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husbandhoshi · 1 year ago

Text

title: eat. play. love.

pairing: seungcheol x f!reader

wc: 19.4k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Looking forward to talking with the two of you.

Wait—two?

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

CC: Choi Seungcheol.

"Choi Seungcheol?!"

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

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

"I—he," you stammer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Choi Seungcheol's name stares back at you.

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The meeting goes exactly how you would expect.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You know what?"

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

"What?"

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

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

"I'd rather starve."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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"You'll never guess what I have."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And a seat at Momofuku."

"And that."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hide behind your computer screen.

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

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

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

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

Seungkwan works hard, but the devil always works harder.

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing you can do to stop him, huh?

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

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Beware the wrath of a woman scorned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hook, line, and sinker.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Seungcheol?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who said I was pretending?"

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

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

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

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

"I never said that."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How To Antagonize Your Date In 5 Easy Steps.

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm no quitter."

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

Definitely not that one.

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

"Why, so you can steal my job?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In your periphery hovers his wry, wanting smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, pity looks good on you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fair. You gonna ask me about mine?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Running away?"

"Bored," you lie.

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

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

"Unfortunate."

"How do you think I feel?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Field trip?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"N-not both ways?" you croak.

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

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

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

Whatever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But, thank you."

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

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

"I'm retracting my thank you."

"I'm devastated. Really."

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

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

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

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

"Thought you knew it was Wonwoo."

"Yeah, but why?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who hurt you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I wouldn't say nothing."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You in a rush?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Definitely bad at food, you muse to yourself.

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

Now that—nothing could have prepared you for that.

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

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

"Stop that."

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

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

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

"Is it working?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Seungcheol is my enemy, remember?"

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

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

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

You almost choke on a blueberry.

"Absolutely not."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm running out of options."

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

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

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

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

Your entire body heaves with the sigh that escapes you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Lucky you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A gift. A pithless, wrinkly one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, you're definitely going to cry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You count the seconds till he walks away.

One. Two. Three.

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

"Hey, you ok?"

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

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

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

"Whoa," he breathes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah, I-I think so."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And no text from Seungcheol. (Damn.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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"Here. Drink."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Thanks…?"

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

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

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

"You're literally the definition of easy."

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

"This is not a date. Dream on."

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

"It wasn't."

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

"Chicago."

"Same difference."

Your conversation continues as such.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hi."

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

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

The elevator dings.

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

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You have three reasons to get drunk.

1. It's Friday.

2. You finished your article.

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

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

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

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

So you get drunk.

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

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

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

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

"You got that right."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yours or mine?"

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

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

How To Ruin The Moment In One Easy Step!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Just dates. Nothing serious."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Holy shit. You live like this?"

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

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

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

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

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

You tentatively nod before dropping the noodles in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What, too many dates to cover?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The table stops rocking.

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

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

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

"You asked."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Wh—"

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

"Get. Out."

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

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

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

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Celery. Red wine. Short rib.

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

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

Fingerling potatoes, the red ones. A Vidalia onion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Monday feels tilted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You wonder what you'll be:

10 Signs She Is Clinically Insane.

It's Not You, It's Them!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Ask Samuel!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Congrats."

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

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

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

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

"No need."

"What about Seungcheol? Does he know?"

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

"What?!"

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

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

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

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

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

Instead you stand motionless, waiting, emptied.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

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

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

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

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

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

He gave up.

None of this should matter to you.

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

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

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

"You're an idiot, Seungcheol."

That does the trick.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"H-how?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Afternoon, boss."

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

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

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

"Friendly reminder we're at work."

"Everyone's at lunch, genius."

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

"You are the worst."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eat, Play, Love: A Guide.

Maybe you'd put it through. Maybe.

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#mine #seungcheol #seungcheol x reader #seungcheol fluff #seungcheol x you #seventeen fluff #seventeen imagines #seventeen scenarios #scoups x reader #scoups fluff #scoups x you #seungcheol imagines #seungcheol scenarios #scoups imagines

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 29 days ago

Text

Meet the Family 2

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Your boss needs a last-minute favour for the holidays.(petite!reader)

Characters: Lloyd Hansen

Note: I love writing toxic people.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

“Mr. Hansen--” You begin, choking on your error, “Lloyd, my flight--”

“Christ, I told you, cancel it. I’ll add the difference to your next check,” he grits under his breath.

You plant your feet, shifting despite your effort as he keeps his grip on your hand. He turns back with a grunt.

“What’re you doing?” He asks.

“No, what are you doing?” You throw back. “What the hell is going on?”

“First, watch that sweet mouth of yours. Second, we’ve been through this, Pixie pie. You just need to play along,” he keeps his voice low and peeks over his shoulder. “Loosen up a bit.” He loosens his hold on you and runs his hand up your sleeve. “Hm, I guess I shoulda told you to dress up a bit.”

“What?” You look down at your black cotton tea-length dress. You chose it for comfort but it’s not entirely frumpy. The ribbed stockings might not add much to the attire however.

“Just...” He grabs your shoulders and nudges them back, “push the chest out a bit.”

“Ugh,” you clasp onto his wrists, “stop. Okay. I’ll stay for dinner but I can’t miss my flight--”

“You have to,” he argues.

“You realise this is wildly inappropriate,” you say.

“Do you really expect anything different?” He tweaks a brow. “You’re staying. I’m not doing this alone. I put it off for a decade already--”

“Jesus--”

“No blasphemy either,” he lets go of you and presses his finger to your lips. You growl and shove his hand away.

“I want a bonus, a big bonus--”

He hushes you and waves his hands. He leans back and once more looks over his shoulders. “Later. We’ll deal with numbers in private. Right now, you need to come meet your in-laws.”

You squint at him. It’s an act, you remind yourself, but something about his commitment to it makes you uneasy. You know better than to believe a word that comes out of his mouth but there’s a degree of earnestness in him that’s unsettling.

“Baby, please, don’t look at me like that,” he steps closer, “I need you to look at me like I’m the second coming, okay? We’re madly in love, you and I.” Your eyes widen and he sighs, “okay, you’re not scared of me.”

You neutralise your expression and blow out a long breath. You shake away the tension and shrug. It’s as good as you can do.

“Here,” he grabs your wrist and turns, guiding your arm through his, “just smile pretty for me.”

He hooks your elbow with his and urges you onward. You steel yourself for the room of strangers as their voices drift through the archway.

You enter the front room and quickly scan the space; there’s a large-mouthed hearth, lit and draped in evergreen and berries; a long cream sectional, a matching duo of armchairs, and a chaise in the same shade; a low glass coffee table with a golden perch and a console table in a similar style along the wall crowded with bottles and crystal; an area rug in a smooth white with patterns in dulcet beige and rich butterscotch; and the low din is cast by tea lights daintily set around the space in glass holders and candelabra.

More pressing than the decor are the bodies that fill the room. You recognise Ransom as he speaks with an older woman with short white hair and thick-framed glasses. She wears a red pantsuit with a gold blouse. Very festive.

You glance over at Lloyd and take him in fully. You hadn’t paid much attention for the whirlwind all around. He wears a pair of evergreen slacks and a sweater with a reindeer's face on the front. He wouldn’t even let you put tinsel on your desk but now he’s dressed like a kid in a holiday parade.

“Looks like someone didn’t get the memo,” a tall blonde woman approaches with a glass of pale wine in hand. You try not to look with concern at her rounded middle; it sticks out starkly as her long limbs are thin and lithe. “A very grim Christmas indeed.”

“Lillian,” Lloyd faces the woman about his own height. She has his eyes and his lips. You assume their relation before he declares it. “My sister, Pixie,” he gestures to her carelessly.

“Older sister,” she preens and rests her hand on her swollen stomach. Your eyes flick away from the crystal in her hand.

“By about thirty-one seconds,” Lloyd scoffs.

“Oh, sweetie, it’s non-alcoholic,” she swirls the wine in her glass, “she’s so tiny and quiet.”

“Ahem,” you clear your throat, “it’s nice to meet you.”

She laughs, “oh, so polite. Entirely not his type.”

You try not to react. You agree. You know the women that Lloyd really likes. You’ve screened their calls until they just give up on getting a second date.

“Believe it or not, Lil, you’re not everyone’s type,” Lloyd retorts. “I think your ex-husband would agree. The second one too.” Lloyd lifts his chin and looks around, “is the third here or are we on number four?”

“Lovely,” she spits. “Love you too, brother.”

He shakes his head and draws you away from her. She raises her brows and her glass and sips. You let him take you away. You already despise most of these people. The room radiates with derision. Your family might have some grudges but there’s a general air of good will.

“I need a drink,” he mutters.

You gladly follow him to the table. He pours himself a tumbler from the boxy decanter. He sighs as he picks it up but stops himself from drinking.

“Well, help yourself,” he says.

You hesitate but not for long. You need something if you’re going to get through this. You pour yourself some chardonnay and sidle away from the table. You check your watch as you raise your glass.

“Don’t fucking worry about your flight,” he hisses under his breath. “If I’m not getting out of this, you aren’t either.”

“But why?” You ask behind the glass.

“Not right now,” he warns and nods at another figure as they approach. “Uncle Benson.”

“Junior,” the man returns. You drink your wine and don’t comment on the epithet. “Where’s the old man?”

“Where he always is,” Lloyd replies.

“Mm, and this is...” the older man looks at you pointedly, dipping his chin to do so.

“Pixie. My fiancee,” Lloyd answers dully, almost deflating.

“Benson,” the man offers his hand, “but a pretty girl like you can call me Benny.”

“Benny,” Lloyd repeats to himself in confusion.

You shake Benson’s hand, “um, thanks, nice to meet you.”

“Mm, very nice to meet you,” he lifts your hand and smushes his lips to your knuckles. He clings to you, petting your hand. “You’re gorgeous, what’re you doing with this lump?”

“Uncle,” Lloyd drones.

“Adorable,” Benson inches closer, “my inheritance is bigger than his, among other things.”

“Alright,” Lloyd snatches your hand away from him, “go have some water, Benson,” he growls, “think you’ve been into the brandy.”

“I’d like to get into something else,” Benson snickers.

You almost laugh, despite your disgust. You’ve heard that line before. Lloyd puts himself between you and the older man. “I think that’s why Carolyn filed the papers, huh.”

“Oh, you little twat,” Benson snarls. “Fine, fine, I’ll leave you to disappoint her on your own.”

Lloyd tuts and shakes his head as the man lumbers off. He turns around and drains his glass. It’s strange, seeing him in his natural habitat; he’s not so ‘alpha’ here.

“Let’s get the rounds over with.” He grumbles.

Your wine lasts you through the introductions. Two more uncles; Carter and Linus, along with their wives, Andrea and Angela. Then the full-blooded aunts; four of them, Raquel, Shanna, Beatrice, and Lana. All of them tall, blonde, and bold in their own way. Then a batch of cousins you can’t keep sorted; Ransom and his mother Linda, among them, with no explanation as to the rest of their tribe.

Lloyd pours himself more whiskey. You abstain from a refill and stand near the wall, observing the wilderness of entitled trust-funders. It explains so much yet inspires so many more questions. You never expected Lloyd to be the dark horse.

“Lonely?” The timbre startles you along with the twisting pinch on your ass.

You yipe and snag the attention of several sets of eyes around the room, not least of all Benson, drooling over another snifter of dark alcohol. You swat Ransom’s hand away and face him amid the row of laughter. Despite the airs they put on, your audience is more amused than appalled.

“Where’s your prince, huh?” Ransom asks. “All that whiskey and...” He holds up his index then lets it go limp, “don’t think it’ll be a very peppy after party, sweetheart.”

You sniff and cross your arms. These people are at least consistent, grossly so. It makes you wonder why Lloyd was so insistent that you watch your mouth, especially when you’ve never stooped to his level before.

“Is it much of a party if there’s only one attendee?” You counter.

He narrows his eyes and tilts his head, “what?”

“Nothing,” you shake our head. You don’t need to explain the joke. Besides, this is all fake. Don’t let it get to you.

“So, how long did he wait to put that ugly thing on your finger?” Ransom asks.

You shrug, “long enough.”

“Did he do the whole schtick? Get down on one knee? Put the ring in your wine glass?” He prods.

“I’ll let him tell the story,” you say.

“Hm, never knew a woman so unexcited about a wedding,” he snorts.

“Maybe I’m just unexcited by my company,” you back away as his hand jiggles at his side. You eye his fingers, wary of another pinch.

“Fine, marriage is boring anyways. What’s his favourite position? I always figured he lets the ladies do all the work,” he snickers.

You stare at him. Not quite as offended as annoyed. You could ask him which hand he uses but you are not letting Lloyd drag you that low. Why are you even letting him put your through this?

“Hugh,” Lloyd appears and slides his arm over your shoulders.

“Little L,” Ransom retorts dryly.

“Shut up,” Lloyd sneers as you resist the urge to shrug him off of you.

“Where were you then? Leaving your woman all on her lonesome,” Ransom rubs his fingers together subtly and you scowl at him.

“Broke the seal,” Lloyd deflects. “What do you care? You wanna hold it next time?

“Hands are too big,” Ransom cackles.

“Speaking of,” you pipe up. “The bathroom, where would that be?”

Lloyd clucks and looks down at you, “down the hall, opposite the kitchen.”

“Thanks,” you carefully slip away from him, “I’ll be back.”

“Wait,” Lloyd catches your arm and pulls you back. “Not without this.”

He leans in before you can react. He bends to press his lips to yours and you can’t repress a surprised squeak. He purrs and the vibration makes your skin crawl. What on earth?!

You part and ignore the stares you can feel all around. Not just from Ransom but the rest of the room. What is he doing? That’s so embarrassing.

You force a smile, “uh, be back.”

You spin and scurry away. That room, those people, are suffocating, and Lloyd, not least of all. You hide in the bathroom, locking the door, and you take the moment of stillness to think. Big mistake as it all starts to set in.

You drove all the way here under false pretenses. It’s believable that Lloyd would forget to bring the gifts. That tracks but this? The whole pretending to be engaged? What is his game? Is he really trying to impress anyone or is he torturing you? Why?

You can’t figure any of it out. You gave up trying to understand your boss ages ago, you suppose you should do the same with these people and just get through this. For all your trouble, the food better be fucking delicious.

You let yourself out of the bathroom and flatten against the door as you nearly collide with another person. Lillian nearly stomps right over you as she holds her stomach and rushes down the hallway. She lets out a sigh.

“Oh, are you done in there? I’m splitting at the seams,” she trills.

“Um, yeah, all done,” you sidle away from the door.

“Could I trouble you for some help?” She asks. “This thing,” she pats her stomach, “I can get down but I can’t get up.”

“Hm?” You furrow your brow in confusion, “help?”

“We’re both girls,” she giggles. “And we’ll be sisters soon enough, won’t we?”

“Um.”

“You know, a pregnancy at my age, I really can’t strain myself,” she explains.

“Oh, er, I guess--”

“Thanks, sweetie,” she nudges you back into the bathroom. You have no choice as she heard you through.

You stare at the wall as she slams the door and hustles over to the toilet. She pulls up her white dress and turns to sit, her silhouette a blur in your peripheral. You flick your eyes to the ceiling and bounce on your heels.

Her stream flows out and fills the tense silence. She sighs.

“Thank the lord,” she groans. “I swear, the little twerp is right on my bladder right now.”

“Mm,” you nod and glance at the door.

“I knew we should’ve gone with a surrogate,” she sniffs. “A piece of advice, when he puts one in you, make him suffer.”

“Puts one...” you blink. “Um, I don’t...”

“I mean, he’ll have to start trying as soon as the wedding night,” she laughs. “He’s getting up there. His swimmers won’t be as fast, will they? And the way he drinks, they’ll be too groggy to know which way is which.”

“Um, we’ll worry about the wedding first--”

“Enjoy it. Once you’re tied down, it’s not very much fun,” she says as she tears of tissue. “Alright then, darling, I need you.”

You do your best not to see all of her. She reaches for you and you get close. You pull her up to her feet and she squeezes past you to the sink. You look at the toilet and shut the lid, flushing it with a push of the button. She washes her hands with a hum.

“You’ll be so adorable when you’re big. Like an overstuffed teddy bear,” she chimes. “He’ll love that. He always did hate feeling small.” She twists off the faucet and dries her hands. “You must make him feel like the man he wishes he was.”

You just look at her. You have no true reason to defend Lloyd, but because she’s so smug it irks you. You look her in the face, even if you feel ridiculous having to look up.

“Well, he can piss on his own, so I think he’s just fine,” you step around her and swing open the door. The silence that follows you is the only satisfying thing about that night.

#lloyd hansen #dark lloyd hansen #dark!lloyd hansen #lloyd hansen x reader #series #fic #meet the family #the gray man

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cremedolle · 28 days ago

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currently updating: prtygrl scent reviews 🍰🎂🧁

perfume oils

1. strawberry cake

my absolute favorite perfume oil of hers! it has a strong, sweet strawberry cake smell and i love using it with every single strawberry lotion, body oil, and perfume of mine! i loved it so much that i had to purchase it twice. i definitely need this scent in a body nectar + body milk version as well.

2. cozy sugar

i actually bought this one for my mom, but it has a soft and sweet sugary scent! it goes perfectly with any vanilla or cashmere perfumes / lotions!

3. cake pop

very soft & subtle!! it smells like a sweet vanilla cake + icing. i actually paired it with the pink sugar oil and they smelled so good together. i'll definitely be doing that more often

4. pink sugar

totally reminds me of the aqoulina pink sugar mist! if anything it smells a little better and it's not as powdery which can be a little overwhelming at times

5. sugar cookie

i don't like this at all... i didn't like the way it smelled in the bottle so i put some on my arm and it was okay, but then it just grossed me out?! i tried pairing it with my vanilla cashmere lotion + sweet tooth perfume combo and i still disliked it. i ended up tossing it, but so far this is the only prtygrl item that i disliked!

6. flower fields

i also disliked this when i first smelled it. it smells kinda weird in the bottle? i put some on my arm and i ended up liking it though! it's like a fresh flowery scent and i think i might use this with my daisy dream by marc jacobs perfume.

7. warm cream

a creamy vanilla scent that goes good with anything vanilla scented and more! i personally love layering vanilla scents with something strawberry or fresh like.. it smells so good to me! if you want to play it safe for your first purchase, i definitely recommend!

body nectars

1. strawberry vanilla macaron

my faaave body nectar from prtygrl! it has a heavenly sweet strawberry scent and when i put it on my body i was literally glowing. it's also strong too and very long lasting. pair it with the strawberry dream eos lotion + daisy love by marc jacobs you'll smell edible. i'm literally obsessed with this scent and i desperately want this in a shimmery version / a shimmery body milk as well! if you're a sweet strawberry lover then you will love this 100%!

2. brown sugar baby

omg how do i describe this.. it smells like a brown sugar syrup to me? something thats in a sweet yummy drink? that isn't bad at all because it smells delicious and edible! i love pairing this with vanilla scented perfumes and also the cinnamon buns body milk! this is easily my second favorite body nectar.

3. pink sugar

smells pretty much the same as aqoulina pink sugar mist. this smells a bit more powdery than the perfume oil which i don't mind since it's soo nice. it's also very light and not a very strong scent which i find nice to layer with!

4. strawberry milkshake

so delish and truly smells like a real strawberry! i can also smell slight milky notes too and i jus love it. it's also subtle and perfect for layering as well so i enjoy using this with my strawberry cake perfume oil + other strawberry fragrances that i own!

5: strawberry shortie

this definitely smells like strawberry shortcake / a strawberry pastry! it has a warm cake scent + the perfect amount of sweetness thats not too overwhelming or overly sweet. this is perfect for the people that want to smell like a strawberry pastry, but one that may not be overwhelmingly sweet.

body milks

1. brown sugar baby

smells exactly like the body nectar. these have a thick consistency and once rubbed it, it's just as shiny as the body nectars! i love using this on top of my vanilla cashmere eos lotion + vanilla scented perfumes / cake pop & warm cream perfume oil.

2. cinnamon buns

would you believe me if i said it smells like a freshly made cinnamon roll? my first impression of it is a strong cinnamon scent, but after putting it on it a lot like sweet cinnamon rolls! once again, perfect for using on top of vanilla cashmere eos lotion + warm cream perfume oil.

