#and I said I wanted all my 80s movies back

[jocelynships]

Man I wish my ex roommate didn’t refuse to give me back all my old DVDs bc I really wanna go on an 80s movie binge watch and I can’t find them anywhere 💀

[stuworbutwithchipmunks]

I think we should talk more about how CGI Brittany has the career 80's Brittany always wanted.

[iamthescalesofjustice]

do not underestimate what an adhd teenager can do to cope with being in the torment nexus

[electrosuite]

okay. al. i need something put into words. idk if you've seen it but in "we live in time" andrew and florence didn't hear cut when filming a sex scene. so i was wondering. could you do something where eddie has taken up acting. it's an experimental movie, so y'all are actually fucking. it's unsimulated sex. y'all don't hear cut, but you're so into it that neither of you stop. you don't notice until he cums, then you both remember the cameras.

warnings: swearing, fingering oral sex, descriptive sex, sex on camera

word count: 2.3k

a/n: i saw we live in time opening week and absolutely loved it. put andrew garfield's bare ass in more movies!!!

masterlist

One of the best decisions you'd made was moving to Hollywood to pursue acting. You loved it, and you were a natural. You could make yourself cry on command, you often lost yourself in scenes, and you weren't afraid to get nude on camera. That was something that was pretty common for the 80s, specifically female nudity.

You'd filmed many sex scenes in your career, but they were all simulated. Prosthetics, body doubles, cushions between bodies. But when you were approached to do an experimental film, one with completely unsimulated sex, your curiosity was piqued.

You were told you wouldn't meet the other actor until the day of, which turned out to be the first day on set. You were told that some studios, this one included, preferred to get sex scenes out of the way first and film the rest after. Your first impression of this guy would be when you had sex with him.

So when you were sitting on set in your tight black dress — which would be removed in the scene — and he walked in, your eyes widened. He was very handsome, just your type. He had long curly black hair, he was covered in tattoos, and immediately started joking around with the crew. He was wearing a suit, one which fit his body nicely.

When he spotted you, he walked right over and sat next to you.

"You my co-star?" he asked in a hopeful tone.

"That would be me."

"Eddie." He stuck his hand out and you shook it.

"Y/N."

"You look familiar. I feel like I've seen you in something else before."

"Maybe. Sorry, but I don't recognize you."

"I haven't been in anything big, just a couple of low-budget movies." He noticed your nervous energy. "You okay?"

"What? Oh, yeah. Sorry, just... I've never done anything... real. It's always been fake sex."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Mhm."

"Well, it's a first for both of us, then. It's a first-first for me, I've never done anything like this."

"Really?"

"Yep. Never even taken my shirt off on camera."

"And you're just jumping right in, huh?"

"Why not? If I'm gonna do it, I might as well go all in."

"Well, are you at least experienced?" you joked.

"Oh, I'm experienced. Yeah." You chuckled. "Also, I was told to tell you that they had me go ahead and put a condom on so it wouldn't disrupt the flow or anything. They said you were pretty adamant about it."

"Thank god. I really don't want to leave here today pregnant."

This made both of you laugh, but it was true. That was the most important thing to you when agreeing to do this movie.

"Alright, actors in positions," announced the director, who settled into his chair next to the camera.

Before you could get up, Eddie looked back at you. "Hey, I know we'll be recording, but don't let that stop you from telling me if I'm crossing any boundaries, alright?"

"Okay."

"Promise?"

"I promise. Thank you."

"Of course."

The scene immediately started with the two of you standing at the edge of a bed, inches away from each other. So that's where you went, your calves touching the mattress.

You'd read over the script for this scene numerous times. There was a camera a few feet from the bed, and one strapped onto the ceiling above where you would be laying. Neither of you would speak, just moan.

You were getting more nervous by the second, the lack of space between you two making your heart pound.

"Hey," he whispered, making eye contact with you. "You still good?"

You nodded. "Yeah. I'm good." You got yourself into the acting mindset as they finalized the cameras. "Ready."

"Quiet on set," yelled the director. Everyone hushed, the silence making you realize how many eyes were on you. "Action!"

You reached up and slowly undid Eddie's tie, his eyes never leaving your face. Once it was on the floor, he pulled you in for a kiss. It was gentle yet deep, both of you taking in a deep breath. His hands gripped your sides, your palms flat against his chest.

He reached around you and unzipped your dress, letting it fall to the floor. He then effortlessly unhooked your bra and you pulled it off of yourself. So far this was exactly like some of the other scenes you'd filmed. It was always a little bit nerve-wracking to expose yourself on camera — how could it not be?

He pushed you down onto the bed, his knees on the edge between yours.

He wasn't supposed to kiss you as long as he did. It was only supposed to be a couple before he moved on, but he was going off script a bit. His hand cupped the breast visible to the camera, which was now a bit closer.

He began kissing down to your neck a bit, then trailing along your body. He wrapped his lips around your nipple, his tongue circling it. You couldn't help but tangle your fingers in his hair, knowing it would help the scene.

As he kissed down your body, he maintained eye contact with you, watching to make sure you were still comfortable with this. Once he was to your thighs, he knelt down next to the bed and pulled you by the legs closer to him.

He slowly pulled your underwear off, dropping them on top of your dress. He continued to leave kisses on your thighs, making a genuine and impatient whine escape your mouth.

The feeling of his tongue on your clit made you gasp, your hands immediately finding their way back to his hair. This was weird with cameras, and at first it made it hard for you to really get in the mood.

But he was good with his tongue. You were so used to fake moaning that the real ones that came out of you felt foreign. His hands on your thighs, keeping them spread, were also keeping your hips still.

Usually when you filmed cunnilingus scenes, they kept their mouth closed and just positioned their face between your legs. So it was a foreign feeling to actually be eaten out on camera.

He couldn't stop staring at you, you looked so beautiful. Your head thrown back, back arched, tits out and nipples hard, fingers pulling his hair.

He wasn't supposed to make you cum, the script didn't call for it. He was supposed to do this for about thirty seconds and move on to the actual sex. But he was told that if the scene lasted too long, they could just edit it down. So he decided before even meeting you that he would make sure you had at least one orgasm today.

And it didn't take you long to get there. The camera had moved now so that it was behind him and to the side, getting a shot of his back and your face simultaneously.

"Fuck," you whispered to yourself as you felt your orgasm approaching, and fast. You were worried about how you would look, actually cumming and being recorded. You were trying to remain as calm as you possibly could, but you'd never been eaten out like this.

You were much louder than you anticipated when you finally came, and Eddie had to hold you down to keep you in the shot. When he finally stopped, he was immediately back to kissing you. He was still fully clothed, so you pushed his jacket off of his shoulders.

Instead of unbuttoning his shirt, he just pulled it over his head. He had a beautiful body, and you couldn't take your eyes off of him. You reached down and helped remove his belt, but he took over a moment later.

Within a minute, he was completely nude, and you got a good view of what he was packing. You were told before the shoot that you'd be having unprotected sex, and as you were already on birth control, it wasn't that big of a deal to you. Or at least, it wasn't until you were finally here. Now it was sinking in that you were about to be creampied by a guy you just met less than five minutes ago.

He was already rock hard, the sounds that escaped your mouth having gotten him bricked up immediately. He loved giving oral. It was one of his favorite things in the world. If it was up to him, he would've kept going, gotten you completely out of your mind before fucking your brains out.

He positioned himself back at eye level with you, reaching down and lining himself up with your entrance.

"That okay?" he whispered into your neck as he pressed kisses to your skin. He wasn't supposed to say that, the script calling for no dialogue aside from the natural swears that would occur. But he'd already gone against it, and asking for consent was something he insisted on.

"Mm," you moaned simply, nodding as minimally as possible.

With zero hesitation, he pushed into you, and the gasp that filled the room was almost comical. It was such a perfect porno moan that you couldn't believe it was genuine, even though it came from you.

He stretched you out so much, so perfectly, you weren't sure you could handle much of this. It was almost too much, too good.

He engulfed your mouth into his, kissing you deeply as he immediately picked up his pace. The bed was already squeaking, and your chest was already red.

The camera was above your head now, recording from an angle that showed the top of your thighs and your head thrown back as Eddie began sucking hickeys onto the skin of your neck.

That was when the scene was supposed to end. It was the shortest one in the script, which was another reason they wanted to get it over with first. But when the director shouted "Cut!", neither of you could hear him over the animalistic moans you both were letting out.

In fact, he called it about three times. But you two were so immersed, and your moans were so loud in each other's ears that it was useless. After a moment and after all the equipment was put down, the entire crew left the room and just allowed you to finish.

Out of all the times you'd had sex before, you didn't expect the best to be a completely scripted one. Eddie wasn't lying when he said he was experienced, he knew how to hit every nook in cranny in you like it was the millionth time.

When he felt himself getting close, he reached down and began circling your clit with his thumb. In the movies he'd seen, they always came at the same time. That didn't happen much in real life, but he wanted to make it look cinematic because, to his knowledge, they were still filming.

You gasped at the sudden contact, not expecting it. Thirty seconds later, you were cumming in sync, moaning into each other's mouths. He kept it going as long as he could but eventually he had to stop. Both his and your legs were trembling, sweat beading on your upper lip.

He kissed you for a moment, thinking in his head how great that would look on camera.

But when you both looked over at where the crew was, they were gone. You were confused, wondering why they didn't film as much as possible.

"Oh my god," you said, looking back up at Eddie. "Did they yell cut?"

His eyes widened. "Did they?"

"Did you hear them at all?"

"No, I didn't. Did you?"

"No."

You couldn't help but giggle at the situation. "Holy fucking shit."

"Jesus Christ, what the fuck."

"That's kind of hilarious."

He pulled out of you, pulling the condom off before grabbing one of the robes from the crates behind the camera, tossing another one to you. He opened the door to the rest of the set and the crew's heads shot up to look at him.

"Did... you yell cut?" he asked the director.

"Yep. Three times. You guys were so into it we figured we'd just let you finish."

That was when you laughed even harder, your head fuzzy and body tired.

After everything was cleaned up and you were heading back to your trailers, you caught up with Eddie outside his.

"Sorry we didn't hear cut earlier," you apologized.

"I'm not." He smirked slyly, and you felt butterflies flutter in your stomach.

"Do you think you'd do something like this again? Real sex on a set?"

He shrugged. "Maybe. With the right person."

"Well, if I get another opportunity like this, you're the first person I'm recommending."

"God, please do." His voice was raspy now, seductive, sultry. Normally you didn't pay any mind to men who flirted with you. But something about actually fucking Eddie seemed to form some kind of bond, maybe just in your head.

You reached into your pocket and pulled out a napkin, which had your phone number written on it. You leaned in close, wanting this to stay between the two of you.

"Well, if you ever want to do something without cameras, call me." You turned around to walk to your trailer, his eyes glued to your ass the whole time.

He swore he could get rock hard again right now if he wanted to. Something was different about you. You were one of the best fucks he'd ever had, and he intended on using that phone number sometime soon.

[moonlit-imagines]

Headcanons for being Johnny Lawrence’s daughter

Johnny Lawrence x daughter!reader

warnings: alcohol, underage drinking, classic johnny sexism <3

a/n: WHAT! ME write a fic thats not gn, i know. im shocked too but its just bc i feel johnny is so gender-stereotypey that doing this gn wouldn’t work very well but very open to a son!r or nb!r if anyone is interested (bc seriously. johnny cannot help but bring up genders). also i just want to say that a lot of this (not all!) honestly reminds me of or are actual things that have happened w my dad bc johnny is literally my dad if my dad was like 8 years older i think also i wrote this all in one sitting ALSO NO COBRA KAI SEASON 6 SPOILERS

prompt:

GIRL DAD!

you always kinda just gravitated toward living with your dad

“y/n, i’m so proud of you. i never have to worry about you. you can take care of yourself. robby on the other hand, i worry about him. i think girls are just more self sufficient” -johnny, a little drunk

“thanks dad” -you, also a little drunk (hes a “cool dad”)

he was the type of parent that “prefers that if you’re gonna do something stupid at least do it while he’s around” aka underage drinking

whenever he stays out late you fall asleep in his bed. and lock him out

“y/n! open the door!” -johnny, banging on the door

“no! your bed is more comfortable” -you

he thought it was sweet honestly but he did want to sleep in his bed

sort of like a lesson not to come home late all drunk and gross

he was VERY against letting you drive his car

“dad, i need my license!” -you

“no woman is getting behind the wheel of my firebird” -johnny

“why do you have to make it about women? i’ll fight you” -you

“you’ll lose that fight” -johnny

“oh, so you’d fight a teenage girl? wow, real classy, dad” -you

“no, but i’d fight my teenage daughter. i brought you into this world and i’ll take you out” -johnny

you honestly had a great sense of humor with johnny, but you’d check him if he said anything too messed up

“dad, it’s not the 80’s anymore, you can’t say that” -you

“dont tell me what i can and cant say! the 80’s were awesome, i wish it was the 80’s again” -johnny

“so i’ve heard” -you

he helped you with your homework as a kid until like, 2nd grade when multiplication and division got involved

he did teach you karate growing up! but mostly the basics, for self defense purposes

