#anyway believe it or not i have so many opinions on a lot of things-

[welcometogrouchland]

I support the "Batman was unfairly biased to Stephanie for XYZ reasons" crowd so strongly bc DC claims that Bruce is a master planner who is able to understand anyone's psychology but he didn't realize that literally every single one of Steph's problems as a teenager would've been solved by her joining a shitty punk band. If he couldn't figure that much out then he didn't understand her for a minute

[g3othermal3scapism]

MY BEEF WITH STRANGER THINGS

ok i want it to be known that i like stranger things a lot and im pretty deep in the fandom and its been one of. my biggest hyperfixations…. but this does not mean i think the show ia good!!!!! i see sm people acting like the duffers are god of writing and they js… arent. the shows writing is literal ass, the show sucks pretty much alll around other than being fun sometimes and even those moments are poorly done. the partys group dynamic was so poorly done, every character is handled poorly, they don’t know how to write deaths, (maxs was the only good one, and they brought her back anyways?? like i love max and im very much glad shes alive but stop being a pussy!!!! kill someone people care about for the love of god!!!!!!!) and hot take i really dont like the monster designs but i guess that more just my personal preference. the entire thing is just so full of wasted potential to be great. there are a lot of great ideas, a lot of great character ideas, and a lot of great actors. and the comedy writing for some seasons was pretty ok! but overall its just lackinf and even though i love these characters like theyre my own children, do not be fooled!!!! i am aware that the show sucks!!!!!!!

[trans-leek-cookie]

someone talking about the ways media and common tropes/depictions of things that are either explicitly or implicitly linked to marginalized people are demonized and presented badly is not a fucking opportunity for you to flex how you're doing it Differently And Better

[snekdood]

idc if ppl think im problematic i just want it to be for the actual real reasons i am

[andhumanslovedstories]

I've been running this writing experiment lately to cut out phrases like "I felt" in my fiction writing. Like I was looking at a sentence in a draft that said, "he felt as if character's eyes were pinning him in place." And then I was like, "well, does he think that or is it true? As a result of this person watching him, he's froze. It's not like a thing, it is that thing."

Oh and "almost"! I'm always going, "He felt almost relieved that it hadn't happened." Well, did he feel better that it didn't happen or didn't he? Or "somewhat", I'm always going, "she felt somewhat perturbed."

And like none of that is wrong, to be clear. I don't know if it'd improve your writing, I don't even know if it'll improve my writing, but I use this sentence structure all the time so every viewpoint is from a voice that thinks about what it thinks, hedges its statements, and offers the same ability for wry little jokes formatted in the exact same way. And I have a lot of writing like that and I think (!) that they're good, but read as a whole, I'm like, "god, they all sound the same." Like there's one melody that I write songs to, so even with different lyrics, it's almost (!) the same song. Something I've been struggling with in regards to my writing and why I've felt so blocked is how boring I found writing my usual way. I'd read something and enjoy the individual parts of it, but then I'd step back and I didn't like the whole. And I got good at this enough at seeing that I didn't like it to do it in real time as I was writing, which as you can imagine didn't improve the process of writing because now I was bored AND dejected about being bored.

There's this sentence-level structure fact that I use unconsciously. A pattern I find easy is short sentence, short sentence, short sentence, long sentence. So I write that. "He [verbed]. He [verbed]. Then he [verbed]. As he [verbed] to his [consequence], he [verbed] that [noun] was [statement of condition]." Which could work, it often does make for a nice rhythm, but it's something I reach for often because it's easier for me.

Just last sentence, I originally typed, "I find it easier for me." But if what I mean is "using this pattern is less effort than another pattern," then it's easier for me. One voice is hedging its bets and the other asserting. Either is fine! But they're different! And, again, GOD you would not believe how many words I've cut out of this paragraph as I write it. I'm so chatty. I love using twelve words when six will do. And that gives my writing a specific tone to my ear.

So if I am bored of that tone, why not try using just the six words? Why be understated? Why be afraid of stronger opinions? So right now with my fiction, I'm experimenting with cutting out as many self-reflective words as I can. Sometime you do need to draw attention to the face that this is the character's interpretation, but like you definitely don't need to do it as much as I naturally want to do it. You don't need to always go out of your way to allow the possibility that the narrative voice is wrong. During editing, I trim the weaker ones (I originally typed, "what I consider the weaker ones" Is that more accurate?). But I think them being there in the first place shifts my language which shifts my character's which shifts my plot. It's sentence structure all the way down!!

(this barely applies to my writing on here, btw. i try to do good but yknow this is a tumblr blog. i'm not trying to get a lit mag to accept it.)

Anyway blah blah (chatty!) the point is I've been trying to write in a way opposite of my interests. Something that doesn't take itself too seriously, that emphasizes EMOTION and ACTION instead of minimizing it, and that clips through scenes at a good pace. Doing this been amazingly fun. I've been having such a good time doing it. I am writing so much because I really enjoy doing it. The process of writing is so fun again.

This post is about two things. One is my new mood stabilizer and therapy day camp. The other is about the benefit of pretending to be MXTX.

[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.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

"You'll never guess what I have."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And a seat at Momofuku."

"And that."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hide behind your computer screen.

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

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

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

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

Seungkwan works hard, but the devil always works harder.

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing you can do to stop him, huh?

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

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Beware the wrath of a woman scorned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hook, line, and sinker.

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

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

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

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

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

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

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Seungcheol?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who said I was pretending?"

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

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

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

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

"I never said that."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How To Antagonize Your Date In 5 Easy Steps.

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm no quitter."

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

Definitely not that one.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

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

"Why, so you can steal my job?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In your periphery hovers his wry, wanting smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, pity looks good on you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fair. You gonna ask me about mine?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Running away?"

"Bored," you lie.

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

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

"Unfortunate."

"How do you think I feel?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Field trip?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"N-not both ways?" you croak.

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

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

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

Whatever.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But, thank you."

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

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

"I'm retracting my thank you."

"I'm devastated. Really."

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

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

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

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

"Thought you knew it was Wonwoo."

"Yeah, but why?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who hurt you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I wouldn't say nothing."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You in a rush?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Definitely bad at food, you muse to yourself.

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

Now that—nothing could have prepared you for that.

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

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

"Stop that."

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

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

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

"Is it working?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Seungcheol is my enemy, remember?"

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

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

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

You almost choke on a blueberry.

"Absolutely not."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm running out of options."

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

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

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

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

Your entire body heaves with the sigh that escapes you.

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

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

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

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Lucky you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A gift. A pithless, wrinkly one.

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

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

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

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

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

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, you're definitely going to cry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You count the seconds till he walks away.

One. Two. Three.

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

"Hey, you ok?"

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

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

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

"Whoa," he breathes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah, I-I think so."

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

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

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

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

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And no text from Seungcheol. (Damn.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

"Here. Drink."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Thanks…?"

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

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

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

"You're literally the definition of easy."

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

"This is not a date. Dream on."

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

"It wasn't."

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

"Chicago."

"Same difference."

Your conversation continues as such.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

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

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

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

"Hi."

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

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

The elevator dings.

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

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

You have three reasons to get drunk.

1. It's Friday.

2. You finished your article.

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

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

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

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

So you get drunk.

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

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

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

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

"You got that right."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yours or mine?"

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

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

How To Ruin The Moment In One Easy Step!

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

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Just dates. Nothing serious."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Holy shit. You live like this?"

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

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

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

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

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

You tentatively nod before dropping the noodles in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What, too many dates to cover?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The table stops rocking.

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

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

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

"You asked."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Wh—"

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

"Get. Out."

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

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

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

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Celery. Red wine. Short rib.

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

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

Fingerling potatoes, the red ones. A Vidalia onion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Monday feels tilted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You wonder what you'll be:

10 Signs She Is Clinically Insane.

It's Not You, It's Them!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Ask Samuel!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Congrats."

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

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

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

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

"No need."

"What about Seungcheol? Does he know?"

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

"What?!"

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

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

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

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

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

Instead you stand motionless, waiting, emptied.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

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

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

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

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

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

He gave up.

None of this should matter to you.

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

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

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

"You're an idiot, Seungcheol."

That does the trick.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"H-how?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Afternoon, boss."

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

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

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

"Friendly reminder we're at work."

"Everyone's at lunch, genius."

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

"You are the worst."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eat, Play, Love: A Guide.

Maybe you'd put it through. Maybe.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

[salemlunaa]

AIN’T NOTHING TOO BIG, BABY

don’t listen to those cheap haters

I received an ask recently that opened my eyes to the fact that a lot of you need this reminder. This really applies to everyone in the community, whether your plans are to permashift, respawn or manifest something in your current reality, listen: There is nothing too big for you to manifest. ever. I’m gonna repeat a lot of what i said in my answer but here goes anyways….

If you see someone who acts so high and mighty preaching about the law, just for them to turn around and have the audacity to tell someone that something is "too big" to manifest, then they're dumb and not someone you should be looking to for advice or opinions. And i want you to know if you think your desires are too big or you have been turned away, you’re not crazy and you’re not “asking for too much”

Do i need to remind you who you are? you’re a god meaning whatever you say goes, there is nothing too big for a god and you know it. Stop talking yourself out of it because you are scared. The law is law and will never fail no matter what your desire is. Although, if you still have trouble understanding your full potential, i recommend using methods where your subconscious mind is in full control, for example the void or SATS, but it is just as easy to manifest “huge” things with some standard methods like affirming or visualisation too! You need to get it through your skulls everything is easy for you.

Manifesting the sun to shine a little brighter is the same as manifesting being a billionaire

Manifesting your eyes to be a lighter shade is the same as revising a whole ass country for you to live in

Manifesting a substitute for your chemistry lesson because you hate your teacher is the same as manifesting an entirely new family

You guys, there is nothing too big or too small, too many hypocrites have infested this community with their bullshit, preaching about how we can do anything yet turning around to tell someone that what they want isn't possible, that what they desire “makes no logical sense”. Now tell me, if we're gods and we can do anything, how does that even make any sense?

So my loves, if you have a desire you think is “big” or “heavy” excuse my language but grab it by the balls because guess the fuck what? you’re the boss, not those close minded people who think manifesting is fake, not the loser who “believes in manifesting” but had the audacity to tell you you’re dreaming too big, not anyone else but YOU, because you’re a GOD

EVERYTHING IS EASY FOR YOU, AND YOU KNOW IT ༄ 🪸🌺💋

[cinna-wanroll]

The Twinkification of Obi-Wan Kenobi

Hi everyone! I have emerged from the abyss to posit an opinion and analysis about something that has been ongoing in my corner of the fandom for some time now and I just wanted to share my thoughts. Please note that this is not meant to be a call-out post. If you have made references to Obi-Wan being a twink, we are cool, we simply have a difference of opinion! As always this blog is an open space where people from across the fandom are welcomed and loved.

With that being said:

The Co-Opting of "Twink"

It isn't uncommon to come across the term "twink" nowadays while scrolling the social medias. In fact, there are several videos referencing men, both real and fictional, using "twink" as a kind of affectionate endearment.

Is there a big, beefy man who shows his emotions in your favorite TV show? Chances are he has been called a twink.

Looking at a cute post of a straight couple? There is a chance the woman has captioned her post with: I love my twink boyfriend! :)

Is there a trans man on your for you page? Peer in the comments: chances are he, too, has people teeming in his comments to call him a twink.

Let us be clear: this is not what the word "twink" means.

The term "twink" is a queer term that has become so mangled and co-opted by cis, straight people (especially women) that it has become misused across the internet. So what is it, exactly? "Twink" is a queer identifier. Traditionally, the term refers to gay men who are:

Thin

Not very muscular

Not hairy

Young

Of course, there is always room for nuance. Also, there are so many layers to this conversation I have not and will not address fully. However, the main purpose of this conversation is to discuss its relation to Obi-Wan Kenobi.