#dream doll ౨ৎ #dolly reviews ♡

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justagalwhowrites · 8 months ago

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Undone

After a stressful week at the office, Joel knows just how to take care of his wife. AKA Joel Miller doms the stress out of you.

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader

Warnings: No Outbreak AU. Established relationship, husband and wife. Dom!Joel x Sub!Reader (light). Tiny little age gap (like 5 years? I'm picturing Joel at 44 and reader at 39?) Unprotected P in V sex. Oral sex, F receiving. Creampie. Overstimulation. Aftercare.

Length: 5.4k

A/N: This is totally self indulgent. It's also like... entirely smut. Sorry. But not really. OK love you bye!

Joel knew what you were after the minute you kicked the door closed.

It was Friday and it had been a hell of a week for you. Joel had done his best to support you through it - he’d finished up one big job on Tuesday and didn’t start the next one until Monday - so he’d taken the lead on keeping the household running while you put in extra hours and came home frustrated and exhausted every night.

He knew it wasn’t going to magically be better just because it was Friday, so he’d spent the day trying to make the end to your work week as good as he could. He went to the HEB and got your favorite snacks, picked out flowers for the kitchen table, even went by the liquor store on the way home to get everything you’d need to unwind at the end of your day. He started smoking ribs early that afternoon and was outside to sauce them when he heard the door slam behind you.

Joel didn’t need to see what happened, he knew from the sound that you’d thrown the door open and then kicked it shut behind you. He’d bet the check from his next job that you’d be face down on the couch, your shoes and briefcase a little trail from the front door to the living room. He shook his head, taking a swig of Shiner before closing the smoker and heading inside to find his wife.

You were exactly where he thought you’d be, taking up almost the entire length of the couch, flat on your stomach, blazer still on but your heels and bags scattered between you and the front door.

“Aw baby,” he said sympathetically. “That great a day, hm?”

You made a sound that was caught somewhere between a grunt and a groan.

“Want to talk about it?”

You made the sound again and Joel tried not to laugh at it.

“Here,” he said, coming and adjusting your legs so he could sit beside you on the couch. You groaned as he did but he guided you from lying on your stomach to sitting up to leaning on him, your face in his chest. He put his arm around you and gave you a squeeze. “Tell me what melted down.”

“We have our quarterly earnings release going out in less than two weeks,” you sighed. “And it’s a shit show. Legal’s been reviewing that shit for what feels like an eternity and I need to issue the goddamn release announcing the date of the full release but I can’t do that until I actually know that legal and financial are going to have stuff sorted in time and the CEO has emailed me twice a day about it the whole week because sure, the legal team definitely falls under my department…”

Joel held the still mostly full bottle of beer in front of you and you took it from him, your fingers brushing his and you were quiet for a moment as you took a sip before handing it back.

“Also, HR is going to be the death of me,” you continued, on a tear now. “I swear, it shouldn’t be that hard to find a qualified entry level candidate but here we are, still short staffed 10 weeks after I got the OK to hire. They’ve sent me two resumes, Joel. Two. I called them today to ask how many they’d received and they’ve had 226 candidates apply and they’ve sent me fucking two! I refuse to believe that just one percent of applicants were remotely qualified so I asked them to forward me all the applications since, apparently, recruiting can’t do their damn jobs so I’m going to have to do it for them…”

Joel nodded along, handing you the beer periodically when he felt you getting too worked up. He found himself, not for the first time, awed by what you did for a living. He didn’t understand much of it, really, and he was thankful he didn’t need to. He wasn’t cut out for that kind of shit. You, on the other hand, had jumped in with both feet when you’d started at your company seven years ago when the two of you had just started dating, You’d risen up the ranks quickly and you now had a team of several dozen people reporting up to you. As gentle and sweet as Joel knew you to be at your core, he knew you were also unflinchingly driven at work. During the COVID shut down, he’d gotten a glimpse of it, listening to you take people - mostly men who seemed to think you weren’t as capable as you clearly were - to task and get things done. He was eternally grateful that, when the two of you fought, you didn’t take him down the way you did people who crossed you in the office. Though that stood in sharp contrast to how Joel heard you talk to the people who reported up to you, with you seemingly always happy to lend an ear or provide guidance or take the heat if they fucked something up that was going outside your department.

Unfortunately, that meant you had weeks like this one, where plenty went wrong and you had no one to pass the buck to. And he knew as well as you did that you wouldn’t just let something fall apart, not if there was a damn thing you could do about it. Even if that meant working yourself into the ground.

After a while you just deflated against him and he handed you the beer again. You took a long drink, emptying the bottle, and Joel took it from you to set on the side table.

“Feelin’ better?” He asked, his nose brushing your hair.

“Kind of,” you sighed, pressing yourself closer to him.

“Somethin’ more I can do?” He asked, trying to make sure that he wasn’t nudging you in the direction he was hoping this would go.

“Yeah,” you said, something shifting in your tone when you said it. No longer frustrated and fed up, instead needy and wanting. You sat up from him and looked at him through your eyelashes, practically pouting. “Turn my brain off for a bit?”

Joel’s heart picked up, heat and tension already gathering low in him.

“Aw, my baby need me to fuck her stupid?” He asked, reaching out to cup your face in his hand. His thumb traced along the arch of your cheekbone as his eyes locked on your blown pupils. “You need me to make that big brain of yours slow down for a while, that it?”

“Yes please,” you breathed. He could feel your skin getting warmer below his touch.

“Please what?”

“Please sir,” you said, holding your hands up with your wrists together, like an offering. “Please fuck me stupid. Please sir.”

He quirked his jaw before he smiled, dark and low.

“Good girl,” he growled. He got up and closed his large hands around your wrists before pulling you sharply to your feet, looking you up and down as he did. There was something that drove him wild, seeing you like this. Dressed in your armor of the business world, a place where lesser men had to go to you for permission to do a goddamn thing, and you came home to him, begging him to strip you down to something small and vulnerable and easily consumed.

He wasn’t sure why you’d picked him of all people. When you’d met almost eight years earlier, his first thought was that you were way out of his fucking league. A friend of Tommy’s then girlfriend now wife, you were a few years younger than him but had clearly kept your life on the right fucking track the whole time instead of driving it into the ground for a while first. You’d gone to college, built a damn impressive career, had goals and dreams and plans for yourself. You were beautiful and smart and funny and kind and the first time he’d taken your clothes off he was still not entirely sure why you were letting him do it.

He’d been even more surprised the first time you’d shared with him that you wanted him to take control in the way he was now.

“I just have to make decisions all the time,” you’d said, folded into a corner of his couch with a glass of wine in your hands. “I just really want to have someone else take over for a while, you know? Not have to make any plans or take care of anybody else, just enjoy and be enjoyed.”

That, Joel had thought, he could give you.

It wasn’t something the two of you always indulged in but there were days like this one where you seemed to crave it. Maybe even a step beyond that - you needed it. You needed the safety of Joel’s guidance, the comfort of his control, the ease of his pleasure. He liked to give you those things. More than liked it, sometimes he lived for it.

Today was one of those days.

He led you to the bedroom and stood you at the foot of the bed, your wrists still firmly in his hands as his eyes searched yours.

“You just want to be my little doll, is that it?” He asked, his thumbs brushing the inside of your wrists. Your pulse was heavy and hard. “Want me to take control so all you have to do is feel what I let you feel?”

“Yes,” you breathed.

“Yes what.”

“Yes sir,” you were practically squirming.

“What are your colors,” he said more than asked.

“Green, yellow, red,” you answered quickly.

“Where are you now?”

“Green.”

“Good girl,” he guided your hands so they hung at your sides. “Don’t move until I tell you.”

He watched you resist the urge to nod and he slipped his hands below the lapels of your jacket, running his hands over your skin for a moment before shoving the sleeves down your arms and leaving the blazer in a pile on the floor. He watched you swallow, your throat working and he tried not to think about making you kneel and taking his cock into that pretty throat of yours. He knew just how good it would feel while you sucked him, how fucking good it would feel to come down your throat.

Maybe later. Right now, he needed to take care of you. And that’s exactly what he was going to do.

***

When Joel touched you like this, it was like something unspooled inside yourself. There had been a knot in your stomach for days at least - maybe longer - and nothing had worked to untangle it. Not crossing things off your to do list at the office, not the yoga class you’d skipped lunch to take, not the iced latte your assistant had ducked out to grab you that afternoon. But Joel’s hands on your skin as they slipped the slender straps of your satin top down your arms were better than anything else, especially when your mind wasn’t going a mile a minute thinking of ways to please him in return. You watched as he moved to undress you, his eyes heavy and hot and hungry as your top pooled around your hips. He reached around your body to unhook your bra, casting it aside before cupping your breasts in his large palms, groaning as he did.

“You feel so good,” his thumbs brushed your nipples. “My soft, pretty fuckin’ girl.”

“Joel,” you whimpered, clenching your hands into fists to keep from reaching out to touch him. He’d told you to stay still and you had to obey. If you didn’t, you knew he’d drag out your first orgasm for what felt like an eternity, bringing you just to the edge of it but never letting you fall into your climax until you were a desperate, dripping, squirming mess.

“What, baby?” He almost cooed at you, just a hint of a teasing edge to his tone. “What’s my baby need?”

“More,” you whined. “I need more, please, I need…”

He took his hands off you then and looked you in the eye and you almost reached for him before you caught yourself.

“Who decides what you need right now,” he said. You moaned and he ignored you. “Who. Tell me, pretty girl.”

“You,” you said.

“That’s right,” he nodded. “And I’ll give you more when I decide you need more and I decide I’m done enjoyin’ the parts of you I’m enjoyin’ right now. So. You stand still like a good little doll and we’ll see when I’ll let you have more. Got it?”

“Yes,” you said.

He took your chin in his fingers, forcing you to look him in the eye.

“Yes what.”

“Yes sir.”

His crooked smile dimpled his cheek.

“Good girl.”

He returned to touching you, running his large and callused hands over your shoulders to your chest, holding and massaging your breasts and you could tell he was taking his time less for himself and more because he knew what it was doing to you. That it was making you achy and desperate and the thoughts that had been weighing on you all day at the office were slipping out of your mind, drifting far away into the ether.

“Think I remember you sayin’ something about more?” Joel said, his voice low and gravelly as his hand slipped over your stomach, below the bunched fabric of your shirt, below the waistband of your pants until his fingertips were brushing your bare mound inside your panties. You whimpered. “How about I give you some more, hm?”

His index finger reached out and brushed the top of your clit, sending a shiver through you, all the heat you had inside yourself pooling low in your stomach.

Joel chuckled.

“Think she likes it.”

He pressed a little lower, a little firmer, working your sensitive nub in slow, languid circles.

“She like this too?”

You nodded frantically.

“Thought I told you not to move,” Joel said, stern.

“But…”

“No buts,” he cut you off. “You wanted to give me control so you give me control. Otherwise, you won’t get what you want. Got it?”

“Yes sir.”

“You’re lucky,” he said as he went to open your pants. “Got me all worked up, too. Too worked up to draw this out the way you deserve, squirmin’ the way you are.”

He got on his knees in front of you and gathered the fabric of your shirt, pants and underwear in his hands and pulled them all down in one go, the sudden exposure of your skin to the air making you gasp and goosebumps scatter over you in sharp little pin pricks.

“Fuck, there you are,” he groaned, his hands coming to grip the thick swell of your ass, his fingers digging into the meat of you as he pressed a kiss to your stomach just below your belly button. You moaned, wanting nothing more than to tangle your fingers in his curls. You clenched your fists tighter, nails digging into your palms, acutely aware of where he was touching you because of the absence of him everywhere else.

He trailed his mouth down to your slit, his tongue dipping into you there, brushing against your clit, the heat of his mouth in sharp contrast to the cold air against your wetness. His hands slipped up your back, finding your waist before Joel stood, his still clothed body so close to your naked one.

“Lie down for me,” he said, a little breathless. “Middle of the bed.”

You rushed to obey and watched hungrily as Joel undressed himself, his black t-shirt coming up and over his head, his jeans opening to reveal his tight boxer briefs with his thick, hard cock straining the fabric. He took off everything before crawling up the bed over you and, for half a moment, you thought he really was going to give into you that quickly, give you exactly what you wanted that fast. But instead of settling between your thighs with his heavy length brushing against your slit and his mouth on yours, he fell to the side of you, the weight of him jostling the mattress. You turned your head to look at him, confused, and he laughed, dark and low.

“You didn’t think you were gonna make me give in that fast, did you?” He asked. He slid one arm below your ribs, his hand coming up and around the back of you to hold your breast while his other hand teased a feather light path down from your throat, over your chest, your stomach to your slit. “No, not done with this yet.”

“But…”

“You just lie still and let me worship you,” he said, his palm cupping your mound, his middle finger settling between your lower lips as he put gentle pressure against your clit. The tip of his finger circled your dripping entrance but didn’t slip inside where you were aching and desperate for him. “Want to enjoy you for a while.”

He didn’t give you a chance to protest, his mouth finding just the right spot on your throat at the same moment he added pressure to your clit, grinding his hand against your most tender place and making your back arch below his touch.

Joel kissed and licked and sucked along your neck, your collarbone, your breast, his cock brushing against your thigh as he manipulated your body and you could feel his precome on your skin when it did and you were desperate to touch him there, to feel just how hard you’d made him, make him start to unravel the way he was doing to you.

“Don’t even think about it,” he said, a finger sliding inside of you, making you groan.

“But I want…”

He pulled back from you to look in your eyes and you could tell from the glassy look on his face that you probably already looked like a fucked out mess.

“You tryin’ to make me feel good or you want it for yourself?” He asked, brows raised. You tried to find the words but couldn’t. He nodded. “S’what I thought, you sit still like I fuckin’ told you. You try to touch me and I won’t let you come, got it? This is about you, not me so you’re gonna lay there and take it, understand?”

“Yes sir,” you whimpered.

He went back to working you over, adjusting so that he could fully kiss down your body until his head was between your thighs, two fingers buried inside of you as he looked up your body to your face.

“New rules,” he said, pressing his lips to your clit for a moment and sucking it into his mouth before continuing. “Want you to come and I want you to come hard. You’re allowed to touch my head to put me where you need but you do anything else with those hands and we’re startin’ over. Understood?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good girl.”

He practically dove into your pussy, his thumb working your clit, his tongue licking deep into your channel. The fire in your belly burned brighter and it was like you could feel all the blood in your body pulling into the center of you. Your hands flew to his head, the thick of his hair and the heat of his scalp almost sharp against your fingers after having felt nothing but your own palms for what felt like forever. You rocked your hips against his face as he ate at you, a finger slipping into you alongside his tongue, working the inside of you deftly so that you were never empty but never lacking the friction of him moving in you. His fingertip curled into the soft, sensitive place inside of you that he found so easily now, adding the perfect amount of pressure as his thumb and nose worked your clit and you felt your pussy get so tight and hot you worried, for half a second, that it would hurt him before every worry flew out of your head entirely, your entire body flooded with waves of pleasure as you came on his tongue.

Joel worked you through your orgasm, never letting up as you moaned and panted, your grip on his hair easing as your body started to go limp. Your pussy was so sensitive when your climax eased but Joel didn’t pay your little whimpers any mind. He pulled his mouth from you but added another finger, fucking into you with his hand and adjusting so his palm was grinding against your clit as he did.

“There you go,” he panted, wiping your slick from his mouth before taking his cock in his hand and working himself with it. “That what you needed, pretty girl?”

“Yes sir,” you whimpered.

“Good,” he said, his eyes ranging over you, dark and hot. “Because now it’s my turn.”

He pulled his fingers from you and spread your thighs a little wider, lining his cock up with your still weakly grasping hole for half a moment before thrusting deep into you in one devastating go. You gasped at the stretch of him filling you like that, the inside of you still soft and tender from your orgasm. Your fingers scrambled at the blanket below you, your back arched and taut and you tried to hold onto something - anything - in your head beside how he was splitting you open.

“I say you could use your hands like that?” He asked, his fingers finding your wrists and clamping around them. He pressed deep inside you and folded over you, bringing your hands with him, pressing your wrists down into the mattress over your head. “Didn’t think so. You’re my little doll right now, ain’t you? Mine to do what I want with and I want you to take it.”

“Joel,” you whimpered.

“That ain’t my name right now, is it?”

“Sir,” you corrected, resisting the urge to rock your hips up against him. “Please!”

“Please what?”

You couldn’t put words to what you wanted to ask for and Joel just smirked before releasing your wrists and sitting up, looking down over your body to where he disappeared inside of it.

“What I thought,” he said, his hands pressing your thighs wide before his thumb trailed over where you were split open on him to your clit, teasing you in a slow circle that made you jerk involuntarily below him. He took it away, his hand on the soft flesh of your thigh again. “You leave those hands there and take it. You can take it, pretty girl. Know you can.”

With that, he pulled back, slow and aching, before fucking back into you, hard and fast with a forceful grunt. You watched him fuck you, his cock slamming into you with enough force that it jerked your body up and down the bed. You were lost in it, the way you could see his muscles flex, the way his eyes ranged over you - watching the place he was spreading you open and the way your tits bounced for him and up to your face to meet your eyes and back again. It was almost hypnotic, like there was nothing else in the world that existed outside of him. He was controlling you totally, fucking into you with enough force that you couldn’t even breathe out of sync with his thrusts, your body just something he could manipulate and pleasure and use however he saw fit.

You weren’t sure how long he fucked you like that before his hands ran over your thighs to your core, his thumbs brushing along your clit, pressing into you there and working you in hard little circles as your channel started to tighten around him again.

“There we go,” he panted. “Got another one right there don’t you? You’re gonna give it to me, aren’t you pretty girl. Gonna give me everything, ain’t you?”

“Yes sir,” you whined, your fingernails digging into your palms as you fought to keep your hands still.

“Good girl,” he pressed himself deep as he worked your clit and returned to his same punishing rhythm, the head of him finding the place inside you he’d claimed for himself. He left one thumb on your clit, his other hand stretching up and over your stomach, fingers splaying wide on you until it was in the middle of your chest where you knew he could feel how your heart was pounding behind your ribs. The feel of him everywhere was overwhelming, the tight spool of pleasure that had never fully relaxed after your first orgasm already wound unbearably tight again.

“Want you to come for me,” he said, voice needy. “Want you to be a good girl and come. Give it all to me, baby, want you to just let go and give it all to me, let it all go, c’mon and come for me, make me fuckin’ feel it…”

You cried out as you obeyed, your channel fluttering over his cock as he kept fucking you deep and hard. You could feel your orgasm in the very center of you, in every muscle and every nerve, your climax taking hold of you so firmly that you felt a gush of liquid rush out of you.

“Fuck, there you go,” he said, not letting up. “Fuck baby, love when you squirt for me, such a good fuckin’ girl…”

The wet snap of his hips into you was obscene and, as your orgasm eased, your body was already drawing tight again. Your heart raced and you could feel everything, everything, so sharp and harsh and overwhelming. Your head swam, your skin prickled.

“Love feeling you come for me,” Joel was still fucking into you, hard and bruising like he was trying to climb inside your skin and claim a place for himself there. “Love when you get all tight and desperate, love making you all needy…”

You let out a fucked out little whimper, tears pricking at your eyes, not able to see straight through the haze of your already building orgasm. Joel leaned over you, his cock buried deep but going still.

“You with me, pretty girl?” He asked, his hands sliding up your arms to find your wrists, holding you gently in place. You couldn’t seem to find the words to answer, too overstimulated to think of anything beyond how he was filling you and surrounding you. “Gimme a color, baby.”

“Yellow,” you managed.

He took your limp wrists in his large palms and guided your hands to his skin, resting them on his broad shoulders.

“That help?” He asked. “You can nod.”

You nodded quickly, your breathing evening out, body still tight and strung out.

“Color?”

“Green,” you said, the tears that were in your eyes slipping down your cheeks but not being replaced by new ones.

“Good,” he shifted inside you, pulling back a little before thrusting in again. “Because I ain’t done with you yet. You keep those hands right where I put ‘em and just focus on coming one more time for me, need you to milk me dry, baby.”