“hey, never let any guy try to impress you with his karate skills. he’s probably a douche” -johnny, pausing “i sure was”

late night movie marathons (70s/80s classics for sure)

he took care of you during your first hangover (high school parties, ya know)

“didn’t i teach you better than to mix liquors” -johnny

“ugghhhh” -you

yes, you have heard about daniel larusso. enough said LMAO

robby and you had a kind of sweet but distant relationship

occasional check-in texts

robby: are you doing okay with dad? he’s actually buying food and shit?

you: yeah! he’s fine right now, how’s mom? new stepdad yet? is he rich?

robby: mom’s not going anywhere she’d find a rich guy, but keep dreaming

you wear a lot of your dad’s old t-shirts. usually band tee’s

oh and he made sure you got into the “right music”

he used to drive you around in the firebird when you were a SMALL CHILD (front seat, no car seat!) and blast his old cassettes

for YEARS he’d pull the “who is this” “what song is this” game with the reasoning:

“if you wear a band shirt and some asshole asks you to name three songs, i want you to name ten” -johnny

listen. you were still “daddy’s girl” or whatever used to be a cute little saying and is now ruined but whatever

“dad, can i have twenty bucks?” -you

“for what” -johnny

“for fun. pleaseeee” -you

*johnny pulls out his wallet and gives you $40*

could he afford it? no. can he say no? also no.

the absolute fear he felt when you got your first period

“it’s fine, i can call mom” -you

“no, it’s not fine! i’ve had girlfriends before, i got this. stay here, i’ll be back” -johnny

he went to the store and bought the most random assortment of period products and pain meds and snacks and a heating pad

A for effort

when the diaz family moved in across from you guys, miguel took one look at you and johnny said:

“stay away from my daughter”

when the karate fuss got started you tried to keep your distance but sooner or later you joined the dojo and proved to your dad just how “badass” you could be

“take notes everyone, y/n’s gonna be the next all valley champ!” -johnny

taglist: @ravenmoore14 // @retvenkos // @sweetheartlizzie07 // @an4aaa // @summersimmerus // @xoxobabydolls // @sapphireplums // @petersgroupie // @ravenhood2792 // @evilcr0ne // @thedarkqueenofavalon // @elenavampire21 // @elemental-of-magic //

[vintagegeekculture]

I remember a friend of mine had some LPs that were Star Wars themed disco albums, and it brought back a very weird memory from back in the 70s (yes, I'm old!) of listening to a Star Wars disco mashup on the radio. What was all that about? I also remember something like that for Close Encounters, too.

You remember correctly, and this went on for a long while. In 1983, disk jockeys around the country played a record that involved an Ewok rapping the plot of Return of the Jedi in Ewokese. This made it to #60 in the Billboard Top 100.

This is hard to explain to people who weren’t there….but in the wake of Star Wars in the late 70s and early 80s, scifi was so beloved and mainstream that the orchestral music for nerdy scifi and fantasy movies about outer space were remixed and sampled into Giorgio Moroder-esque Italo-Disco dance numbers. And the most astonishing thing is, instead of being consigned to convention acts the way “horse famous” Brony dubstep acts are, this received national airplay on the radio, reached the pop music charts, and were played in discotheques. And incredibly, this continued for years and expanded from Star Wars into Star Trek, Wizard of Oz, Black Hole, Close Encounters….

All of this was the work of one specific person: Meco (or Dominico Monardo). The term “ahead of their time” is thrown around a lot, but Meco really was: a combination producer-songwriter and Italo-Disco pioneer in the style of Giorgio Moroder, he did several things that are now absolutely standard: he used remixes and sampling before hiphop made that standard for musicians, he wrote “fandom music” on a Moog synthesizer decades before Bronies turned their conventions into cringey dubstep concerts with songs like “Everypony Dance Now.”

It's stunning to me that Meco has not been rediscovered, considering every single trend in the culture essentially went his way.

The most startling thing about Meco’s Star Wars disco album, the one that got the ball rolling on this trend, is this: I always assumed it was some kind of cash in created by a record label mandate, a label executive’s completely cynical choice to hop on a hot new trend. That isn’t a crazy thing to think at all, since Star Wars is and always has been the most merchandized and sold out scifi property ever. But it wasn’t! You see, it was all the product of a single man’s specific vision: Meco had to convince his record label to make the record because they were skeptical.

When Meco went to see Star Wars in 1977 on Opening Day (what an experience that must have been) with his friend and fellow Italian chest hair/gold medallion enthusiast Tony Bongiovi, he was already an experienced producer-songwriter who had worked with Gloria Gaynor, Diana Ross, and formed DCA, the Disco Corporation of America. If you've ever listened to Diana Ross's "I'm Coming Out," Meco actually played the trombone solo in that song. Seeing the Star Wars movie for the first time, though Meco thought the movie was nothing short of a religious experience. Originally, he wanted to do Star Wars music as a b-side on a Gloria Gaynor album, but expanded the idea into an entire album.

In Meco’s own words:

"When I think about what I did, nobody came to me, nobody said 'Meco, why don't you do this.' Nobody says 'Here's some money go make a record of this movie.' It was just my own... It was magical, it was just out of this world when all that happened."

Not only did this album hit platinum, not only did it actually outsell the Star Wars soundtrack, his remix of the Star Wars theme also went to #1 in the charts. It’s actually the best selling instrumental single of all time. A record, that, incidentally, it holds to this day.

Dick Clark, host of American Bandstand, had this to say about Meco:

"In 1977, Meco Monardo accomplished something no one else has ever done to the best of my knowledge. He was the first one in history to out-sell the soundtrack of a motion picture with his own distinctive version of a film's music. The music was totally danceable, and broke new ground. It's no wonder the STAR WARS THEME went to # 1. I loved his treatment of music from THE WIZARD OF OZ. Again, Meco created something innovative. The fun and the excitement gave a whole new feel to that totally familiar and well-loved music."

Like a lot of studio producers, Meco had an insane work ethic and hit when the iron was hot: he did an album about Close Encounters that exact same year, but also did a Star Wars Christmas Album, one of the strangest pieces of Star Wars kitsch around.

One of the most interesting things about the Star Wars Christmas album is that one of the songs, “R2D2’s Wish You a Merry Christmas” is the first professional vocals by John Bon Jovi, who was Meco’s friend Tony Bongiovi’s seventeen year old younger cousin (he was initially known as John Bongiovi). It's incredible to hear a squeaky voiced teen Bon Jovi on a kitsch album about a robot Christmas.

1978-1979 was really his best year. Meco made an Italo-Disco remix album entirely devoted to Superman, and at this point, Meco had the pull to get access to John Williams's sheet music for the score before the music even came out. In my personal opinion it's the best of them because he has to recreate it entirely with his own instruments, leading to a very unique sound.

He also did an album based on the Wizard of Oz:

And a combination album of Star Trek/Black Hole. It's probably the earliest remixing date of Goldsmith pieces of music: the Motion Picture Theme (which is now associated with the Next Generation - hearing it done in Italodisco is uncanny) and the Klingon Theme:

Incidentally, I think the design here of the Meco Enterprise, which had to be modified for legal reasons, would make a wonderful canon starship if anyone wants to be inspired by it. It reminds me of the same concept that would be used in the very next film for the Reliant-class of ships.

Meco eventually retired from music in 1985, but unfortunately he is no longer with us, as he passed into the next dimension in 2023. I think he showed us that creativity is often about transformation, and was inspired to make his art by a legitimate awe of space, the cosmos, and human imagination that the scifi movies of the 1970s and 80s provoke.

[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.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

The meeting goes exactly how you would expect.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You know what?"

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

"What?"

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

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

"I'd rather starve."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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"You'll never guess what I have."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And a seat at Momofuku."

"And that."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hide behind your computer screen.

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

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

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

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

Seungkwan works hard, but the devil always works harder.

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing you can do to stop him, huh?

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

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Beware the wrath of a woman scorned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hook, line, and sinker.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Seungcheol?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who said I was pretending?"

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

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

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

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

"I never said that."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How To Antagonize Your Date In 5 Easy Steps.

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm no quitter."

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

Definitely not that one.

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

"Why, so you can steal my job?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In your periphery hovers his wry, wanting smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, pity looks good on you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fair. You gonna ask me about mine?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Running away?"

"Bored," you lie.

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

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

"Unfortunate."

"How do you think I feel?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Field trip?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"N-not both ways?" you croak.

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

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

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

Whatever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But, thank you."

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

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

"I'm retracting my thank you."

"I'm devastated. Really."

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

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

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

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

"Thought you knew it was Wonwoo."

"Yeah, but why?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who hurt you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I wouldn't say nothing."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You in a rush?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Definitely bad at food, you muse to yourself.

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

Now that—nothing could have prepared you for that.

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

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

"Stop that."

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

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

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

"Is it working?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Seungcheol is my enemy, remember?"

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

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

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

You almost choke on a blueberry.

"Absolutely not."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm running out of options."

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

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

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

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

Your entire body heaves with the sigh that escapes you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Lucky you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A gift. A pithless, wrinkly one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, you're definitely going to cry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You count the seconds till he walks away.

One. Two. Three.

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

"Hey, you ok?"

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

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

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

"Whoa," he breathes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah, I-I think so."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And no text from Seungcheol. (Damn.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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"Here. Drink."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Thanks…?"

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

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

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

"You're literally the definition of easy."

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

"This is not a date. Dream on."

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

"It wasn't."

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

"Chicago."

"Same difference."

Your conversation continues as such.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hi."

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

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

The elevator dings.

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

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You have three reasons to get drunk.

1. It's Friday.

2. You finished your article.

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

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

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

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

So you get drunk.

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

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

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

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

"You got that right."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yours or mine?"

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

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

How To Ruin The Moment In One Easy Step!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Just dates. Nothing serious."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Holy shit. You live like this?"

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

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

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

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

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

You tentatively nod before dropping the noodles in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What, too many dates to cover?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The table stops rocking.

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

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

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

"You asked."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Wh—"

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

"Get. Out."

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

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

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

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Celery. Red wine. Short rib.

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

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

Fingerling potatoes, the red ones. A Vidalia onion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Monday feels tilted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You wonder what you'll be:

10 Signs She Is Clinically Insane.

It's Not You, It's Them!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Ask Samuel!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Congrats."

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

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

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

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

"No need."

"What about Seungcheol? Does he know?"

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

"What?!"

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

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

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

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

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

Instead you stand motionless, waiting, emptied.

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

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

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

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

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

He gave up.

None of this should matter to you.

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

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

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

"You're an idiot, Seungcheol."

That does the trick.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"H-how?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Afternoon, boss."

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

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

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

"Friendly reminder we're at work."

"Everyone's at lunch, genius."

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

"You are the worst."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eat, Play, Love: A Guide.

Maybe you'd put it through. Maybe.

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[lucimaaie]

missed you ✧.* tlou

pairings - ellie williams x fem!reader

summary - ellie was just missing you when you showed up at her doorstep

warning - short & not proofread as always

being ellie's ex was no doubt awkward. more at the beginning when everything's fresh and you just have to get used to not being together anymore. seeing something that reminds you of her or not being able to knock on her door and say. "i just need you right now."

then a couple months pass, a year, then three and things were normal. relatively normal for exes, ellie guessed. you didn't talk much besides what was needed or when you happened to end up together.

ellie wasn’t going to admit that she missed you. you were her first relationship, sure. that mattered, she knew that, but something in her head told her she needed to not need you. that that was the mature thing to do: not needing your ex-girlfriend. that’s not what she wanted to call you.

she couldn’t rekindle things again, could she? what if she fucked everything up again and everyone in the town found out? she rolled her eyes at the thought and tried to fix the mess she’d made of her sketch. she’d gotten your nose all wrong and it just didn’t look like you.

the thought that she was forgetting what you look like made her want to knock on your door at..3am in the morning. “damn,” ellie rubbed her eye as she realized the time. she shut her book and walked over to her bed when a quiet rapping on the door stopped her. she waited for it to continue and it did. in that familiar beat that was meant for the two of you when sneaking out to see each other was a big no-no.

ellie realizing it was you, cursed as she searched for pants to put on and a jacket to throw on. she scrambled around to get dressed before opening the door with a startled expression. "hi."

"hi." you sung, swaying from side to side like a child.

ellie tilted her head at your behavior before replying. "are you okay?"

"m'finee. why does everyone keep asking that?" you stepped forward to lean against the doorframe but you ended up leaning and missing the frame altogether.

"woah," ellie barely caught you when it hit her. you were drunk. or high off your ass. or both. either way it was concerning how you got like this and decided to come to her of all people. "you're drunk. like really drunk." her hands wrapped around your waist moved to your arms, pulling you inside before closing the door behind you. "drunk." ellie laughed in disbelief as she looked at you.

she'd wanted to see you, but this wasn't exactly the way she imagined it. regardless, she was happy to see you not so tense around her. "staring." you sang again, flopping back onto the bed.

"shit, sorry. let's get you sober." she grabbed the cup on her desk and walked to the bathroom, but not before taking a glance at you. "ish." it wasn't long before she sat next to you. "here."

you sat up and gulped down the water, something you'd probably regret later, and handed her the cup. "ah," you laid back down.