So You Want to Woobify a Warrior

Most of the time when I see someone refer to Obi-Wan as a twink, it is in reference to mid-thirties, mid or post-war Obi-Wan. I am not going to address sexuality here because I am a firm believer in allowing people their interpretations of characters' sexualities. Instead, here are some photos of Obi-Wan Kenobi during and a bit after the era previously mentioned, and of his actor, Ewan McGregor:

Here are some things of note: Ewan and Obi-Wan are not especially petite. They are muscular, hairy, and visibly middle-aged. Or at least, visibly older than 20s.

In Karen Miller's Wild Space, Bail Organa throws up in his hands out of fear when Obi-Wan is having hallucinations and moves to attack him.

In Christie Golden's Dark Disciple, he punches a droid in the face and it stumbles back.

My point here is that Obi-Wan is intimidating. He underwent years of rigorous training, fought in battle after battle, and is an expert in martial arts. The chances of him escaping that with the appearance of being boyish, early 20s, skinny, and not muscular seem... slim. War does not typically have anti-aging effects.

I once saw someone on this app make a point that because Obi-Wan is portrayed as the more intuitive and emotionally regulated character in contrast to Anakin's brash violence, he is perceived as more feminine. Therefore, he is more "coddleable." And, furthermore, the "feminine" narrative lends itself to the stereotypical parts of the label of twink. (Again, there is a deeper conversation to be had there. I am generalizing).

Unless Obi-Wan has been extensively malnourished, shaved, and de-aged, I don't see sense in seeing him as a twink.

The part of all this with even more implications associated is that I see a lot of this mentioned in relationship to Obi-Wan being in a relationship with Cody. There is a lot of comparison there, usually positioning Cody as the strong, indestructible warrior of whom Obi-Wan is either envious of or saved by. The racist undertones there are infinite and have been addressed and readdressed, especially by POC in the fandom.

Anyways gorgeous people, this concludes my thoughts, as it is very late. I am hoping to be able to participate in Codywan First Kiss Bingo, but I was hit with the flu and have been working diligently to catch up in my uni classes. I love you all and wish you nothing but the best!

[cephalomod]

for people who don’t watch Squiddo, I can’t exasperate enough how much their entire lifesteal season 5 revolves around Ashswag.

in every single episode, Squiddo is either motivated by Ash or the major conflict of the episode is Squiddo doing something that goes against/could harm Ash. by watching solely her videos, you get the impression that Ash is Squiddo’s closest ally and have a generally positive opinion of him

this is contrasted beautifully by Ashswag’s s5 video. where Squiddo isn’t mentioned at all, and Ash isn’t running around protecting spawn and being a good person - he’s a shitty self-centred capitalist.

Squiddo also makes Ash look more impressive than he is. for example, in her nuke video, Squiddo implies that Ash was able to singlehandedly stop the nuke and help her kill Wemmbu. they conveniently leave out that Ash was working with a group, was only able to locate the nuke because Spoke gave him coords, that the nuke actually DID blow up spawn, and the fact that Wemmbu actually escaped from Ash. there are many moments like this but this is the funniest and most egregious one

lifesteal youtube videos are always great in how much of an unreliable narrator the creator gets to be (and god knows I am not the first person in this fandom to point that out). I love this particular example though because it’s remarkable the lengths Squiddo goes to twist the truth in order to make the story Ash-centric. this makes a LOT of sense in retrospect with the dating reveal. Squiddo also said that they didn’t have an in-character explanation to giving Ash a heart on their first day, so tried to play it as their character idolising him from there on out, so some of it is conveying their character’s idolisation of Ash

I just can’t stop thinking about the wider character implications here. just… the idea of cAsh genuinely being cSquiddo’s entire world and her having an incredibly distorted perception of him. the fact that he, though he does care for her, cares nowhere close to the extent she does for him. the fact that cAsh is an awful person, and not nearly as competent as she believes he is, and cSquiddo will never accept these things due to her unwavering loyalty

please. do you guys see my toxic unrequited s5 squidswag vision.

anyways, I present the fucking thumbs up vs heart hands art that Squiddo drew that one time, which perfectly encapsulates this whole thing:

[empty-blog-for-lurking]

@sockdooe

If youre ok w sharing then i would love to hear your thoughts on lotor........ Hes such a weird guy. Dissecting him like a frog

If i get hate for this, i am blaming you/j but in all honesty i apologize if this kinda messy, as i have said it has beem awhile since i saw any of the episodes about him. Most of it is my personal interpretation and opinions of his character-

First of all i personally hate both "L0tor is evil rapist imperialist who did not have a single redeemable quality" and "L0tor is uwu poor baby who did nothing wrong", because yeah he had good intentions and he seemed to genuinely love Alura and care for Alteans but also he very much did do a lot of things Wrong. I am pretty sure a lot of his actions fall into category of Very Wrong

Lot0r to me is an absolute control freak, he has to be 10 steps ahead of everyone, he needs to be control of the situation no matter what. Whether it be through a silver tongue or by his blade (see N@rti's death, him vs White Lion). This is as much as a ruthless strategy as it is a trauma response. Being raised under Z@rkon, a father who only saw him as inferior half-bred, he had to learn survivor tactics. He will do anything to survive whether it be beg, lie, manipulate, and kill. He is a survivor of some genuinely godawful abuse he suffered for 10,000 years, combined with racism he suffered for being half altean

However this need to be in control extends to his allies and people he cares about. I am sure Lotor may have loved Alura, it doesnt change the fact that he very much abused her trust. Their entire relationship was based on a lie. He knew Alteans were still alive and not only did he not tell Alura about it he leaned into the "last survivors of Altea" for their relationship, which is why it was doomed since the beginning. And if it had not been this, then it would have been something else. Cause lying and manipulation are very much core of his character, that is how we are introduced to him

Like i see people going "Oh Lot0r could have been good if he had therapy and a hug", and i am not really not sure about it, cause like would he? Would he choose to be vulnerable and actually let his feelings out and be truthful in a an unbiased reliable way that will neither serve him in any way nor make him look better nor is a part of some machivilian scheme he cooked up because he doesnt trust the therapist he is paying? No

And thing is he does desire connection. He looks for connection in people who are similar to him. Half galran, altean survivors, Alura these are the people who he chose to get close to. He looks for similarities, people he can relate to, people who he sees as like him, people who he thinks can give him a sense of belonging. He is deeply lonely. However his desperation for control, absolute mistrust in anyone and everyone, and his inability to be actually honest dooms any relationship he'll ever have

Also this is probably just me, but for someone who is this morally complex character he has tendency to see things in black and white? Like it is His dad and empire= bad, alteans=good. He idolizes Altea to the point of seeing it as an Utopia, and this ideal was more important to him than any Alteans who are alive and with him. I also cant remember him ever caring about someone outside of the Dichotomy. Like at most i remember is after he became the emperor Lance pointing out how other planets need to be freed and he just brushed it off

Overall he gives me the "smart people dont always make good decisions, but they are good at justifying their bad ones" vibes. We dont know exactly why he decided to use alteans as batteries but i am choosing to go with my interpretation- "Lottor saw something fucked up in that future showing space whale thingy, decided the only way to solve was altean batteries except in true self fulfilling prophecy greek tragedy way it only made things worse and started a series of event that will cause the thing he saw causing real trouble a few years after his death.

Another thing! I think it should have been him being the focus of Evil Altean episode instead of A//ura. I hate that episode and everything it stands for but like if there Had to be an evil alteans episode then it should be around someone who is you know? Obsessed with Altean culture? Is big on control and manipulation? Is more geared towards big picture and "greater good" over individual? Is worried about turning into just like his galran father and so desperately wants to connect to his idealized version of his altean mother? Yeah

[akutasoda]

the fans are always right. right?

synopsis - mr reca seemed a bit more downbeat then your used too, maybe some rather interesting reviews would cheer him up

includes - reca

warnings - gn!reader, fluff, slight crack, wc - 1.6k

a/n: i uhh had an idea... lost it and tried to salvage what i remembered and this was the result- anyway all the reviews used were given to me by some lovely people ( @tragedy-of-commons, @singularity-sam, @vxnuslogy, @mikashisus, @/milksnake-tea, @/tetrachrxmacy and @theother-victoria) try and guess who's who :))

a huffed sigh escaped you, slouching down in your chair as the clock ticked rhythmically in the background. mr reca was supposed to meet you around fifteen minutes ago. he'd never been late before.

a reasonable explanation would be that he had something more important to tend to. and that would be understandable. but for now you were bored out of mind and leaving wasn't an option as reca could show up at any time - he probably wouldn't be as forgiving if you were to show up after him.

today you two were meant to develop a new script and start on the storyboard for his latest idea. in honesty, you're still not quite sure how you landed this job. you wanted to start getting into directing films of your own but couldn't quite place how to start and so you settled for finding a job as a co-director.

after helping co-direct a few pieces here and there, you got a message from the esteemed mr reca. you had to do a couple (maybe even hundreds…) of checks to make sure you weren't actually dreaming. mr reca didn't exactly strike you as the kind of person to need or even want a co-director.

and yet here you were. apparently he enjoyed the sense of style you breathed into the films you helped direct and thought it would pair nicely with a couple of his. even to this day you find it hard to believe that you still had this job.

but you put your all into it. a lot of trust and expectation was placed upon you and you would be sure to not let him down. even if that meant waiting for him to show up for your appointed meetings.

twenty minutes.

you looked around the room for anything to pass the time, all you could think of was your phone laid idly on the desk. then an idea crossed your mind. reca had recently released a film. perhaps you could read some reviews to pass the time.

you never really expected yourself to be mentioned in any of them. yes you got credits and the recognition for being reca's personally selected co-director but most people still only talked about him in their reviews, which wasn't exactly a problem.

it didn't take long to find a rather reputable review page and so you began scrolling.

you should've expected the first one being a five star review

@bebe_fanpage101 : ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

- "This film has changed my life. My whole outlook on everything that exists in this world, in fact even in the entire universe. I can never look at anything I know the same way ever again. This film represents emotions most humans could never comprehend. But I can. Thanks to this film I have been awakened to many things previously thought unimaginable. Thank you."

a rather extreme opinion in your eyes, reca did have some “over-the-top” fans. your became intrigued after stumbling across a one star review soon after

@frankenweeniehater4life : ⭐

- "what ?"

[review has been deleted]

maybe it wasn't an actual review, but you stifle a laugh at the next review being from the same person

⭐

- "wrong movie how do i delete a review" (Edited)

perhaps this could definitely entertain you until reca arrived. you idly scrolled through the reviews, only stopping when some peaked your interest or made you smile

@seas_ablaze : ⭐⭐⭐

- "A film that does a lot of monkey business and goes bananas with it."

or alternatively,

@frankenweeniehater4life : ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

- "i've seen about a million movies and dear god this has to be one of the worst. an absolute slog to get through. the pacing was awful, everything took years to happen. the soundtrack was grating. the actors either put no effort in or way too much- either put them back on the street or send them back to the musical theater. the cinematography was dull at best and straight up nauseating at worst- i had to pause multiple times so i didn't get physically ill. and don't get me STARTED on the stilted script and dull characterization. and the dog isn't even a weenie."

you reckon they might have gotten the wrong film again… but it definitely explained the username-

and at that moment reca finally showed up, he pushed open the doors grumbling something - obviously whatever kept him busy wasn't pleasant. he had walked in with a huff and his expression didn't exactly read that of happiness.

you brushed it off and greeted him like you usually would, something that was greeted with another grumble which you could only guess was a hello of sorts towards you.

watching, you noted how he slumped into the chair on the other side of the desk and it became clear that he wasn't in the mood to get any work done. the silence was starting to get uncomfortable and so you slid your phone over to him, reviews still open.

reca perked one eyebrow up and questioned you “what's this about? we have duties to complete not waste time”

you hummed in response before sliding your phone closer until he picked it up “it's reviews from your latest film, it's not like we'll be getting things done soon and maybe they could help guide our planning” a small pause “they're quite entertaining”

he scrolled for a bit before stopping on one and reading it out loud

@/blink!vxnus! : ⭐⭐⭐⭐

- "film was great and very informative. it made the story far more interesting compared to other documentaries tackling the same story. - 1 because mr reca wasn't in the actual film"

“it's not very helpful, just compliments” he sighed “and wishful fans being normal”

you smiled in response before reaching over as he turned the phone to you and scrolling back up again “this one's a personal favorite, especially the comments”

@/bebe_fanpage101 : ⭐⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

- "came for the reca shirtless scene, stayed for the storytelling. no regrets stan robin"

- @/ultimate_recakisser : "I mean I’d be the same as well I MEAN WHAT WHO SAID THAT Speakingofshirtlessrecaifoujdthisonefanartdoesanyonewantmetosendit?"