But his pace eased, less frantic and more desperate, working you slow and firm from within. He buried his face into your neck, his mouth finding that place that sent shocks of pleasure through your whole body. His hands ranged over you, fingers hungry and grasping at your skin, his hips working against your clit as his cock found its home deep within you.

“Know you’re close,” he said against your skin, lips still close enough to brush against you as he spoke. He kissed along your neck, nose teasing along your throat. “You got one more in you, baby, I know you do.”

“Sir,” you whimpered, pleading, not sure if you wanted to come or wanted to just dissolve.

“You can come,” he fucked you slow and deep. His public bone pressed against your clit and your back arched. “Want you to come, want to feel you come. Make me feel you, baby. Be a good girl and make me feel you.”

You dared to let yourself move, just enough that you could rock your hips up against him, working yourself with his body as you felt him grow impossibly thicker and harder inside you. Or, maybe, you were just tightening further around him, body clinging to him in one last desperate push for closeness as your climax hit again. You cried out with it and you couldn’t just leave your hands on Joel’s shoulders, instead latching onto his hair and sliding down his back, pulling him flush against your body so the only thing left in the world was him and his skin and the thick of his cock as he started to pulse inside of you.

Your orgasm almost hurt it was so intense. You could feel every inch of Joel’s cock in you, the heat and softness of his skin against you, every muscle in your body going rigid and tense for a moment before relaxing. Your vision went spotty and you got light headed and you lost track of time.

The next thing you knew, you were in Joel’s arms, cradled against his chest, his fingers trailing a gentle path along the edge of your hairline and jaw, thumb brushing the plush of your lips.

“There you are,” he said softly and pressed a kiss to your forehead, his large hand coming to rest against your cheek as you turned your head to look at him. His eyes were soft and warm and there was a gentle smile on his face. “How are you feelin’ love?”

You took stock of your body for a moment, everything feeling light and airy.

“I’m good,” you smiled a little.

“Yeah?” He said, his thumb brushing your cheek. “Take a deep breath for me, OK?”

You nodded a little and did as you were told, only realizing then just how little your lungs had been inflating before.

“How’s that feelin’?” He asked. “Good?”

You just nodded, still smiling.

“How about this for the night,” he said, going back to tracing an easy trail over your skin with his fingertips. “In a few minutes, I get up and get you water and a cocktail while you put on that pretty little swimsuit of yours. You float in the water while I look at ya and finish those ribs in the smoker…”

“You’re making me ribs?” You almost pouted, your brows going up.

Joel chuckled.

“Yeah, that OK?”

“That’s my favorite,” you said, feeling like you might be about to cry.

“I know it is, baby,” he said, kissing your temple again. “S’why I made ‘em. Got that potato salad you like, green beans, cornbread too. Even got that chocolate cake you like so much…”

“The Oreo one?” You sniffed, tearing up.

“The Oreo one,” he brushed your hair back. “You still with me there baby?”

“Yeah,” you nodded, crying a little. You weren’t entirely sure why, just every emotion you’d had over the past week seeming to bubble up at once. “I think so…”

“You’re OK,” Joel said, pulling you closer, his lips gentle on your skin. “I’ve got you.”

You just nodded against him and focused on how his skin felt on yours, his warmth and strength grounding while your mind was still swimming.

“What about after dinner?” You sniffed.

“We can watch one of those movies you like so much,” he said. “I know the ones that’ve been on your list, you don’t gotta pick unless you want to. Sound good?”

“Yeah,” you nodded. “But… can we just stay here for a little while first? Please?”

“Course baby,” he said. “Whatever you need. I’ll take care of you.”

You nuzzled into his skin and breathed deep and you didn’t really know why you’d been so stressed when you got home to begin with. You just knew that you had Joel and that, as long as he was there, everything else would be OK.

#fanfic #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x oc #smut fic #dom!joel miller

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incorrectbatfam · 1 year ago

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What is the in-universe fanonzation of batfam

Dick: for the last time you CANNOT be queerbaited by real people!!!

Jason: *slaps car* this baby can fit so many conspiracy theories

Tim: either has teenagers simping or people hating him for being a nepo baby, no in-between

Damian: guys he's just a kid leave him alone (peer-reviewed and approved)

Duke: isn't he the TikTok sriracha bottle laser guy?

Cullen: isn't he the Tumblr raw chicken parmesan guy?

Stephanie: there's a lot of debate over whether she's a real Wayne

Cassandra: everyone claims to have met her but no one has proof

Barbara: she's a 10 but her dad's a cop

Harper: punch me through a wall (yes homo)

Carrie: most people don't believe she exists

Kate: her followers are either lesbians, bots, or lesbian bots

Alfred: Bri'ish

Selina: half the people think Bruce is out of her league and the other half think she's out of his

Bruce: eat the rich (affectionate)

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joelalorian · 9 months ago

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Fall Into Me - Chapter Six: And I Knew My Heart Wasn't Mine

dbf!Joel x f!reader

Summary: Joel is hanging on by a thread as a single father to a tenacious 10-year-old Sarah. Feeling like he's drowning, like the world is about to spit him out, he needs some help before he breaks in half. At your dad's insistence, you show up in his life and change everything.

Story is inspired by the song Fall Into Me by Forest Blakk. Chapter titles will be lyrics from the song.

Word Count: 3.8k

Chapter Warnings: Explicit, under 18 take a hike. No outbreak AU. Lots of feelings, confusion, and self doubt. Two idiots falling in love. Finally some smut-ish stuff. Dry humping on the couch. Joel is his own warning. Tommy keeping it real. Age gap of about 9 years (Reader 24/25, Joel 33/34). No use of y/n. Reader has a nickname used only by her dad.

Dividers by the wonderful @saradika-graphics

Some of the tags aren't working in the taglist - if you're not getting the notifications, please check your settings to make sure you are taggable. Thx!

Chapter Five | Main Masterlist

Sitting at the kitchen table on Sunday morning, you reviewed an email on your phone from the Texas Education Agency. Relief washed over you. The State Board finally approved your certification after jumping through a million hoops, just in time for your upcoming meeting at Sarah’s school.

Yet another step closer to finally feeling like an actual adult contributing to society.

“Morning, Spud,” your dad greeted as he walked into the kitchen in search of his morning coffee. “You’re up early. Did you have fun with Sarah yesterday?”

“I figured I’d seize the day and all that. I had a blast yesterday! Sarah is so smart, and Joel was really nice, as always,” you replied, playing down quite how much of a roll Joel had in making the day so enjoyable. You still couldn’t believe how things worked out.

Joel Miller, dead sexy single father, liked you, wanted to be with you. Little morsels of doubt tried to weasel their way into your mind, trying to make you question what was so special about you that a man like Joel would be interested in. You shook those thoughts away, resolving to believe that you deserved someone like him, someone who liked you for who you were and not who they wanted you to be.

“He comes from good stock, that Joel,” your dad interrupted you’re wandering thoughts. “Not sure what happened with Tommy, though. Musta been dropped on his head as a baby or somethin’.”

“Dad!” you laughed, shaking your head. “There’s nothing wrong with the guy. He’s young, single, and unburdened by responsibility. I imagine you were like that once upon a time.”

“Musta been so long ago I can’t remember,” he replied, hip checking you into the counter when you stood to place your glass in the sink. “Watch yourself there, Spud.”

“Jeez, thanks, Dad,” you replied with an amused eye roll. Your dad watched as you tidied up your little mess from breakfast and grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge.

“You know, Spud. You’d do well to find a man like Joel. He’s a really good guy. Shame he doesn’t date. All the women go crazy over him.”

Your dad kept going on about Joel’s aversion to dating, but your mind froze on that one simple statement – you’d do well to find a man like Joel. You tuned back in just in time to hear him say, “He needs to settle down with a girl like you. Someone smart and responsible who’ll still give him a run for his money.”

Practically bursting with the urge to admit that you and Joel just officially started seeing each other, you curled your lips between your teeth and just nodded. You promised Joel you’d wait a bit before mentioning anything to your dad and you planned on keeping that promise. “He should be so lucky to find someone like me,” you sassed finally.

The day carried on as you spent some quality time with your dad watching TV and lounging around. It was refreshing and relaxing, reminding you of times past where the two of you spent a bunch of time together.

The urge to text you plagued Joel all day Sunday, distracting his attention from the football game until Tommy finally snatched the phone out of his hands and hid it.

“Enough, brother. You’re like a lovesick fool checking your phone every five fuckin’ seconds. You just spent the day together yesterday. Give her a little breathin’ room,” Tommy chastised. “Women like a little mystery after all.”

Flopping back into the couch cushions with a huff, Joel crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I don’t want to play games with her, Tommy. None of that aloof, hard to get bullshit.”

Shaking his head, Tommy waited until a commercial break to turn to his brother again. “I’m not sayin’ to play games. I’m just sayin’ you don’t need to be up her ass 24/7. You’ll see her every day this week. It’s ok to build up a little healthy anticipation today.”

Joel knew his brother had a point. He just couldn’t help himself. It’d been so long since he felt like this about someone – if he ever really did before – and it was messing with his head. Berating himself for not even kissing you yesterday, Joel wanted to at least text with you today. It felt somehow wrong to not talk to you.

Then again, you hadn’t texted him either.

Tommy made a valiant effort to distract Joel from his thoughts, talking statistics about the game and the players, anything to get the guy talking. It only worked for so long before Tommy couldn’t take it anymore.

“Alright, how ‘bout this. I’ll take Sarah for a dinner and ice cream date tomorrow so you two can spend some time alone. Get a little action in and maybe that’ll help you get your head out of the clouds.”

For the first time in hours, Joel’s face lit up. “You sure?”

“I wouldn’t offer otherwise,” Tommy replied. “You two need to figure out if there’s something there and you can’t do that with a ten-year-old hanging around all the time. Not unless you want to scar her for life.”

Joel nodded, reaching out to take his phone back. Before letting go of it, Tommy grinned. “I already texted her for you. You’re welcome.”

Ripping his phone out of his brother’s hand, Joel scrolled through his text messages to find what Tommy sent you.

JM: Hey sweetheart. Netflix and chill tomorrow?

He only knew what that meant because of Tommy and you had to know that wasn’t something Joel would say. “Jesus fucking Christ, Tommy!” Joel growled, his ears turning red from what you must think. He was about to really lay into his brother for overstepping when you responded.

You: Netflix and chill, huh? Sounds like my kinda date 😉

Not expecting that response, Joel chuckled. Maybe Tommy knew exactly what he was doing after all.

“Like I said, you’re welcome,” Tommy teased when he saw the goofy smile on his brother’s face.

Joel ignored him, proceeding to ask you about your day. The two of you texted back and forth well into the night until it was time for bed.

Climbing between the cold sheets of his large, empty bed, Joel wished you were there with him. He could already imagine you there, falling asleep together after a romp or two, waking up next to you in the morning. It sounded like heaven to him.

Hmm, maybe he could Netflix and chill his way to convincing you to spend the night tomorrow.

You didn’t know what to expect when you walked into Joel’s house Monday morning, but it certainly wasn’t a flustered Joel, knelt on the floor, staring down at a mess of pancake mix surrounding him and Sarah giggling her little heart out at the breakfast table.

“What happened here?” you asked, hands on your hips and eyes surveying the damage. “Did you have a fight with the boxed pancake mix.”

“He really did!” Sarah exclaimed, still laughing. “It went everywhere!”

“I see that,” you replied, grinning at her before turning back to Joel.

He stared up at you with wide, sad eyes and shoulders slumped. “I couldn’t get it open and then it just…” His arms spread wide, gesturing at the powdery mess on the tile in such an endearing way. You couldn’t stop your smile from growing wider.

“Go finish getting ready for work. I’ll get Sarah some cereal and clean this mess up,” you directed, gently pulling him to his feet and around the mess.

“You shouldn’t have to clean up my mess, sweetheart,” Joel replied, pulling you in for a hug. You could tell the warm press of your bodies together made him feel better and you basked in it as well, not minding the bit of pancake mix that transferred to your clothes.

“Don’t worry, I got it. Now git!” One hand swatted at his ass playfully as he rushed out of the room. “Now, what kind of cereal do you want, nugget?”

Fifteen minutes later, Joel returned to find the mess gone and you running a mop over the tile to wipe away any last remnants of the pancake mix disaster. Sarah already finished her cereal and was upstairs brushing her teeth before it was time to head to school. When you put the mop back into the bucket, Joel crept up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. He pulled you close until your back was flush against his chest.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” he breathed in your ear, sending a flood of goosebumps down your arms. Joel pressed his lips to the spot just below your ear and left a trail of kisses down your neck. The feel of his lips on your skin exceeded any expectations you had, and a contented sigh left your own lips.

With a hurried tenderness, he spun you around in his arms, the mop forgotten as it nearly fell out of the bucket. Faces close together now, your eyes drank in every detail of him from the richness of his dark brown eyes, the curve of his nose, the purposeful stubble of his beard, and, finally, to the fullness of his bottom lip. You could feel his eyes doing the same, drinking in every bit of your face before tilting his head impossibly closer.

“I’m going to kiss you now, ok?” Joel murmured; lips nearly pressed to yours already and you hummed in approval.

After all the weeks of mutual pining and self-doubt, Joel finally kissed you. It started as a soft press of lips and quickly morphed into an overwhelming need to devour each other when his tongue teased along the seam of your lips, begging entry to deepen the kiss. Teeth knocked together and tongues tangled as you tasted each other – somehow, the taste of coffee was suddenly appealing when it came from Joel’s mouth.

Hands wandered – his over your curves and yours into his luscious, dark curls. Joel’s hair felt as silky as it looked, and you had been itching to get your fingers in it from the moment you met him.

The sound of Sarah’s footsteps bouncing down the stairs broke the two of you apart, breathless, and dazed.

“Wow,” Joel murmured, struggling to remove his hands from your waist.

You smiled up at him, equally unwilling to remove your fingers from his hair. “Exactly,” you whispered, stepping back with your hands at your side just as Sarah entered the kitchen.

“I’m ready!” she declared excitedly and you both grinned at her cuteness.

“Okay, nugget. Let’s head out.”

Heart melting in your chest, you watched Joel and Sarah do their morning routine of saying goodbye. The love between the two of them was so strong it was like a tangible thing you could hold in your hands. Nostalgia washed over you as memories of your own childhood, moments like this with your dad, flooded your mind. What you had with your dad, what Joel and Sarah had together, was a connection that would never fade, only grow stronger with time.

Briefly, you wondered if your evolving relationship with Joel would affect that connection, interfere with it in anyway. You couldn’t move forward with him if that was the case. Some woman showing up and changing the dynamic between you and your dad would have upset you as a child and you refused to be the cause of any upset Sarah felt.

When the two of them stepped back from their hug and grinned at you, any question about your place in their dynamic washed down the drain. You felt nearly dizzy with relief when Sarah quickly said, “Give her a hug, too, Daddy,” and shoved him as hard as she could in your direction.

With a chuckle, Joel gave in to Sarah’s demand, wrapping his arms around you. The broadness of him surrounded you, enveloping you in warmth and a sense of security you’d not experienced before. Was that what love felt like?

“Have a good day, darlin’. I’ll see you later,” Joel’s deep voice was but a whisper in your ear, his lips just grazing your earlobe. “I’m looking forward to tonight.”

Warmth raced up your neck to your cheeks and you squeezed your thighs together in anticipation of what you hoped would happen later. “You have a good day too, Joel. Be careful, ok?”

“Always, darlin’.” He winked as you led Sarah out the front door to your car.

The journey to Sarah’s school started off quietly, Sarah bopping along to the music on the radio as you navigated the morning traffic. Your thoughts wandered to what you should wear later when Sarah startled you with a sudden question.

“Are you my dad’s girlfriend now?”

She asked the question so nonchalantly that you weren’t sure how to respond. Would she be upset with whatever answer you gave? Was there even a right or wrong answer? What did she want to hear? Mind racing, you settled on asking Sarah a question in return.

“Would you be upset if I was?”

Tilting her head side to side a few times, the little girl contemplated her answer while you held your breath. She turned to you with a smile so big it scrunched up her nose. “Nope! It’d make me really happy.”

“Really?” Your eyebrows were nearly at your hairline.

“Uh huh. You’re the coolest and prettiest. My dad would be lucky if you were his girlfriend,” Sarah admitted with all the confidence and knowledge of a ten-year-old. Another head tilt and she added, “So, are you?”

Equal parts amazed and grateful for Sarah’s acceptance of the idea, you opted for honesty. “I mean, I don’t know,” you shrugged. How could you explain what you had to a 10-year-old? “We haven’t talked about naming it yet, but we did decide to see how we like being together. Does that make sense?”

Sarah gave it a moment of thought. “Yeah, I think so. It’s kinda like how you’re a teacher, but not officially until you get the job, right?”

You laughed at the comparison with a nod. “Exactly. I’m as good as your dad’s girlfriend, we just haven’t made titles official yet.” You pulled up in front of the school and it was Sarah’s turn to get out. “Now get going, nugget. Have a good day!”

The little girl bounced out of the car, calling out to one of her friends. Just before you pulled away, you heard Sarah tell the other girl that you were her dad’s not-yet girlfriend.

The day absolutely dragged. Joel could swear that time went backwards every time he looked at a clock. It didn’t help that every single subcontractor gave him a hard time about something today.

The roof trusses arrived six weeks early and the sub refused to take them back even though the damn things would rot before they got to the roofing phase of construction. The company he rented the extra backhoe from wanted to raise their rates in the middle of his contract. The list went on and Joel ran out of patience three hours ago.

The only thing holding him together was the thought of you. Spending time with you. Kissing you. Touching you. Burying himself inside you… He adjusted himself with a sigh. Damn, he needed to put those particular thoughts on ice before he got himself riled up. The workday was shitty enough, he didn’t need the guys giving him a hard time about an untimely chub in his pants.

Finally, Joel had enough of everyone’s bullshit and called it a day, leaving his foreman in charge of the worksite.

“Off to doll yourself up, are ya?” Tommy teased as Joel headed for his truck. Gesturing in the general direction of Joel’s crotch, he added, “You remember how to use that thing? Make sure to clear out the cobwebs and use protection!”

“Jesus, Tommy,” Joel grumbled, climbing into his truck, and driving off. He knew his brother was only teasing, but Joel was nervous enough as it was. He didn’t need Tommy getting in his head. He did have a point about protection, though.

A quick stop at the convenience store to grab a box of condoms, Joel made it home before you and Sarah. Putting on some 90s rock, he jumped in the shower, putting in the extra effort to tidy himself up down there. He wondered if you preferred pubic hair or not. Fearing he was getting way ahead of himself, Joel opted to just trim his down and hoped for the best.

By the time he finished trimming his facial hair and tousling his curls, you and Sarah were downstairs, working on her homework. As he walked down the stairs, Joel could hear you encouraging his daughter to think the questions through and congratulating her when she got the answers right. His heart grew three sizes watching how you were with Sarah. You held his whole world in the palm of your hand and treasured it like the precious cargo it was.

Joel was falling so hard for you. You were quickly gaining the power to destroy him.

“Hi Daddy!” Sarah called out when she spotted him in the doorway. “We just finished my math homework. Can I play in the backyard?”

He set up a tire swing on the large live oak out back a week ago and it quickly became his little girl’s happy place. “Of course, nugget. Come give your old man a hug first.” Bending down, Joel swept Sarah up in his arms, biceps stretching his shirt sleeves as he swung her around in a circle. Sarah’s laughter echoed through the room, and you smiled sweetly at the pair of them.

“Uncle Tommy’s coming to take you out for dinner and ice cream in a bit. Ok?” Sarah nodded when he settled her back on her feet and raced for the sliding door. Once she was out of sight and earshot, Joel turned to you. “Come ‘ere, darlin’,” he said, voice deep and velvety.

Your body followed his command without conscious thought, so great the need to be in his arms. “I thought about you all day,” you admitted, staring up at him with wide eyes.

“Me, too. Could hardly focus on the job thinking about you and spending this evening together.” He tightened his arms around you, head bending to seal his lips to yours. When your lips parted at his prompting, Joel teased your plush bottom lip with his teeth. “It’s like a tasty little gummy worm,” he teased. “I could nibble on it all day.”

You moaned into his mouth, the little breathless sound music to his ears.

