are a lot of products for vegetarians, Muslims, and, in general, different people who have different eating styles. There's a lot to see. And omg, their bazaar days are something worth attending: I still regret that I never tried clams with white wine.

UK🇬🇧 : 6/10. Not impressed. Something tells me that they deliberately make fish-n-chips that terrible. But I absolutely loved the strawberries under hot chocolate, which was sold by two cheerful Polish girls near Madam Tussaud museum.

Switzerland 🇨🇭: 6/10. Migros has nice buns with spinach and those Japanese "sandwiches", overall, your whole salary is gonna be spent on food. (Lithuania core lol😭) McDonald's there SUCKS.

Norway🇳🇴: 4/10. I expected a lot for some reason. Prices gonna cause you a heart attack, the quality is gonna give you a second heart attack. Also!!! THERE WAS NO FISH IN THE SHOPS EXCEPT THE CANNED!!! I was deeply injured. Norwegian salmon is super popular in Ukraine, how can they not have any normal fish in the big supermarkets...

Germany🇩🇪: 1/10. I may be just unlucky, but every time I visit Germany and pick a random cafe with lots of people(!), it has the worst food I've ever tasted in my life. It's like that scene from Desperate Housewives: "Really? A woman who orders Chinese food for Christmas dinner cooked a pineapple pie?" I understand now why Ukrainian women often marry Germans. My heart bleeds when I see what exactly you eat. I want to cover you with a blanket and cook you a normal soup.

Czech Republic 🇨🇿: 7/10. The soup was nice, ставлю вподобайку👍

Poland🇵🇱 : 8/10. Soup in bread, my beloved. Doughnuts were some kind of overcooked in oil, tho.

Montenegro🇲🇪: 10/10. I love you. I love your salads, your seafood, and I LOVE YOUR LEMON ICECREAM!!!!!

Slovakia🇸🇰: 7/10. I don't really remember what I ate, I am sorry. But I was really impressed with your supermarkets for some reason. Gotta visit it again.

Hungary🇭🇺: 6/10. It was my first time I've ever tried street food, and I liked it. You guys know how to cook meat.

Greece🇬🇷: 7/10. One day, I'll find the guy who can cook Karavidopsiha and beg them to cook it once again. Nice fish!!! I remember your arbutus honey as old women remember their best lovers. But. One time, a man served my family with unpeeled shrimps in batter. :/ What the hell was that? Is that some kind of a national dish I'm not aware of? Minus three points for such bullying.

Cyprus 🇨🇾: 7/10. I shouldn't be obsessed with your carob tree pastille that much.

Lithuania🇱🇹: 10/10. I love you. Although, I'd love to spend less money on food too. I love your Maxima and Rimi and Iki. I love your cafes. I love your bakery, I love your cocktails, I looooooove your soups, and I love your Asian food too. It's very easy to become an alcoholic with such delicious wines and tinctures.

Latvia🇱🇻: 11/10. Oh my god. Oh my god. I'm on my knees. Your cream chanterelle soup and Lidl croissants and marinated onion and šašlyk and fish and dairy products🛐🛐🛐. You guys know how to serve. I've never seen such pretty food designs anywhere. And of course, Lido. It brings me in tears of joy and makes me remember Puzata Hata. No, for real, is there any dish you don't know how to cook?

Finland🇫🇮: 7/10. That's okay. Nice street food.

Belarus ⚪️🔴⚪️: 9/10. Oh my dear Belarus, you're gonna be the best chef in Europe once you're free from russia. I wish I ate more machanka and drank your pine tincture when I had the chance. I love your chicory, it's a bit greyish, but it's much more delicious than an average chicory. Delicious meat in the shops. Other food is soviet-like, which makes me nauseous.

Ukraine 🇺🇦: ♾️/10. Вітчизно моя! Ти як здоров'я, наскільки ти цінна, тільки той знає, хто тебе втратив. I don't know if my favourite shops still work. I loved every single cafe I've been to, yes, even that shitty prorussian Mafia and Eurasia. I loved Puzata Hata. I loved Khlibna Kava, and its amazing cherry cupcakes. I loved Moloko Vid Fermera. I loved little kiosks with fresh Makadamia nuts and huge variety of vegetables and fruits. I loved Flagman and Silpo, Lvivśki croissants, and chocolate shops. I loved my seafood store. I loved giant frappes in Shevchenko Park. I loved my Continent with its old classical French background songs. I love my Japanese food stores. There are so many places I love. I used to find my bazaar so ugly and dirty, but I would give everything to buy the sea ​​buckthorn jam from the cheerful old lady. But it's not gonna happen. My bazaar was shelled by russians to the ground.

Turkey🇹🇷: 9/10. Your Katmer, seafood soup and baked shrimps(?) are something 🛐.

Jordan🇯🇴: 7/10. Nice! You cook paella better than Spain, be proud of yourself. Although, I'd love to not be scared for my life as a woman all the time. Your bazaar seemed very interesting, but unfortunately, I don't speak Arabic. And I am a woman, which also sucks, I guess. I was totally covered in black, except for the face and hair, and people still stared at me like on a zoo exponate. McDonald's kinda sucks too, but not as much as in Switzerland.

Egypt🇪🇬: 7/10. It's okay. I've tasted only hotel food.

Sakartvelo🇬🇪 : 10/10. Our guide forgot about our existence, and we had to find any source of food to not die from hunger, so we went to your local bazaar and asked to fry some cheap fish. It had lots of bones, and I hate fish with bones, but I ate it all, and it tasted amazing.

Saudi Arabia 🇸🇦: 6/10. Most of the week, I just cooked some simple spiceless products like pasta and eggs from the small store. You are far from the level of grocery stores in Turkey. Although, your cold orange juice bottle saved my life from dying in the middle of the desert.

Qazaqstan 🇰🇿: 7/10. I don't really remember your supermarkets, I guess they were okay. But your bazaars are definitely something worth attending. Millions of varieties of honey with millions of tastes and very salty hard cheese Kurt.