- @/bebe_fanpage101 : "me. dms. shhh."

- @/iwishsundaywasmywife : "id judge u both. but. im the same way abt bird man so i cant"

reca stared at the review, then the comments, before his face began morphing into something akin to the middle point of shock and disgust.

he sighed “there wasn't even a shirtless scene, these people are… enthusiastic, to be nice”

you hummed in response before suggesting that the lower rated reviews may help more and scrolled until you found some.

@/iwishsundaywasmywife : ⭐

- "Great movie. Plot flows well, characters are charismatic and overall a wonderful viewing experience. Just hate the director."

@/abardslyre : ⭐

- "my gf broke up with me for the director. mr reca count ur ******* days."

you had to hold back laughter at the sight of his face distorting into confusion and a slight grimace making the corner of his lips scowl

@/seas_ablaze : ⭐

- "This is awful, pretentious garbage. In all objective fact, he's an auteur wannabe who makes idiotic movies for the normie audiences who are too stupid to think for themselves. I didn't even watch more than five minutes of it, I just know it's bad from his name attached to it. I never made a movie before or have ever taken a film class, but even I could do better than this disgrace of an art form that only a few can ever hope to master. Hell, I would personally kill all subpar directors myself if I could, I'm just that smart. As Lord Scorsese says: Cinema is dead!"

mr reca sighed, deeply, “i can't decide if this helped or not, but im leaning no at the minute”

you definitely could say you enjoyed scrolling through the reviews more, but it wasn't hard to notice how his demeanor changed. how he wasn't so grumpy and you could've sworn that at one point you'd seen a smile on his face. your idea worked.

eventually you two managed to start discussing ideas - which was more him talking your ear off with his ideas and you listening and writing down anything he told you to. and then he paused.

before you even had the chance to question if anything was the matter, reca surprised you “maybe those reviews could help for the next film”

“what do you mean?” you couldn't believe what you were hearing, your spur of the moment idea to show him reviews to hopefully boost his mood so you could both actually talk about his next film properly worked. it actually gave him ideas.

reca prattled on about how some of the reviews gave him the idea for how to expand his latest idea that had hit a wall and now he could continue to elaborate the idea. it was sort of satisfying to see how passionate he had become despite his earlier attitude.

he then abruptly stopped before trailing off “maybe i should listen to some of those reviews and change genres”

you thought that was a rather drastic suggestion, arguing that his current genres worked perfectly fine and it was his speciality, his signature if you would. but then he started mumbling again

“maybe if we went that route… then you could…” he was trailing off, you could barely piece together his coherent sentence but you could pick up on “based on us”

“what? could you repeat that again mr reca?”

“what?”

mr reca was never easy to work with.

taglist - @little-miss-chaoss, @frankiesteinn, @https-sourlimes

[ambigrueity]

Rambling but

Trey is a very subtle character. Unlike most twst memebers a lot about him isn't explicitly said. He spends a lot of his time crafting a perfect image, so an outside perspective of him is difficult to present without there being certain biases in the way characters view him (Leona expecting there to be something more to his dream before realizing no it's just him wanting to bake to his hearts content or Rook believing that he's making tarts filled with love for Riddle but he himself is doing it out of necessity.) He keeps a lot of his emotions close to his chest too so it's not like he's going to talk about it himself. He doesn't soliloquize often. If you noticed in the maze section of Riddle's dream, he barely verbalized his own thoughts about the change in leadership, it was all "cater" driving the conversation. He's introverted and worries a lot about his perception to the point that he stifles what he wants to say in favor of smiling and tentatively manipulating the situation to remain comfortable. (Which Cater points out in Book 1 but THAT got mistranslated from Cater scolding Trey to Cater scolding himself about being more honest with his opinions which doesn't help the lack of understanding that people seem to have) Because he puts so much emphasis on his normalcy, fans seem to have a high expectation for his weirdness when it's kinda been in front of us the whole time. We're not the characters. He's not trying to fool us-- we have an omniscient view into everything he does. So it's obvious looking at it that he has a habit of being smothering/overdoing things. Vil points it out in maschef that he never really gives others space to grow because he's always there to cover every mistake. He hates mustard but believes he can get over it by forcing mustard into every food he can think of until someone had to stop him from putting it in cake and eating it. He's super fixated on dental hygiene and he gets tempted to bake so many different things, purchasing recipe books for fun, before reminding himself to reel it in because making too many would make it so that there was nowhere for those sweets to go. I feel like a lot of people missed a key point of his dream and that is I think Trey feels helpless a lot. A lot of the situations he ends up in are not in his control. So that's why he dotes and placates so that he can try to keep some semblance of it. An illusion of it. So his dream is a place where he doesn't have to do all these things to keep control. He just has it. He has his freedom to do as he likes without it costing him anything. A friend, his parent's dignity, the dorm. He doesn't need to be afraid of any of it. So he allows himself a faulty degree of overindulgence because peace and normalcy doesn't hinge on him. In the real world, every cake he prepared was for peace. But this time the cakes were just cakes. They weren't secretly disguised peace treaties or white flags. In the real world each baked good is within a rule or serves a purpose. In his dream, they can just exist. Just like him. Well anyway sorry brain went all over the place.

[createserenity]

Aziraphale and Crowley's relationship dynamic fascinates me and what fascinates me even more is how people perceive them, partly because I seem to have a much more optimistic view of their dynamic than a lot of what I read suggests they do.

With that in mind I started trying to unpick how I see their dynamic and why and what I ended up with was a series of rambles on various aspects, including confidence, trust, silliness and what they ask of each other. This one is about what they ask of each other and why their relationship isn't some weird one-sided thing where Crowley gives Aziraphale everything he could possibly want or ask for.

I see a lot of posts and things suggesting Crowley always rolls over and does anything Aziraphale asks of him. I don’t know to what extent most people really believe this or if it’s just a fun joke (and I’m not saying that’s bad, I think it’s a fun joke too, I love reading all that stuff and it makes me laugh). The point I wanted to make here though is that I don’t think it’s true and also why I don’t think it’s true.

Everything from here on out is my opinion, but I won’t keep stating that in order to make it more easily readable, just take it as a given. If your opinion is different that’s absolutely fine, I love that we can all see this stuff in different ways depending on our experiences and personalities, it’s why the fandom is so fun. (It’s also why my opinion on so many things in season two ricochets wildly from one theory to another).

So back to Crowley and Aziraphale – I don’t think Aziraphale walks all over Crowley, or certainly not to the extent that people sometimes think he does. Also Crowley doesn’t and wouldn’t allow himself to be walked all over anyway. Why is this even relevant? Because I’ve seen people say that in the final 15 minutes Aziraphale finally asked Crowley to do something that pushed him over the edge and that Aziraphale was shocked when Crowley didn’t roll over and do it because Crowley always does what Aziraphale asks. This isn’t at all true for a start, but also this view tends to include a second assumption, which is that their relationship is one-sided and Aziraphale never does anything for Crowley, that he dismisses him and takes him for granted, which also is not true in a lot of ways. I think it’s a fundamental misinterpretation of their relationship dynamic.  

First of all why can Crowley’s actions be interpreted as just rolling over and doing whatever Aziraphale wants? Well, the answer to that is three-fold – firstly Crowley is a genuinely unselfish in many ways, he does things for people because that’s the way he is, it doesn’t make him a pushover, it just makes him nice. Secondly he loves Aziraphale deeply. Whether he knows it or not doesn’t matter, he cares for Aziraphale and wants him to be happy. This isn’t the same as being a complete doormat, it’s simply compromising with the person you are in a relationship with and occasionally prioritising them over yourself. Both these things come together in the third thing, which is that Crowley’s love language is acts of service – he enjoys doing nice things for Aziraphale, he enjoys rescuing him, or going along with him and letting him have his own way, so why not do it? The point is he’s never railroaded into it by Aziraphale, it’s always a deliberate choice. He is literally saying, I will do this thing for you because I love you and I enjoy making you happy and this is something I feel I can give to you.

How does Aziraphale see this behaviour?

Well that’s a tricky one, because in many ways Aziraphale is the more complex character, not least because he changes the most over the course of their history together. Is there a slight element of him taking Crowley for granted in some of their interactions, especially in season two? Possibly, but mostly I don’t think that’s it at all. When someone gives you things because their love language is acts of service you develop a (mostly sub-conscious) confidence in that relationship dynamic and if you also have confidence in yourself (which Aziraphale absolutely does – I’ll write more on this another time) then when you want something you ask for things. You ask not because you learn to expect, but because you think you’re worthy of asking and you think that your relationship is strong enough to stand up to the ask. I ask my husband for things all the time, sometimes they’re things I know he’ll give me – these are easy asks (I don’t just mean physical objects, I also mean acts of service such as helping me with something), sometimes though I’ll ask for things knowing he probably won’t give me that thing or without having a clue what his answer will be – these are harder asks, the sort you don’t do early on in relationships because they might break it either in one go or over time. Sometimes a hard ask results in me getting what I want, sometimes it results in a bit of back and forth before I get what I want, sometimes I get a no and I’m temporarily annoyed or upset, sometimes I get a no and I accept it because I knew it was the most likely outcome.

The point is that I ask, and so does Aziraphale. You ask because you have confidence that you are worthy of the ask and also that your relationship is strong enough to bear the request, even if the answer is no. Can a no still be annoying or upsetting? Yes absolutely. Can a no still be wrong on the part of the other person? Also yes. The point is that sometimes the no isn’t wrong and it doesn’t necessarily break the relationship. By the time season two comes along Aziraphale is confident enough in his relationship with Crowley to feel it can bear the weight of him asking.

So what happens when he asks? Does Crowley roll over?

Well no, he doesn’t. One big example of this is right at the beginning of the series, in episode one. Here Aziraphale makes a massive ask of Crowley and he knows it’s a big ask. Even before he tells Crowley what the problem is he’s aware of the possibility of a no. “Is it something I can help you with?” Crowley sayss, and Aziraphale merely shrugs. It’s not because Nina is there, she’s gone by that point. It’s also not because he doesn’t have faith in Crowley’s ability to help him, he always has faith in Crowley’s abilities (this is a whole other thing on trust). What he’s doubting is whether Crowley will help him. It’s why they’re meeting in the café, not the bookshop. He wants to break this one to Crowley a bit at a time – there’s a problem and I need help. I want your help, it’s why I called you, but you aren’t going to like it and I’m not even sure whether you will help so I’m establishing that I need help first, rather than showing you Gabriel immediately, so that you aren’t completely surprised when I present the whole problem to you.

Once they go to the bookshop and Crowley is confronted with Gabriel he offers the help he feels able to give by saying that he’ll drive Gabriel somewhere and dump him. He’s stating his willingness to help (which is important later), but for now he’ll only help in one specific way. What he isn’t willing to do is any more than that, not even for Aziraphale.