"ah-ah" ellie pulled you back up. "you are not gonna throw up on my bed. please don't do that."

you opened your mouth in offense. "I wouldn't-" you hiccuped. "do that. I wouldn't do that, el. I promise." you said as if it was the most serious thing on earth.

"i believe you." ellie couldn't help but laugh.

she let out a deep breath as she looked at you in your own world. it was good seeing you be you again. it reminded of her of the nights she'd force you into watching some shitty 80s movie for movie night and listen to you complain about it the whole time. or patrols when you'd gift her some random thing you found who knows where saying "it reminds me of you." with a horrible attempt at a wink. days when there was less to worry about.

"missed you, you know." she said quietly. "a lot actually." the confession didn't come off her chest easily but you wouldn't remember later anyway. call it a test run.

"I missed you too, e." you said so naturally she questioned the truth of it. though it seems she was given her answer when you patted around for her hand. she quickly gave it to you. "we shouldn't have broke up." you slurred.

ellie froze. "don't say that."

"why not?" you pouted, leaning your head onto your shoulder. you looked up at her with slightly glossy eyes.

"cause i'm gonna think it's true.” she disconnected her hand from yours to put her arm around your shoulder. “and you’re drunk which meant i shouldn’t take anything you say to heart.”

“that’s just mean. you should take everything i say to heart.” you nuzzled your head into her neck, making her let out a strained hum. you knew she was touch-starved and was probably doing this to tease her. goddamn you.

“that’s very credible.” she got up. “c’mon, you’re gonna sit up in bed till you fall asleep.” ellie squatted down to take off your boots and set them by the bed.

“will you lay down with me?”

her eyes flicked back up to you at the question. she shut them for a while, trying to keep her head on a straight. “you’re not laying down, remember?”

“fine. will you sit up with me?”

“in bed?”

“yup.” you popped the p like this was some casual occurrence. like the last time you’d been this close wasn’t three years ago.

“okay.” ellie said slowly.

“yay.”

“just like a kid.” ellie smiled as she pulled back the covers and patted the spot. you glared at her for the comment and she matched the energy with a smile in her eyes. “get in, kid.”

“only cause i want to.”

after you slid in, ellie did the same. she looked at the ceiling as you scooted closer to her and laid your head on her shoulder again. this time your hands snuck around her waist. “had no idea you were a cuddly drunk.” ellie smiled as you giggled.

“i’ve grown up.”

“i see.” ellie grabbed on your hands from her waist, feeling brave enough to lace your fingers together. she’d enjoy the closeness for the moment. in the morning, you’d awkwardly apologize and scamper off. probably not talk to her for a while.

“missed you.” you mumbled sleepily before closing your eyes. “missed this.”

“me too,” ellie looked at you in this relaxed state. thankful for the opportunity to see this before the morning hit. but she didn’t want to think about that now. she wanted to think of how cute you looked sleepy. how much you enjoyed her touch. how much she was enjoying your touch. “me too.” she laid her head on yours.

thank you for reading!

[m00nlight-ramblings]

I Wanna Be Yours

(I've had this idea since I've seen like, a million 80's movies in succession). You're close to valedictorian, a known smarty-pants. So imagine your surprise when you become friends with Eddie Munson...and then fall in love with him.

Pairing: Eddie x female reader, friends x lovers, dual pov

Warnings: smut, p in v sex, oral (f receiving), swearing

*MINORS DNI*

Word Count: 4.16k

REMINDER: My inbox is open so please request some stuff because I'm dying to write!

"Oh, fuck where is it?" You loudly murmured, shuffling the books in your locker. They clanged around, sending soft bonk! noises and reverberations through your locker, which only made you more annoyed. You huffed, dropping your arms by your side. You only had a few minutes before you had to be in class, and you couldn't find your fucking book.

You groaned and started the process again, knowing you'd probably be fruitless - you've only checked like, 100 times, so at this point you'd just have to accept the fact that you'd somehow forgotten it at home. It also didn't help that your locker was stacked to the brim with books, folders, papers, and miscellaneous things you've collected in just a month since school started

"Um...you okay?" A voice asked behind you, startling you out of your frustrated trance. You turned to see Eddie Munson standing there, tucking a lock of his hair behind his ear and tilting his head. Slightly embarrassed, you shrugged and huffed (again).

"Yeah I just...can't find my chemistry book. And I have class in-" You checked your watch, "Seven minutes." (And it also just so happened that chemistry was your worst class so you like, really needed this damn book).

"Want me to check?" He offered, gesturing to the locker. You paused a moment, and furrowed your brow. Then, you stepped aside, giving him access to your locker. He stepped forward, leaning into the locker and started gently exploring.

"Yeah, you can try but I don't think you'll find it. I've checked, like, a hundred times and I think I just left it at home and-"

"Here it is! Chemistry you said, right? You're looking for..." Eddie took a moment to examine the cover of the book. With a boisterous (and very silly) voice, he spoke, "Chemistry 301: Principles of Organic Chemistry?"

You gasped and smiled at him, snatching the book from him and staring at it. How did he find it? "Oh my god, are you kidding? I've been looking for this thing for like, 10 minutes. Where was it?!"

Eddie chuckled, shrugging nonchalantly, "Right in the front."

You looked at him, "I could hug you right now, oh my god! Chemistry is my worst subject and I can't even focus in that class if I don't have the book with me and...ugh. You're a life saver. Thank you." You beamed, hopping on your toes a little.

You and Eddie never really spoke, but of course knew each other - everyone in Hawkins did. Having a few classes with him over the years, any conversation you ever had with him was in passing. But after him your book for you, and seeing his smile..."The Freak" didn't actually seem all that freaky at all.

"Yeah, well, no worries. I'm just a good ole knight in shining armor, I guess." He bashfully made a face, causing you to giggle. "Actually...I just wanted to come over and thank you for something."

Confused, you cocked my head to the side, "Thank me?"

Eddie nodded, stepping aside so you could close your locker, "Yeah. I heard from Wheeler the other day that he dropped all his books and shit in the hallway and you helped him grab everything," His smile was soft...if you weren't looking so hard at his face (why were you staring?), you'd have missed it, "That was nice. So...thanks."

You nodded, mirroring the small smile. "Wheeler as in...Mike Wheeler? The freshman?" You thought back to a few days ago, "Yeah...he said he tripped, but Craig from the football team was lurking around so I have a feeling Mike didn't trip all by himself," I rolled my eyes, "People can be dicks sometimes so...anyway. I know what it's like to be a freshman." You slowly started to walk to class, Eddie following in line next to you.

There was a brief moment of awkward silence before Eddie cleared his throat and spoke again, "So...chemistry's not your best subject, huh?"

You rolled your eyes, "Definitely not. I hate it...it's so hard. My favorite class is English."

"English? Hey, mine too. What's your favorite book?"

You pause, furrowing your brows again, "...don't laugh."

He throws his hands up in an "I'm innocent" movement, "Cross my heart."

You take a moment before you speak, "I like 'The Hobbit'. I've read it, like, a million times. I re-read it like, once a year-"

"'The Hobbit'? I like that one too!" Eddie smiled widely, "...do you listen to Led Zeppelin by any chance?"

You laugh, "Are you about to tell me that 'Ramble On' was inspired by 'The Hobbit?" You watch his eyes widen slightly.

"You know that already?"

You nod, "My dad loves them. Has all their records. He can't help but spit out random fun facts about that stuff. I like them, too," You find yourself in front of your chemistry class, "Well...this is me. Thanks for finding my book again, Eddie."

He leans his shoulder against the wall and smiles. You notice his eyes flicker quickly to your lips and back to your eyes again before he speaks, "No problem. Thanks for helping Wheeler. I'll...see you around, I guess?"

You nod, looking back at him while you head into class, "Definitely."

And that was the start of you and Eddie.

Eddie didn't know what had come over him that day, helping you out at your locker. Wheeler had mentioned once that you seemed cool (Henderson enthusiastically agreed), and ever since then, he was convinced he had to thank you. Not just because you had helped his friend (which was cool), but also...had you always been that pretty?

Sure, you two didn't seem to have anything in common - you were known for being one of the smartest kids in school, with like 1,000 extracurriculars, bound for some Ivy League on the East Coast, and Eddie was...well, Eddie. Now in his third try at being a senior, school wasn't necessarily his strongest subject. But, you hadn't ever played in him being a freak, and always seemed kind so...he figured it would be safe to thank you for being so nice to his friend.

Because that's all he wanted to do...was thank you. That was all. Definitely not flirt with you or anything.

After that moment at your locker, Eddie seemed to run into you everywhere - lunch period, the hallway, even the mall that one time he actually went because he needed to pick up some D&D books from the bookstore. And slowly but surely, "running into each other" turned into:

"What do you mean she's just watching?" Dustin asked one day, setting up the drama room for Hellfire Club, "You never let people just watch. They always have to play. Is she going to play?"

"No, Dustin, for the hundredth time explaining, she is not playing. She is watching. Do you have a problem with her? Mortal enemies or something?"

Dustin eyed Eddie and shrugged, eventually going back to setting the table up, "No I just...you never let people watch..." He starts to grumble, "I guess in order to watch you need to have boobs, or something..."

That night at the game, Eddie wasn't his best DM self. He was distracted - probably had to do with the hours of homework he "needed to do", and definitely wasn't because you were there, sitting next to him, intently watching the game and reacting. It definitely didn't have anything to do with your cute gasps, or little squeals, or laughter whenever something happened.

Definitely not, at all.

At one point in the game, you tapped him on the shoulder. He leaned into you, not taking his eyes off of the rest of Hellfire Club, who were currently engrossed in trying to figure out their next strategy.

"Yes, m'lady?" Eddie asks in a British accent.

"Wouldn't Henderson's character be able to go through that door? Like...isn't he really charismatic? So like...can't he convince the guard to let them pass? I know he's not like, the main dude in the game or whatever but..." Your voice trails off as you realize that maybe you were too off base. You didn't really know the game at all, but that seemed right...right?

Eddie nodded slowly and his eyes darted over to you quickly...you were right. Holy shit...you were right, and Eddie totally didn't see this lapse in judgement. He smiled at you and took note of how his heart seemed to flip into his stomach, sending a quick shiver down his spine.

Shit. He was in trouble.

"Eddie, can you turn it down a little bit? I'm trying to concentrate." You groaned slightly, shifting your head in your hand as your eyes scan the textbook in front of you. Not that it's really doing anything since you can't seem to retain any information at the moment.

Eddie, who was currently practicing his air guitar solo to Metallica's "Ride the Lightning", gave three quick headbangs before turning down the music, but immediately went back to air guitar.

"Aren't I supposed to be helping you with your science homework?" You asked, a little annoyance rising, "If you're gonna be distracted, I'm gonna go home. I have like, a million college brochures to go through and-"

"No! No!" He immediately stops and stands at attention like a soldier, salute and everything, "Okay. I'll stop." He jumps on the bed next to you, sending a pencil fly in the air. He caught it and stuck it behind his ear, "Okay. Science!" He clapped his hand and rubs them together like a mad scientist.

You chuckle and roll your eyes playfully, gently shoving his shoulder beside you. "Okay, so, when dealing with organism structure, you have to remember that everything is made up of cells, right? So when thinking of specialized parts of the body-" You look up to see him staring at you, definitely not paying attention to what you're saying. "Eddie..."

He snaps to attention and smiles bashfully, "Sorry. I'm...distracted?" His eyes dart to your lips again and your heart does that annoying "pounding in your chest" thing it does basically every time Eddie looks at you.

"Do you want to be a senior for a fourth time?"

He playfully shakes his head, "Nope. Definitely not."

"What's got you so distracted, anyway? Thinking about your date with Mindi tomorrow?" You probed him a bit, trying to get more information out of him. When you had become friends with Eddie, he definitely had his fair share of..."girlfriends". Which at first, you didn't mind.

Not that you minded now, but...five months after initially becoming friends with him, you would just prefer if you were his girlfriend.

Eddie's face flushed and he looked away, throwing the pencil behind his ear on to his dresser across the room, "Oh, Mindi? No, I...cancelled that. Like, a week ago." He suddenly got off of the bed and started to pace around his bedroom a little. I watched him for a moment before speaking.

"Why? Weren't you like, so excited to take her to the movies? You said she was soooOoo hot and blah blah blah-"

"I'm just not interested in her anymore." He interrupted you, stopping his pacing. He turned to face you and didn't break eye contact, his eyes seemingly staring into your brain.

Did he know? Did he know how you had fallen for him?

It started slowly, in a way you didn't even recognize - he made you laugh more than other people, you wanted to spend as much time with him as possible, and he was so kind...not only to you, but to his friends, and even your parents when he'd come to pick you up on a Friday night with the group. He'd always come to the door, always make small talk with your mom. Not only that, but he was a gentleman, which surprised you - opened doors, pulling out your chair...

Not to mention, when it was late at night and you couldn't sleep, you couldn't help your thoughts turn to his hands in your hair, his dick inside of you, whispering your name over and over again.

The sudden realization that you were falling in love with him slapped you hard in the face - one day after school, you two were walking to his van for a ride home and someone's car blew past you in the parking lot, seemingly out of nowhere. You were about to step out but Eddie pulled you back, your body immediately pressing against his, your face mere inches from each other.