The kiss deepened until you were licking into each other’s mouths, hands wandering and grasping for purchase on any piece of real estate you could reach. Neither of you heard the front door open or the footsteps approaching the kitchen.

“Am I interrupting somethin’?” he asked cheekily as the two of you sprang apart, disheveled and gasping for breath.

Joel ran a hand down his face, closing his eyes for a moment to gather himself. “Excellent timing as always, brother.”

“Y’all just couldn’t wait five more minutes, could ya?” Tommy’s grin a mile wide as he teased. “Lemme get the nugget out of here before you two scar her for life.”

You tucked your face into Joel’s shoulder bashfully when Tommy slipped through the sliding door. Joel groaned and wrapped his arms around you. “Don’t mind him, darlin’. He just likes to bust my balls.”

Ten minutes later, after some hugs from Sarah and more teasing from Tommy, you and Joel were alone. Taking your hand, he led you to the couch. He hoped you didn’t notice that his rough palms were sweaty with nerves. You were abnormally quiet, and he wondered if you were nervous as well.

Seated a few inches apart, the tension became too much. “What are you in the mood for?” Joel asked, breaking the silence as he pulled up Netflix on the TV. He barely logged into his account when you suddenly straddled his lap.

“Hi,” you said when he stared at you in surprise. “You know what I’m in the mood for?”

“What?” He barely got his mouth to form the word, his brain short circuiting with you in his lap. His grip on the remote loosened, yet neither of you cared when it fell to the ground.

“You.”

There was a moment where you both froze, each waiting for the other to act first. Then the tension snapped, and Joel’s lips crashed against yours. His tongue danced along the seam of your lips until you opened them to let him in. Tongues tangled in a never-ending dance as your hips tilted, grinding down on him. Joel was uncomfortably hard in moments, pressing up against your warmth.

His hands were everywhere, fingers tenderly tracing the structure of your cheekbones, down the curve of your neck, along the swell of your breasts. They finally settled, grabbing handfuls of your ass to pull you impossibly closer. You moaned into his mouth, hips bucking in search of more friction.

Gasping for breath, Joel tore his mouth from yours, his hands urging your hips into a rhythm as you dry humped him. His mouth left a trail of scorching kisses down your neck, eliciting a wave of goosebumps to flow down your arms. Your hips rocked, gliding across his hardened length and Joel swore he could feel your wetness breaching through the layer of clothes separating you.

Fuck, how he wanted to taste you, get high on your sweet nectar. He knew, just knew in that primal way, that yours would be the best pussy he ever tasted. His cock swelled impossibly harder at the mere thought of burying his face between your legs.

“Jooooeeelllll.” His name coming from your luscious lips in a drawn-out moan caused his own hips to buck up into you, hitting just the right spot to make you both see stars from the friction alone. His mouth sucked little marks into your neck, leaving his left ear exposed to your mouth as crooned, “I’m gonna come, fuck. You’re gonna make me come in my panties, Joel.”

“Fuck, darlin’. Come all over me, pretty girl. I want to see you fall apart from grinding on me like this. Drench those panties.” Joel sat back a little, just enough to watch your face as your orgasm swept over you. It was the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen, eyes rolled back in your head, mouth hanging open in a silent ‘o’ as you trembled above him, delicate hands clenching the meat of his shoulders for balance. A little sheen of sweat dusted your hairline. Fucking beautiful.

Joel was absolutely certain he could feel you drenching his pants as you came, your breath finally coming back in a sharp exhale. He had never been so turned on in his life. Watching you come apart for him, feeling it seep through the layers of clothing became too much. For the first time in his adult life, Joel Miller came in his pants with a desperate whimper.

tbc

Taglist: @mellymbee @untamedheart81 @anoverwhelmingdin @runningmom94 @leilanixx @pedropascalfan221 @lovelyjess69 @sarahhxx03 @sofiparallel @tammythr @lulawantmula @islacharlotte @allyourfavesinoneblog @lover-of-books-and-tea @pedropascalsbbg @ashleyfilm @brittmb115 @lilmizmoz @loveisacowboyyy @shotgun-shelby @deninoe @casssiopeia @caitlynsixxx @skysmiller @missladym1981 @marirxse

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel x female reader #the last of us #tlou #dbf!joel #Fall Into Me #pedro pascal #eventual smut #mutual pining #idiots falling for each other

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sgiandubh · 2 days ago

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Accommodation latergram

Posted three hours ago by the IG account of the Hotel Timila in Pātan (Kathmandu), Nepal:

The Taliban corner immediately found out. Of course.

Here is the video, too:

The lady's question is almost swallowed by the usual breakfast noises (plates & cutlery, basically), so I could catch just the end of her rant: 'how was your stay here, in Nepal?'

S: 'It's been incredible, my first time... he [Jake Norton - JN]'s been here many times, but for me, yeah, an incredible experience, people are so friendly, food is amazing and this hotel [gestures towards the reception sign] is my favorite, the suite's so nice...

Reception Lady: 'Did you like your stay here?'

S: 'We did, we started here before we went on our trek, we felt like home and coming back was really nice, we had the suite, really nice [unsure of the last bit, however, as the sound is really, really bad].

Reception Lady: 'Do you have any recommendation [thick accent, unsure of transcript] about your stay, or for our team, here?'

S: 'I'll say thank you to all the team, they were so welcoming, especially you aaand... we'll come back, yeah? [chuckles, motions towards JN]'

JN: 'Oh gosh, yeah, 'twas... I was many, many times to Nepal, over thirty-plus years and it was certainly one of the top, if not the top trip, seeing new parts of the country for me, but Timila [the hotel] is always like...like home, so yeah, it feels... and you guys do just an amazing job of welcoming people, making them feel like it's a home away from home so... [Reception Lady: 'thank you so much, guys'] ...thank you!'

The Timila Hotel is a family-owned heritage property in the heart of Kathmandu, by the way. Having traveled a bit all over Asia myself, that means 'mid-range accommodation with a soul'. I am glad S could experience that unique, always thoughtful hospitality and not the luxury hotel chains' cookie-cut smiles and wai greetings. The reviews on Booking.com are probably honestly reflecting that, at a whooping 9.4/10 average satisfaction:

79 USD/night is peanuts, even for Nepal. The most expensive available option (Patan Square) in the Pātan area of Kathmandu is about 130 USD/night right now and an unbelievable (must be a mistake, somewhere) rate of 4200 USD/night for a suite with balcony at the Bodhiz Tusal Hotel (which has horrendous reviews, so it begs the question).

S's suite (the only one in the hotel) is the usual hill station Anglo-Indian style I am personally very fond of, with the mandatory little touch of local, endearing kitsch:

But the terrace is, indeed, gloriously huge. Trust this blogger, that is a remarkable bonus:

Back to the video snippet, I just saw two very tired men who just longed to get home in time for Xmas with their respective families. Which I think is the case by now, since the hotel released it. And no, I do not care a bit if he opened a baby bottle of SS whisky when he reached his destination - he is certainly not the first trekker/entrepreneur to indulge in product placement. Plus there was enough double entendre in that reel to quench the thirst of all the corners of this fandom and allow for endless discussions skirmishes. I know what I heard, too 😉.

Gracias a ti, siempre 😘😘😘.

#Everest trip December 2024 #fandom #shitshow #verbatim

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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 2 years ago

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Who Taught You How to Love Like That? - Chapter One

Pairing: Modern!Aemond Targaryen x f!reader Warnings: Sugar daddy/sugar baby dynamics. Word count: ~2.5k

Chapter summary: Desperate to pay off her student loans, she downloads a dating app with a twist, and makes an interesting match.

She sighs, her eyes scanning over the PDF of her payslip for the month, before locking her phone and letting it drop heavily onto the kitchen counter.

“Bad news?” Mysaria quirks an eyebrow, sliding a glass of wine across to her.

“These student loan repayments are fucking killing me. I’ve basically worked an entire week for free this month.” She complains, taking a huge swig from her glass.

“Bummer.” Her flatmate says. “Any way I can help?”

“Unless your mattress is secretly stuffed full of cash, no. Super Noodles for me for the rest of the month, once I’ve paid my share of the rent.”

“You could give being a sugar baby a try?” Mysaria says with a smirk over the rim of her wine glass.

She laughs, rolling her eyes. “Yeah, or take up pole dancing lessons and become a stripper!”

“I’m being serious.” Mysaria, puts her glass down and pulls out her phone, flicking to the App Store and typing. “See? There are loads of apps, why not give it a try?”

“Isn’t that just prostitution?” She wrinkles her nose in disgust.

“Hey!” Mysaria chides. “Sex work is real work, but this isn’t prostitution. Most of these guys are just desperate, lonely guys who earn big bucks and are willing to spoil you in exchange for a conversation or a few selfies. You don’t even have to sleep with any of them…unless you want to.”

“I think I’ll pass, thanks.”

Even if she did go through with it, she was inexperienced, and would surely be a disappointment to any potential sugar daddies she might attract. She’d had one boyfriend in her entire life, it had lasted six months and they’d never gone beyond unsatisfying quickies that focused entirely on his pleasure. The idea of taking money from a stranger in order to pay her bills makes her incredibly uneasy.

They’re half way through their second bottle of wine as she scrolls through her phone. Mysaria is snoring softly on the sofa next to her, while an episode of some trashy reality TV show plays away to itself in the background.

Her thoughts keep drifting back to her flatmate’s mention earlier in the evening of sugar babies. She knows it’s likely the wine inspiring her actions, but she finds herself scrolling through the same apps they’d looked at previously.

Seeing one with particularly good reviews, she presses download before she’s had a chance to think twice about it and then goes through the process of setting up a profile, picking the best photo she has of herself on her camera roll.

Her heart races as she swipes with shaky fingers through photos of a myriad of men. She stops when she sees the look of one she likes.

Larys, 45. Tell me all your secrets.

His curly brown hair and piercing blue eyes immediately capture her attention, and she enjoys the flirtatious nature of his tagline. She swipes right and is stunned when she gets an “It’s a match!” notification. Wow, that was fast.

Instantly a message pops up from him.

Hello beautiful. How are you this evening?

She smiles, this seems harmless enough.

I’m fine, thanks. Just watching TV. How are you?

Her eyes linger on the screen as she awaits his reply.

I’d be better if I could get a look at your pretty feet. How much?

Bile rises in her throat and she throws the phone away from her in disgust. The worst possible start she could have asked for. She silently curses Mysaria’s stupid idea and vows never to open the app again.

Three weeks later and she is thoroughly fed up. She’s tired of never going out or doing anything, sick of existing on instant noodles. When she receives another payslip and sees yet another loan repayment has eaten away at her earnings, she reaches breaking point. She considers looking for another job, but she currently doesn’t qualify for anything beyond an entry level position in her field, and the pay everywhere else is no better than what she’s already on.

Her thumb lingers over the app that she hasn’t touched for weeks, too scarred by having such an awful first encounter to bother with it again. However, she’s desperate and willing to try anything - not with Larys though. She’s quick to unmatch with him, eager to forget his disgusting request.

She swipes mindlessly for a few minutes, not finding anyone attractive, until she happens across a photo that stops her in her tracks.

The man in question has sharp features - an aquiline nose, an impossibly chiseled jawline and sculpted cheekbones. His long white blonde hair frames his face elegantly, his only imperfection is the scar that runs across his left eye, a slightly duller blue than the right. She wonders if he’s still able to see out of it.

Aemond, 35.

No tagline, no other photos, save the one of him staring directly into the camera. He seems intense and mysterious. She swipes right, unable to fight the disappointment she feels when it’s not an instant match.

She closes the app, her desire to look at anyone else has been thwarted by how ridiculously good looking he is.

She has nearly forgotten about him when her phone buzzes the next day. He’s matched with her. She unlocks her phone, her palms sweaty with nerves, and looks at his message.

Hello.

Simple, to the point, possibly the words of a serial killer? She pushes the thought away and types out a response.

Hi. How are you?

She almost gives up and puts her phone away in the time it takes for him to reply, but eventually he does.

I don’t do small talk. Tell me about yourself.

Her eyes widen as she reads the message. He’s either incredibly rude or just not used to interacting with other people. She decides to give him the benefit of the doubt. She tells him about her history degree, about her museum job, about her living situation and her aspirations to one day become a curator of historical artifacts. He is unsurprisingly evasive when she attempts to ask about him.

So, what brings you to the app?

She decides there’s no point in hiding the fact that she’s strapped for cash, she wouldn’t be using an app that matches sugar babies with sugar daddies if that weren’t the case. She explains that her student loan repayments are crippling her, half expecting not to hear from him again. His next message is much quicker to arrive.

How much? And are you free Saturday night?

Dread gnaws at her stomach. Oh god, what does he expect of her? Hesitantly, she types out the remaining balance she has on her student loan and asks what he has in mind for Saturday. Again, he replies straight away.

Give me your bank details. I need a date for my nephew’s engagement party.

Her eyes widen. This cannot be real, and yet it’s happening. Dazed by his forwardness she sends across her account number and sort code, and tells him she’s free on Saturday.

Her mouth runs dry when after a few minutes her banking app pings with a notification of a deposit. The full amount she owes on her student loan has been transferred to her under the name ‘A. Targaryen.”

Aemond has transferred her thousands of pounds as if it were nothing more than pocket change, and all under the loose agreement that she’ll attend a party with him. This man has to be obscenely wealthy, or insane, perhaps both.

Her phone vibrates again. Another message from him.

Transferred. Give me your number, I hate the messaging interface on this app.

With clammy hands and a pounding heart she types out an entirely too long, rambled message of thanks, along with her number.

She wonders if she’s blown it when she doesn’t hear from him again, yet the money still sits in her bank account, feeling as though it’s burning a hole in it. She hasn’t exactly played it cool, most sugar babies probably accept money with cool sophistication, not simpering words of gratitude.

She feels like she’s forgotten how to breathe when he texts her on Friday.

Tell me your address and dress size.

Once more, she’s taken aback by how blunt he is, yet she complies and provides both.

When she arrives home from work later that evening, there is a package waiting for her. She opens it to reveal a black silk gown. The cut of the fabric is beautiful. Her jaw drops when she sees the Chanel label. This likely cost more than the entirety of the clothing she owns put together.

There’s a note that simply reads: Wear this tomorrow - A.

She smiles at the neatness of his handwriting. Aemond is a strange man, and yet she can’t help the intrigue she feels towards him. This is his second act of generosity towards her in the space of a week and they’ve yet to even meet.

She spends all of Saturday ensuring she is waxed, exfoliated and moisturised all over, before carefully styling her hair and applying make-up that she feels will do the eye-wateringly expensive dress she’s been given to wear justice.

She is jittery with nerves when a sleek, black sports car pulls up outside the block of flats. She can just tell it’s Aemond, nothing that costs that much has any business being on this side of town otherwise.

She hurries downstairs to meet him, eager to avoid the embarrassment of him seeing the mess that is the inside of the pokey, little flat she shares with Mysaria.

He steps out of the car and she inhales sharply at the sight of him. He is tall, at least six foot easily, despite her wearing heels he still towers over her. A well tailored, black suit clings to his long, lithe form and his white hair is pulled back neatly into a bun that sits at the nape of his neck.

“You must be Aemond.” She says, praying her make-up is enough to hide the evidence of how hot her face currently feels.

“Mmm. Yes, I must. You look good.” His right eye rakes appreciatively over her form, and when his left doesn’t follow the motion, she realises it’s a prosthetic. “Shall we go?”

He gestures towards the car, walking around to the passenger’s side to open the door for her.

He fills her in on what’s expected of her as he drives. His nephew, Jace, has gotten engaged to his longtime girlfriend, Baela. He is sick of fending off questions around why he’s not with anyone yet, especially from that side of the family. He expects her to stick by his side for the evening and he’ll deal with any awkward questions that may arise.

They arrive and Aemond is ever the gentleman, quickly stepping out of the car to open the door for her and offer her a hand out.

She shivers at the feel of his hand against hers and is stunned further still when he interlocks their fingers, keeping a firm hold of her hand as they enter the house.

“Just play along.” He whispers.

She is immediately struck by the opulence of it all as they walk through the foyer. This is a family that comes from old money. It was clear from the antique furnishings and vaulted ceilings that the Targaryens had always had money and always would.

She balks a little, unsure of if she will fit in, suddenly self conscious. Aemond seems to pick up on this.

“Relax.” He whispers to her. “Everyone here looks like shit compared to you.”

His words, combined with the tickle of his breath against the shell of her ear sends a shiver down her spine.

True to his word, he doesn’t let her stray from his side the entire evening. The tension between family members is unmistakable. The sneers with which a trio of dark haired young men regard Aemond is incredibly off putting.

She is informed by Aemond that the eldest of them is Jace, whose engagement they are here to celebrate. She meets Aemond’s mother, the doe eyed, auburn haired woman is pretty and seems shocked but delighted at the sight of her son with an actual date on his arm.

The lies that flow from his mouth are effortless. He had met her at the museum she works at when he’d come in to browse an exhibition. They’d hit it off instantly and been inseparable ever since.

Every touch of his hand at the small of her back feels like a brand and as the night goes on, and the champagne continues to flow freely, she finds herself eagerly playing up to the part of dutiful girlfriend. She leans into every touch, her eyes fluttering closed at the gentle press of his lips to her hairline. He is respectful, too respectful, never getting handsy or going for a full on the lips kiss.

When the evening draws to a close and he escorts her back to the passenger side of his car, she feels bereft at the loss of his touch as he moves around to the driver’s seat.

“You did well this evening.” He tells her as she starts the engine. “We put on quite the show.”

Remembering that none of this was real, that she’d been paid to be here startles her out of her tipsy fantasy that this is an actual relationship and her mouth presses into a tight line as she nods.

They drive in silence for a while before Aemond speaks again.

“If you’re up for it, my mother is having a birthday meal this Wednesday. She mentioned tonight she’d love for you to come. Are you available? I’ll pay you, obviously.”

So much for this not feeling like prostitution. She’s already paid off her student loan, she could just say no, but then she wouldn’t get to see him again.

“Y-yeah, sounds good.” She says meekly.

They pull up outside the block of flats and, right on cue, Aemond is striding around the car to get her door. She wobbles on her heels as she climbs out, the effects of the evening’s alcohol getting the better of her, and falls against his chest.

His large hands move to steady her by the shoulders and as she looks up into his face she is struck by how gorgeous he really is.

Her eyes slowly close, as she leans in, her lips pressing towards his.

His grip on her shoulders tightens, pushing her back ever-so gently. “You don’t need to do that.”

Her eyes snap back open, shame coursing through her like liquid fire. “Oh…”

“I’ll text you the details about Wednesday. Thanks again for tonight.”

He gets back into the car, driving away as she stands on the kerbside, feeling thoroughly embarrassed.

Chapter two || Series masterlist

1K notes · View notes

hwaslayer · 9 months ago

Text

project: make you love me (jyh) | nineteen. (final)

♣︎ spotify playlist | series masterlist

—summary: yunho can’t stand how you’re so wrapped up in the notorious campus fuckboy, park seonghwa. he would gladly love you the way you deserve, despite being shy, awkward and the complete opposite of seonghwa. thus, when he finds himself spending more time with you over literature reviews and random study sessions, he decides to take on the challenge to win you over.

—pairing: jeong yunho x f. reader

—genre: (18+ - minors dni) strangers/friends to lovers, college au | fluff, angst, smut

—word count: 5.5k

—chapter content/warnings: cussing/mature language, some alcohol consumption, seonghwa (lmao im jk just had to do it one time for the one time - hes not really a warning but he does pop in for a second), oral (f. receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, praising, lots and lots of kisses

—on rotation: universe - thuy ・complicated - nivea

—a/n: & we've come to the end 😭 sobbing!! tysm for all your love on this one, i truly appreciate every single one of you that cried, loved and supported this couple from day one!! <33 it truly meant a lot to me. i hope to see you alongside of me on the next journey hehe 💕 find my upcoming works here & lmk if you wanna be on the taglists! if you need something more sad & angsty, here is home. ILYYYY!!

"Baby! Yeo!" You squeal when you see Yunho lined up with Yeosang amongst the crowd of graduates waiting to pile their way in to the field where the ceremony would be taking place. He waves, tall and proud in his cap and gown, blushing from ear to ear when you rush over for a quick hug.