Help me take care of Gabriel. Help me sort this mess out, Aziraphale says, and what does Crowley say? No. Absolutely not. You’re on your own with this one. Even after Aziraphale practically begs him for help, complete with puppy dog eyes and the magic word, “I’d love you to help me,” Crowley still says no. That is not the reply of someone who lets themselves be walked all over or who rolls over every time the angel they’re in love with flutters their eyelashes.

Okay so what about the fact that he returns? Well, the stakes have been raised: for a start Aziraphale is now directly in danger, which alters the balance in favour of helping him, and remember he was already willing to help, he said as much, but he was previously only willing to help in one way. Now that’s changed. Doing things you wouldn’t normally do for someone you love when the stakes are raised is a perfectly normal rection in a relationship and does not indicate an unhealthy dynamic. Crowley has now realised that getting rid of Gabriel is no longer an option - his preferred plan (dumping Gabriel somewhere) will no longer work, so the only choice is now Aziraphale’s plan of keeping him in the bookshop and taking care of him.

This is why he returns.

A quick note on the call

Just backtracking a bit here – when Aziraphale calls Crowley to ask him for help Crowley agrees to be over in two minutes. It’s instant, no questions asked and at first glance looks like Aziraphale calls and Crowley comes running just because. But nope. Later we are very clearly told that Crowley knows something is wrong the moment he picks up the phone and Aziraphale starts speaking, “This was your ‘Something’s Wrong’ voice.” Crowley already knows there’s a problem and what do you do when your closest friend calls you and tells you about a problem? You try to help. Whether that’s advice, comfort, physically going around to help out or whatever the situation calls for. Of course Crowley says he’ll be there in two minutes, he doesn’t exactly have anything else on and his friend has just indirectly told him something is wrong. He’d be a pretty shitty person/entity if he didn’t agree to drop round and try to help.

So what about the 'I was wrong' dance?

This whole interaction, that many people say indicates how under the thumb he is actually shows us the exact opposite. What’s the first thing Crowley says when Aziraphale asks him to do the dance? “I don’t do the dance.” This tells us a hell of a lot about their relationship dynamic up to this point – for a start Aziraphale has clearly done the dance before, at Crowley’s request, and he lists off the occasions. The dance is silly and slightly demeaning and Aziraphale has done it several times for Crowley, whilst Crowley has never done it, yet somehow we read this whole scene as Crowley being the whipped one? Um. No. Also heavily implied in Crowley’s, “I don’t do the dance” statement is, You’ve asked me to do this before, I’ve always said no because I don’t want to. You’ve always accepted my no before and I want (expect!) you to accept it this time.

But this time Aziraphale doesn’t accept the no. Just like Crowley wouldn’t go along with his plan earlier, Aziraphale now won’t go along with Crowley’s no. Clearly he has done so in the past, but this time their dynamics are different. They’ve been much more open about their friendship for the past four years, they’ve both accepted that they are at least close friends, if not more. They’ve saved the world together and saved each other. They both acknowledge they “carved (this existence) out for ourselves” and that brings strength to their relationship. Now that Aziraphale has more confidence in what they are to each other, he takes that confidence and tests the limits of what Crowley will do for him, to push them more towards equality. Why should he always be the one to do the dance? Crowley responds by acquiescing not because he would just roll over and do anything for Aziraphale but because he recognises three things. Firstly that Aziraphale is pushing and that this is new and that this means something to him in the context of their relationship, secondly because he reluctantly accepts Aziraphale’s point that it isn’t really fair that he never does it, and finally because the request for him to do the dance isn’t about him refusing to help (Aziraphale was never certain he would), it’s about the fact that he’s broken Aziraphale’s trust by refusing to help (which is a slightly and very subtly different thing). To illustrate this, right before Crowley does the dance, just after he says “fine,” he gets this very brief, soft look on his face – this is him acknowledging to himself that Aziraphale deserves this dance, that he loves the angel and that he’s doing this because of both those things – he could have continued to insist on a no, he clearly has before, but this time he chooses not to.

I will do this thing for you because I love you and I enjoy making you happy and this is something I feel I can give to you.

All right, what about the car thing?

What about it? Lending your car to the person you love is very normal. Ok so the car means more to Crowley than a normal car does to us, but the point still stands. Aziraphale is making a reasonable request here. Does he expect a yes? Absolutely, because he also knows it’s a reasonable request given where their relationship is. Does he flirt to get his own way? Hell, yes. Does Crowley know exactly what Aziraphale is playing at? Also a hell yes. And Crowley totally plays up to it, he’s not as opposed to it as he claims. He’s playing up his “no” and his grumpiness for effect, to encourage Aziraphale’s silly flirtiness. Look at the difference between this no and the no he gave Aziraphale earlier. There’s no anger here, there’s no real sense that he thinks Aziraphale is asking too much, he’s playing a role in their relationship and they’ve both played this game before. Look at that little slap of the hand, which Aziraphale responds to equally playfully. The game even continues after Muriel turns up at the shop, when it’s already quite clear that Crowley is going to let Aziraphale use the car (he’s already taking the plants out). Even in the back-room Crowley still teasingly grumbles about trains whilst Aziraphale smiles flirtily, and Crowley playfully withholds the car keys when Muriel interrupts them. They both know Aziraphale is going to end up with them, there’s no point to him not directly handing them over in spite of the interruption, it’s just an excuse to tease Aziraphale back. I mean, look at him – he spends the rest of the conversation wiggling his hips, grinning smugly and confidently handling the Muriel problem by talking about love. Aziraphale’s very overt reaction tells you all you need to know about the dynamic of this one.

Two can play at this flirting game, angel.

But he follows him around like a little puppy!

Well, yes and no. Sure he follows him around whilst he goes around asking all the shopkeepers to the meeting, but he does that because it’s fun for him. He’s curious, Aziraphale is acting oddly, doing something he’s never done before and Crowley wants to know what it is. He’s always found him fascinating – what silly and ridiculous thing is the angel up to now?

Also wanting to hang out with the person you are in love with isn’t at all strange or a sign you are in some sort of weird relationship where only one of you calls the shots. It’s normal. Crowley knows Aziraphale has a tendency to be silly or do unexpected things and he wants to watch him do them and also flirt with him whilst he’s doing them. Looking grumpy and reacting to Aziraphale’s silliness with disbelief is how Crowley flirts-without-flirting. Both of them know, understand and like that dynamic, and he has that role not because he’s unhealthy levels enthralled with everything Aziraphale does but because of the levels of trust they have spent millennia establishing.

What Crowley doesn’t do is wait around for Aziraphale. Look at the scene where Aziraphale daydreams about Job. In that scene he’s aware Aziraphale has something else to show him (the record clue), but he doesn’t stick around whilst Aziraphale ignores him. He could have sat down somewhere in the shop and waited – he’s got an eternity, waiting an hour or so is no big deal, but waiting around like that would suggest he really is a doormat, just waiting for the next time Aziraphale shows him any attention. He doesn’t do that, instead he goes off and does… well, something. There’s a lot of speculation over what it is, but whether he goes off to read Pride and Prejudice or just wanders off to find something more interesting to look at than the back of Aziraphale’s head, he’s clearly saying here that he has a life outside of whatever Aziraphale wants to do.

Also side note - you know what else he doesn’t do for Aziraphale? Adjust his driving style. Aziraphale clearly hates it, it makes him nervous and he even asks Crowley to change several times whilst they’re in the car together, but Crowley never does. This is how I am angel, accept it or don’t, but this is the line and I’m not changing this for you. Related to this is his refusal to accept Aziraphale altering the Bentley. Aziraphale tries to persuade him, “But it’s pretty,” and Crowley really isn’t having it. It’s another hard line and he’s not going to let Aziraphale cross it.

Anything else?

There’s a few other examples that I’ve seen listed in the, “Crowley does whatever Aziraphale says/wants” evidence piles. Things like Aziraphale assuming he’s going to get the drinks in the pub. Well, someone has to get them, and it makes perfect sense that they both assume it’s Crowley here because he’s the one more comfortable with pubs. Having a role that you take on within certain situations in a relationship is healthy and normal, imagine how exhausting it would be to debate who is going to do every little thing all of the time.

In the first series the coat cleaning is another example often cited, but this is something Crowley is perfectly happy to do. Aziraphale is flirting, which is delightful, and he’s not being asked to do anything difficult or dangerous. I will do this thing for you because I love you and I enjoy making you happy and this is something I feel I can give to you, which is totally different from, you always ask, I always give, and you always take.

What about Aziraphale. When does he give?

All the damn time. We just don’t notice it as much because Crowley asks different things of him. His love language is acts of service towards others, but he doesn’t really ask or require them in return. Sometimes he gets them from Aziraphale anyway (Holy water anyone?) Also notably in the Globe Theatre when he’s clearly the one pushing the Arrangement, and Aziraphale more or less agrees to do his work for him (“That doesn’t sound like hard work”) even before he’s asked, before they’ve gone through their little dance of Crowley pushing and Aziraphale supposedly-reluctantly agreeing.

The other things Aziraphale gives Crowley are much more nuanced, and much less measurable to us as the audience, but he gives them constantly, or more or less constantly, throughout their relationship. He gives him acceptance (although he occasionally partially withdraws it, such as in the bandstand scene), his silliness (which is more important than it first appears), a safe space (not just the bookshop, but also a safe space for Crowley to air his real views without fear of consequence, which is important irrespective of whether or not he persuades Aziraphale to agree with him), his physicality (by 1826 he’s really in Crowley’s space so much of the time) and most importantly he gives Crowley himself. Crowley constantly pushes Aziraphale to grow as a person, it’s one of the original reasons he entertains developing a friendship with him. What he asks of Aziraphale is for Aziraphale to think – really think – about what he believes. And Aziraphale does so, but only for Crowley. Humans have constantly questioned religious beliefs throughout history, they’ve written books, made speeches and even had wars over religious doctrine and the problems, inconsistencies and absurdities within it. Crowley is saying nothing to Aziraphale that he won’t already have indirectly heard from humans and dismissed or ignored. But when Crowley says it, he thinks and he changes. That’s what Crowley asks of Aziraphale and it’s what Aziraphale gives him.

What was the point of all this waffle?

Well, honestly there isn’t much of one. Only that their relationship is much more balanced than some suggest and I think I just wanted to spell that out. It also has an implication for the final 15 minutes. There’s no way Aziraphale goes into that with some sort of fake confidence that he can persuade Crowley to follow him to heaven simply because Crowley always follows him – Crowley doesn’t, he has very clear limits that he enforces with Aziraphale and Aziraphale knows this. He might feel confident for other reasons (such as thinking Crowley will be happy to be an angel again) or something else entirely different might be happening (so many theories!) but I’m pretty sure it’s nothing to do with thinking Crowley always does what he asks, because he very clearly doesn’t.

It's also why Crowley waits around afterwards to watch Aziraphale leave. It’s a way indirectly of saying one final time, I love you and I enjoy making you happy… but this is something I cannot give to you.

[barblaz-arts]

I know you've been making a lot of art of it lately, but out of curiosity, what's your opinion on Hazbin Hotel in general? I'm referring to both the show and the fandom here. Just curious.

God. What a loaded question. Are you ready? Bcuz I'm fresh from Vaggie discourse on twitter and I have a lot to say.