The air was electric, and you couldn't look away from his eyes. Finally, he spoke, "...you okay?" His voice was husky, low. It sent goosebumps down your arms, which were currently being held by Eddie's. You could only nod, words escaping you. Finally, Eddie broke the spell by screaming at the car, "JESUS CHRIST YOU PIECE OF SHIT WATCH WHAT YOU'RE DOING BEFORE YOU FUCKING KILL SOMEONE!"

Back in his room, you eyed him. "Why aren't you interested in her anymore?" You asked quietly, sensing the air shift. It felt more tense, more heavy.

What the fuck was going on?

Eddie, seemed to zone out for a second, taking a piece of his hair and chewing on it lightly. His eyes were focused on the floor, "Maybe...I think because...I'm interested in someone else?" It came out as a question, not a statement.

You swallowed hard. He was acting strange. Your heart started to beat strong enough that you heard it in your head. "...who are you interested in, then?" You asked. You took the textbook you were reading and closed it, putting it on his bedside table. Was he saying what you thought he was saying? Please be me, please be me, please be me! Your brain was shouting so loud you were surprised he couldn't hear it.

Eddie looked up at you quickly and then back down again, his face unreadable. Which was concerning, because Eddie's face was always an animated as a Muppet.

Was it hot in here?

Taking a step forward, he was standing at the foot of the bed now. It seemed like he was thinking...hard. "I..."

Before he could even start, he finished. The single word hung in the air, causing your heart to race even faster and your head to swim. You WHAT, Eddie? You felt like you were about to lose your mind. Was he going to say it or not? Were you going to find out, or not?

"I'MINLOVEWITHYOU." You said loudly, the words spilling out of your mouth before you could even stop them. You gasped and clapped your hand over your mouth, hoping that somehow that action would suck the words back in, as if it never happened. Eddie's head snapped up and he stared at you. The air had been sucked out of the room in one fell swoop, and you could feel embarrassed tears prickle at your eyes. "Oh, god, Eddie...I-I-"

Oh no...what had you done? You had just ruined something between you and one of your closest friends. No more movie nights, no more homework sessions, no more late night phone conversations-

In a single motion, Eddie was on top of you, his lips crashing into yours. You didn't have time to even think, but your hands immediately found their way into his hair, cradling his scalp as he pressed his body into yours. You gasped at his initial contact but quickly found yourself melting into the kiss. Eddie moaned into your mouth, his tongue gently asking permission to open. Once granted, he hungrily kissed you, pressing your back into the bed.

"Eddie..." You breathed as you pulled back a bit, looking at him. He smirked and started to pepper your chin with gentle kisses, a far cry from the kiss that had started the whole thing.

"Mmmmyes?" His eyes were twinkling as he looked at you. Suddenly he pulled back, his mouth agape, "Do you want me to stop?"

"No! No-" You almost shouted, "No, I-"

"I love you too." He said quickly, a flush coming to his face, "I...love you too. I have. For a while."

You smile, heart feeling like it's about to explode. You pulled him back into a kiss, using your tongue to explore his immediately. He moaned, pressing his groin into yours. You felt an instant rush of wetness to your panties as your hands found their way to the nape of his neck. Eddie pulled away from the kiss, his hand gently finding it's way to the top of your pants. He looked at you and you nodded, and he quickly undid the button, pulling them down, exposing your pink cotton underwear, which you felt was already starting to soak through.

Eddie hissed as he slid down your body, pressing his mouth to the wet spot on your underwear. You gasped lightly, watching him. He was quite beautiful - his hair starting to dampen with sweat at the hairline, his eyes shimmery, hungry for you. He pressed his tongue down flat on your wet spot once - teasingly - and leaned up again, removing his shirt.

Your head was still swimming as he fully pulled your pants off at your ankles, gently spreading your legs, and pushing your underwear aside. He laid on his stomach, getting comfortable, and wrapped your legs on his shoulders. He quickly glanced up at you, his eyes dark.

"Your pussy is so fucking beautiful." He said, his voice a low growl. His voice caused you to whimper slightly, and before you could even think, his tongue was moving in action, teasing your clit in small, wet motions.

"Oh, fuck, Eddie-" You couldn't think as the pleasure started to rise.

"You're already so wet for me, princess," He said, going back to your clit again. He paused to pull your underwear off but was quickly back in your pussy, moaning as if he was eating a delectable meal. He switched between quick, teasing moments, and flattening his tongue against the entirety of your pussy. You weren't sure if it was because he was just that good, or if it was because you had quite literally been dreaming of this moment for a while, but after a few minutes, you felt the coil in your lower belly start to tighten.

"Fuck Eddie...you feel so fucking good. I-I-I'm close, I think-"

"Come for me." He spoke into your pussy, suddenly slipping a finger in. Slowly at first, he started to finger you, curving his finger in an upwards motion while inside. You shrieked, immediately grabbing his hair with both hands. He responded by growling into your mound, concentrated on sending you over the edge.

Suddenly, the coil snapped and you moaned his name, no longer in control of what came out of your mouth. Your head was swimming with hot pleasure, beads of sweat gathering on your temple as your hips bucked into his mouth. Eddie slipped his finger out and gave your clit a final, gentle kiss before he slid out from under your legs and sat on his knees. He stared at you and started to shake his head, smiling.

"So fucking sexy..." He murmured, unbuckling his pants. Quickly, you reached up to help him and he looked at you.

"Just trying to get your pants off faster," You said, a blush rising to you.

"And why's that?"

"I need you. To fuck me. Right now." You said, dragging his pants down. He chuckled and stood up, shaking his pants down to his ankles. The length of his cock sprung up in his boxers, creating a tent that your eyes immediately fell on. He paused a moment and took his boxers off, his cock already glistening with precum. He slowly made his way back to you, laying on top of you. His cock laid in between the lips of your pussy, causing you to moan slightly. He sucked on your neck, a hand finding it's way to your hair and tugging slightly.

"You're awfully greedy." He purred into your ear teasingly. You heard him open his bedside table drawer, grabbing a condom and snapping the draw shut. Kneeling up again while discarding the condom wrapper, he rolled the condom on his dick achingly slow, never taking his eyes off of you. You felt a new rush of wetness slide through your pussy, and you opened your legs up more.

Eddie stroked his cock a few times before lining himself up with your entrance, which was already aching with pleasure. He leaned forward, his forehead touching yours. Your breath hitched in your stomach as he looked into your eyes and you nodded, giving him the go ahead. His dick slid in without resistance, causing you to moan loudly and his eyes to roll back.

"Shit, baby, you're so fucking wet," He hissed, starting to thrust slowly into you, "So fucking tight. Fuck s'good."

Eddie's cock filled you, every thrust sending a new wave of pleasure through you. You couldn't help your moaning - thank god Eddie's uncle wasn't home - and you felt like you were almost having an out of body experience. As Eddie started to speed his thrusts up, your hands find their way to the back of his hips, and your nails started to dig in deeper and deeper.

"Yes. Right there. Right there, Eddie. Fuck, you fuck me so good!" You stammered as he hit your walls. He grunted, panting, his hair tickling your face.

"Right there, baby? You like it right there?" He spoke, his voice a guttural growl, "You gonna come for me again, sweetheart? Be a good girl for me and show me."

His words shot through your pussy in combination with his thrusts, the sound of his dick slipping in and out of your wet pussy driving you over the edge. Sloppy kisses were exchanged as one of Eddie's hand found it's way underneath your shirt and bra, fingering a nipple.

"Fuck...I should've taken this shit off before we started." Eddie mumbled, still thrusting. You replied by whipping the shirt above your head, unhooking your bra and throwing it to the ground. Eddie's eyebrows raised and he smirked, leaning down to immediately take your nipple in his mouth. Your back arched and you gasped, one hand pushing Eddie's head down on your tits, and the other pushing his ass down to fuck you harder.

"Harder and you're gonna make me come again." You whimpered. Eddie responded by taking your nipple in his teeth, sucking harder and harder.

You started to see stars. You had never felt this type of pleasure before, and you never wanted it to stop. The combination of Eddie's cock, his mouth, and his words were about to send you careening over the edge.

"Oh, god-"

"Oh fuck, baby. I'm gonna come." Eddie said, his face finding your neck again. The hand on his head found its way to his chin, cradling it. His hair swung back and forth, and his eyelids were half shut, a deep crimson rising in his face.

"Come for me. Come with me-" Was all you were able to get out before one final thrust from Eddie sent you over the edge, causing you to scream his name, your hands finding his sheets and gripping for dear life. Hearing your screams caused Eddie to moan loudly, his whole body tensing as he spilled into the condom. He said your name, not quite as loud as your screams, but with matching intensity.

The only noises that could be heard were panting from the both of you. After a moment, Eddie slid out from inside of you, falling to the side of you and immediately taking you into his arms, kissing the top of your shoulder.

"So..." He finally said, a small chuckle playing on his words. You giggled and turned to face him, looking into his eyes.

"So."

"Now that we've established we're absolutely head over heels for each other", Eddie started, placing a kiss on your forehead, "And we're both incredibly sexually compatible..." Another kiss, "Is it like, totally corny to ask you to be my girlfriend or...no?"

You giggled again, running a hand through his hair, "I don't think so. I'd say yes, i think."

"You think?!"

"I'm kidding!" You laughed, sitting up on your elbow. You started to trace circles on his chest, the air falling back into place again. "So what now?"

"What now?!" Eddie asked. Boasting his best DM voice, he sat up and waved his arms in the air, "There's a whole big beautiful world we get to discover now together!"

You smirked, running a hand down his bare thigh, "But what if...I just want to stay in bed?"

A blush rose on Eddie's face and he smiled, looking at your lips, "Oh, well in that case, there's a lot to discover in here, too."

He reached over to his bedside table and opened the drawer again.

------

Whew, a doozy! What did you guys think?! My first time writing smut but it was just a little idea I had on my mind for a bit so I had to get it out. I love me some cute Eddie ideas.

REMINDER: My inbox is open so please request some stuff because I'm dying to write!

[roosterforme]

Geriatric Millennial | Rooster x Reader

Bradley loves all things '90s. You don't completely understand it, but you appreciate his spirit.

1000 words

Bradley Bradshaw x Reader

Check out my masterlist for more!

There were certain scenarios that became normal over time when you were in a relationship with a man more then ten years your elder. Sometimes you didn't understand certain movie references. Slang words and jokes occasionally went over your head. He and his friends would often reminisce about trends you'd never witnessed. But Bradley never made you feel bad about it, and you never called him an old-timer unless you were joking.

You were used to these things, but nothing quite prepared you for what you saw when you got home from work. Bradley was relaxing on the couch in something that looked like a bright blue, full body straitjacket with some random vintage headphones on his head.

"What the fuck?" you muttered, inching closer when you realized he was listening to music and hasn't spotted you yet. You glanced around the room, trying to locate the source of disturbing chattering sound that just started, and you tripped over a hard, black ball.

Bradley looked up at you with a smile. "Hey, you're home early." He quickly stood in his weird, fleece outfit and leaned in to give you a kiss, but you leaned away.

"What on earth is happening here?" you asked, standing frozen as he pulled his headphones off.

"What are you talking about?" He looked puzzled by your words but not by all of the weird things in the living room. 

"I'm talking about what you're wearing. And the robotic voice!"

"Oh," he laughed. "This is just my Snuggie."

"Your what?"

He glanced down at himself. "My Snuggie? I found it in a box of my stuff from highschool."

You were still so confused. "What's a Snuggie? And what is that weird sound?"

When his gaze fell to something fuzzy and brown on the couch, you jerked back in shock. "You mean my Furby?"

You glared at the critter and it's enormous, evil eyes. "Is that one of those things from that '80s Gremlins movie you're obsessed with?"

He barked out a laugh like you'd just said the funniest thing he'd ever heard in his life. "Baby, no. It's not a Gremlin. It's just a Furby. But imagine if Furby manufactured replica Gremlins... Would have been fascinating." It was starting to sound like he was speaking a foreign language. "I was just listening to Chumbawamba on my Discman and playing with my pogs and my Tomagachi. I literally forgot the Furby was even here."

You were sure you were gaping at him like he had two heads as you reached up to run your palm across his forehead. "Do you have a fever?"

"Huh? No, but I did eat a Kudos bar I found in the box, so I might potentially have an upset stomach later. But it was worth it."

After you pinched the bridge of your nose, you asked, "I'm sorry, but what did you say you were listening to?"

"Tubthumping. By Chumbawamba. You know it, don't you? Pissing the night away, pissing the night away. I get knocked down...." He looked at you in wide eyed shock. "You don't know that song? How is that possible?"

You didn't want to tell him that Chumba whatever wasn't a word. And neither was Snuggie. Not when he looked so adorably baffled. You stroked your fingers across his forehead and down his cheek as you shook your head.

"No, I don't know that song, because I'm not forty like you are. And you look kind of alarming in this thing." You pinched the fleece fabric and pulled it away from his body.

"It's my Snuggie," he muttered. "It was from an Infomercial."

"I don't know what that means." He gasped and you started laughing. "But I would love to sit down with you while you explain it to me. As long as you don't make me eat something from the late 1900s."