"Pretty girl." He mumbles against your head before kissing you on the temple. "Go get your seat before it fills up." His hands are on your waist as he looks down at you, brushing the hair away from your face.

"I know, but I just had to see you really quickly." You point to your friends behind you, all holding up cardboard cut outs of Yunho and Yeosang's faces. "Look! We came prepared!" They laugh.

"I'm glad you picked a nice photo of me at least."

"Oh, we have both cute and funny faces, don't worry." Yeosang rolls his eyes before giving off another chuckle. You slip a water bottle filled halfway with tequila in Yunho's hand, making Yeosang give off a loud laugh when he realizes what you're giving them.

"Babe." Yunho says almost in a scolding manner that makes you giggle.

"You've got a whole 3-4 hours or so of a graduation ceremony, love! What else are you gonna do?!"

"She's right, what are we gonna do?"

"Oh my— go, babe. We're gonna head in soon." You laugh and give him a quick peck on the lips before squeezing his hand.

"Okay, okay. I love you. Enjoy!"

"I love you, too." You wave once more before running off to your friends and heading out onto the lawn. It's a beautiful day out, and the sun is already shining even though it's still early in the morning. You, your friends, your mom and sister, and Yunho's mom and aunt eventually find ways to each other and take place in some seats right by the stage and underneath the shade.

As expected, the ceremony kicks off and it's a long one. The President of the school speaks before other distinguished professors and a special guest speaker take over the mic. Yunho and Yeosang surprisingly do take a few swigs from the water bottle mid-speech, catching other graduates doing the same to keep themselves alive and on the same high they started with this morning. Once they start handing out diplomas to the graduates by school/department, it tacks on another hour or so before they're finally reaching the Computer Science department.

"Oh shit, finally!" Soobin says, fixing his position in his seat and getting his phone ready.

"Are they even going in alphabetical order?" Seungmin stands, stepping aside to make sure he isn't blocking the view.

"Nope. They're going by row, I think." Chaery stands before pointing and grabbing you by the arm. "Wait, wait! Yunho and Yeo are standing now!" You stand and let your family and his family know that it might be time to head closer towards the stage. The entire group makes their way towards the side of the stage that is blocked off solely for family and loved ones to snap photos of their graduates. You sneak your way past a few people, bringing everyone closer in an area where Yunho and Yeosang could see the group clearly as they walk across the stage and off.

The first to walk across the stage is Yeosang; his family roars next to you while you all hold up his boards. You snap a few photos of him just as he walks off and quickly flashes his diploma before waving one last goodbye to get to his seat. At this point, Yunho takes a step onto the stage, waiting for his name to be called. You feel the tears welling in your eyes when you find that Yunho isn't looking at anyone but you.

"I love you." He mouths out and subtly taps his chest just as they call his name.

"I love you, too." You mouth back before snapping his photos— catching that sparkle in his eye, that beautiful smile on his face. That's your man and you love him so, so much.

"Jeong Yunho!" Chaery yells as you all put up the blown up boards of his face. You all cheer and scream for him as he finally crosses the stage and grabs his diploma, doing a little celebratory dance as he steps down and passes everyone for final photos. Yunho quickly grabs your hand and presses a light kiss to the surface before running off to his seat. "I swear to God, you two are the sweetest." Chaery pokes out her bottom lip before throwing her arm around your shoulder. "That man loves you and adores you to bits, Y/N."

"And I do, too." She squeezes you as you all make your way back to your seats to endure the rest of the graduates getting their diplomas.

"Do you guys have any plans for Yunho and Yeosang tonight?" Your mom leans over to ask and you shake your head.

"No, they didn't wanna do anything besides the lunch thingy we're all going to."

"Oh, really? Not even a party?" You shake your head.

"Nope. I promise you, we tried." Your mom chuckles and nods.

As the rest of the ceremony finally comes to an end, caps are being tossed in the air from all directions while the graduates celebrate in unison one last time. You hurriedly run to the nearest bathroom because your body decides this would be the best time to do so. Luckily, there isn't much of a line or anything so you're able to slip in and out after relieving yourself. But once you head back to the lawn, you find yourself completely lost in a sea full of graduates, their families and loved ones. When you tippy-toe to try and find Yunho, you surprisingly can't find a glimpse of him and it makes you a bit anxious.

"Oops, sorry—"

"Sorry—" You look up. "Seonghwa." You bump into him as you continue to try and navigate your way through the crowd to find Yunho and Yeosang, with Seonghwa also trying to find his family in the sea of people.

"Oh, hey." He looks down at you.

"Congratulations."

"Thank you." He says with a small smile.

"I really do wish you the best." He looks at you before looking down at his feet and nodding.

"I appreciate that, Y/N. I hope senior year treats you well." You give him a toothless smile before you finally spot Yunho over his shoulder. Seonghwa watches as your smile grows, hearing the small squeals leave your lips when you finally spot Yunho with your friends and family.

"Thanks. Good luck!" You bid Seonghwa farewell once and for all before running over to your boyfriend. Of course, Seonghwa keeps his eyes trained on you two for a bit while you swing your arms around Yunho's neck and kiss him so sweetly, so lovingly. Yunho looks down at you like the entire world is handed to him on a gold platter, like you hold the galaxies in your eyes, like every inch of you has been crafted by the stars.

You are everything to him, and it's clear even for someone like Seonghwa— who isn't sure how to give love, yet is very open to receiving it. He could've had that, if he wasn't so dumb. You really did believe in him at one point, but he didn't do anything with it. He didn't choose you.

But truthfully, in the end, he's happy you're happy. Even though it took him awhile to fully understand that. He knew he couldn't fully give you what you wanted, and he knows Yunho is way better than he'll ever be. You deserve that, and Seonghwa knows he should've tried harder when he had you. Not after.

Life's a bunch of learning lessons, and he truly gets that now.

"Congrats, baby!" You giggle when Yunho presses repeated kisses against your face, holding you against him.

"Hey! Turn to the camera!" Your mom yells from behind you. "Let me snap some photos of you and the handsome graduate! Hurry! Food's waiting!" Your mom playfully scolds you before snapping a bunch of photos. Everyone is taking their time snapping photos of you and Yunho, you and your friends with Yunho and Yeosang, and it takes a good bit before everyone is satisfied enough to leave.

Yeosang's family joins everyone for a celebratory meal at the bbq restaurant in the city. It's a late celebratory lunch being that it's a bit past noon, but everyone is happy and still in good spirits despite the long ceremony and warmer weather. It's nice to see everyone you love under one roof, with Yunho and Yeosang rightfully being celebrated for all their hardwork. While your mom and sister sit alongside of Yunho's mom and aunt, your dad calls mid-dinner to congratulate Yunho over Facetime and apologizes for missing the ceremony due to a business trip. Yunho eventually ends up agreeing to a random fishing date with your dad in the coming weeks, making you laugh how cutely [and quickly] he agreed.

"Babe." You look up at him sweetly as everyone exits the restaurant, your hand loosely intertwined with his.

"When you say my name like that, you're always up to no good." You playfully smack him with a gasp.

"Oh my god, not even!" You giggle. "I just wanted to know if you're happy."

"Of course I am."

"Do you wanna do anything else to celebrate?"

"Nah." He shakes his head and boops your nose. "Just wanna spend time with you. Besides, I told you I'd take you somewhere this summer, remember? That'll be a way to celebrate."

"I feel like I wanna do more for you."

"You do a lot for me already. I promise." He squeezes your hand.

"I'm gonna be honest, and it's probably gonna sound lame, but a nap sounds really nice right now." Yeosang says. "We got up way too early for graduation." You laugh.

"Why don't we nap and head to the beach tonight for a chill bonfire?" Soobin suggests with a shrug. "So we can celebrate but also not do too much?"

"That actually sounds amazing." Chaery looks at with a surprised expression. "Way to go, Choi!" She punches him on the arm, earning a small groan in response.

"Yeah, I'm down for that."

"I'll drive us and see if the others wanna come along?" Yeosang and Yunho nod.

"Yay!" You clap before bidding farewell to your mom, sister, Yunho's mom and his aunt.

As expected, everyone heads their separate ways and gets ready to relax for the early afternoon. Chaery and Seungmin head off to the grocery store to grab a few drinks and snacks for tonight, and some ice for the cooler. After taking a quick shower, you head back to Yunho's— already finding Yeosang's door shut close, while Yunho is also in bed with an arm lazily draped over his face. As you quietly shut the door behind you and walk towards his bed, you hear Yunho's small snores a little clearer. You giggle to yourself as you carefully climb over and take your place on the empty side of the bed, but Yunho is quick to shift in his own position and throw an arm around you as soon as he feels the bed dip. His hand gently squeezes at your side just as he presses up against your back, letting out a soft sigh against the back of your head.

"Sorry baby." He sleepily says. "Tried waiting but I got sleepy."

"That's okay, Yuyu. Go back to sleep." He presses a light kiss to your head before snuggling closer to you. Within a few minutes, you feel your lids getting heavier, breathing more regulated. It's not long before you fall into a deep sleep with Yunho cuddled behind you; also meeting you in your dreams.

Eventually, your slumber comes to an end when you feel Yunho pressing light kisses to your jaw, cheek, neck and head. You giggle as your eyes flutter open, giving your body a tiny, but good stretch in Yunho's arms.

"Awake already?"

"Mm, we slept for like 3 hours." He laughs. "We should eat before we head to the beach."

"What do you wanna eat? I'm too content here." You chuckle.

"I could name a few things." Yunho smirks before gently nibbling on your earlobe and giving your thigh a squeeze.

"You go to sleep for 3 hours and wake up like this?!" You snort.

"Baby." He whines, so you turn to look at him.

"And here I thought you really wanted to eat."

"I do! I'm just in the mood for a variety of things."

"Oh?" You let out a loud squeal when Yunho comes for your neck and starts attacking you with more kisses.

"Oy! I can hear you two from out here!" Chaery says from outside the door, causing the both of you to pause and look towards the door.

"When did she get here?" You ask. Yunho snorts as he continues to play around, hand teasing at the edge of your panties. "Yunho!"

"What?" He nips at your neck.

"You lovebirds awake or what? We brought some food over." Seungmin asks right by the door. You can hear both him and Chaery mumbling from behind— something along the lines of:

Should we just knock?

Should we go in?

You think they're still sleeping after hearing her earlier?

What if they're indecent and in compromised positions?

Dude, just tell them the food is outside, they'll come when they're ready.

You laugh to yourself amidst Yunho's kisses, internally shaking your head at your roommates for almost acting on their thoughts. You return your attention back to your boyfriend, who is looking at you adoringly even as his fingers continue to trace the material of your panties.

"Food is outside when you two are done!" Seungmin says, followed by an 'ow' afterwards.

"Yunho, what are you up to?"

"I'll be quick." He laughs. "Just wanna please you."

"Everyone is outside!"

"You can be quiet though, right?" He lowers himself under the blankets, taking his position in between your thighs. You bite onto your bottom lip, feeling Yunho tug your panties down before slipping in two digits. You let out a quiet, breathy moan, twitching when you suddenly feel him latch onto your clit— tongue working magic around your core.

"Oh shit—" Your moan gets louder and Yunho gives your thigh a squeeze to warn you. You feel the pleasure quickly building in your gut, slowly working your hips against his mouth; hands gripping his hair with good pressure. You feel him pick up the pace, pumping into you faster before he focuses on your clit alone, letting you grind your hips against him. He groans against you, pressing his hips deeper into the mattress to feel some kind of friction, to relieve himself in any way possible. "Yunho, fuck—" Sooner or later, your orgasm washes over you and completely takes over your senses. You tremble against him, back arching off of the mattress as the aftershocks trickle through you. "Jesus, babe."

"Mhm, but you feel good, don't you?" He pokes out of the covers, laughing with rose-tinted cheeks.

"What about you?"

"I'm good." He leans in to kiss you. "That's all I needed."

"You're crazy."

"I love you, too." He kisses you again. "Ready to actually eat?"

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?" You laugh, letting Yunho get up and fix himself first. You throw on some sweats, also following suit to make sure you look decent enough for your friends.

"Wow, finally." Chaery says when she sees Yunho ski-daddle to the bathroom with a quick wave, you plopping yourself down onto the living room floor next to her. "You good?" She teases, nudging you in the arm.

"Mm, thanks for bring the food."

"Course."

"Who else is tagging along?"

"Hyunjin. Yeonjun. Jongho. Minnie. Someone else, I forgot though." Soobin says. "They're riding with Jongho."

"I'm surprised they're still around. Usually, they're all quick to dip as soon as finals are over." Chaery adds. "Eat up, replenish your stamina." She hands Yunho a plate when he plops onto the floor next to you.

"Thank you." He flashes her a bright, playful smile. "Did you guys get everything for tonight?"

"Mhm!"

"You should've told us. We could've chipped in." Yeosang nods in agreement.

"Um, this is for you guys. Why on earth would I do that?" She laughs. "No, absolutely not. I just want you guys to have fun and enjoy tonight."

"Thank you." Yeosang repeats with a small smile. Everyone finishes up eating in the living room before Yeosang and Soobin are hauling the cooler into his car for tonight's festivities. As soon as the sun sets, the group piles into the car, squeezing into the back to fit [as safely as possible]. The beach Soobin picks isn't the usual, popular beach that everyone tends to go to. He decides it's best to go to the smaller one that's tucked off to the side so it isn't bombarded with people on a beautiful night like tonight. It takes a quick 10-min drive down the highway, along with tackling a curvy, winding road before Soobin is driving down a small, quiet residential area and pulling up at a dead-end.

"Jongho and them are here already." He says, pulling up behind their car along the side of the street near the dead-end sign. Everyone hops out and grabs what they can to haul it over to the beach, having to walk down the path in order to reach the sand. Jongho and the rest of the group already have a huge fire going, chairs situated around the fire with a few snacks and the bluetooth speakers softly playing music laying around.

"Finally!" Jongho says with his arms wide open. "Congrats Yunho and Yeo!"

"Thanks, my guy!" Yunho responds with a laugh, greeting your friends with a hug and thanking them for hanging out to celebrate. Everyone gets started with rounds of shots before dancing around in the sand and splashing in the water. Yunho's happily singing along to the songs even as you two walk into the water and try to playfully splash each other. At once, he carries you and attempts to throw you into the water, laughing away as you chase him and scold him for even trying.

When you finally settle back onto the chair and start roasting some marshmallows for smores, Yunho plops onto the chair next to you— gently nudging you on the arm before kissing you on the cheek.

"Making some smores?" You giggle and nod.

"Want one?"

"Sure." You throw a marshmallow onto another stick, keeping it near the fire. While waiting for it to be perfectly roasted, you look up and admire the stars strung across the velvety sky.

The moon.

"Yunho."

"Yeah?"

"It's a full moon." He looks at you with a small smile before kissing you on the temple, helping you arrange his smores on a plate.

"It is, and I want you to remember this one and the next ones to come."

"Why?"

"Just cause." He gives you a small smile, happy to have made the moon something you two could share, something that will always serve as a reminder of the love you two hold for each other. "It's our thing, isn't it?"

"Yeah, it is our thing." You giggle, resting your head on his shoulders while you continue to watch your friends fool around on the sand and enjoy themselves under the clear, night sky. "I'm proud of you, you know that right? Incredibly proud of you."

"I know."

"I'll be the support you every step of the way."

"Thank you, love. And I'll be here, too. I'm here."

♣︎ SUMMER

You splashed in the clearest, bluest waters you've ever seen, Yunho coming behind you and wrapping his arms around your waist. You give off a tiny scream when he surprises you from behind, lifting you and dropping you back into the water.

"Jeong Yunho!" You laugh mid-scold, wiping the water from your face.

"I like it when you say my name." He smirks, followed by a deep laugh. "Sorry, baby. I had to."

"You're lucky I like you." He smiles, hands resting on your waist to pull you close.

"That's a shame, I thought you loved me, too." He teases while you wrap your arms around his neck.

"You're lucky I love you."

"Ah, that's better." He licks his lips, water droplets slowly falling down his face from his wet hair. "Mind if I kiss you, pretty girl?"

"Not at all." You bite onto your bottom lip before Yunho leans forward for a kiss, holding it for as long as he possibly can before he's pulling back. He presses one, two, three repeated kisses before giving your hips a squeeze.

"Wanna head back to the room?"

"Yeah, actually. I'm kinda pooped from splashing in the water all day."

"Same." He laces his fingers with yours as you both walk out of the water and back towards the resort.

"What do you want for dinner tonight?"

"Um, I don't know. Let me figure that out. You just relax." He gives you a small smile. The sand feels warm but soft beneath your feet, and the sun is still shining even though it's getting ready to set soon. Thankfully, it isn't nearly as bright and hot as it was earlier in the day anymore. You grab your things from the beach chair, washing off your feet under the water spout before slipping back into your slippers and following the trail back into the resort.

When you step back into the room, Yunho is quick to start a hot shower for you, claiming he'll take care of dinner. So, you hop in and take your time underneath the hot water; letting it ease the slight soreness that came from swimming and playing in the water most of the day. Yunho makes a quick trip down the street to pick up some food, laying everything out on the balcony table so that you two could enjoy it during a peaceful night.

"Aw, babe! When did you go out and grab this?" You say as you walk out to the balcony in your cute grey shorts and matching hoodie.

"When you were swimming in the shower." You laugh and playfully punch him on the bicep.

"I did not take that long. But, thank you." You tippytoe to give him a peck.

"Let me take a quick shower. I'll be out soon." He tips your chin upwards before smiling down at you.

"Okay." You settle onto the balcony chair and scroll through your phone, texting your friends while you patiently wait for Yunho to shower and get comfy for dinner. You look out at the view, admiring the way the moonlight shines down onto the surface of the water, illuminating everything near its path. It's quiet with the occasional sound of waves crashing against the sand, the occasional chatter of other families passing by to get to their rooms. It's peaceful, but it feels extra special being away from home with Yunho.

When it hits close to 20 minutes, Yunho's finally joining you in the balcony, running a hand through his damp hair as he sits in the chair next to you. The both of you begin to dig in and talk about your day, planning what else you should do tomorrow and the following day before you're having to leave and head back home. Of course, in typical Yunho fashion, he jokes around and plays around mid-meal, just wanting to hear you laugh and giggle next to him. When you both feel satisfied, he sits back and takes his turn to admire the view, his hand laced with yours as he presses kisses onto the surface.

"Baby." He says softly, his thumb caressing the surface of your hand.

"Hm?"

"Do you see the full moon?" He points upwards.

"I do." You smile at him, remembering the days when you used to walk with Yunho and look at the moon.

"Can you do me a favor then?"

"Of course."

"Keep your eyes on it for me, please?"

"What're you up to, Jeong Yunho?" You giggle, doing as asked by keeping your gaze on the full moon ahead. You don't even see Yunho move, nor do you hear him fiddle around, but you are stuck on the moon nonetheless. It's beautiful, it's bright, it's dreamy.

"Nothing." He laughs. "Tell me what you see, love."

"Yunho, I—" You turn to look at him, but before you can even say, do, anything, your eyes immediately shift to the center of the table, causing you to pause mid-sentence.

On the table is an opened small, black box with a ring inside. A simple, but beautifully chic rose gold ring that blended seamlessly into an infinity-shape near the center, a small heart-shaped diamond sitting in the middle cushioned in between smaller diamonds. It's beautiful, it's bright, it's dreamy.

"Y-Yunho." You say his name softly. Your heart is beating out of your chest because although you'd love to do this with Yunho, you aren't sure if you're entirely ready. But luckily for you, Yunho knows you well.

Very well.

And he understands. He knows the feeling all too well, too.

"I— it's a promise ring. Because as much as I want to say fuck it right now, I know we're both waiting until we're absolutely ready to build a life together. I just want you to know that I'm yours. No matter what. I'm yours and nothing's gonna change that. I'm here."