I think that Hazbin Hotel seems worse than it is for people who know the fandom but haven't actually watched the show. Honestly, I think it's a fine show. It isnt super incredible and I'm not gonna sing praises about how deep and thought provoking it is or whether it's an artistic masterpiece. It never tried to be that and was never advertised as such(to my knowledge) anyway. I just had a lot of fun. Like, yeh sure the cussing in the dialogue can be a bit much, especially in ep 1, but there are different writers in other episodes, so it gets better. It can be super crude yeh, but I grew up watching things like the Scary Movie franchise and other dumb american movies (yes, i was too young for them. yes, i still watched them), so it's pretty tolerable for me. It also helps that Charlie is the main character. That's one of the main reasons why I watch HH but dont watch HB. It's probably a fun show, but without a sweetheart like Charlie to balance things out, I'd just get tired of the sex jokes and mean jokes.

Compared to my last hyperfixation, I think I have more things to love about Hazbin Hotel, believe it or not. With Netflix's Wednesday, I had already been an Addams Family fan for a while and hung on because I loved the family and eventually Enid and wenclair. The show itself was honestly meh... so far! I'll give season 2 another shot.

But with Hazbin Hotel, it catered to a lot of things I've always loved. Found family with a bunch of misfits? We didnt get to see it much bcuz of the fuckass 8-ep per season format we have nowadays, but its fine its there! The juxtaposition of a kind hearted woman in a harsh world? Love love Charlie for that, I watched the show in the first place because of her. A canon lesbian lover with a "fuck the world cuz my world is you" type of love for the protag? Fuck yes. How very Pearl-from-Steven-Universe of Vaggie. And the music? The music is soooo good. I didn't know the songwriter prior to watching, so I was nervous about the songs, but I knew most of the theater actors they cast(still cant believe Jeremy fucking Jordan is Lucifer) so I figured even if the songs are mid, at least the performances would be topnotch. And they were! But the songs were a pleasant surprise. Sam Haft did real damn well. I still listen to the soundtrack to this day.

The fandom, however, is probably the worst one I've been in. And I've been in a lot in my big age... Just... lacking media literacy, and based on the replies I get when I say something on twitter, it seems a lot of them lack reading comprehension and just plain emotional intelligence too.

There's a lot of criticisms about this show that I honestly think is fair. Pacing, character design, overuse of the F word, whatever. But in my opinion, claiming that Hazbin is a male-centered show is an unfair misconception that is mostly the fault of the fandom.

Bcuz, sure, the male characters are uber popular. Alastor, Vox, Lucifer, Angel Dust and the many web of ships they're involved in went trending every few business days. But come on now. How often does a fandom even have their main protag as the most talked about character? This has been going on for ages. Just because the boys have the most merch and fics and fanarts and thirsty fans doesn't mean that they had the spotlight for most of the show itself. It only meant that they were the ones the viewers paid attention to, in a fandom filled with people drooling over the next tumblr sexyman and toxic yaoi ship of the month.

But if you actually look back at what the show gave us so far, the boys didnt outshine the women. I actually think the women got to do more and be more as characters than the men did. Let's take a look at the male characters.

Alastor was not in all the episodes. In fact, he was MIA in two out of the eight episodes. In all the episodes he was in, he was a mere side character. His purpose in season one was to stir the pot and be the intriguing mystery that occasionally quips. But he was not the one whose deeper thoughts were explored and whose character and goals was challenged THROUGHOUT the show, merely alluded to at the VERY END of the season, which is hardly him taking the spotlight away from Charlie. If you merely looked at the fan content of him, you'd think he were a father figure to Charlie(or a love interest. whatever) and that he has developed a soft spot for the Hazbins deep down in that cannibal heart of his. But if you pay attention to the show, he never had even a meaningful one on one conversation with the Hazbins. The only time that happened is when (a)he threatened Husk's life (b)when he constantly mocked Charlie while she was down in the dumps and used this as an opportunity to manipulate her and (b)when he told Niffty watching the crew sure can "make one sentimental", even tho he had taken no prior opportunity to bond with them! There's no foundation for all the fandom's claims that he could be redeemed bcuz of a budding fondness for the group, but that's all you see of his fan content(aside from the horniness). I dont have any problem with his lack of an actual relationship with the Hazbins bcuz I believe redemption for him is not what the show is going for, but it's frustrating to see people interpreting it that way BUT not seeing how horridly developed it would be if that is the case, meanwhile they turn around and say that Vaggie and Chaggie as a ship "had terrible development".

Then we have the male Vees. Vox was only ever in episode two, and was essentially a youtube reactor in episode 8. He was in ep 4 but had no speaking lines. We only know of his obsession with Alastor and the toxic relationship he has with Val. Val, meanwhile, is merely shown as the sex obsessed fiend behind Hell's sex industry and Angel's abuse. They did what they needed to do with minimal screentime. It was fine, but that's IT. Despite what little CANON gave so far, you have hundreds of people writing essays and fics and fanarts about them being complicated characters. But to reiterate, this does not mean that they are bad characters or that they don't deserve the fame. But to say that these men are better written within canon than the women is such a bold statement when most of the depth they knew of these characters were lore drops given before the show and their own speculations as they dug into the shallow soil of what the show has so far.

I'm not gonna speak about Angel and Lucifer. Because I think they were characters who were legitimately well-explored so far.

Now onto the women. So many of them were given the opportunity to have their characters challenged or given the agency to push characters and the plot forward or give you intrigue about implications of what's to come for the characters and the plot. I've talked a lot about Charlie and Vaggie. So let me talk about the other, terribly underrated women of Hazbin.

Velvette and Carmilla were the ones who advanced the subplot in the war against Heaven. Because of Carmilla's love for her family despite being a demon, an angel was killed. It gave Heaven the excuse to escalate things, but it also gave Charlie hope later on in the season that they're not powerless. Carmilla was also the first demon shown to make selfless actions that is contrary to what is expected of demons, making it proof that Charlie's belief that demons deserve a second chance isn't unwarranted. She's an interesting character, as an overlord who hangs on to power but clearly has morals. But how often do you see people writing essays about her? Eating up the fact that she's a powerful overlord but would sacrifice anything for her daughters? If Carmilla were a man, hundreds of girlies would be drooling over the crime boss who has a soft spot for his daughters.

Meanwhile, Velvette got to demonstrate why exactly she's an Overlord despite being the youngest demon in there. She's calculating and observant. She gives off a haughty vibe and constantly boasts about how she's young and fresh, but she isn't naive. During that meeting, she paid attention to Carmilla and Zestial's relationship. In order to find out who killed the angel, she riled everyone up, and when she got the feeling it was Carmilla, she mocked Zestial so that Carmilla could slip up. By playing these Overlords who are older and more experienced than her, Velvette showed what exactly her asset was to the Vees and why she's a threat, something that Vox and Val have yet to be given the opportunity to do when they were busy eye-fucking Alastor and literally fucking Angel. But in fan content about the Vees, Velvette is almost treated as an after thought to the boys...

Then we have the Seraphs. Not only were their designs gorgeous, their dynamic and presence as characters had impact to the plot and main characters.

Emily is a much needed character to show that this story isn't meant to tell you that Heaven = bad; Hell = good. There is good and bad in both, and it is so important for the protags to know that they have an ally in Emily who represents the true virtues that heaven is supposed to uphold. And I love the confrontation she had with Sera when her own view of what's right and good was challenged. We got to see the strength of her character and started the seeds of what could be heaven's acceptance of Charlie's goals.

Sera is such an interesting character to me. She was also important to show that not all angels were sadistic like Adam and Lute, but not in the same way Emily was. I have no idea so far which direction this show would go with her. But I'm intrigued by the fact that she seems to be driven by fear, unlike Adam and Lute's cruelty. She knew Lucifer and was there when he was cast out for his disobedience. Whether everything she's doing is to prevent that from happening again remains to be seen, and I'm looking forward to this kind of subplot for her.

And then Rosie! I really really look forward to seeing more from her. Spoilers aside, something I barely see people talk about is how interesting it is that Rosie is every bit the leader that Charlie hopes to be. Rosie is able to be a respected overlord in her own faction without needing to sacrifice her love for showmanship and music and her positive disposition. When we were officially introduced to her, they show how she seems to care about actually taking care of her people, not JUST ordering them around, by talking to them personally and giving advice. That's exactly what Charlie wanted to do for her people, isn't it? The hotel to Charlie was what the emporium was to Rosie. They have a lot of similarities that could set up for Rosie to be the one to teach Charlie in becoming a leader. Now whether that's a good thing or a bad thing remains to be seen, but it is rather compelling.

So yeah! With all that said, I really dont think this show ignores its women at all. Just because a bigger part of the fandom gravitated towards the men doesn't necessarily mean its a misogynistic show so far. But if certain people are claiming that the women are badly written, then I hope they also own up to the fact that their blorbos are just as shallowly presented within the show, maybe even more so. Which wouldn't even be a bad thing! Since when did a show or character have to be amazingly written for a person to like them? That's just no fun at all. All I'm saying is... Fuck this fandom's double standards, hiding behind claims that it's the writing's fault when the problem is they couldn't be bothered to think about the women.

[red-takami]

Perma Shifting - as a successful shifter and my view on it (I just wanna yap that's all)

Earlier today I had seen a rather popular shifter speak about her shifting experiences and her not believing in Perma Shifting. This caught my interest, mainly because i myself am a Shifter who DOES believe in PS, and I also know a lot of successful shifters who also believe in it.

I overall just am very intrigued in the idea of what people mean by not "believing" in PS. Do you not believe in choosing to stay in your Dr? Or do you not believe in the ability in staying one exact reality for permanent? This is a bit of a wormhole I know, especially for shifters who plan on living multiple lives- for a very long time. How do you guys feel about immortality? In the sense of shifting away before death anyway.

Questions and curiosity aside, I personally believe in PS because of my own perspective. In my eyes, every Dr of mine is the same level of reachability as my Cr, like they're all in range of possibility if I chose so. When I shift, taking my MHA Dr for example - in my eyes, that place THEN becomes my current reality. Because it's where I'm currently at. I choose to shift back to the previous reality (my now current reality) and this has never happened without my intention behind it.

Take another example, my Navariah Dr.

This Dr is a place that isn't a media, or a book, it's a random and made-up fantasy world I had built in a whim and chose to shift to after I had gotten a taste of fantasy-esk realities from my Dragon Dr. I had shifted to this reality relatively quickly, and get this! I stayed for an entire 9 years and 7 months. That's almost a decade you guys.

The plan wasn't to stay that long in the slightest, I shifted purely to get a peek into the world I had created and see what it looked like and possibly use that sneak peek to form my decision on shifting back there later on. But guess what you guys?! This ended up being my top, longest shift I had ever done by far. Each month went by, and eventually my previous reality (my now Cr) had been a distant memory and pretty much old news. I wasn't worried about anything going on here at all while in Navariah, because I had gotten so caught up in that world and everything happening over there - the clock continued to tick whether I was paying attention or not.

Of course, I thought about my Cr often, but truthfully I hadn't started debating on actually coming back until the 5th year. In my opinion, this is a grand example of what it could look like/feel to shift and find that you have no current desires to shift back.

If I could shift, and stay in a Dr for almost an entire decade, who's to say someone out there hasn't already decided to spend the rest of their days in a Dr? Or at least, making that place - whatever it is - your new home Cr.

Do I ever plan on PS? I have absolutely considered it. Hell, if we're bringing TECHNICAL HERE🌚 I have, but not in some big revolutionary way. The Cr I am in right now is a place I've shifted to probably two years ago now (?) it's been a long time. Where I am now is a place that I had built for myself back then, and I live it everyday. However, there are other places i had given thought to staying permanently. Navariah, again, is a great example of this. I miss my life dearly there, I miss my family, I miss my friends and lovers, I miss my Dragons, I miss my magic, and I miss the lovely planet Navariah flourished on. The way the sun set and made the sky dance with colors and personality that my Cr's sky lacks. There's so many things that make me half convinced to leave everything and just go back home to Navariah.