He took your hand in his bigger one and and led you toward the couch and the demonic looking Furby. "Okay, but first, you need to listen to this CD. Because Jake told me Chumbawamba is a guilty pleasure, but it's actually really good."

About twenty minutes later, you were wrapped up in the Snuggie, enveloped in softness and Bradley's lingering body warmth. "I love this thing," you told him, burying your face in the fleece. "And yes, Chumbawamba is good, but I like Hoobastank better. And I'm really sorry I accidentally kicked your Magic 8 ball across the floor."

He wrapped his arms around your shoulders and kissed your cheek as you skipped a track on his Discman. "That's okay. Hey, do you want to learn how to play pogs? The best part is, I'm not sure there are actually any rules at all."

"Sure," you said with a shrug. "Why the hell not? As long as you lock that Furby away and never let it out ever again."

"Heard."

[mbsneur]

Come with us

Alexia Putellas x Cata Coll x Jenni Hermoso x Reader

Summary: Alexia, Jenni and Cata make a bet about you

Warnings: Smut Ahead 18+

WC: 2854

please read this text before going to the story please don't be so strict with me but rather write to me what I can do better or what you wished were different. also tell me if you find the story too long or too short.. Also write to me if you liked it. My requests are always open (and English is not my first language so don't be mad at me) and if you have any ideas for the future about who I should write please tell me… the topics I will choose by myself unless you have a request for one or two people I will Read everything.. in the next survey I will take a few ideas from the old survey and new ones…. now read and I hope you like it <33

It was your third course with the Spanish national team and you were nominated for the Olympics. You played your first group game against Japan. You won 2-1 and you were really relieved because Japan was an opponent you lost to in the 2023 World Cup

You all wanted to celebrate it (at least toast to it) even though it was forbidden to you all because the breaks between the games were so short. You all still sat down together in the hotel bar and celebrated. For some people it wasn't just a toast, they were visible drunk

During the three courses you had noticed a tension between you and Cata. Her hands were often on your hips or caressing your butt. She was always visibly close to you and was staring at you . Her eyes were always either on your tits or your ass, when you have seminars, her hand was dangerously close to your leg

Jenni and Alexia, the two best friends, of course noticed it and had some fun with it. You didn't know if they knew more than you about why Cata was like that, but they pushed you onto her lap or always tried to keep a place free next to Cata At movie nights you lie next to Cata or just nonsensical jokes

The four of you were sitting together at a table. The three of you were drunk. Your not very . Once again Alexia made a stupid joke

“Hey, Cata is touching you under the table,”

she says laughing and Jenni playfully hits her on the shoulder

“I bet y/n can’t even stand one night with Cata.” spits jenni shakily Alexia laughs and Cata curses something in Spanish in her direction.

Jenni rummages in her pants pocket and slaps a 10€ bill on the table "10€ I'll make her come more often than Cata ever will" she half screams and laughs loudly

"20€ I'll make her come more often than the two of you combined" snaps Alexia

„ 50€ she won't have an orgasm with ya’ll“ throws cata on the table

You sat there with your jaw dropped. You were shocked that they had actually just bet 80€ on who would make you cum more often

You don't know what, but there's something about it that you like. Jenni and Alexia exchange looks and Cata looks straight at you

You didn't think they were serious, but everyone suddenly looked at you, looking for confirmation

You were speechless but Alexia spoke up "Come with us, I want to win the €80" she said with a horny smile. You looked at Cata, her eyes were darker than you've ever seen them before and Jenni leaned back and raised her arms Cata who was sitting next to you grabbed your hand and pulled you up, jenni slap onto the table with a "vamos chicas let's win money"

you push your way through the mass of your team

Aitana held Jenni's shoulder and pulled her back "You all go, Jenni"

"Si Alexia and y/n aren't feeling so well, they must have had too much to drink," Jenni said, laughing and moving away from Aitana.

The way to the hotel room was quiet. Nobody said a word. You ran in front of the three. They gave you priority When you all Alexia and Jenni's room arrived, Alexia pressed the card against the sensor and the door opened. Cata came close to your ear, "Go ahead cariño" and hit you on your ass to push you forward

You knew full well that the rest of the night would be all about you because they bet on you and they will give you so many orgasms until you beg for them to stop. It's not about the money for them, no, it's about who is better the Three always want to be the best and it's not about money

Alexia stepped in front of you to pull you in for a deep kiss. Her hands were on your neck and your hands pulled lightly on her undershirt to keep her close. Her tongue slid through your lips and bit gently. You felt hands on your back You couldn't place who they belonged to but they pulled up your shirt and other hands pulled down your pants and thong. You broke the kiss with Alexia and looked back briefly to see that Cata was the one who pulled on your shirt and finally gave it to you Over the head Cata kissed the exposed skin and Alexia started licking your neck while Jenni kissed your lower back and one of her hands found its way to your clitoris she made firm slow circles and making you whimper

so many hands and so many feelings at once you didn't know if it was too much for you but you liked the tension you took your bottom lip between your teeth and let out a deep moan cata says in a light whisper "Let's take her to bed mh" Jenni and Alexia let go of you and push you towards the bed "on your back" says alexia dominantly you do as you are told and automatically spread your legs to put yourself on full display for the three of them they stand in front of you and watch your helpless little body jenni took your knees in her hands and bent over to kiss you, her hands rest on your stomach and you noticed that the mattress gave way left and right. Alexia took one of your breasts in her hand and Cata licked big circles and placed kisses on the other side. You bite Jenni's lip and breathe heavily “You will be a good girl for us and let us use you” Jenni smiles and attracts the attention of Alexia and Cata, whose hands are now squeezing your thighs

You nod eagerly and Cata bites your nipple hard and making you scream. "You'll use your words, you understand," says Cata, laughing and looking at the smiling Alexia. "Use me and I hope I'll know later which one of you is better in bed." Jenni smiles and looks down at you. She licks her lips as her eyes meet your dripping pussy. She leans down, giving Cata and Alexia leeway all over your upper body. She places kisses and bites on the inside of your thighs, making you twitch and you try to look down but alexia grabs your neck and turns your gaze into her eyes "you won't look down and you won't move until you cum" alexia says seriously and cata starts kissing your cheek "my god cata Finally kiss me" you say snippily and Jenni starts laughing "Cata she's trying to give you orders" Alexia laughs lightly and Cata kisses you hard so that you can hardly breathe and Alexia's mouth is all over your breasts

alexia is hard on your breasts it hurts but the pain turns into lust, lust for jenni, Jenni finally shoots her tongue into your wet hole and your lips tilt away from Cata to moan you have never felt anything so good "oh my fuck- Jenni fuck" you try to move but Alexia's strong arms hold you in place "Didn't you understand what Alexia said to you earlier, should I tie you up huh cariño" cata says with a eye roll you let out a deep sigh and your head falls back onto the mattress "I'm telling you she lets herself be handled like a submissive slut, right?" alexia says laughing You roll your eyes and try to concentrate on Jenni's talented tongue, which is getting faster around your bundle of nerves and you can barely hold yourself in place

your hips rock into jenni's mouth and you moan pornographically the whole room is filled with your moans "she's going to come alexia" cata says with a smile "make her beg cata i want to hear her begging for jenni" cata slides to your ear " Do you want to come, baby? You can't believe how long I've been wanting to see you come." Cata says and takes your earlobe between her teeth. Alexia grabs Jenni's hair and pushes her head closer to your pussy. "Fuck Jenni, your tongue feels so good. Fuck pleas - I'm-fuck"

“No,” Alexia says quickly and snidely. “Make her beg,” she adds "beg for jenni be a good girl for us all you have to do is beg and jenni will save you, do it for me i want to hear you use your pretty mouth" cata says between kisses against your face "Jenni let me come, I'm so close"

“Something is missing,” says Alexia seriously "please jenni please i need you so much let me come" "Then come for me" Jenni says against your pussy and the vibration sends waves through your body. Alexia pinches your nipples and with a deep scream you come and your back arches upwards. Alexia kisses your neck and praises you for how well you're doing

jenni slowly moves away from you and kisses you the taste of your juices makes you whimper "let me sit on your face and cata take care of you mh" you nod eagerly Alexia grabbed a bunch of your hair and pulled it you moaned in pain "we told you earlier to use your words" Alexia spits you roll your eyes again and say slightly annoyed "Cata please use my pussy until you're finished" Jenni stands up and takes off her pants crawls back onto your chest she moves her body over your face you wanted to put your hands on her strong thighs but she pushes them away "don't touch me I'll use you" says jenni and sits down She takes your head in her hands and moves you to where she needs you. She lets out a deep moan and you feel strong hands circling your wet hole "cariño you are so wet, did jenni fuck you so well mh?" Cata asks you and you answer with a "mhh" because your mouth is full of Jenni's pussy

Jenni starts to rub against your mouth and Alexia has sat down on the back of the bed to watch how good they make you feel. One of Cata's fingers dives into you, not quickly, just very deeply. You moan against Jenni's pussy and reach into the bed sheets breathing faster jenni looks down at you with her mouth open "bonita you're going to make me cum do you hear" with these words jenni comes into your mouth and rides her orgasm out on your face she gets off of you and admires your glistening lips cata adds another finger and slowly get faster which makes you moan hard "Cata don't stop you feel so fucking good" you moan loudly you don't know what to do with your feelings and look over at Alexia and Jenni who has now sat down next to Alexia and with her head pressed on her shoulder you look into Alexia's eyes and she looks at you like what’s happening here is all she's wanted since you've been here

Alexia whispers in Jenni's ear "Touch me Jenni, I want to feel you" Jenni looks back and forth between you and Alexia. You lie there and moan so loudly that you can hear it in the next town. Cata is so good with her fingers, Jenni strokes Alexia's thigh and presses her head against her neck. One of her hands slips into Alexia's hands and starts to finger her. Alexia's head falls back against her neck and lets out a quiet whimper from her. Cata hovers over you and takes your neck in her hand. "Look at me I want you to look into my eyes when you cum " you look deep into Cata's eyes and moan her name softly. Cata's hand grips tightly around your cheek and she inserts a third finger into you. You moan soundlessly and roll your eyes back Cata's face comes closer to yours "I said look at me when you cum if you don't look at me I will stop I swear to you"

Cata says breathing hard you find it hard to keep your eyes in place you do your best to look at her Cata says "come baby come on my fingers" you let go and your legs start shaking hard you're a moaning mess and When you come down from your high, you look over at a moaning Alexia who has already had two orgasms from Jenni's fingers alone

Alexia dedicates herself to you and moves. She wants you. You know it very well. She wants you begging and crying. Your whole face is red and you are out of breath after just two orgasms. She slides over to you and caresses you. "I know Bebita pshh, let me use your pussy and i cum inside you mh and you'll make cata feel good" cata and jenni know exactly what's coming next jenni pulls you over to her by your hips cata takes off her pants "get on your knees and hold your ass in The air for alexia“ cata sits down against the backrest and spread her legs Jenni pulls you onto your knees

Alexia comes back with a strap on around her hips. You hear her feet running on the floor. You try to move backwards but Jenni grabs the back of your head and leads you to Cata's middle. Cata's head falls back and she lets out a deep sigh. "She's good with her mouth huh"

"She's not just pretty, she can also do something" says Cata moaning slightly. Alexia Knits behind you and gives you a slap on the ass, which makes you moan against Cata. Cata's legs start to wobble and she pushes your head closer to her. Alexia you by doing this she moves her fingers back and forth on your hole jenni rubs your back and kisses your temple alexia slowly inserts her strap into you and you hold on to cata's thighs and breathe openly against cata jenni whispers encouragement to you "look how good you are cata "Let Alexia come inside you." With a deep moan she comes and Jenni rubs Cata's stomach. Cata comes down and takes your head in her hands and lets it rest on her thigh. Alexia grips your ass harder and becomes faster. Your moans become audibly louder and Jenni doesn't stop her back for a second to fondle

Alexia grabs your hips tightly and pushes harder and harder into you. She lets out a sigh. "Do you like being taken like that, so exposed in front of us?" she says and hits your now red ass again. "Fuck Alexia, yes please come inside me wants to feel you" alexia speeds up and starts to moan jenni spreads kisses down your back and cata slides through your scalp your legs start to give in "alexia i'm close-" you stutter "wait for her" cata says and pulls up a little your hairline "I'm close too, just a little bit Bebita, you're doing so well" Alexia praises you, you become hazy, your vision becomes unclear until you feel your release getting closer and closer "Cariño come for Alexia, show her how good she makes you feel" after these Words, you only needed a few more thrusts until Alexia pushed you both over the edge. You moaned her name and her hands squeezed your hips. She let go of you and only moved away from you when you had come down

Jenni turns you onto your back and lays you gently next to Cata and gives you a small kiss on the forehead. Your breathing becomes more regular. Cata hasn't stopped stroking you and she pulls you into her arms. After a few minutes Alexia comes back and lies down “When are you finally going to reveal your love” says Alexia and Jenni starts laughing “Who actually won now?” you tease back playfully and snub against Jenni. Everyone laughs "Shut up or I'll fuck you until you forget our names and don't know anything about this shitty bet" says Alexia laughing. Cata got you something to eat and Jenni ran a bath for you

I hope you enjoyed it <33

[ikkyfics]

Drive-In Heartbeats

Dave Lizewski x f!reader

Summary: In which Dave discovers that being just a friend was never enough.