"Babe." The tears well up in your eyes as you admire the ring sitting in the box before looking back up at him. He's right, and it's what you love the most about him. He's never one to rush or pressure you into anything, he's the one who thinks logically and rationally. But, he never fails to show you just how much you mean to him, how much this relationship means to him. There was always this cloud above the both of you after that night you two talked about building a life together and doing the crazy shit grownups do. Because even though you truly love Yunho and you know he's the one you wanna be with, you still have a whole year of school ahead of you, more dance competitions ahead of you; plus, whatever else post-grad will bring for you. Yunho is still navigating his own life after graduation and even though he might be in a slightly better place than you right now, you know he's also trying to be there for his mom and aunt more. Things are still unsettled and it wouldn't be the time for you two to think about engagements, marriages, what kind of home you want, kids— even if that's the end goal.

Whatever the combination looked like.

But having Yunho do this, to give you a promise ring that shows you the want, the need, the dedication he has to be there for you every step of the way and vice versa. It means more than anything, and it's all you could've ever asked for. You're happy to know he is yours, just as you are his.

"I love it. Thank you."

"Can I?" He licks his lips, taking the ring from the box in order to slip it on your finger. You simply nod as the tears stream down your cheeks, fingers slightly shaking at the overflowing love and happiness you feel being here, being with Yunho. "Baby, why are you crying?" He chuckles a bit, leaning over to wipe the tears from your cheeks.

"I just.. I don't know. I just love you. Sometimes, it still feels so unreal." He subtly bites onto his bottom lip to prevent himself from smiling even more. But, he thinks you're so cute right now. So pretty, so beautiful. So.. his.

"Come here, love." He gestures to his lap. You silently walk over and straddle his lap, arms lazily wrapped around his neck. He leans in for a kiss, large hands resting on your hips while he indulges in the sweetness of your lips, the way you feel resting on him, your scent.

Everything.

The kiss intensifies quick, and you find yourself slowly grinding on Yunho— feeling how hard he is beneath you. It's a slow grind, one where you drag your clothed core over his length ever so nicely, just to feel every bit of him against you.

"Fuck." He hisses.

"Let's go inside, babe."

"Or.. I can take you right here, right now. Let everyone see what you do to me." He presses a kiss to your jaw. "How you make me feel." He looks up at you just as he presses another kiss to your chin. "Hm, baby? Should I just selfishly keep you to myself?" He hums, hands squeezing your hips a little harder as you continue to slowly rock against him. You let out a soft, whiny moan and it shoots straight down to Yunho's dick. After his 'lil bits of teasing, he knows at the end of the day, he just wants you to himself. No one else.

No one, nothing, in between.

So, he swiftly carries you in one motion, hurrying into the room before slamming the balcony door shut. He drops you onto the bed, immediately latching his lips onto yours in a hungry, heated kiss. He crawls in between your lap as you lay back, Yunho's hands immediately squeezing your inner thighs. He lowers himself just enough to tease your core with his clothed, hardened member. That contact alone sends tingles down your spine, enough for a moan to slip from your lips in between kisses. Yunho doesn't waste any time shedding off your clothes, admiring every inch of your body with trails of kisses, gentle touches.

"Need you." He says in your ear. "Can I have you?" You nod hastily, helping Yunho out of his shirt.

"You have me, Yunho." He pauses and looks at you for a moment, and for the first time ever, you aren't sure what it means. You aren't sure what he's feeling. But, his expression softens, his eyes are holding onto the stars, the moon, the sun, that he sees in your own. Because he has you.

He has you.

He doesn't say anything before locking his lips with yours, the need, want, desire, so evident in every move he makes. He takes a few moments to slip in two digits, just to get a feel for how wet you are. He groans against you when you arch your back upwards, too hungry, too eager, to feel you wrapped around him. He starts to pump himself a few times, spreading your wetness across his length before lining himself up at your entrance.

"Ready for me?" You nod, gasping at him pushing into you until he bottoms out to the hilt. The both of you adjust to the feeling before he begins to work you at a steady pace. But, Yunho keeps himself close to you— skin to skin, hand tightly locked with yours. It's slow and steady, intimate.

Tonight feels so much more different. So much more intense.

So much more special.

Yunho continues to whisper praises against your skin, slightly picking up his pace and making you whimper in response. He finds that he wants to feel more of you, so he sits back onto his knees and holds you flush against him while he gives you control. You start to roll your hips, hands tugging at the ends of his hair when you pick up your pace. The position has you feeling every inch of him inside of you, only wanting more— to be closer, if ever possible.

"Oh, babe—" You mewl and tilt your head back in pleasure. He takes the opportunity to nibble at your neck, tongue swiping across the surface.

"Oh shit, baby." He moans breathily. "Just like that. You're so good to me." He repeats. "So good to me." The grip on your hips gets a little stronger while Yunho guides you. He pushes you to ride him faster, clit rubbing against him so deliciously it pushes you to the edge— right where he needs you to be.

"Oh god— god Yunho." You moan loudly. "I'm gonna cum—"

"That's it. That's my good girl." He coos, holding you against him tightly. "Let me feel you." He feels your walls pulsing against him, squeezing his length tightly in all the right places. He lets out another moan as he adjusts his position and fucks up into you to chase his own high. You wrap your arms around him, whining from the sensitivity until you hear him mumble curses against your neck; groaning when he releases and fills you up. The both of you don't move from your positions for awhile, only indulging in more slow, sweet kisses despite being a sweaty mess.

"I love you so much, Y/N. You literally have no idea how much I adore you." Yunho brushes the hair away from your face. "I can't wait to see what the future holds for the both of us. Cause I'm here. I don't wanna go anywhere if it's not with you." He repeats, kissing you gently.

"I love you too, Yunho. I'm yours." You caress his cheek, taking him in; everything about him. He smiles sweetly at you, carrying you and holding you close while making his way to the bathroom.

"Time for another shower?" You laugh loudly, letting Yunho take care of you for the rest of the night in many ways.

In the end, those literature assignments would always mean something to you two. Those nights when he found you in the parking lot. The random McDonalds trips. The walks underneath the full moon. The single rose. The fight over Seonghwa and those bumps in the road.

Those will always mean something to you two because in the end, no matter the chaos, the background noise, the extra baggage, it all brought you closer together.

In the end, it blessed you with Yunho.

In the end, it blessed you with the greatest love you've ever known.

In the end, it will always be you and Yunho against the world.

♣︎ taglist: @s-nsanshine @soupbinlily @tyongff-ff @jiminiscricket @g1g1l @staytinyinmybpack @woomyteez @gfksz @bitchwhytho @savluvsmingi @thisisntmyrightera @hyukssunflower @miriamxsworld @tmtxtf @kuromibabe04 @lmnhead @carrietwrites @tournesol155 @persphonesorchid @txt-yaomi @mxnsxngie @h-nji @mundayoonimnida @jalapeno-princess @nakiiko @asjkdk @kunikku @idkwgoh @kyeos4ng @agust-d2 @araknoid @bintificreads @primoppang @aurorasjoongie @wineyoungie @yunhotteokkk @yungigiggles @jaerisdiction @ignoretheskies @luminouskalopsia @naeviscall @vixensss @choisansplushie @arya9111 @my-lightspirit @dazednconfusion @astro-doll-the-star @faesmingi @idfkeddieishot @startinystay @emily505 @mgdixon @yusalterego @cheynalexilaiho @svintsandghosts @mismatchfluffysocks @meeitany @au-ghosttype

#yunho fanfic #yunho series #jeong yunho series #jeong yunho fanfic #ateez series #ateez x reader #ateez #yunho #jeong yunho #yunho x reader #jeong yunho x reader #ateez imagines #kpop imagines #yunho smut #yunho fluff #jeong yunho smut #jeong yunho fluff #hwaslayer: project make you love me

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babymetaldoll · 2 months ago

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Are you mine? - Chapter nine: "Entropy"

Summary: Diana's health hasn't been well, and Spencer is forced to spend some time away from his pregnant wife and daughter. The day has come for Spencer and his wife to meet their nemesis: Cat Adams. Word count: 15.345 words Warnings: smut, angst, Spencer is in danger, spoilers of Criminal Minds "Entropy" A/N: I loved writing this chapter more than I can actually explain. I really need feed back 'cos I want to know what you think.

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Spencer's point of view

There was a case that changed everything for me and my family while working at the BAU. And it all started with a network of hitmen targeting our dearest Penelope Garcia. We had been blind for months, no one ever noticed what was happening under our eyes. It hadn't been a good couple of weeks for us, because my mom hadn't been doing so well with her medicine and her doctors had changed it three times already. I wanted to visit her, but with (Y/N) already four months into her second pregnancy, and still having very bad days, plus the team down one agent, time wasn't on our side.

When did we notice something potentially awful was about to happen? It started the day JJ came back from her maternity leave.

Penelope had organized a little welcome-back party for JJ. She decorated her desk with all the pictures Jennifer had sent us during her absence. Rossi brought a box of Cuban cigars, and (Y/N) and I got little Michael a new brand set of encyclopedias.

- "And I realize that most of this information is most likely on that "internet," but you can never teach old-fashioned research habits too soon."- I pointed out as JJ stared at me and nodded.

- "I tried to stop him, but he was too excited."- (Y/N) joked and everybody chuckled.

- "You are radian, (Y/N)! How many weeks?"- JJ hugged my wife and stared at her with a massive smile

- "Sixteen and counting."

- "How's the little guy doing?"- Rossi asked Jennifer, making her smile filled with pride right away.

- "Oh, he's good. He's sleeping through the night for now, at least. Oh, and, Spence, I showed him the picture of when you first visited and he started kicking his little legs and he smiled real big!"- JJ looked excited as she kept talking to me, and Rossi grabbed my face and squeezed my cheeks.

- "Who wouldn't get excited seeing that bella faccia?"

- "I think he wants to see you. You should visit us this weekend. With Raven, of course."

- "We would love to go."- (Y/N) replied and held my hand very tight.

- "You know, studies have shown that babies begin exhibiting cognizable nonverbal communication within days of birth."- I was about to add something else when JJ shook her head and looked at Pen.

- "And some things never change."- so I guessed she preferred that I stopped rambling, she always complained when I did.

- "Yeah. And some things do, and because of that, we took the liberty of doing... this"- Garcia walked JJ to her desk and showed her all the framed pictures she had set there.

- "You guys, I love it. It's... it's perfect. Thank you, all of you."- JJ paused for a second and looked over Hotch's office. He and Morgan were having a serious conversation locked in there. - "Almost all of you."

- "They're debriefing."- Rossi explained and grabbed one of the citron bottles Garcia had brought.- "But we can toast in the meantime."

And so we did. We toasted and drank for JJ and her kids. In the back of my head, I kept thinking that now that she was back, I could take a few days to visit my mom and put an eye on her, maybe talk with some other doctors to review her treatment.

Our celebration ended when Rossi's daughter, Joy, entered the FBI with a case. It started like an investigation she was writing for Esquire, and she ended up discovering a pattern of young women's abductions from colleges from all over the country.

Morgan and I drove to campus and talked with one of the victim's friends, who had seen the last one to see her, 'cos they had been to a party together. That helped us retrace her last movements. Then, me and JJ were sent to the street to try to find a clue as to where that poor girl had been abducted, or by who. We had a suspect on camera, but no name, no nothing.

My phone rang when JJ and I were walking through a lonely alley. It was from my mother's doctor's office. I hung up and texted that I was calling back later. And of course, that didn't go unnoticed by JJ.

- "Everything ok?"

- "Actually, no. My mom's not doing so well. The doctors have had to change her medicine three times to try to stabilize the schizophrenia."- I simply said it 'cos I didn't want to talk much about it. I knew she wasn't going to let that go if I didn't tell her what was going on.

- "Spence, why didn't you say anything?"

- "Well, (Y/N) and I have been talking about going to see her, but I don't want her to travel in her condition. And we've been so busy at work and with Raven..."

- "But why didn't you tell me? You know you can trust me. I'm your friend."

- "I didn't want to bother you."- which was true: I didn't want to tell her 'cos she was on maternity leave until that morning, besides, it was a delicate issue and I just wanted to talk about it with my wife.

- "Ok."- she held my arm and stood in front of me. - "That's never possible. Got it?"- I nodded and looked at her, trying to smile.- "How long has this been going on?"

- "It's gotten really bad in the last few weeks."

- "Look, the minute we are done here, you need to go help her. She needs you."

- "I know. (Y/N) and I already talked with Hotch this morning. As soon as the case is done, I'll fly to Vegas."- JJ nodded and smiled, but it felt forced somehow.- "But right now, we need to focus on the case, alright ?"

It's not that I didn't value JJ's friendship, but I didn't feel like opening up with her at that moment. We had to work, and me and my wife had already talked about what we had to do, and how to do it. We had our plan. I just needed to execute it.

Sometimes I still felt JJ treated me like a kid, like the first few years I worked with the FBI. She no longer tried to make me eat greens or comment on my outfits, but from time to time she had those moments where she'd treat me like a kid brother who needed a grown-up's guidance. And honestly, I hated it. We were friends, we supported each other, but I didn't need her to patronize me.

That was one of the main reasons why I had taken a step aside in my friendship with JJ. I wasn't mad at her or anything and I still loved working with her. But since she had baby Michael, we weren't spending as much time with her and Will as we used to. They didn't have as much time as they used to either, they had two kids. And back then we were spending a lot of our free time with Morgan and Savannah and with Lu and her boyfriend.

(Y/N)'s point of view

I knew Spencer didn't want to leave us alone, but he had to visit his mom. She needed him, and we had a big net of support. I could handle a few days on my own with Raven. Even four months pregnant. So, as soon as the case was done, he got into a plane to visit Diana.

Raven and I planned our whole week to the T. We had sleepovers every night on our bed, watched movies, read stories together to her sister or brother, and played with her dolls. Mikey, Lu, and Frank visited us, and they called us daily to know if we needed anything. And Spencer video called us every single night, right before Raven's bedtime. He would ask about our day, and what she had done, if she had fun at school (she was already in preschool, and she loved everything about it). He would also read her a short story to help her sleep and then talk to me for a while.

Diana was not getting better. In fact, things got worse when Spencer was in Las Vegas, which is why one week turned into two and soon into three.

- "I'm so sorry, chipmunk."- my husband whispered through the line. It was late at night, Raven was already asleep and sound in our bed, and I was having one last cup of tea on the phone with Spencer.

- "It's ok, honey bunny. We miss you like crazy, but we are fine. It's your mom I'm worried about."

- "Well, things are not looking so good here. I got the results of the test today."- my heart stopped with those words, and I could feel the pain in Spencer's words as he confessed the truth. - "She has an early onset of dementia. Most likely Alzheimer."

- "Honey..."- everything and anything I could have told him that minute was completely useless. I heard him sobbing at the other side of the line as tears fell from my eyes.

- "And I can't help her, no matter what I do. I can't."- he mumbled through the line. My arms hurt 'cos I couldn't hug him, and I didn't want my husband, the love of my life, crying alone in some hotel, when he had a wife who could comfort him.

- "I'm so sorry. So sorry, Spencer."

- "The worst part of it all is thinking this can all happen to me as well. I could carry the same gene. I might start forgetting all our memories. One day I could not recognize our own kids."

- "Spencer, don't."- I tried to stop that train of thought, but it was clearly too late for that, my husband's mind had gone to the darkest places.

- "And there's nothing I can do about it either, I mean, there is no cure for dementia. Some medication might delay it a few years at best, but I'm doomed."

- "Spencer, stop. Don't think that. You don't know what's gonna happen. You can't think that right now. You need to focus on your mom. You have to help her. There is still time to help her."

Spencer sighed and wiped his nose. He didn't say anything for a few minutes, he just tried to calm himself down as I whispered how much I loved him, and how proud I was of him.

- "You are an amazing son, honey. You do everything you can to make sure your mother is healthy and fine."- I knew I was telling him the truth, but I also knew nothing I could say to him would ever help him feel better.

- "It's not enough."- he whispers and breaks into tears again.

- "No hon, you will always keep trying to do better, 'cos it's your mom we are talking about. But you can't do miracles."

I will never forget the day he told me he felt he had failed in life as a genius because his plan to find the cure to schizophrenia before turning 25 never came true. We were just friends back then, and I remember I hugged him tight on my couch and heard him weep. The effect of hearing him sobbing on the other side of the country was just as heartbreaking then as it was before. I loved Spencer so much I couldn't stand him being sad or in pain. I much rather suffer myself than know he was unhappy.

- "I'm sorry, ma cherie. I'm bringing you down."

- "Crying does not indicate that you are weak. Since birth, it has always been a sign that you are alive."- I quoted Charlotte Bronte and I could almost see his smile as I did.

- "You've been reading a lot in my absence?"

- "I try, but reading alone it's not as fun as reading with you."

- "I'll come home soon, ma cherie."

- "Come home when your mom is feeling better. We'll be here, waiting for you with your favorite dinner and a million hugs and kisses."

- "How is the baby?"

- "Kicking my bladder is their favorite game apparently."- Spencer didn't say anything, he made a long pause and finally sighed.

- "I'll come home this week. I can't be far from my family for too long."

- "Why don't you bring your mother with you? She is part of this family."

- "No chipmunk, she has to stay here with the doctors. They have to take care of her, monitor her, and analyze the meds they are giving her."- Spencer didn't hesitate to decline my suggestion.

- "Promise me you will take her home with us if it's needed. She can stay with us, Raven loves her."- my husband paused and sighed one more time, before telling me the complete truth.

- "My mother hasn't been much herself in the last couple of days. And I'm afraid to bring her home to you and Raven."- I knew Diana had been violent but I never understood how much. For years I inferred she had never been aggressive with Spencer during her episodes when he was young, but when my husband hesitated to bring her around our own daughter, that's when I realized she was in fact, out of herself.

- "Just don't leave her alone if she still needs you."- I whispered and rubbed my belly. - "We miss you, but we know you're doing the right thing."

- "Thank you, chipmunk. Mom asked about you today."

- "Did she? Really?"- I got super excited with the news and even a little emotional, and I blame the hormones for my reaction.

- "Yes, she said of all the things I had accomplished in life, having you as my wife was the best of them."

- "Diana is such a wise woman."

- "That's true, my love."

Four days later, Spencer was back home. During that time, I spent most of my time at the BAU with Penelope and Raven. Our dear friend was currently living there, and of course, she was miserable. A band of hitmen was after her, there was no way she was enjoying her forced stay at Quantico. Which is why Raven and I spent as much time with her as possible. We baked her cupcakes and had a tea party with her in her room, which was actually an old office. Hotch joined us, which was adorable because he was always a sweetheart with Raven. He even wore the tiara Raven gave him.

- "How is my boy wonder?"- Pen asked as she poured a cup of real tea for me. I cut her a short smile and I guess that was enough for her, 'cos she read me right away. - "That bad, eh?"

- "I'm glad he is on his way back home. I've missed him so much."- I whispered and looked at Raven, having a tea party with Hotch. - "And birdie misses him as well."

- "She looks so much like him. She's a tiny carbon copy of her dad."- I chuckled and nodded. I've always said little Raven is exactly like her dad in every single way.

- "Same eyes and wild hair."- I added and Pen smiled.- "I wonder if the next baby will look a little like me."

- "When will you know what you are having?"

- "We have a scheduled check-up next week. I wanna ask the doctor then."

After another half hour, I drove home. We let Garcia get ready for dinner, and I wanted to cook something nice for my husband. His flight was scheduled to arrive at DC at seven, which meant he'd be home after right. Raven and I stopped to get groceries and cooked dinner for Spencer.

Our daughter was incredibly excited to wait up for her dad, after her bedtime. She refused to go to bed until she kissed him welcome back home. My heart melted when I heard her rambling nonstop about all the things she wanted to show her dad. She listed all her dolls, her books, and the drawings she had made during his absence. Raven was honestly hyped waiting for Spencer, which is why when we heard the key in the door, she ran to welcome her dad as fast as her little legs allowed her to run.

- "Daddy!!!"- she yelled and literally threw her arms around him as soon as she saw him. Spencer kneeled and hugged her tight, carrying her in his arms and kissing her chubby cheeks over and over again.

- "I missed you so much, baby girl."

- "I missed you too, Daddy!"- I stared at them with tears in my eyes as my husband looked at me with a big smile.

- "Come here, chipmunk."- he opened his arms and hugged me too, kissing my temple and making me feel at home, finally safe in his arms.

- "Just as promised, we are waiting for you with your favorite dinner."- I announced after kissing his lips softly, hearing Raven arguing we were gross.