But what about you all? What about HERE. I've spent the first quarter of my life in this plane of existence, with a constantly growing and changing reality as my Cr. I've built something here, and I feel that there's something I need to see out here. A teeny, tiny voice tells me that it'd be in my best interest to stay and find out - to experience. And so, that was enough to keep this place as my planted home-point.

For those who permashift, I support you wholly. I don't need details or a reason to, this is your life and these are decisions that are entirely yours to make nomatter what opinions I or anyone else may have.

Whoever you are, we believe in you.

[writing-for-life]

Tales from the Flat Earth by Tanith Lee

A few thoughts on the supposed similarities with The Sandman—with actual comparisons (and a summary of the most important beats for those who want it)…

[This post is super long. It contains a lot of different thoughts, that’s why I broke it down into three parts: 1. General Considerations, 2. Boroson’s Claims and 3. A beat-by-beat summary of all five volumes of Tales from the Flat Earth. You might want to read this in instalments, or you might want to leave part three if you are still planning to read any of the five volumes.]

Part One: General Considerations

By now, many of you will have heard of Tanith Lee’s series “Tales from the Flat Earth”—not because the world all of a sudden woke up to a literary genius, but because of a Facebook post by Matthew Boroson in the immediate aftermath of the sexual assault allegations against Neil Gaiman. Boroson now made a further statement that he will “delete […] challenges so he can live”. I completely get the exhaustion of a post going viral—been there, got the T-Shirt—but why not just ignore it? Switch off notifications or comments altogether? Actively censoring only the people with different opinions, whom he even admits have mostly been engaging in good faith, because “he can’t do this 24/7”, while leaving up those in agreement (apparently he can do that 24/7)? He might not have thought through how bad this looks, and the irony of a man silencing dissenting voices and trying to control the conversation really shouldn’t be lost on people. But apparently, it is.

Anyway: I have absolutely no desire to defend Neil Gaiman. As should be clear from my blog, I stand with Gaiman’s victims and have done so since last summer when the allegations first broke. I believe those women, for both personal and professional reasons I won’t go into here. And I believe them, whether some author guy tells me I should or not. What grates on me is that this overshadows what’s actually important here, and I’ll get to why in a second.

I love Tanith Lee’s Tales from the Flat Earth and have read them first in the 1990s, and quite a few times since. For that very reason, I wish people would just read her work without trying to engage in a “gotcha” that is still all about Gaiman and not her. She was a great and talented writer who deserves more than now forever being known as “the woman whom Neil Gaiman plagiarised”. And to say it quite frankly: The sexual assault allegations can stand on their own and don’t need a male writer telling us, verbatim, “I have no difficulty believing the accusations against him. Because I know — KNOW — that he has felt entitled to take what he wants from a woman, without her permission, and without any acknowledgement of her contributions.”

I can’t even begin to say how problematic this statement is, for so many reasons. So all I’ll say is:

There is a certain tone-deafness in thinking a sexual assault claim holds even more weight because a male writer says, “See, he did this, so you should also believe that.” We should believe SA victims. Full stop. We don’t need wonky plagiarism or “inspiration without credit”-claims to give them more weight. These two things shouldn’t even be mentioned in the same sentence.

But all of that aside: Read Tanith Lee’s “Tales from the Flat Earth” because you are interested in a writer who crafted imaginative worlds in a florid prose-style that hearkens back to old fairy tales and Arabian Nights. If you only want to read it for a “gotcha”, I might be able to spare you the arduous work, although I strongly recommend you read it to come to your own conclusions (go to the source yourself. And I honestly wish more people did before they just blindly believe things). Again, spare a thought though if Tanith deserves to be “the woman NG plagiarised” to a new audience, because let’s be honest—that’s the only reason why so many people now read her works.

And that’s exactly why I thought so long and hard whether to even write this post, but there comes a point when people who actually know both works in depth need to speak up about the informational conformity bias that now has us at over 30,000 notes on Tumblr alone, all the while the person who put this into the world seems to actively censor anyone who dares to disagree. I get that Boroson’s claim is what a lot of people want to believe right now, but that doesn’t make it more true. Someone even said that “misinformation doesn’t matter in this case because only the result does.” That’s an incredibly dumb and also dangerous statement, but I’ll leave it at that.

Horrible people can create good art. We don’t need to pretend they were always hacks. We have to learn to sit with that cognitive dissonance and can disassociate ourselves from the creator regardless—because he’s an abuser.

Part Two: Boroson’s Claims

With all of that out of the road, let’s have a closer look at all that Boroson alleges in his FB post; quotes are verbatim.

1. “Despite the fact that the main character — a byronic, pale, otherworldly, deity-like character - is the prince of night and dreams.”

Here, we already have the first bit of wrong information. Azhrarn is one of the Lords of Darkness. He is the Prince of Demons. He is evil-aligned. He is not a “prince of dreams”. He is “Night’s Master” because he only walks the earth at night, and sunlight is lethal (oh?) for him. He is really nothing like Dream. One is all about rules and responsibilities, the other is about inconsistency, wickedness, mischief, changing his mind on a whim and treating humans as playthings (which he repeatedly admits himself). You could build a much stronger case for similarities between Azhrarn and Lucifer/Iblis (and Loki if you wanted to go Norse) than Dream, because Azhrarn actually hates the gods, and Lee’s whole series builds very strongly on how he (and then someone else) tries to bring them down. And Azhrarn might be older than gods, but whether he is truly more powerful depends on how you look at it—he even asks them for help at some point. Dream, on the other hand, is more than the gods. They begin in his realm, and they end there when people stop believing. Because gods come from the collective unconscious—and that’s who and what Dream is.

2. “Despite the fact that every time people see art depicting Tanith Lee's main character Azhrarn, they think it's Morpheus from the Sandman.”

This is interesting since the depiction Boroson chose for his FB claim is fanart. If you claim something like this, at least use original artwork, not works that have already gone through 20 subconscious filters. If you look at original art, you get this:

Azhrarn in the middle, Uhlume (Lord Death) to the right, Chuz (Lord Madness) to the left. And in the other picture, Azrharn in his eagle form. Which is just weird, soz. But that’s why he has feathers on his garb.

Maybe there’s a fleeting similarity in the one to the left, but there’s also literally none in the one to the right. And if you have ever read any dark fantasy of the 1980s and 90s (and even earlier), pretty much the majority of male protagonists fitted the stereotype of “pale, clad in black and byronic”. It was a dark fantasy trope—goths read that stuff in droves (I was one of them). And it became even more likely if the hero/antihero/villain was somehow aligned with the underworld. Which Azhrarn is.

And since artists are always influenced by other artworks and their own mental image of a character, have an actual description of Azhrarn’s looks from “Night’s Master”:

“marvelously handsome, with hair that shone like blue-black fire, and clothed in all the magnificence of night.”

But we also get this when he makes a not so great experience:

“He gazed to east and west, to north and south, and the face of Azhrarn, it is truly said, had become white. Long he looked, and long his pallor increased. A mortal man could not grow so pale and live.”

So we can reasonably deduce that he isn’t usually as white as Morpheus in his main form (I don’t know what else to call it)?

There are many other descriptions of a similar ilk. Is this really enough to say they look the same? Really? Instead of admitting that we might be filling in some blanks here if descriptions are so vague?

3. “Despite the fact that the dream lord's younger sibling is Death.”

That one truly made me laugh out loud. Apart from the fact that Gaiman’s Death is older and female (which one could say was a purposeful switch to “hide the tracks” 🙄)—only the least read people would assume this was in any way new or sensational and “borrowed” from any one particular writer. Hypnos (Sleep) and Thanatos (Death) are twin brothers in Greek mythology. And the closeness of Death and Dream in The Sandman (both conceptually and on a relational level) is much more of a mirror of that than the relationship between Azhrarn and Uhlume in Tales from the Flat Earth, because in all honesty: The latter two don’t get on that well, which Boroson conveniently forgets to mention. Their relationships are really nothing alike.

Hypnos is also a deity residing in the underworld, and you have to cross the river Lethe (forgetfulness/oblivion) to get to him. Lee borrows from that idea very heavily when she tells the story of Kazir visiting Azhrarn in Underearth. These are myths, told and retold by hundreds of writers over and over again, including Lee herself.

I don’t even know what to say about this one. It’s so thin that it immediately blows away if you as much as cough at it.

4. “Despite the fact that other members of his family include Delusion, Delirium.... They are not gods but beings older than gods, and when the gods die, Dream, Death, Delusion, and Delirium will remain. This family of immortal, eternal, unchanging beings, who each embody an eternal abstraction starting with the letter D.”

There are only two Lords of Darkness beginning with a D, and they are called Uhlume (Death) and Chuz (Delusion). Azhrarn is Wickedness.

There is no Dream, as I already stated. And guess what? There is also no separate Delirium. So wrong facts again. The character is Delirium’s Mistress (or at least that’s the title of the volume), and in that case, we are referring to her as being the lover of Chuz (so Delusion and Delirium are effectively the same person). And her name is Azhriaz; she is half human, half demon (and something else, but that would be too spoilery) and Azhrarn’s daughter. She looks like this in original artwork (sorry for the crappola photo):

Without wanting to give too much plot away because some of you might still want to read this: There are three Lords of Darkness (or one could argue five—more about that later) in Lee’s Tales, but they don’t all begin with a D—neither if you look at their names (their initials are A, U, C, K and A), nor at their functions (in which case it’s W, D, D, F and L).

Okay, the domains of two Lords of Darkness start with D. Is it really enough to be sure Gaiman borrowed from it, turning it into seven? Or is it perhaps far more likely that this still falls into the realm of literary archetypes? And even if Gaiman did expand on that idea—that’s not plagiarism (which, to say it very clearly, Boroson didn’t explicitly say it was. He just implied it a bit between the lines, and other people who probably didn’t read either ran with it). I don’t think it would even constitute “heavy borrowing”, especially since the characters, their relationships and the stories as such are so, so different.

Why is Boroson’s account riddled with inaccuracies? Why be so wrong in your descriptions of a work you supposedly know so well? I really don’t know. It’s either that he doesn’t know it as well as he says he does (which I can’t imagine, since he’s apparently been going on about this for years), or he purposefully misrepresents it to add more weight to it. Which looks bad to be honest. Or at least as if he’s a bit too taken with an idea and at the stage where he can’t let it go anymore.

5. “[…] description of a character who was clearly the inspiration for Gaiman’s Mazikeen.”

That’s also Chuz. As depicted in the art above, and also here:

One side of him is young and beautiful, the other old. I’ll let you decide if this is clearly the inspiration for Mazikeen:

“So she beheld the entire aspect of his face, one half youthfully bronzed, one half haggardly gray, the rusty hair and the blond, but it seemed to her it was the most natural face she had ever looked on.”

And to say it quite frankly: Framing it like that is a bit dishonest to start with? It’s not the description of “a character”. It’s the volume’s protagonist. Whom Boroson earlier insisted was the inspiration for Delirium (also a bit wonky that one, as I already wrote, since I bet most of the people who don’t know Lee’s work pictured her Delirium as a woman after reading Boroson’s account). But now it’s Mazikeen all of a sudden? Leaving out he’s actually talking about the same character here looks like wilfully obfuscating that neither of it truly holds water, so he’s picking little bits and offers them without context.

Mazikeen is a visual creation of Kelley Jones btw, so maybe Boroson should also take it up with him? The same could be said to everyone who might feel tempted to shoehorn a certain other character (DC’s Destiny) into this, woefully forgetting that Destiny is not a character created by Gaiman. He has existed in the DC Universe years before Lee wrote Tales from the Flat Earth. I don’t hear anyone complaining that Lee stole Kheshmet/Fate from DC because it would be quite frankly idiotic—these are literary archetypes!

6. “The prose, the characters, the narrative strategies, the mythology, the story structure, all of it: Gaiman found it all in Tanith Lee's writing and never gave her any credit.”