Warnings: fluffy, pre relationship, first kiss, no use of y/n, a few fun facts, provocative!reader, suggestive

A/N: I could hardly believe my luck in finding a photo in a drive-in with Back to the Future

and thanks to @lilyypotter1234, I've been feeling a bit unmotivated to write and your message helped me, thank you very much <333

Masterlist

The huge screen of the drive-in displayed scenes from Back to the Future. The familiar soundtrack filled the air with nostalgia, but Dave’s focus wasn’t on the movie. He was sitting in the car, that old model he loved, with a front seat that seemed made for moments like this. You were so close that your shoulders and thighs touched, and that was all he could perceive. The sweet smell of chocolate mixed with the aged scent of the upholstery, and every time you rustled the candy bag or let out a soft laugh, his heart raced.

The movie was halfway through, but your conversation hadn’t slowed down. It was easy to be next to him — comfortable, yet with that tension hanging in the air, like something more was always about to happen.

“Did you know the original ending was completely different?” you asked, nibbling on the last piece of chocolate in your hand. Your voice was soft, but carried the excitement typical of someone who loved those little tidbits.

“Different how?” Dave adjusted his glasses and turned his head toward you, his blue eyes sparkling with interest. He always seemed more alive when the topic was something nerdy.

“In the first draft of the script, the 80’s George McFly would grab an old 1955 newspaper with a photo of Marty at the dance. He’d look at his son and be shocked, saying something like ‘This can’t be… this is the...’” You paused dramatically, smiling when you saw Dave completely focused on you. “And then the movie would end right there, without him managing to say the name.”

Dave blinked, the expression torn between fascination and slight indignation. “You’re kidding? That would be so frustrating! Who ends a movie like that? I’d want to blow up the cinema.”

“And you don’t think you’d blow up the cinema with that ending where Doc shows up out of nowhere saying they have to save Marty’s kids?” you teased, leaning a little closer to him.

Dave opened his mouth to respond, but ended up laughing and shaking his head, surrendering. “Okay, you’ve got a point.” He smiled that shy smile that made the air feel lighter — but at the same time, his proximity made the atmosphere warmer, more intense.

You reached out for the candy bag, only to realize it was in Dave’s lap. Before you could say anything, he grabbed a piece of chocolate and held it out for you.

“Thanks,” you murmured, but instead of taking it with your hand, you leaned in and opened your mouth, hoping he’d understand. Dave froze immediately, as if his brain was trying to process the gesture.

“Wait, you... want me to—?” He didn’t finish the sentence, his voice coming out quieter than usual.

“Uh-huh,” you responded, tilting your head slightly and keeping your gaze fixed on him, amused by the way his ears turned red.

He hesitated for a moment before leaning in slowly and placing the chocolate on your lips. But before he could pull his hand back, you lightly closed your lips around his finger, biting it gently and deliberately.

Dave made an indistinct sound, somewhere between a nervous laugh and a surprised sigh. “Did you... just bite my finger?” He blinked, clearly unsure what to do with the moment.

“It was an accident,” you lied shamelessly, the corner of your lips pulling into a mischievous smile.

He kept staring at you, his eyebrows slightly raised behind his glasses. His eyes were locked on yours, as if trying to decipher your intentions, but the heat building between you both said everything.

“You do that on purpose,” he whispered finally, his voice barely audible. He looked away for a second, as if trying to regain control of the situation, but the parted lips and the nervous movement of his fingers gave him away.

“Do what?” you asked, leaning in just enough for your knees to touch his.

Dave looked down, at the almost nonexistent space between you, then back up to your eyes. He was so close you could count his eyelashes, and there was something in his expression that felt more intense than ever. The slight tremor in his breath was impossible to ignore.

“You have... chocolate here,” he said finally, his voice hoarse and low, as if the words were struggling to come out. He pointed to the corner of your lips, but his hand lingered in the air for a moment, unsure if he should move.

You tilted your head slightly, the smile on your face barely hiding the provocation. “Here, where?”

Dave seemed to be fighting with himself internally, but then, as if summoning sudden courage, he leaned in even closer. His hand moved slowly, hesitantly, and his fingers touched the corner of your mouth gently, wiping away the chocolate residue.

The gesture lasted only a second, but it was enough to ignite the air between you. The touch was soft, but the intensity in his gaze while doing it was almost overwhelming. He tried to pull his hand away quickly, but you held his wrist, stopping him from going too far.

“Thanks,” you murmured, your voice low and heavy with something you knew he understood perfectly. His thumb still brushed your skin, almost involuntarily, and his fingers remained where they were, creating an undeniable connection.

Dave opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. His eyes were locked on yours, as if searching for something — or perhaps waiting for a sign. The silence was as thick as the tension between you, and the movie continued in the background, completely ignored.

You let go of his wrist, but didn’t move your hand. Dave hesitated for another moment before moving again. His thumb slid slowly, almost reluctantly, across the corner of your lips, as if he wanted to be sure there was no more chocolate left. But his gaze said the gesture meant much more.

“All set,” he said, but the word sounded strangled, almost as if he had to force it out.

“Are you sure?” you asked, leaning in just a bit more, your voice soft but carrying that challenging tone.

“I... think so,” he answered, almost in a whisper, his eyes dropping quickly to your mouth before returning to yours.

The space between you was so small now that just one move would bring you together. Dave seemed to be holding his breath, and the way he pressed his hands against his lap showed just how hard he was fighting something. But the way he looked at you — like it was impossible to look away — betrayed that he was holding on by a thread.

You tilted your head slightly to the side, your lips curling into a mischievous smile. “It’s okay, Dave. No need to be nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” he immediately retorted, but the blush creeping up his cheeks and ears told a different story.

“Oh, really?” you teased, your fingers moving to lightly touch his arm, sliding along the sleeve of his sweatshirt almost absentmindedly.

Dave chuckled softly, but didn’t say anything. He just looked at you, as if trying to gather the courage to do or say something. When you stopped touching his arm, his fingers moved almost reflexively, gently resting on yours, as if he wanted to keep the contact.

“Do you know what you’re doing to me?” he murmured, his eyes still locked on yours. There was a desperate tone in his voice, but at the same time, he seemed completely fascinated.

“Maybe,” you replied, leaning in just enough for your faces to be inches apart. “And you?”

Dave blinked, clearly caught off guard by the question. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. All he could do was stare at you, his blue eyes shining with something between desire and doubt. It was as if he were frozen, his thoughts racing at high speed as he struggled to find something to say.

You could feel his breath, short and almost shaky, mingling with yours. Dave’s eyes didn’t stray for even a second, and the way he was so focused on you made it feel like the rest of the world didn’t exist. His chest rose and fell, the nervousness evident in every little movement.

You broke the silence. Your voice came out softly, almost as if the words had slipped out before you could stop them.

“I know we’re just friends...” you started, the phrase hanging in the air for a moment, as if you wanted to make sure he was listening. “But I would kiss you if you asked.”

His reaction was immediate. Dave blinked quickly, as if shocked, and his parted lips froze. He seemed like he wanted to respond, but the words were stuck in his throat. You saw his hands move slightly, as if he were about to do something, but he froze, his gaze becoming even more intense.

“Are you... serious?” he finally managed to ask, his voice hoarse and hesitant. He tilted his head slightly, as if needing to confirm that he had heard right.

You shrugged, a soft, teasing smile playing on your lips. “Looks like you’ll have to find out.”

Dave’s eyes briefly dropped to your mouth before returning to yours, and the way he bit his lower lip made your heart race. He seemed torn, as if fighting against the barrier that had existed between you — the barrier that until now was the certainty that you were just friends.

“I…” he began, but stopped, his fingers absently tracing the steering wheel as if he needed something to hold onto. “Do you know what you’re saying?”

“I do.” Your voice was firm, but there was a sweetness in the way you spoke, an attempt to reassure him. You leaned in a little closer, enough for your knees to press against his again, and gently placed your hand over his.

Dave held his breath at the touch, and his eyes fixed on your hand for a moment before looking back at you. “I... I don’t want to ruin anything,” he murmured, but the hesitation in his voice revealed that he was on the verge of giving in.

You smiled, a small, confident smile, but there was something vulnerable in it too. “What if it doesn’t ruin anything? What if it’s exactly what needed to happen?”

Dave seemed incapable of processing what you were saying. He was so close now that it would take just a move from you to close the distance between you. And as he stared at you, as if trying to decide what to do, you saw determination slowly rising on his face.

“You don’t know how much I’ve wanted this,” he said, almost in a whisper, the words laden with sincerity and something deeper.

The silence between you was louder than any sound around you. It felt as if the entire world had stopped at that moment, waiting to see what the next step would be. You could feel the tension growing with each passing second, and the proximity was so electrifying that it made your skin tingle.

“Then kiss me, Dave,” you murmured, your eyes locked with his, not looking away. “Unless you prefer me to take the lead.”

He laughed softly, nervously, but there was something more in the laugh. Something that showed he was finally giving in. “You’re impossible,” he said, his voice low, but full of affection.

And then he leaned in, hesitant at first, as if checking if it was really allowed, but the hesitation lasted only a moment. When his lips finally met yours, the touch was gentle, almost shy, but quickly became something more intense, more sincere, as if he were pouring everything he had kept inside for so long into the kiss.

The world around you disappeared completely. All that existed was the warmth of his touch, the way his fingers found their way to the back of your neck, holding you as if afraid you might disappear. And when you leaned in even closer, deepening the kiss, it was as if something had finally clicked into place.

When you separated, breathless, Dave’s eyes still shone with that mixture of nervousness and euphoria. He laughed softly, but it was an uncertain sound, as if he were still trying to process what had just happened. Resting his forehead against yours for a moment, he whispered, almost out of breath:

“So... friends?”

The hesitation in his voice was evident. It was as if he were trying to gauge the situation, figure out how far he could go without crossing an invisible line he didn’t even know existed. His fingers, still resting on your neck, traced a small, nervous circle, as if even without realizing it, he was seeking something to hold on to.

You tilted your head slightly, your eyes fixed on his, and raised an eyebrow with a small smile on your lips. The kind of smile that could either reassure him or make him even more anxious.

“Is that what you want?” you asked, your voice low and carrying something that made his breath hitch for a second.

Dave blinked, surprised by your direct question. His blue eyes locked onto yours, and for a moment, he seemed unsure of what to say. But then you saw something change. Doubt gave way to quiet determination, as if he were finally willing to be honest with himself and with you.

“No.” The word slipped out before he could hold it back, but he didn’t retreat. On the contrary, he moved closer, his eyes never leaving yours. “No, that’s not what I want.”

You didn’t respond immediately. Instead, you let his words hang between you, feeling the weight of them. The silence that followed was almost palpable, but not uncomfortable. It was full of possibilities, full of what you both knew was coming.

“Then what do you want, Dave?” you murmured, leaning in a little more, enough for your lips to almost touch his again.

He swallowed hard, his gaze briefly dropping to your mouth before returning to your eyes. “I want you,” he finally said, his voice coming out as a whisper, but filled with so much sincerity that it seemed to echo in the small space of the car.

His confession made your heart race, and you couldn’t help the smile that spread across your lips. He seemed so vulnerable, but at the same time so sure, as if he had just laid all his cards on the table.

“And you’ve got me,” you replied, the softness in your voice contrasting with the intensity of the moment.

His eyes softened, but the desire still shone in them. As if to test the waters, he moved the hand that had been on your neck, tracing a slow path to your cheek. His touch was so careful it almost seemed reverent, but there was something in his fingers — a slight tremble, perhaps? — that showed just how much he was feeling.

“I think I’ve always wanted this,” he murmured, more to himself than to you.

“And why didn’t you say anything?” you asked, your voice coming out softer than you meant.

He laughed, a short, nervous sound. “Because I thought you’d never see me like this. I mean, look at you...” He stopped, the sentence unfinished, but the look in his eyes said it all.

“And look at you,” you shot back, a smile forming as you leaned even closer. “I think you underestimated how much I see you, Dave.”

He seemed stunned, but before he could say anything, you took the initiative this time. Your lips met his again, and the kiss was anything but hesitant. It was as if all the nervousness, all the doubt, had disappeared. The intensity was palpable, and the way he responded to the kiss, his hands firmly on your waist, showed that he too was determined not to hold anything back anymore.

When you finally pulled apart again, breathless and even closer, he rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closed for a moment. “I don’t want to be just your friend anymore,” he admitted, almost like a confession, but with the firmness of someone who knew exactly what they wanted.

“Good,” you replied, a soft but teasing smile on your lips, “because I don’t want to be just your friend anymore either.”

Dave laughed, the tension easing a little, but there was still an electricity in the air. He gently ran his thumb along the line of your jaw, the touch so soft it almost felt like a whisper.

“Does this mean I can kiss you whenever I want now?” he asked, his voice filled with a mix of playfulness and genuine hope.

“It means you should,” you replied, leaning in again, leaving no room for doubt.

The kiss that followed was even slower, deeper, as if each movement was a silent promise. Dave seemed to lose any trace of hesitation, his hands finding their way to your waist, holding you firmly but still with that care that seemed to be so characteristic of him. The car, small and cramped, became a space where you needed nothing else but each other.