- "Chicken tandoori?"

- "Homemade chicken tandoori."- I corrected and watched his smile grow bigger.

- "I missed you so much, ma cherie."

- "I missed you too, honey bunny. Welcome back home."

Spencer's point of view

It took three bedtime stories to put Raven down to sleep. She kept telling me everything she had done during my absence. She remembered everything, down to the t. (Y/N) and I looked at each other, knowing where that could go. We had our suspicions, but we didn't want to run any tests on our daughter just yet. She was only three years old, and she deserved to enjoy her childhood like any other kid would. Like I never did.

After three stories and a long conversation, Raven finally fell asleep. I kissed her forehead and stood up from her bed slowly. (Y/N) held my hand as we walked out of her room and into ours.

- "I can't believe you are finally...-"- she couldn't even finish talking after shutting our bedroom door, because I assaulted her lips. I crushed them with mine and kissed her like I had dreamed of kissing her the entire time I had been away. I don't think I had been far from her for so long before, and I swear, I didn't want to repeat it ever again.

- "Mine."- I whispered as my lips moved from her lips to her neck, biting and sucking to leave a mark. (Y/N) giggled as I did, and then moaned, a sound I could never ever get tired of.

I felt her hands unbuttoning my shirt as we continued kissing. I couldn't take my hands off my wife, and I quickly started getting her naked as well. I stared at her soft skin as I nearly ripped the t-shirt she wore that day, and quickly connected my lips to her skin one more time.

- "I missed you so much."- she whispered as she tangled her fingers in my hair.

- "Trust me, I missed you more."- I groaned and unzipped her pants quickly.

- "Sorry the belly got so big while you were gone..."- I don't know why she felt like she needed to apologize for looking so perfectly mine. My hands moved immediately on her skin. I looked at her eyes as I kneeled in front of her, attaching my lips to her belly.

- "You look perfect, ma cherie."

- "I look round and huge."

- "Mine, all mine, carrying my baby for the world to see."- I made my way down her belly until I reached her underwear, and slipped my fingers underneath the fabric.

- "Spe...-" she mumbled but suppressed any sound biting her lips. She knew we had a little daughter in the next room, and she couldn't make a sound.

- "I got you, ma cherie. Let me make you feel good."- she sat on our bed and I followed her, still down on my knees, and hid my face between her tights, a place I could live in. I kissed her inner thighs and made my way to her underwear, which was just starting to look damp.

- "When you said you were gonna wait for me with my favorite dinner, this was what I had in mind."- I whispered and heard her giggle as I pulled down her underwear slowly and attached my lips to her immediately.

- "God... I missed you."- she whispered and gasped as my tongue reached her most sensitive spot. And I didn't reply, just hummed against her and continued eating her like the starved man I was.

I didn't move from between her legs until I felt her cumming all over my face. And once that happened, I climbed to our bed and kissed her.

- "That was..."- but before my wife could praise me, I moved behind her and kissed her neck as I slowly slipped into her, not saying a single word. (Y/N) made the most beautiful muffled noises as she tried not to be too loud, and I entered her carefully, enjoying every single movement.

- "I thought about you every night I was away. And I realized I can't sleep if you are not with me. I couldn't take you off my mind, not even for a minute."- I increased my peace and bit my lips before I started groaning.

- "I thought I was gonna go crazy without you."- I heard my wife whisper, and my lips attached to her neck immediately. One of my hands was still holding her leg, and the other moved underneath her body, trying to touch as much skin as possible. I craved her warm skin all over me.

- "You have a hold on me no one could ever take away."- I murmured in her ear as the noises of our bodies together filled out you.- "I am yours, ma cherie ."- I added and felt her moan, biting her lips.

- "Mine."- she mumbled as I licked her neck after leaving another mark.

- "All yours. Forever."

I treasured that moment because I had had a very hard couple of weeks away from my family. And I had missed my wife beyond sanity. Nothing prepared me for what I was about to live as soon as I set foot back into the BAU. But it was the case that set the clock for our departure from the FBI.

The following morning, when me and my wife sat around the table in the briefing room, Hotch told us they finally had a lead on the band of hitmen that were after Garcia.

- "Brian Cochran from the NSA. I've placed him on 24/7 lockdown at USP Terre Haute. The network has proven that they can kill anyone, anywhere, anytime, and now that they've targeted Garcia, we can't afford to lose another lead."- Hotch explained, and made a short pause before adding. - "Cochran used one of the hitmen to target DEA supervisor Graff."

- "But we can press him on that to get him to cooperate."- Morgan quickly commented, probably ready to go push that man until giving us all the info he had. But Hotch shook his head and explained.

- "Well, fortunately, that won't be necessary. He had a breakdown in solitary confinement and he was already willing to make a deal."

- "We need to go talk to him."- Rossi suggested, but once again, Hotch shook his head.

- "Garcia and I already did."

- "When?"- my wife asked surprised

- "Last night, after you left."- Pen explained- "We video-conferenced with him. He was limited in what he could tell us about the hit people. He didn't know their names, but he did know all of their areas of expertise."

- "How specific do they get? Most successful hitmen are basically just Swiss army knives of murder."- I asked and my wife chuckled at my analogy.

- "Well, take the O.G. hit guy who got us into this mess, Giuseppe Montolo. Remember him?"- Garcia started explaining.- "He was a genius at making hits look like an accident. The others, depend on what you're looking for. Take the guy that's still out there who's responsible for shooting poor Mr. Graff. He's known simply as the sniper. He can make a T-zone shot from over 2,000 meters."

- "Which means he's ex-military. Not necessarily ours, but he's definitely trained."- Morgan pointed out and we all nodded.

- "So who's number two?"- Tara asked and Garcia quickly answered.

- "That would be the chemist. He works with poison. He specializes in hits that don't leave a trace.

- "He sounds delightful."- Rossi said, staring at the screen.

- "I know, right? I feel they'd be a hit at any party."- (Y/N) added, nodding.- "What about number 3?"

- "Well, that would be the bomber. According to Cochran, he's responsible for this. It's a chemical fire in Tianjin, China."

- "What supposedly happened there?"- (Y/N) asked, watching the scenes on the screen.

- "Apparently a bureaucrat didn't pay his bribe on time."- Garcia whispered, refusing to look at the images.

- "You know that's conspiracy theory garbage."- JJ pointed out, and Hotch immediately replied.

- "But what is credible is Cochran's insistence that he was trained by Mossad. Jack Garrett's following up on leads."

- "That leaves us with number 4, the one with the highest body count of them all."

- "And who's that?"- until this day I regret asking that question.

- "Miss 45."- Pen answered. - "By far one of the most lethal of them all. She is basically a black widow."

- "Just what every bunch needs, some girl power."- (Y/N) added and turned to me with a short smile. I rubbed her stomach as we all heard Rossi's question.

- "How do we get them?"

- "That's why we need the snowman."- the way Garcia said those words made me feel we should have known what she was talking about. But none of us actually did.

- "Great. So who's this Snowman jagoff?"- Rossi asked, frowning.

- "Cochran says he's the I.T. expert. He's the key to the whole network."- Hotch explained.

- "But if he set it up, he's not just gonna tear it down because we ask nicely."- Morgan added. And that was when Hotch dropped the plot twist.

- "He will because he was kidnapped by one of the hitmen and held against his will in a safe house."

- "I wonder how that feels."- Pen whispered and my wife quickly reached for her hand on the table. I knew (Y/N) had spent a lot of time with Garcia while I was gone, not only because she was home alone, but because she knew our friend was clearly going through a very rough path and she needed all the love she could get from her friends.

- "Even if they have him under duress, he's still gonna be impossible to find." - JJ suggested, not being very positive about the whole deal.

- "We will find him with this."- Hotch took what seemed to be a pen from his pocket, but instead, it was a flash drive. None of us said a word 'cos none of us understood what he was talking about. So he explained.

- "This flash drive will give us access to a specific shadow of the Darknet. It came to our possession after we arrested Cochran, and we will use it to localize the safe house."

And so we did.

The following day, we had successfully rescued the snowman, whose name was in fact Barry Winslow, and who ended up being nothing but a poor teenager, lost and forced to work for a hit men's net. We sat around the table with him and tried to get as much information as possible.

- "I can't tell you much about them. It's not like we had a lot of heart-to-heart conversations while they handcuffed me to a computer."- Barry shrugged and looked at us, already defeated, but still willing to cooperate.

- "Do you know any of their names?"- (Y/N) asked him with a warm smile, probably trying to reassure him whatever the answer was, it was ok.

- "No. But I know their bank accounts."

- "How long do you think we have before the other two realize the network's been compromised?"- I asked him-

- "Two days, maybe. They like being independent contractors, so they always work jobs separately. And they rely on me to coordinate all their online traffic."

- "Which I can help fake."- Garcia added and looked at the poor kid.

- "Yeah. We have the facade covered on our end, but they also have back-channel communications that I can't account for. Especially the bomber."- the snowman explained, and Rossi frowned at his words right away.

- "Why him?"

- "I don't know. All I know is when they would rotate watching over me, he never showed."

- "I know why."- JJ added- "He's paranoid. Most explosive experts are. Blow everything up, you live in fear that you're next."

- "We need to find a way to get to the hitwoman."- (Y/N) stated and looked at the team. - "It's the only way to end this whole mess. If we can take her alive, she'll lead us to the bomber."

- "And to do it, we have to give her a target worth coming out of hiding for."- Hotch said, letting us know he had a plan to get her.

- "That means me, doesn't it?"- Garcia whispered and Morgan immediately shook his head.

- "No."- Hotch didn't even hesitate. He just answered right away, not moving a muscle.

- "Sir..."

- "Garcia, that's not gonna happen."- Morgan interrupted her.- "It's too dangerous to leave you out there exposed like that."

- "You have a record of all the kills she was paid for?"- Aaron asked the snowman.

- "I have records of everything."

- "All right. Even a contract killer can have a victimology, a pattern of which she's not aware. We need to find that."

(Y/N)'s point of view

Hotch asked JJ, Spencer, and I to his office that afternoon. Pen had gone through all the targets "Miss 45" had gone after, Spencer and Hotch went through the information, and now they had a plan. A plan I was sure I was gonna hate, only by the worried look in their eyes.

- "These three hits"- Spencer left the files on Aaron's desk and continued talking - "They were all men who wanted to kill their wives."

- "Ok, really can't blame her for doing that."- I mumbled as I took a look at the files, along with Hotch.

- "That's the oldest motivation in the book. Why are they special?"- JJ asked and Spencer explained immediately.

- "She took their money, then killed the men who hired her."

- "All three of them had children."- Hotch pointed out

- "Maybe children are the line hitmen won't cross?"

- "A hitwoman with morals? Seems unlikely."- I refuted JJ's theory as my husband nodded.

- "The chemist and the sniper both performed jobs that involved families. Theoretically, if the price is high enough, a hitman shouldn't have morals. I think these kills are personal to her. Personal enough to risk double-crossing her contract."

- "She is trying to kill someone who hurt her, over and over again."- I added and my husband agreed with me.

- "Maybe something similar happened to her."- Hotch looked at my husband, like knowing what he was about to say. Which he probably knew, in fact.

- "And that's how we get her to come to the table. I pretend to be that kind of client."- Spencer turned to me with an apologetic look in his eyes and JJ didn't even make a sound.

- "What? No! No way!"- I lost it in a second. I was not gonna let my husband be human bate for a serial killer. Not again!

- "Chipmunk, it's the only way we can end this. We have to do it. For Garcia, she needs us."

- "But why you? Why not Morgan?"

- "I'm closer in age, if things don't work, you know she could be more likely to collaborate with a peer."- I stared at Spencer in silence, trying to rearrange the thoughts in my head.

- "How do we know that's gonna work?"- Hotch asked and I opened my eyes. He was in fact considering letting Spencer do that.

- "We don't. It's a calculated risk based on her M.O., which is categorically different than the men."- my husband explained and avoided eye contact with me. He was serious about his suggestions. And I was seriously mad at him for even considering doing something so dangerous.

- "They're cold, clinical, long-distance. She's up close and personal."- JJ added.

- "She knows that she has to be more careful because she actually wants to kill her targets. I'm going to pretend to be a husband who wants his pregnant wife dead."

- "Your pregnant wife wants to kill you right now."- I crossed my arms on my chest, deadpan. - "I can't believe you wanna risk yourself like that!"

- "There will be no risk, chipmunk. I'll just contact her, and set the right meeting spot. A bar or a restaurant we control, so the odds are better of us taking her alive."

- "No."- I replied and bit my lips.

- "Chipmunk, it's our best strategy."

- "But there is one flaw."- Hotch looked at me and at my husband.

- "One? Just one?"- I nearly yelled and opened my eyes, frustrated.

- "We can't let your wife and kid be in danger."- Hotch finished his sentence ignoring my outburst and for once, I wanted to hit him.

- "I am not moving into Penelope's room!"- I argued right away.- "And you are not doing this!"- I added, staring at my husband.

- "Can we talk outside for a moment?"- Spencer walked me to the door and headed to the briefing room in silence. I followed him quietly, holding my 24 weeks belly in a useless attempt to regain my composure. But as soon as Spencer closed the door behind our backs, I lost it and raised my voice.

- "Are you out of your mind?!"

- "Chipmunk...."

- "Why do you always do the same? You put yourself at risk! Do you wanna get hurt? Do you wanna leave me alone?"

- "Ma cherie... No."- he stood in front of me and held both my arms, trying to calm me down.- "Please breathe and hear me out. Nothing is going to happen to me."

- "Of course not! Because you are not going!"- I stated and Spencer sighed, looking right into my eyes. I had to bite my lips not to burst out crying out of frustration right there, but my eyes watered up and betrayed me as tears rolled down my cheeks.

- "(Y/N)..."

- "No, I don't want you to expose yourself like this!"

- "It's the only way to help Garcia, and it's a calculated risk. I know nothing will happen, the team will be there watching my back the entire time."

- "She is a serial killer! And you wanna meet her for dinner!"

- "Look at me, chipmunk."- Spencer moved one of his hands from my arm to my cheek and caressed my skin softly as his other hand rested on my tummy. - "I am not gonna get hurt and nothing bad will happen, I swear."

I took a deep breath, trying to stop the tears from falling. Spencer kissed my cheek and didn't say another word for a moment, just trying to comfort me with his presence.

- "I'm scared."- I whispered and Spencer shook his head.- "I know you say there is nothing to worry about, but I am worried all the time. I don't want you to get hurt."

- "I won't, I swear."- I knew that once he was set on doing something, there was no way I could change his mind. - "We have to help Garcia. And I already ran across all the possibilities. This is the plan with the higher statistics to work."

- "Does it have to be you?"- I whispered, my voice barely perceptible. Spencer kissed my lips for a second, rubbing his against mine soft and sweetly, melting me. And when he parted, he nodded.

- "But I'll be home that night, safe and sound, and we'll have a warm bath, maybe a late bite, and Garcia will be free to live her life and go back to her house."

Of course, I wanted to help Penelope. I was just afraid of what could happen to my husband. But I knew there was nothing I could do or say to change his mind.

- "Just don't get hurt, ok?"- I mumbled and Spencer held my chin, raising my face and reaching my lips one more time.

- "As you wish, Mrs. Reid."

Spencer's point of view

Date night with a serial killer was not what I was hoping for that Friday evening. But it was what I had to face. As I got ready to leave, my wife, Garcia, and I did all the research we could on my lethal date. Starting with her name.

- "Foster care records locked, loaded, and searchable."- Penelope announced as she sat in front of the computer on my desk, ready to hunt Miss 45 down.

- "According to the emails she sent me setting up tonight, her name is Cat. So let's assume her name is Catherine."- I said as I tied my tie like my father-in-law taught me to do the day of my wedding.

- "Give me more."- Pen said typing

- "Suspicious death for mom, and her dad most likely went away for manslaughter."- I continued enumerating as my wife stared at me from her desk, where she was sitting in silence.

- "Keep it coming."- Garcia commanded.

- "Rampant abuse. She would have been in a world of pain."

- "Sadly that does not rule out any Catherines."

- "Her first kills were most likely in the foster environment."- (Y/N) suggested and I nodded immediately.

- "Cross-reference all those families the Catherines went into with accidental deaths of foster dads, and focus on those that have multiple abuse complaints leveled against them."

The computer dinged and a picture appeared on the screen. The three of us stared at it in silence for a moment

- "Catherine Adams."- I said and turned to my wife.

- "She is cute."- I heard (Y/N) whisper and I immediately frowned.

- "What?"- her words confused me. I knew she didn't want me to expose myself to any risk, but I never imagined she could be jealous at any level.

- "I said she is pretty."- she whispered and moved to her desk to grab something that ended up being my bottle of perfume. She sprayed me with it and fixed the neck of my shirt.

- "Ma cherie..."

- "You look very handsome."

- "You do know this is not a real date, right?"- somehow it felt necessary to point that out all of a sudden. - "I am not going out with her because I want to."

- "I know."- she replied and looked away from me.

- "Come here."- I wrapped my arms around her and kissed the top of her nose. All the things I wasn't supposed to do at the bullpen. - "You are the only girl I wanna take out on date night, ok?"

- "I know."- she mumbled and looked down at her hands as she fixed my tie.

- "I'll pick you up in a while, ok?"

- "No, I'm coming with you."- she replied immediately.

- "No, you are staying here. This is not up for debate. I am not taking my pregnant wife to the same room with a serial killer."

- "I don't know if you knew this, but that's what we do for a living, Spencer. I am going."

- "I will not be able to focus if I know you are there. You'll be a distraction."- the deadpan stare in my wife's eyes was serious, but I was not gonna change my mind. Thankfully, Hotch walked over and commanded her to stay behind with him and Penelope, following every movement from the restaurant cameras.

- "Adam changed location at the last minute. We can't be too cautious, Reid."- and by Reid, Hotch meant my wife, who was looking incredibly frustrated and annoyed.

- "I'll be back as soon as possible."- I said and kissed her cheek. She sighed and nodded.- "I love you, ma cherie."

- "I love you too, honey bunny."

- "I'll make breakfast for you and Birdie tomorrow morning, so think what you'll have. You can pick hotcakes or waffles."- I said, trying to ease the mood, and (Y/N) cut me a short smile, nodding.

- "Don't forget the rose."- my wife whispered and handed me the flower.

- "Thank you, ma cherie."

That night could only get worse, I could feel it.

I arrived at the restaurant and the hostess walked me to my table. I had made reservations for two under the name of "Spencer." As soon as I sat down, I left the rose next to me on the table and looked around, trying to calm myself down. Looking nervous was ok, I was supposed to be a little nervous if I was meeting a serial killer to get rid of my pregnant wife. Just, how nervous was I supposed to look?

- "Spencer?"- a woman's voice called my name and I quickly turned around to find Cat Adam standing right next to me, with a big smile on her face.

- "Cat."

- "Hi."- her smile only grew as she stared at me. I quickly stood up to shake her hand and chuckled nervously.

- "Hello. Hi. Hi."

- "Nice to finally..."- she opened her arms and tried to hug me and I immediately took a few steps back.

- "Oh...sorry, I have a... a germ thing."- I explained, sounding as apologetic as possible.

- "Oh!"- she moved back and raised her hands in surrender.

- "I'm kind of weird with hu... hugs."- I even stuttered.

- "Sorry."- neither of us said a thing for a few seconds, we just stared at each other, maybe reading each other's body language. I smiled at her, honestly nervous. I've never been much of an actor and right there I was playing the role of my life.

- "Can I sit down?"- Cat asked and giggled as I chuckled and pointed at the armchair next to her

- "Yes, please. Yeah. Of course. Sit down."- and as we both did, and she took off her jacket, we fell into another uncomfortable silence. Which was good, I wanted to show her how nervous and vulnerable I was.

- "First time doing this?"- she asked me a few seconds later, and I rushed to answer.

- "Yeah. I mean, yeah."

- "Yeah, I... I still get nervous, too."- she assured me, trying to be empathic. Note: sociopaths have zero empathy whatsoever. There were no chances she could ever honestly try to make me feel any better.

- "Really, it wasn't until an hour ago that I was like, wait, we've been trading emails back and forth, but I still have no idea what this guy looks like."