The prose is really hard to compare because one is a novel, the other a comic. I really recommend you read both yourself so you get the full picture, but just two examples here:

Tanith Lee:

“A mile from the enameled walls of the city, where the desert lay gleaming like golden glass, a beautiful woman sat in a stone tower, and she played with a bone.

“Will he come to me today?” she asked the bone, rocking it in her arms like a child. “Or will he seek me tonight? All the stars will shine, but he will shine more brightly. For sure, he dare not come by day, for he would outshine the sun. The sun would die of shame, and the whole world grow dark. But oh, he will come. Nemdur,” said the beautiful woman, “Nemdur, my lord.”

Her name was Jasrin; Nemdur was the king whose city stood one mile to the east. Once, he had been her husband.

No longer.”

Neil Gaiman:

As someone who’s read both many times over, my personal assessment is:

They are not very alike. Lee writes floridly, Gaiman is often fairly to the point. Even in Ramadan, which is one (out of 75!) issues that closest resembles the style of Arabian Nights (which is Lee’s inspiration), his voice seems distinct to me—as is hers. Lee’s prose always struck me as great, Gaiman’s as good (I always loved his world building more than his actual writing style). I think Lee’s prose is more accomplished, but that’s personal taste.

Characters: I already expanded on it.

Narrative strategy: This is so vague. Does he mean perspective? Point of view? Other narrative strategies like foreshadowing?

Since I don’t know what exactly Boroson is referring to because he likes to keep it nebulous, I really can’t say, but I don’t think the way the stories are told are in any way alike. And where they seem similar (“Night’s Master”, as an example, is told as interconnected stories in the style of Arabian Nights with a throughline. And of course the Sandman also contains some interconnected stories with a throughline, although they are in no way reminiscent of Arabian Nights to me, bar Ramadan), I seriously have to ask again:

Do we believe only one writer utilises these strategies and/or has a monopoly on them? Because there are truly only so many of them to go around. And we could say that Lee’s “narrative strategy” is hardly unique either. This is just a bit silly.

Mythology: Just no. Both Lee and Gaiman use themes that have been there a million times before them, I already brushed on it. Both lean heavily into existing mythologies, with Gaiman more into Greek, and Lee into Near- and Middle Eastern one (especially Mesopotamian/Babylonian—there are some parallels between her characters and deities like Nergal, Sin/Nanna and Ninazu), although they both also use others. But the bottom line is: Both have expanded on long existing mythologies.

Story structure: Again, what is Boroson insinuating here? He is truly the master of vagueness.

To say it very directly: The story structure is not the same. If you look at The Sandman in its entirety, it’s a clear three act tragedy with a lot of Hero’s Journey thrown-in. The fact that it’s told in 10 arcs changes nothing about that—you can clearly make out Campbell’s stages, like Call to Adventure, Crossing the First Threshold, Belly of the Whale… you name it. This is long enough already, but look at Campbell’s Hero’s Journey, and it’s fairly obvious (and no, the hero doesn’t always have to survive).

Tales from the Flat Earth have a throughline in their five volumes, but they are connected more loosely, with the odd referential throwback. Only “Delusion’s Master” and “Delirium’s Mistress” have an ongoing narrative (of sorts). “Night’s Sorceries” always seemed like an afterthought of material Lee would have liked in volume four but couldn’t fit in. They are all told in a way that hearkens back to oral storytelling (hence Lee saying she was inspired by 1001 Nights), and there is a clear sense of an unchanging, but not personally involved storyteller/narrator all the way through who sometimes even offers commentary.

7. “Tanith Lee was far more progressive about Igbtq+ identities, and that was twenty years earlier.”

Well, for starters: Ten years earlier (“Night’s Master” was published in 1978, the first issue of The Sandman in 1988).

Is Tales from the Flat Earth truly more progressive? I’m not sure. Both were progressive for their time, simply because they wrote about LGBTQ+ characters at all and gave them a voice. And to put it in a disclaimer: I don’t apply moral purity standards to fiction, neither do I believe certain things that would be problematic in real life can’t be written about in fiction (and dare I say: I find that take worrying, for many reasons, but that’s a different discussion). But if we’re talking about “progressiveness”:

A clearly bisexual Demon Prince grooms a child to then seduce him on his 16th birthday—in a time when gay men were often still thrown into one pot with groomers and even pedophiles?

A lesbian queen who basically gets cursed to have sex with many, many men because only a pregnancy can lift that curse (!), finds out she is barren and can only conceive if she has sex with a dead guy, makes a deal with Uhlume who then brings a man back from the dead so she can be impregnated and then, via many many twists and turns, turns into [I’ll tell you later if you really want to know]?

I don’t know, but it’d probably be the same people who find certain angles of the Sandman problematic who would also bolt or get outraged at this? And they would 100% engage in the same type of revisionist readings they now apply to Gaiman’s works if they ever found out that Lee did anything wrong. There is a lot, and I mean a lot, of rape, SA and questionable power dynamics in Lee’s work. But it’s also a work of fiction.

8. In the 1990s, toward the end of her life, she complained in an interview that magazines weren't buying her stories anymore.

[edit: Lee died in 2015, so Boroson’s claim the 90s were “towards the end of her life” also reads a bit weird to me—as if he’s consciously trying to appeal to the sympathy of his readers by portraying her as “the poor woman on her death bed”, when she still lived for another 20 years]

That’s a bit nebulous again. It’s amazing how some people never quote their sources. I am near certain that Boroson talks about this interview from 1998, but I stand corrected if it’s a different one:

Tanith talks about her troubles getting published, but she also says it’s a hard time for everyone right now. Plus, her bibliography also clearly indicates she still got published on the regular, and that the amount of works published in any given year didn’t really fluctuate all that much apart from a burst in the ‘70s (and “burst” refers to the difference of publishing four books instead of two per year), a dip towards the end of her life (when her output was probably affected by her illness) and then the sad thing that always happens when someone dies: Suddenly, there’s another uptick.

Someone even went through the trouble of visualising her published works in a graph:

Courtesy of Das_Mime

Does this honestly look like no one published her anymore?

Now, don’t get me wrong: Of course it is a nice gesture if those more successful put in a word for those who find themselves in a bit of dry spot. But to turn this almost into some conspiracy theory is just a bit weird if I’m honest. It’s much more likely that people are simply not on someone’s radar than that they are actively trying to hinder their career. Writing is hard. Getting published is hard, even if you already have a few published works under your belt. Ask me how I know…

These were the points Boroson made that I wanted to address directly. For those of you who want to get a feel if the story as such is actually in any way similar enough to even call it heavy borrowing, I’ll now do a summary of all major story beats for all five volumes.

Part Three: Tales from the Flat Earth Beat-by-Beat

I assume that most of my followers are familiar with The Sandman, but only a few with Tanith Lee. Hence I won’t do a summary of The Sandman, and once again: You really have to read both works yourself to understand why Boroson’s claims are so far out there. I’m more than willing to discuss and answer questions that come in good faith, but I’ll say it outright: I am not interested in engaging with anyone who just comes here to peddle conspiracy theories and platitudes like “misinformation doesn’t matter in this case because…” if they haven’t even read the works in question.

Just as a quick hint, because that’s where you’ll find the superficial similarities (and that’s my phrasing it with the utmost goodwill):

If you want to compare the entirety of both works, there’s no way around reading both.

For “Night’s Master”, I’d argue you also need to read the entirety of The Sandman, because in a nutshell, it is, at least at first glance, about the heel-face-turn of its protagonist. You’ll need at least Preludes and Nocturnes and The Kindly Ones, but it makes no sense to read them separately, so…

For “Death’s Master”, maybe read The Doll’s House and Season of Mists, because it is partly about a queen who wants to save her land (everything else would be too spoilery, but just so much: The similarities are fleeting at best, and that’s already generous).

For “Delusion’s Master”: Again The Doll’s House and Season of Mists, because at its very core we have a love story that gets torpedoed by a traitor. But other than that, said love story is truly nothing alike.

For “Delirium’s Mistress”: Honestly, I thought long and hard about this. I really don’t know because it is so different from the Sandman that I see absolutely no parallels at all. Maybe read Brief Lives, because there is something in there about parent/child relationships. But they are hardly unique in literature, so once again: I truly don’t know how anyone could find similarities here. And The Kindly Ones would be such an immense stretch that I won’t even go there.

For “Night’s Sorceries”: There are three stories that give a bit of context to the rest. If anything, I’d say read The Wake. But that would actually be insinuating Azhriaz is Daniel, and I’m like… no, massive stretch. If it’s just about loosely connected stories that somewhat fit into a greater narrative, read “World’s End”. But if we’re thinking that’s already a similarity, I truly cry for literary analysis…

Briefly about the world we’re in: The Flat Earth basically consists of four planes: Upperearth, home of the gods; Earth (the Earth of humans before it changed shape); Underearth, home of Azhrarn, Prince of Demons and Wickedness; Innerearth, home of Uhlume, Lord Death. Azhrarn’s kingdom, Druhim Vanashta, houses three classes of demons: Vazdru (most like Azhrarn himself, beautiful and prone to change into eagles and other animals), Eshva (basically mute servants to the Vazdru who can change gender at will) and Drin (ugly, exclusively male creatures and accomplished creators of beautiful and practical things). All three demon kind frequently visit earth to tempt and create chaos.

Volume One: Night’s Master

Night’s Master begins with Azhrarn finding a dying woman and her newborn son, Sivesh, on a hillside. After her death, Azhrarn becomes captivated by the beauty of the child and takes him back to Underearth to raise him (and then promptly seduces him on his 16th birthday). Azhrarn then creates a woman called Ferazhin from a flower for Sivesh (because, you know, Azhrarn thinks it’s good sport to sample a woman. As one does). However, nothing can prevent Sivesh from longing to live on earth because he is human, and the decision to leave Azhrarn for a life in the light offends the Demon Prince. So he consciously tricks him into death by drowning (by chapter three).

The next storyline shifts to a collar (crafted by a Drin) from Ferazhin’s tears because she is inconsolable. We follow the collar around on its journey to different owners (who all meet a gruesome end in one way or another). The final owner, the blind bard Kazir, is the only one not to get corrupted by it, and we conclude the first book with his journey to Underearth to give the collar back to Azhrarn in exchange for Ferazhin, whom he loves without ever having met her. Azhrarn agrees to let Ferazhin go if Kazir can answer a particular question, which he can (not going to get too deep into that, apart from: Azhrarn is rattled, and we’ll revisit it at the end of this volume). Kazir and Ferazhin are happy for a while, but as usual, Azhrarn changes his mind, and by the end of it, Ferazhin is dead (a bit of a nod to Romeo and Juliet in there, but that just as an aside). But lo and behold, Kazir manages to bring her back after a while, and “somewhere perhaps, some dark door slammed like thunder in a city underground.”

Book Two of Night’s Master focuses on Zorayas, who survived the overthrow of her father (a king) as a newborn but suffered severe disfigurement. After the death of the monk who took care of her, she seeks revenge for being raped by a Prince and takes back her father’s kingdom with the help of the Drin. And, as usual, she meets her demise through trickery orchestrated by Azhrarn.