The sound of the movie continued in the background, but you both no longer paid attention. It was almost comical that Back to the Future was playing in front of you while you were creating a new moment, one that no one but the two of you could witness.

“I can’t believe we paid for this just to ignore the movie,” you murmured against his lips, your voice full of provocation.

He laughed, his forehead still resting against yours, as his fingers slid along your back in distracted touches, but ones that sent shocks through your skin. “I think I’ve never been more grateful for not paying attention to something,” he replied, with a smile that lit up his blue eyes.

You smiled, running your hands along his shoulders, your fingers tracing the outline of the collar of the t-shirt he was wearing. “And you don’t want to watch it after all?”

“Not even a little,” he answered immediately, leaning in to kiss you again, more briefly this time, but still enough to leave no doubt. “I prefer this.”

The heat building between you made the space even tighter, more intimate. He shifted a little, adjusting so you could be even closer, his arm slipping behind you, while your head rested on his shoulder. It was almost ridiculous how natural it felt to be this way, as if you belonged to each other and hadn’t realized it until now.

You looked at him, your faces so close that it was impossible not to notice the rosy tint on his cheeks, the shine in his eyes that said more than any words could. And when he spoke again, his voice was so soft it seemed like a secret.

“I don’t know how it took me so long to figure this out. You... are everything.”

The intensity of the sentence made your chest tighten in a good way, as if something had finally clicked into place. You didn’t need to respond immediately, because his hands were holding yours now, fingers intertwined as if he wanted to make sure you were there, that this was real.

“Dave,” you whispered, the word heavy with emotion, “if this means we’ll have more nights like this... then please, keep taking so long to figure things out.”

He laughed, a soft, carefree sound, before leaning in to kiss you again.

[stealingyourbones]

I don't really get the people who think reading the comics is such a radical idea. Don't they want to learn more about them? aren't they curious what makes them tick? what insane adventures they went on? what fears they have? what makes them laugh and smile? I'm from europe so I haven't seen any of the DC shows I see mentioned every once in a while (which means I really don't get the whole Clark hates clones thing... but that's a different thing) and it's only been this year that I have enough disposable income to splurge on comics, aka I haven't read that many just yet.

But I do think the ones I have read enhance the stories I'm trying to tell, which to me is a good reason to read them ;p but besides that, they are fun! they are just really fun to read

I’m glad you’re having fun reading comics man! It’s a shame that folks don’t read them as much but you know, I can understand it. I both asked some folks in the Haunting Heroes discord server and have some of my own points to make about this.

First of all I do still believe that you should consume some form of DC media if you’re in the fandom. It’s fun and there are comics, books, movies, tv shows, and every other form of medium known to man that you can take a peek at! Idk I’m just a bit DC enjoyer and think that looking at canon media to expand on your knowledge and help create ideas you wouldn’t have had if you hadn’t looked at said piece of media.

Now onto why reading comic books is hard:

Some folks simply prefer the fandom and not the official DC content. Whether they prefer fanon, find fics more accessible, or like the people in the fandom, they’d rather just stick to the fandom.

They simply don’t know where to start. Getting into comics can be INCREDIBLY overwhelming ( DC has done their best to fix this and has messed up more than once. My go to is to reccomend folks just start reading New 52 comic runs as it’s really good for new readers to jump into the comics with any hero that might intrigue them). Big comic events span multiple comic story runs and not a cohesive line of comics, some omnibuses for stories are out of print, the 80+ years of comics are daunting as hell, and everyone has their own opinion on the best versions of a character/where to start/what to read.

Money. Comics are an expensive hobby to have. They may cost $1-$5 each on average but that price adds up over time. I have a comic collection of roughly 1,300 comics. I’d estimate its value very roughly around the $7,800 range. It’s probably far more than that though and I know damn well reselling it I won’t get half of that value back. I’m very fortunate to be a college student with disposable income and for this hobby to be the only thing I ever really spend money on besides rent and food. Some people either can’t afford them or don’t want to buy a comic they don’t know if it’s good or not.

Varying quality. Comics are a very mixed bag thing where they can be incredibly written or some of the worst pieces of media you’ve ever read. With this being the case, it can be really hard to find a comic character or writer you like if that’s your first experience. It takes a while to learn about different writers and find out who your favorite writers are. What’s harder is some writers can make absolute masterpieces with one character and the next comic run they cover it can be absolute garbage. Not only that, everyone has opinions on what is a good comic run or not. It’s impossible to find a repeatedly stated and easily accessible list on the good comics to read.

Pretentious “Canon is God” fans. Experiencing “um actually this isn’t good because this isn’t how the canon character would act” responses from people can really fucking suck and diminish their want to experience anything that’s official DC writing. I’ve seen more than one person go into this primarily fanon focused space and insult people saying their writing isn’t canonical and therefore it isn’t valid. It’s Uber Pretentious, demeaning, and actively harms peoples interests in checking out canon content.

Timelines. I already kind of said it but DC’s timelines are a mess. hell, even New 52 has some fucked up timelines making all of Batman’s previous timelines canon but happen only within a seven year period. That’s WAY too short for how much history is packed in there. The amount of crisises that happen and fully change the lore and timelines of characters is bonkers, the comic runs that bounce between different comic runs are really confusing, and the fact that there isn’t a True Starting Point for reading makes it so hard to grasp anything that’s happening. It’s one of comics biggest issues and no matter what DC has done they have yet to find a convenient solution.

Sensitive Content. Comics from DC are littered with either intentional, badly aged, or ignorantly written plot points and writing choices that will turn away readers. DC has its fair share of sexism, misogyny, abelism, racism, abuse, sexual harassment, sexual assaults, or topics casually addressed that can be very triggering for some people. Especially since a large amount of that sort of content is handled incredibly poorly. One particular writer, Alan Moore, writes sexual assault scenes with absolutely zero tact or the delicateness that a topic such as that should be held in. It’s almost solely used as a “let’s make the bad guy do the most fucked up thing they could do” throwaway plot point. Comics of the sort dissuade a lot of readers because of both the heavy content within comics and how that content can be incredibly poorly handled. This is partially why some folks would prefer to read fics. Comics are a unknown mixed grab bag when it comes to content like this and things exactly like this is known to make PTSD symptoms worse while fics have tags and can warn you before you consume the content within.

Time. A lot of folks have busy lives and just don’t have the time to read them.

The ways they intake media. Some folks might have a better time watching a long commentary video that explains a comic or their brain can’t process the comic medium very well. I can read and retain comic knowledge but even I am unique in this aspect, my memory is frightening levels of bad and is proven by science to be absolute shit. I have to reread comics at least once a month to retain the basic bare bones plot. Just because one person can easily digest what’s going on in a comic doesn’t mean everyone can.

Comics are such a big part of my life. I love them so much and they’ve gotten me through so many things. My own experience with comics isn’t the same for others and my thoughts on reading comics differs with other people. A lot of people have equally as many reasons for why they don’t read comics as you and I have for reading them.

[creepyclothdoll]

I set Angel Free

All of this is gonna sound pretty mean but let me preface this by saying that this girl, Angel, thought she was God’s gift. And I mean that in the most literal sense. Like she’d literally introduce herself by saying, 

“My name is Angel, because I’m a gift from Heaven.”

She’d say it with this smile that was so fake and sickly-sweet you could taste your teeth rotting just looking at it. All her mannerisms were stolen from disney movies, like how she’d talk in this high-pitched little girl voice that she thought made her seem so cute. Like, yeah, yeah, you’re supposed to be nice to people like that, but it was so hard to tolerate her. 

So we messed with her. It wasn’t because she was in a wheelchair, I wanna make that clear. I don’t have a problem with people in wheelchairs. Just Angel. You’d feel the same way if you knew her. Honestly everyone did. 

She literally didn’t know where babies came from. Like one time my friends were joking about having Nick Jonas’s babies and Angel was like “how would you make the baby his?” And we had to literally explain to her where babies come from and ask where she thought they came from. She said, and I quote,

“When a mommy makes a very special wish, and gives it a special kiss and sends it to God, God cuts a piece of Heaven in the shape of a baby and wraps it in the wish and sends it back to the mommy, to grow up and be loved and kept safe on the earth forever.”

This was, by far, the stupidest thing I ever heard in my entire life. So of course I responded by telling her her mommy was lying to her, most likely because she was a whore. 

This made everyone at lunch laugh really hard because her mom, Ms CJ, was the school’s frumpiest old cat lady, and she literally had those 80’s coke-bottle glasses like that guy from Trailer Park Boys and the idea of her getting sexed up for dollar bills was enough to make you piss yourself laughing. 

Angel started crying and doing that annoying pouting thing. Frankly I doubt she even knew what a whore was, just that it was bad. I think she wanted to storm off, but it’s not like she could go very far. Which I pointed out as well, to uproarious laughter. 

Okay again, I don’t have an issue with people in wheelchairs. It was just really easy to mess with her. But this was the incident that, for some reason, made everyone think of me as the Designated Angel Watchman. Like, any time Angel did anything weird and cringey, everyone would look at me like they were Jim from the Office and I was the camera. And then if I didn’t say something funny about it, they’d get all disappointed. But when I did say something funny, it became the new Angel Thing Of The Week that everyone would be saying in the halls between classes, and I’d feel like a genius. Did it go too far sometimes? Sure. But that’s not my fault. All Angel ever had to do was act like a normal person for once and it all would have stopped. 

Angel was homeschooled her whole life until seventh grade, which is probably why she was so weird. 

I wanna be clear– she wasn’t like, mentally disabled or anything like that. That would make me look pretty bad. She was just weird. She was always singing by herself– pop songs, disney princess songs, sometimes songs in japanese from anime. She was convinced she had the best voice in the class, and flaunted it all the time like she thought we were gonna be impressed. She wore these huge ugly cat sweaters with glitter and frills every single day. 

And any time we watched a movie in class, she’d laugh this awful snickering long laugh at ANY joke and then bawl her goddamn eyes out if there was even a little bit of a sad part. It was so annoying!

She refused to do anything outside her comfort zone– no scary stories, no new foods, no games she’d never played before. She turned her nose up at anything unfamiliar.

So let me be clear: Angel deserved most of what we did to her. 

But she didn’t deserve what I did that last day.

Before I met Angel, I thought Ms CJ was okay. After, though, I realized she was batshit. She only let Angel come to our school for seventh grade because she knew she’d be Angel’s homeroom teacher and that she’d be able to flit in and coddle her throughout the day. Ms CJ was Angel’s constant guardian, which should be humiliating for anyone who has shame, but Angel loved the attention. She’d beg Ms CJ to stay with her longer every time she popped in during class. And that sucked, because I couldn’t say shit about anything cringe Angel did when Ms CJ was around, so I missed a lot of really good opportunities to mess with her. 

Ms CJ always sat with her daughter at lunch, which was honestly bad parenting because there was no way Angel would ever be able to make any friends like that. Ms CJ never let Angel join the rest of us for recess. Or for field trips. Once during a group project in French class, as a joke, I invited Angel to a made-up party in the woods. Angel replied by saying,

“I can’t go if it’s in the woods, silly! My mommy doesn’t let me outside!”

She said this like it was the most normal thing in the world for her, so I asked some clarifying questions. She explained, in her girly sing-song voice, that she’s not ever allowed to be outside for more than a few seconds at a time, and only when her mommy is there to hold her hand. 

“My mommy doesn’t want me to get lost,” she said.

“It’s not like you can run away,” I joked.

“I can run,” Angel replied, pouting. “Look.” She kicked her legs slightly. I heard the clack of chains. 

That was the first time I ever noticed that Angel was shackled around her ankles. 

“I run all the time at home,” Angel bragged. “I run alllll over, over all the rooms. I wish I could run here too, but it’s too dangerous. The windows,” she added, like that would clarify it. I was baffled. So she didn’t even need the wheelchair.

“Um, why are you chained? Are you like, under house arrest or something?” I asked.

“No. My mommy just doesn’t want me to get lost. She’s the only one with the key.”

“Your mommy sounds like a psycho. You should call the cops,” I replied.

The French teacher overheard her crying and she got me sent to the principal’s office again. But I swear this time I wasn’t being smart or anything, I was genuinely freaked out for her. I told my friends, who all agreed with me that it was weird. But I guess I hadn’t been the first one to notice the chains. The others who had assumed it was because Angel was like, prone to fits or something. That made sense for Angel, but it still made me feel weird and didn’t sit right.

My mommy doesn’t want me to get lost.

I started to feel sorry for her. She was still weird and annoying, but she was weird and annoying because her mom was out of her mind and wouldn’t let her be a normal kid. How was she supposed to learn to be normal if she couldn’t even go outside, for god’s sake? 

I still messed with Angel when she did weird stuff like quote anime characters in class and bring stuffed animals to school. But if it was ever just her and me, I was nice to her and asked her stuff about her life. 

Her favorite movie was The Little Mermaid. No, she had never been to summer camp. Her favorite time of the week was church. She disliked onions and wanted to be a vegetarian except that her mom was very insistent about her getting enough protein in her diet. She loved those Warrior cat books and wanted to be a veterinarian someday. She didn’t have a dad. Ms CJ took the shackles off her ankles only once they were inside their house and all the doors and windows were closed and locked. That was also when Ms CJ took the locked metal bar off of her chair so she could get up. The bar went over her waist and prevented her from standing. She wore those big ugly cat sweaters every day so we wouldn’t see it. Her mom didn’t want people to know about her special condition, which, as far as I could tell, was all made-up. Any time I asked about her “condition,” she’d just say some stuff about being a very special heaven baby or whatever.

“Do you ever think about running away?” I asked finally. “Why don’t you just… leave?”

She looked shocked.

“Of course not!” she said. “I love my mommy. Where would I even go?” She shuddered visibly. 

The shudder pissed me off. I blew up at her and called her a whiny scaredy baby until she cried, and I got sent to the principal again. 

 She didn’t even want to be normal. That’s what pissed me off the most. 

It was springtime, and the snow was finally mostly gone. I’d been in Mr Bevends’ science class before, so I knew what to expect that day– first real nice day of spring was always a “class outside” day. We’d go out and look at moss and leaf buds and stuff and he’d talk about natural changes during the season. It was all a big excuse for us to get outside– no one liked it more than Mr Bevends himself. He was so excited to announce we were taking class outside, he didn’t even notice Angel’s face go stark white as he led the rest of the class out the doors.

“I– I can’t–” she stuttered, but I interrupted her.

“It’s the most beautiful day in months,” I said. “It’s a perfect day. You’ll love it.”

“I’m not allowed,” she whispered, embarrassed. 

“You wanna be a baby forever?” I said. “Come on. You’ve never broken a single rule in your life. Live a little.”

After a long moment, Angel nodded. She followed me out the back doors of the school, onto the sidewalk. I walked next to her for awhile. She looked scared, but also fascinated by the dripping icicles from the roof gutter above us, and the ice-blue sky above, and the rows of black trees stretching up into the air. 

“It’s cold,” she said. 

“Yeah, that happens when you’re outside for more than a few seconds.”

“I think… I like the cold.”

We caught up to the rest of the science class, and listened to Mr Bevends talk about leaves and crap. Angel oscilated between this vibrating excitement and a frightened, hunted look, like her mom was gonna show up at any second and punish her for disobeying and doing one normal thing in her life. Angel touched the trees reverently. My friends made fun of her for “fondling the foliage.” I didn’t join in this time. I had bigger things planned.

When we broke off into groups of two, I went with Angel. My friends knew I was up to something great then, so they followed us, chuckling eagerly. I grinned back at them when Angel wasn’t looking.

We were supposed to identify different types of trees in the woods behind the school. I helped push Angel’s chair up the hill– it was insanely heavy. The wheels snagged on the muddy grass, but it didn’t matter. It’s not like she actually needed the thing.

“What are you doing?” Angel asked with rising terror as I leaned over her and produced the key. 

Everyone knew Mr Bevends always had class outside the first nice day of spring. It was really easy to slip the key from Ms CJ’s lanyard when she always left it out on her desk during homeroom. It was the one with little white wings on the chain. 

“I’m setting you free,” I said. I unlocked the shackles around her feet first, then the bar around her waist. She screamed at me to stop the entire time, but I knew I was doing the right thing. Someone had to teach her to be independent. Someone had to throw her out of her comfort zone. 

And that’s what I did. I set Angel free.

Angel rose from the chair. 

And rose. And rose.

Her shoes went over her head. She kicked her legs wildly as they drifted rapidly upwards. Angel shrieked and tried to grab onto the top of the chair– the handles, even trying to clutch a handful of my hair– desperate to stay anchored to the ground. But it was too late. She was already six feet in the air. 

Then twelve. 

Then thirty.

I couldn’t do anything other than watch on in shock as Angel shot up into the sky like a helium balloon. She twisted and clawed at the open air. 

It happened in seconds. One second, we were watching Angel make frantic grabbing motions at the ground, howling with terror, and the next second all we could see of her was the glint of the sunlight on her glittery pink cat sweater as she disappeared up into the vast emptiness above.

When Mr Bevends came to see what was the matter, all any of us could do was to point up. But by then, she was just a pinprick against the deep, endless blue sky. 

Then there was nothing.

[chrisbitchtree]

Robin was standing behind the counter at Family Video, complaining about the weather as she fanned herself with a pad of paper. Steve stood beside her, staring absently out the front window as she rambled on.

“…then it was 53° yesterday, with that crazy wind, and now today it’s 80°. I’m sweating my ass off because I have no clue how to dress! I’m sick of this. Aren’t you?”

Outwardly, Steve nodded in agreement as he picked up a stack of videos that needed to be returned to the shelves, but inwardly, he couldn’t say he was frustrated at all.

See, it was the middle of September, so it should have been consistently cooler by then. Along with the loss of summer weather, Steve had mourned the loss of Billy Hargrove’s tanned, muscled legs in shorts. But, with this up and down weather they’d been having, Steve was getting the best of both worlds, Billy in shorts some days, and others, his ass on display in the world’s tightest jeans.

Billy was a frequent presence at Family Video. Steve had no clue whether he frequented the shop before Steve and Robin started working there a few weeks back, but he can say that the other boy was there almost daily now.

As if on cue, the door to the shop opened, the bell above it jangling, and in sauntered Billy Hargrove, clad in a white t-shirt and cutoff denim shorts. They were way shorter than what was appropriate for school, but Steve definitely wasn’t complaining.

From inside his book bag, Billy produced two VHS tapes, and Steve looked over at Robin, expecting her to be at the cash to accept the return, but she was suspiciously absent from the front of the shop. He peeked into the back, but didn’t see here there either. Steve sighed, setting down the last few tapes he was holding and preparing himself for Billy’s teasing as he headed to the till.

“Hey Hargrove,” he said by way of greeting as he took the tapes from Billy’s hands, scanning the first one.

“Hey, pretty boy,” Billy replied. “I like your hair today. It’s even bigger and fluffier than usual. Was that for me?” A wolfish grin covered his face as he moved to touch it, but Steve swatted his hand away before he could.

Billy was right, Steve had taken extra time and care when doing his hair that day because he knew he’d most likely see the other boy at the shop, but he hated being called out on it, especially by Billy himself.

He wished he could just be left alone with his stupid crush until it fizzled out, but Billy kept feeding into it, and sometimes, late at night, Steve would be able to convince himself that Billy felt the same way about him, but by light of day, it was clear that he was just having a great time making Steve feel like an idiot in ways that he hadn’t been able to since Steve had graduated in May.

After Steve had processed the return, Billy took his time perusing the shelves, this time in the comedy section. With how frequently he was there, Steve figured he was going to run out of ones he wanted to watch soon, but he must have found some, because before long, he was heading back up to the front with two movies in hand.

Steve looked around for Robin, but of course she was still nowhere to be found. Where the fuck was she?

Steve scanned the new movies and told Billy his total. As Billy pulled out his wallet, he dropped it to the ground. “Oops”, he said, catching Steve’s eye for a second before turning around and bending over to grab it off the floor. For five blissful seconds, Steve had a perfect view of Billy’s ass. Sadly enough, that small window of time totally made his day.

Billy stood, paid, grabbed his movies and left, not saying anything else.

“You know he likes you too, right?” Robin asked, appearing out of thin air as the door closed behind Billy.

“Really?” Steve replied before he caught himself. “I mean, no he doesn’t. And what do you mean too? I don’t even like guys, let alone Billy Hargrove.”

Robin laughed. “First, sure, tell yourself you don’t have a massive crush on him, but I see the way you look at him, and the panic on your face every time he comes in here. You’re crushing hardcore. Second, all the teasing is just to get your attention, Dingus. He just wants to get to you, he doesn’t care how he has to do it. And those shorts, they’re not what he was wearing at school today. He changed into them just to come here. He’s down bad. So please do something about it before you drive yourself, Billy, and me insane.” With that, she grabbed a stack of returns and headed to the shelves.

Steve just stared after her, speechless. He was an expert at getting the girl, but something told him wooing Billy Hargrove was going to be a whole other ballgame. He sure hoped he was up for the challenge.

[violetrainbow412-blog]

Day 12: "This is spooky" "Really?"

Masterlist flufftober 🎃

Reblog if you liked it!

“Spencer, do we really have to do this?”

From your spot, you pouted while watching your boyfriend struggle with the TV, trying to insert the VHS tape. Seriously, who still had those? you thought as you watched him, but knowing the man, it wasn’t surprising at all.

“Come on, sunshine! We’ve been watching romantic comedies for months. It’s my turn to show you something.”

“But I hate horror movies.”

“We’re starting with the Scream series—it’s no big deal,” he reassured you. “I promise.”

Once he managed to insert the tape, he practically ran back to your side, settling on the couch where there was already popcorn, some Halloween candy, and a couple of other movies Spencer had lined up for the marathon.

“Is that Drew Barrymore? She’s in a great movie, Never Been Kissed. Want to watch that one instead?”

“Is it a romantic one?” he asked, looking at you seriously. You couldn’t deny it.

“I’m going to have nightmares!”

“You’re not going to have nightmares, baby,” he murmured confidently, leaning in to plant a loud kiss on your cheek. “Come on, do it for me. I love these movies, and besides, it’s October. It would be a crime not to watch them!”

You grumbled a bit, resigned to the fact that you wouldn’t get your way, and then shifted to get comfortable, laying your head on your boyfriend’s chest. The truth was you didn’t want to break his heart by saying you didn’t want to watch those movies, but everything involving blood and death completely terrified you. You didn’t even know how Spencer managed to deal with it every day at his job, especially when, once, by accident, he had brought home photos from a case, and just seeing them made you feel like throwing up. You spent several nights with that image stuck in your head and begged him never to share gruesome details about his work with you again.

You reminded him a lot of Garcia. Always in such pretty, feminine dresses, with maybe 80% of your belongings in shades of pink, purple, or any pastel tone, and, of course, a sweet and delicate personality.

He always thought his taste in women was pretty defined in certain aspects, but you had completely broken the mold. You left colorful post-it notes with motivational messages on his beige bureau folders, bought him skincare products, and once a week, you’d do face masks, manicures, massages, among other things for him.

You were the complete opposite of what he saw every day, and maybe that’s why he was so in love with you. Like a beautiful flower in the middle of the desert.

“Did you watch this stuff when you were a kid?” you suddenly asked, still looking at the screen and tracing uneven patterns with the hand you had resting on his chest.

“Some, yeah. I started with the classics, like Carrie, The Craft, The Shining… slasher films were never my favorite subgenre, but they’re the easiest to digest for beginners.”

“So, in this one, that guy just wants to kill everyone?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Lovely,” you muttered sarcastically, making him chuckle.

After thinking about it for a moment, he dared to express the doubt that had been growing from your attitude.

“Hey, baby, do you really not want to watch these? It’s okay if you don’t want to, I didn’t mean to push you. I just thought…”

“It’s fine, Spencer. I mean, I freaking hate jumping out of my seat every five minutes, but if you enjoy this, I want to share it with you. I highly doubt you enjoy my favorite movies as much as I do, but you always let me pick. And you comforted me for almost an hour after we watched The Notebook, so this is the least I can do for you.”

He knew you were being sincere when you said that, and to ease any lingering doubts, you stretched up to kiss him sweetly.

“Besides,” you continued, “you never get any days off, and if the price to pay for spending the whole night cuddling with you is watching these movies, then I’m okay with it.”

He smiled broadly and pulled you closer against his body, as if wanting you to feel completely protected from anything. He was the one who hunted monsters in real life, after all, and you knew that if some crazy killer ever stalked you, Spencer would take care of it.

The truth was, you were getting pretty interested in the movie, as the mystery of Ghostface’s identity kept you hooked. Unfortunately, you were about halfway through the movie when a scene startled you (more than the others had), and you quickly hid your face in your boyfriend’s neck.

“What’s wrong?”

“This is spooky”

“Really?” he laughed, trying not to sound too amused. “I can’t imagine what you’ll say when we watch Texas Chainsaw Massacre.”

“Spencer!” you practically screamed, lifting your head to look at him and playfully hitting him on the shoulder in protest.

“I’m joking…” he defended himself, kissing you as an apology. “Do you want to stop?”

“No, I want to finish it. I’m enjoying it, and I need to know who the killer is.”

“Any guesses?”

“You’re the profiler here, not me. The only thing I can tell you is that the makeup artist on set did a great job.”

Your boyfriend chuckled, and you snuggled back against him, occasionally grabbing some popcorn while letting him feed you candy and marshmallows.

After two more movies, Spencer noticed you had fallen sound asleep against him, and not wanting to disturb your rest, he simply pulled the blanket over you. Once you were fully covered and the TV was off, he rested his head on yours to get some sleep, lulled by the scent of your hair.

To his surprise, on the next movie night, you asked to watch a horror movie, and when he questioned your choice, you simply shrugged.

“When we watch them, you hug me the whole time and kiss me whenever something scares me. Plus, you enjoy them, so we both win.”

He couldn’t help but laugh at that and happily obliged, sticking to what you had said. After a few weeks, the truth was you weren’t that scared anymore, but either way, it was always nice to pretend if it meant getting extra cuddles from your boyfriend. And he, who quickly figured out your little lie, was more than happy to play along.