Book Three. Azhrarn’s cruel prank on a young married couple goes wrong, escalates and ultimately leads to humanity teetering on the brink of destruction (the remnants of the husband turn into Hatred and wipe out everything). After seeking intervention from the gods of Upperearth in vain, Azhrarn makes, for once, a sacrifice to preserve humanity’s existence. But does he do so completely selflessly? Could be argued, and I guess Kazir knew, but that’d be too much of a spoiler… Suffice it to say, Earth enters an age of innocence without the presence of hatred and wickedness. Until… 🤣

Volume Two: Death’s Master

Narasen, Queen of Merh, is sexually assaulted by the magician Issak. Feigning cooperation, she manages to kill him. Before he dies, he curses Narasen and Merh, declaring that both will become barren. The curse can only be lifted if Narasen (we have deduced at this point that she is a lesbian because she “doesn’t lie with men”) gives birth to a child, but includes a stipulation that prevents this solution: “Your reluctant womb will never quicken from the seed of living man.” After numerous attempts to conceive, Narasen, driven by her desire to save her land and people, makes a deal with Uhlume to conceive a child from a dead man. In return, Narasen agrees to spend a thousand years in Uhlume’s kingdom. Narasen is poisoned shortly after childbirth.

After Narasen is locked in her tomb with her newborn child Simmu, Uhlume arrives to claim her, leaving the child behind. However, Simmu is rescued by two passing Eshva and lives with them by night. Simmu develops Eshva abilities, like changing gender at will. Eventually, the Eshva grow tired of Simmu and leave him at a temple near Merh, where he grows up among monks and becomes friends and later lovers with a boy called Zhirem.

Simmu and Zhirem eventually become separated and somewhat turn into the tools of Azhrarn (Simmu hates Death because he remembers him coming for his mother) and Uhlume, respectively.

Meanwhile, Uhlume and Narasen don’t get on too well—Narasen sets herself up as Lady Death and constantly struggles for power. To get her off his back, Uhlume grants her permission to spend a day in Merh, where she promptly destroys her city (yeah, after all that trouble…). Upon her return, she gradually takes over the supervision of Innerearth from Uhlume and turns into “Lady Death.”

Azhrarn saves Simmu during Narasen’s attack on Merh. He instructs Simmu to obtain water from the Cistern of Life (a little throwback to volume one). His plan is to kill Uhlume, hence bringing death to an end. The well is guarded by nine virgins called the Golden Daughters—Simmu makes use of his gender-changing abilities and sneaks into each of their chambers as a woman and then takes their virginity as a man. With their virginity taken, the well cracks, and Simmu founds the City of Simmurad (populated by immortal humans) with the golden daughter Kassafeh (too long-winded to get into it all).

Zhirem has embarked on his own adventures and eventually returns to Earth as the magician Zhirek. He agrees to serve Uhlume, who plans to destroy Simmurad, perceiving it as a threat. With the guidance of Azhrarn, who has grown weary of Simmu and Simmurad (you see, Azhrarn is not very consistent and doesn’t abide by rules nor responsibilities like our boy Morpheus 😉), Uhlume lets Zhirek destroy the city by submerging it under water after re-introducing death via creating and killing an insect. Simmu seemingly dies at the hands of Zhirek, who casts him into a well of fire. Zhirek retires into solitude, and Simmu is ultimately saved by Azhrarn, who transforms him into an Eshva and erases all memories of his past.

The story concludes with Narasen effectively ruling Innerearth and giving death, while Uhlume spends most of his time on Earth, finding solace in the presence of Kassafeh.

Volume Three: Delusion’s Master

We’re starting with a tale about Jasrin, the young wife of King Nemdur of Sheve. Because she is jealous of her newborn child, she abandons him in the desert, where he gets killed by dogs. Nemdur banishes Jasrin to a tower, where her sanity gradually deteriorates. She is visited by Chuz, the Prince of Madness (the third Lord of Darkness). Inquiring about her deepest desires, Jasrin expresses her wish for her husband to share her madness. Nemdur awakens with a crazy plan to construct a towering structure that reaches Upperearth (where the gods live). Inspired by the legend of Simmu, he envisions attaining immortality. The Tower of Babyhelu, aptly named “The Gate to the Gods,” grows and grows until it becomes unstable due to its immense weight, causing it to collapse with catastrophic consequences: The fall of the entire kingdom of Sheve.

Azhrarn and a few of his demons are drawn to the commotion, and a conversation between him and Chuz reignites Azhrarn’s disdain for the gods, who had failed to assist him in “Night’s Master”.

Hundreds of years later, we meet 7,000 pilgrims on their journey across the desert to worship the gods at Bhelsheved (Sheve rebuilt). Azhrarn is incensed that his sacrifice to save humanity in “Night’s Master” is credited to the gods. Disguised as a prophet, he reveals that a Lord of Darkness (not the gods) is the true saviour of humanity. For this, he is lashed with a whip and sheds three drops of blood. Azhrarn continues with his quest to destroy Bhelsheved but is unexpectedly diverted by the beauty of a young priestess named Dunizel. Recognising Azhrarn’s true intentions, Dunizel bravely offers to sacrifice herself to appease his wrath. Azhrarn turns into a wolf and bites off her lower arm, but when she encourages him to bite again instead of showing terror, he hesitates. Reminiscing about his own sacrifice to Hatred, he changes his mind, heals her with his own blood, and falls deeply in love with her.

We then learn the story of Dunizel’s mentally disabled mother, who was held captive by the assistant of an astronomer (who was on a field trip to observe a comet passing by). After impregnating the girl, the assistant attempted to abort the child by exposing her to the comet’s energy as it passed. The girl was instead exposed to a rainbow of light captured by the astronomer’s magical engine, regained her sanity and gave birth to Dunizel, who was also affected by the comet’s light. Dunizel’s mother raised her but gradually transformed into a fire elemental and ascended into the sky. The assistant gave Dunizel to a grieving mother from a nearby village, who raised her until she was chosen to join the religious cult (like her mother, she is also part solar being).

We are panning back to the love story of Dunizel and Azhrarn. Dunizel gives birth to a daughter named Soveh, who is initially mistaken for a goddess on Earth and grows at unnatural speed. Through the workings of Chuz though, the truth about the child’s paternity is revealed, and Dunizel dies at the hands of an angry mob (she also comes into contact with one of the drops of blood Azhrarn had formerly shed in the desert). Devastated, Azhrarn takes Soveh, whom he renames Azhriaz, to Underearth. Before he departs, he addresses Chuz and declares their relationship as “un-brothers, un-cousins, and now, un-friends”. He also reveals he will go to war with him and considers it a kindness he has informed him in advance.

The story concludes with Chuz finding Jasrin, who is haunting her tower, and releasing her.

Volume Four: Delirium’s Mistress

So if you waited for this to start with all-out war between Azhrarn and Chuz, you’ll be disappointed. We meet Oloru, a court jester to tyrannical prince Lak Hezoor. Oloru convinces Lak Hezoor to take him on a sightseeing tour of Underearth. It’s not going well—Lak Hezoor is torn apart by Azhrarn’s red hounds. Oloru transforms into a “slender rod of yellow radiation, vaguely purplishly limned” and flies towards the island where young adult Azhriaz has been sleeping since her arrival in Underearth (it’s a been a few years). Oloru, who is actually Chuz in disguise, awakens her, convinces her to escape, and takes her back to Earth. And of course they become lovers.

Kheshmet (King Fate) enters the story, just like that, and in no time, Azhrarn arrives and ends his quarrel with Chuz— also just like that. But to atone, Chuz has to agree to live a mortal lifetime, disfigured, without his powers and truly mad. Azhriaz initially stays with Chuz, but he forgets who she is.

Azhriaz, now without Chuz, despairs. She visits her mother’s grave with Khesmet and decides to embrace her father’s legacy: discrediting the gods. She replaces a king who committed suicide and ascends to the status of a cruel goddess on Earth, conquering much of the world who revels in her cruelty. Her teachings to humanity are that the gods care nothing for them: “Remember, to the gods, you are nothing. To Azhriaz, the Goddess, you are only grains of dust or sand.”

Khesmet arrives to foretell a looming war with sea and sky.

And weirdly, that war starts because a god, whom Azhrarn kissed in “Night’s Master”, awakens and decides that was sacrilege, plus he’s also not pleased with Azhriaz’s activities on Earth. The gods consequently hurl three shards into the sun that transform into three angels—the Malhukim of the gods: Ebriel, Yabael and Melquar. Azhrarn holds the angels at bay while Azhriaz escapes into the ocean aboard a special fish-ship crafted by the Drin, pursued by Ebriel and Yabael. Azhrarn fights Melquar in the air and narrowly avoids incineration. Azhriaz escapes imprisonment in an underwater city when Yabael destroys it with his sword. She receives no assistance from Azhrarn because he lies in a death-like coma in Druhim Vanashta and has been usurped by the demon Hazrond. Eventually, Azhrarn recovers and reclaims his kingdom. Azhriaz is still pursued by Yabael, who conveniently undergoes a transformation and forgets his mission in the process. Then pursued by Ebriel, she travels with Dathanja (Zhirek making a reappearance) and ultimately engages in an eternal battle with the angel. Realising she’ll be otherwise stuck there forever, she convinces Ebriel to stop by revealing her plan to give up her immortality.

Ebriel departs, snd Azhriaz (who is actually called Atmeh at this point, but that’d lead too far) seeks out Kassafeh for a bargain with Uhlume (who is in the process of abdicating to Narasen) to become mortal. She reunites with Chuz, who has paid his penance, and they stay together for a while until Chuz helps her with her final transformation into a mortal woman.

Atmeh/Azhriaz approaches death after 200 years or so, and is visited by Azhrarn, who tells her, “Humanity is my plaything no longer, only a toy for those that are mine under the earth. But you, you are her child. You are hers. You are Dunizel. Not mine. Never mine. Though I made you to be my curse upon the world. Though I made you to be myself. You are Dunizel, that I loved, Dunizel who was the moon and sun together.” Azhrarn expresses his sadness over his inability to cry, and Azhriaz responds: “Each word you have spoken has been a tear.”

Volume Five: Night’s Sorceries

I wasn’t sure if I should even go into this one, because “Delirium’s Mistress” always seemed like the final volume to me to be honest, and it concluded the story for me. “Night’s Sorceries” is a collection of short stories that seem connected to “Delirium’s Mistress” and fill in some gaps (that’s why each of them has an introduction that explains where we are, and when). So I will only go into three of them (there are seven altogether):

“The Prodigal” is essentially about Narasen’s reign as Queen Death.

“Dooniveh, The Moon” is written like a fairy tale about a monk from Nannafir. He travels to the moon on a winged horse, and by the end of his adventures, we witness the wedding of the Moon Queen and the Sun King. And that’s connected how? Well, the winged horse was a gift from Hazrond (who usurped Azhrarn) to Azhriaz.

“The Daughter of the Magician,” recounts the tale of a magician who successfully resurrects the soul of Azhriaz. But the child, named Ezail, ends up being offered as a sacrifice to a monster. And that’s connected how? Well, the monster was created as the counterpart of the winged horse in “Dooniveh, The Moon.” But Ezail regains Azhriaz’ memory and lo and behold, Chuz just happens to appear in the reincarnation of a young boy named Chavir. Together, they decide to take the monster with them and embark on a life together.

The main reason I did include this volume is that it somewhat puts the former four in context. The last sentence of “Night’s Sorceries” is:

“Love is also an immortal.”

Which somewhat suggests that Azhriaz is operating on the same plane as Azhrarn, Uhlume, Chuz and Kheshmet. And we already get hints at that in the other volumes.

In “Delusion’s Master”, Azhrarn says to Dunizel that their child will be his feminine aspect. It’s just ambiguous enough, but we also get this in “Delirium’s Mistress” when Azhrarn wonders about love: “There is no such commodity. There is carnality, our plaything. There is worship, and there is obsession. Death you may perceive walking the world, and Fate, and Delusion, too, in a form that I have kindly granted him. But no man sees love, and no demon sees it.”

So while many of the stories of Tales from the Flat Earth can stand on their own, there is also an overarching theme: Establishing another power that serves to balance out the others: Wickedness, Death, Delusion, and Fate—Azhriaz’ four “sons” (cryptically mentioned in the final chapter of Delirium’s Mistress)...