- "Hence the..."- I interrupted her speech, pointing at the rose next to her.

- "I know. And then I was like, wait, he's going to bring a red rose, so we need to go to a nicer place, which is why I switched the restaurant last-minute..."- she continued rambling.

- "Not a problem at all."- I assured her, trying to look a little more calm. But honestly, I was very nervous. I know I had to act awkward and nervous, but that's how I felt. That woman sat across from me was a threat to a friend and potentially my family. She had to be put behind bars as soon as possible.

- "And now I need to change and put something nice on for this place, 'cause I was totally underdressed, and my whole wardrobe makes me look like a Kardashian."- I narrowed my eyes as I looked at her and she paused her words.- "You know know who that is, do you?"

- "No, oh, yeah, Robert Kardashian. He got O.J. Simpson off."- I explained quickly. - "You...you don't look like his daughters."

- "Yeah, no, I was making a joke about them."

- "No, it was good. It was a good joke."- I chuckled and smiled, trying to look natural.

- "No, it wasn't.

- "It was funny.

There was a long pause. No one said a thing, and I couldn't stop thinking about all the things that could go wrong that night. If she knew who I was if she didn't want to willingly, if she had a partner in the room as I had my own backups. All the possibilities. There was too much at stake to take things lightly.

- "Can we start over?"- Cat asked me, breaking the silence and cutting me a warm smile- "Hi, I'm Cat."

- "Hi, hi, I'm... I'm Spencer."- I chuckled, still looking awkward and nervous, and she nodded.

- "It really is nice to meet you, in person, finally."- she said those words in a sweeter tone of voice, trying to look nonthreatening and honest.

- "It's nice to meet you."- I assured her right away.

- "Tell me a little bit about yourself. Do you really have three Ph. D.s?"

- "Yes. I... yeah, I do, I have three Ph.D.s."

- "What was your favorite book that you read last year?"- Cat continued asking random questions and I instantly replied.

- "Honestly, I've never read a book I didn't love."

- "Tell me about your wife."- and somehow that caught me by surprise. I knew that was what we were going to talk about, but my mind went straight to my real wife. The one that was in fact pregnant with my baby. The one I could never harm.

- "If you don't mind, I'd, uh, I'd rather not talk about her."

- "Might as well get it out in the open, right? That's why we're here. How long have you been married?"

- "Six years."- which was true.

- "When is she due to give birth?"

- "Uh... in a couple of... a couple of months."- and for some reason, I couldn't stop thinking we hadn't actually started working on the nursery yet. My old apartment was getting too small for our growing family.

- "Should we talk about price now, or..."- I leaned in and whispered, making sure it felt like we were talking about a secret.

- "Slow down, tiger. What exactly are we negotiating here?"

- "You know."- I looked around, pretending to be worried someone could hear us.

- "I want to hear you say it."- she answered, almost as a dare. So I moved a little closer and whispered.

- "To have her killed."- and for some reason, my words excited her. She tried not to smile and bite her lower lip as she kept staring at me, probably reading my reaction.

- "Let me see your ring."- she asked me and I looked down at my hand, where the golden band rested. She moved slowly and grabbed my fingers on the table and fidgeted with the ring, staring at it. - "You know what that is? A noose. Only it doesn't kill you all at once. It kills you slowly, day by day. You ever feel that way?"

- "I feel that way all the time."- I whispered and took a deep breath knowing my wife was hearing that entire conversation.

- "Take it off."- Cat commanded and looked straight into my eyes.

- "Why?"

- "As a sign of your commitment. To me."- I hated doing what she asked, but I felt like I had to. So I took the band off and put it in her hand. It wasn't even my real wedding ring, it was a fake one. I didn't want to use mine 'cause it had (Y/N)'s name scripted in it, and our wedding date. It felt way too intimate. And I didn't want to carry anything that might put her or our babies in danger.

- "We have you over her left shoulder. Do you copy?"- I heard Hotch's voice in my ear. I took a quick look at the security camera and nodded. - "All right, all agents stand by. Dr. Reid will give the green light. Don't move until we have it."

But as Hotch organized the team, Cat kept analyzing my fake wedding ring.

- "Twenty karat?"- she asked me and I hummed. - "24k times... six years means this ring should be dinged and nicked. But the sucker is brand-new. You are a liar."

Shit.

I kept my eyes on her and didn't move a facial muscle. That was when I heard the gun click underneath the table and I knew things were not going to go as smoothly as planned. I wasn't going to make it back home in time for dinner and Raven's bedtime. Again.

- "Why are we here, Spencer?"- Cat asked, looking annoyed. And I was glad I could drop the act.

- "We're here because you belong to a network of four hitmen who've been operating in the shadows of the Internet. You're known as Miss 45. My team and I have been hunting for months, and I knew that if I boxed you in, I could arrest you with as little resistance as possible."

My voice was just a whisper in the room, but I knew she could hear every single word loud and clear.

- "Your team being the behavioral analysis unit of the FBI?"- Cat questioned with a cocky smile. My heart skipped a beat when I realized she knew who we were. That meant she knew us all.

- "You guys are good. You're the only one that got close to us. But we got kind of close to you, too, didn't we?"- Cat kept her eyes glued to me as she said - "Hi, Penelope."

If she knew who we were, she knew who I was married to. And that was the only thing that raised my heart that minute. That woman had to pay for what she had done.

- "Do you know why I'm so good at my job?"- she asked, proudly.

- "Because you kill without compunction or remorse."- I replied without hesitation.

- "That only gets a girl so far in life. No, it's because I think through every potential outcome and then I plan accordingly. You see, I didn't walk into your trap. You walked into mine."

(Y/N)'s point of view

I paced in Garcia's office as I watched my husband being basically set up with a delusional serial killer who knew exactly who he was, and why he was there and had a gun pointing at him underneath the table. I felt nauseous just to think of all the bad things that could happen to him.

Neither Hotch or Penelope said a word. The two of them kept staring at the screen. And I, for once, couldn't even watch.

- "Where's your head, Spencer? What are you thinking about?"- I heard Cat's annoying voice talking to my husband.

- "I was thinking about entropy."- he replied. Always the smartest person in the room. - "It's the thermodynamic measure of the degradation of matter and energy in the universe. To put it another way..."- there was a pause that forced me to stare at the screen. Cat had scooted over in the booth and she was not basically touching Spencer, looking for his gun in his clothes. Her hands were all over him. I wanted to puke.

- "Good evening."- a waiter interrupted them, and for a moment, I had hope. But Cat dismissed him in a second.

- "Hi, uh, you know what? We've been having so much fun getting to know one another, we'll let you know when we're ready, ok?"

And my husband couldn't even move.

- "Now that we got that out of the way, will you do me a favor and tell Blondie McBlonderson over there at the bar to disappear."

- "What?"- the question popped out of my lips as I moved closer to the screen to take a better look. - "How did she know that was one of our agents?"- Hotch turned to me and raised an eyebrow, reminding me I had to stay quiet, 'cos everything I said, my husband heard, and he had to remain calm. I couldn't freak him out.

- "JJ, stand down."- Hotch commanded and I turned to him, ready to slap him.

- "Are you serious?"- and he didn't reply. Instead, he just stared at me and I bit my lips.

- "Thanks for playing, sweetie."- Cat waved at JJ as she passed by their table and Garcia held my hand, probably to stop me from losing it. I wanted to yell at JJ that she had been stupid, too obvious sitting there, alone at the bar, staring at my husband the entire time. She hadn't been subtle. It's like she wanted to get caught. But I didn't say a word, thankfully.

- "If she learns how many agents we have outside, she'll start shooting. Dave, get ready to take her out."- Hotch instructed and I watched Rossi on another screen sipping his drink in approval. - "Reid, do not let her get up from the table."

- "All right, you're in charge."- Spencer said in a very low and serious voice, as Cat stared at him with pure hate coming from her eyes - "Tell me what you want and I'll see if I can get it here for you."

- "Anything I want?"

- "Anything you want."- he assured her.

- "Like a million dollars in unmarked bills, maybe a plane to Aruba?"

- "Is that what you want?"

- "And you'll say you'll bring it here, but the real plan is to distract me from what is, I'm sure, an impressive law enforcement response just outside that door. Is that the plan?"- something bothered me. Something else, besides the entire situation. Something made things even worse at that point. And at that minute I realized, Cat Adams was flirting with my husband. And he had no idea what was going on.

- "That's the plan."- he even cut her a little charming smile, which I knew was going to encourage her to continue.

- "Ok, let's talk, but let's talk about something interesting, at least. Tell me about me."- bitch was the classic narcissist sociopath. A part of me knew I should be sorry for her, but I just hated her even more.

- "You? You're a black widow hitwoman. You specialize in seduction and you're patient."- Spencer started his speech, eyes glued to her. - "You learn everything you can about the men you're hired to kill, physically, psychologically, and emotionally because you want them in as compromised a position as possible so they don't see it coming when you pull the trigger."

- "And when I do it really well, they pull the trigger themselves."- that bitch was beyond crazy. - "Give me your phone."- she asked and Spencer raised an eyebrow.

- "Why?"

- "Because I know what I want now. I want to play a game with you. You like games?"

- "I do."- my husband answered calmly.

- "Do you win?"

- "I always win."- he didn't even hesitate, and that cunt was staring at him like he was a three-course dinner, and she was ready to fucking feast.

- "Give it to me."- and Spencer complied. - "Ok, here's my game. You have thirty minutes to answer every question I ask. And if you lie, I'll know. Because I've spent the past ten years of my life studying men and their lies before I kill them. Do you believe me?"

- "I do."

- "That was true. You're getting this. Now, here's how we'll know who wins at the end of thirty minutes. If you win, you'll drag me out of here in handcuffs. But if I win, you will escort me out like a gentleman, to make sure I exit safely. What do you say, Spencer? Think you can win this one?"

Spencer moved closer to her across the table and whispered loud and clear.

- "Considering everything you've put Garcia and so many people through, you're going to have to shoot me in the face before you walk out of here."

- "That would make (Y/N) really angry at me, and it's not safe for her to get mad if she is already six months pregnant, right?"

Garcia turned to me with her mouth open as I stared at the screen not believing my own ears. In all the years we had been working with the FBI that was the very first time a serial killer had investigated me and my personal life before we even got to them.

Spencer didn't move a muscle, he just stared at her looking unimpressed.

- "What do you want to ask me?"- Spencer questioned as if her words hadn't meant a thing to him. Good. Never show a serial killer they have any power over you.

- "How you found me, of course. A professional learns from her mistakes."- that cocky bitch.

- "We got our big break in the case at the end of last year. I didn't learn how big until I came back from some time off."

- "Why'd you take time off?"- oh no...

- "Irrelevant. We got to work a few days ago and our team chief had some new information on the case..."

- "Stop."- Cat interrupted him, looking annoyed.

- "What?"

- "You didn't tell me why you took time off."

- "It's not relevant."

- "That's not the game. The game is you answer every question I ask."- my husband stared at her as if she was just wasting his time. Which I think got her angrier. - "Is it a secret?"

- "No."

- "Is it dirty?"

- "No."

- "Then tell me."- she basically begged, making my blood boil.

- "It's not important to your story."

- "Out of curiosity, is it me you don't want to tell or the people listening in? Does your wife know why you had to take some time off?"

- "Of course I know, bitch."- I whispered and clenched my fist. Spencer didn't seem affected by her words, one more time, and just looked at the timer on his phone and asked:

- "Is this really how you want to spend your 30 minutes?"

- "Yes."- Spencer didn't move and Cat finally gave in. - "No. Ok, so you were saying you showed up for work that morning and..."

- "We learned that someone unexpectedly decided to talk."

- "And who would that be?"

- "Brian Cochran from the NSA."

Spencer continued explaining to Cat Adams how we had managed to get to her, after all those months, and she seemed to be hypnotized by him. She didn't look away, she didn't move from her chair. She was drooling, looking at him as he spoke. Great. Just what I needed, a psycho killer crushed on my husband.

- "That only left us with the fourth killer, the one with the highest body count of them all."- Spencer explained and Cat smiled.

- "Me."

- "Yes."

- "Wow, that was really impressive."- Cat smiled ironically- "Yeah, the way you just made all those brilliant deductions with all that information that was just handed to you on a silver platter. Quick question, are you guys really profilers or are you just lucky? Because this, what I'm about to say is profiling."- she cleared her throat and smugly said: - "The reason you took time off from work was to deal with a fight with your wife."

- "No."

- "The death of a parent, then."

- "No."- there was a slight hesitation in Spencer's voice, and that bitch noticed.

- "Ah, hello, I'm getting close. It's mom or dad in the billiard room with the candlestick."- Spencer deadpanned her, but that seemed to make her incredibly happy. I hated that bitch more and more with every passing second.

- "Oh, you're mad at me, aren't you?"- she teased him.

- "Not even a little bit."- Spencer whispered.

- "Yes, you are, I can tell."

- "No offense, but you're not really worth getting angry at."- Cat didn't reply, she just stared at him right in the eyes in silence for a moment.

- "Please, let me kill her."- I murmured to Hotch, but he didn't say anything.

- "So you figured out what the four of us did, and then what?"- Cat continued asking. That was gonna be the longest thirty minutes of my life.

- "We profiled that you operated as spokes on a wheel. Somehow it had to be centralized, how you got jobs, who paid you. Somebody did all that for you."

- "You found the Snowman, didn't you?"

- "We did. Thanks to the information we got from Cochran and some help from Hotch."

- "I'm confused. What just happened there?"- Cat asked, and Spencer explained what we had done in the last couple of days.

- "When we arrested Cochran, we found a flash drive, one that gave us access to a specific shadow of the Darknet, one we didn't even know existed. Garcia used it to find the website that Snowman set up for all of you. Once we had the website, we had geography, specifically, the safe house you were keeping him in. So we waited until the shift change when we knew we could take two of you down at once."

- "Well, well, well, you took the chemist and the sniper out of commission, huh?"

- "Did you know?"

- "I knew something was off. They didn't bid on some contracts. And this isn't the kind of job where you get to take time off to be with your... mother? Is it your mom? It's gotta be your mom.

- "Isn't this bitch going to let it go?"- I whispered, trying not to get caught by Hotch's microphone.

- "Why'd you take time off from the FBI?"- Cat asked my husband one more time.

- "I'm not gonna tell you."

- "Spencer, why did you take time off from the FBI?"

- "You can ask me as many times as you want, and you can continue to waste your time, but I'm still not gonna tell you."

- "Then you're cheating, and I don't like cheaters."

- "You don't get everything you want just because you're pointing a gun at me under a table. You're not the first killer to point a gun at me. You're not even the first woman to point a gun at me."- Spencer cut her a short smile and simply added - "Sorry."

But somehow, I felt that was exactly what Cat wanted him to say. She was enjoying her time alone with him a little too much.

- "You're really gonna take this all the way, aren't you?"- she asked, very relaxed sitting on the sofa across from my husband. I hated every second Spencer had to spend with her.

- "Yeah."

- "So am I."

- "Dave, go."- Hotch commanded, and Rossi quickly moved from his table.

- "Look at my face. Does it look like I'm bluffing?"

- "I know you're not bluffing."- Spencer replied as she moved closer to him and sat right next to him.

- "I'm gonna ask you one more time. Before you say no, I want you to consider something."- and that was all we heard, 'cos she grabbed Spencer's tie and covered the mic.

- "She muffled the mic!"- Garcia gasped as we heard the static in the room. - "We lost audio."

All we could do was stare at the screen, waiting to see what happened. Cat was still sitting right next to my husband and he, for a second, seemed defeated. What was she saying?

- "Rossi, stand down."- that was the next thing we heard, and I felt a bucket of cold water running down my back.- "Please."- Spencer added and turned to David, almost apologetically. Rossi didn't say a thing, he just did as asked, and walked out of the room.

- "My mom has schizophrenia, and the doctor has changed her medication, which seemed to agitate her, and so I went to the treatment center to help her."- Spencer explained quickly, to get that conversation over with. I knew he didn't like talking with many people about our family issues, especially about his mother. That's why that conversation was especially hard for him.

- "That's it?"- and Cat was clearly disappointed.

- "That's it."

- "You just risked your life over mommy's pills?"

- "It's the truth."- but Cat didn't reply. She stared at him, trying to read him and see what else he was hiding.

- "It's part of the truth. You're holding something back. Here's what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna penalize you by adding 10 minutes. And keep in mind that the only reason you're not dead right now is because I did learn something important."

- "Oh, really? What's that?"

- "Your backup. I flushed them out. It's just you and me now."

- "Guess again, bitch."- Tara whispered, making me smile as she and Morgan toasted at a table on the other side of the restaurant. My husband would never be alone with that psycho.

Spencer's point of view

I knew (Y/N) was having a hard time dealing with what was going on that night. That's why I wanted to end that situation as soon as possible. But of course, Cat wasn't going to make things easy. She kept asking about my time off the bureau. And I honestly didn't want to tell her 'cause I was already having trouble being there. It felt like my personal life was in danger around that woman. That she could take any piece of information and use it against me at any time.

But right there, in the moment, I had to give her what she was asking, to make her think she was in control. And what she wanted was to know how we had got her.

- "My unit chief agreed with the plan, but he thought there was one flaw."- I finished talking and she quickly replied to my words with an annoying smile.

- "You. You're the flaw. You're married and your wife is pregnant. You can't keep your head cold under those stressing factors."

- "I'm the person on my team who's the closest to your age, and I knew that if I lost control of the situation, you'd be more likely to negotiate with a peer."

- "You have zero control here. None. I outflanked you from the beginning."- I chuckled at those words and simply shook my head.

- "Some of your moves were pretty obvious."- I needed to make her see she wasn't as special as she thought she was.

- "Such as?"

- "Such as showing up armed. Such as changing the venue at the last moment."- I enumerated.

- "I needed a restaurant full of innocents in case this was a trap."

- "If you really suspected this was a trap, then why show up at all? Even when you first laid eyes on me, from the bar, from outside, from wherever you were, you should have seen through me and kept on moving, but you didn't. You couldn't. Because you can't get to the man you really want to hurt, so you need to hurt any man who reminds you of him."

- "That's kind of boilerplate psychology, isn't it? I'm just another girl with daddy issues.

- "You'd be surprised how many killers do what they do because of their parents."- I paused and waited for her reaction. But there wasn't any. - "If it's so boilerplate, why don't we test that theory? How hard did you look for him?"

- "Very hard."

- "And how disappointed were you when you realized that you would never find him? You needed some other outlet for your rage, and for a while, this worked, but it also tripped you up. Can I tell you a little secret? Everything eventually falls apart. The trick is accepting when it's over."

The alarm rang. Time was up. Her silly game had come to an end and she had to surrender peacefully and walk out of that restaurant with me. Just that I knew she wouldn't come easily.

- "Except it ain't over, is it?"- she asked with a crazy look in her eyes.

- "Do you really think I'm just gonna let you walk out of here?"- I raised an eyebrow as I stared at her.

- "You profiled so much about me, except you forgot to ask the most important question. Why would I make you sit here for 30 minutes?"

- "Because you're stalling."

- "Then you don't know me at all. Did you guys show up here without an escape plan? Or is that what just another girl with daddy issues does? Maybe if you hadn't fallen victim to your own gender bias, and, yes, all men have gender bias, even you, Dr. Reid, would have recognized that your entire strategy was based on one faulty detail. Can you see it?

- "You're not here alone."

- "And my partner? Less paranoid than you think."- her words gave me cold chills.

- "You planted a bomb in the building."- but she just smiled innocently.

- "I didn't. My job was to keep your entire team focused on us, so he could do what he does best."

- "There are innocent people here."- I had never been so glad my wife had to stay back in Quantico, 'cos if she had been there that night, I could have lost it. I may have even let Cat go.

- "Yes, there are. So let me remind you what we're playing for. Not only will I walk out of here, but you will make sure I leave safely. And from where I'm sitting, it looks like I've won."

I only had one chance to make things right. I couldn't let Cat Adams out of that restaurant, for the sake of Penelope and my own family. I knew, I felt it in my guts, that she would never forgive me for setting her up, she would seek revenge against me and my loved ones. It had to end that night.

- "You need to pay attention to this part. I'm going to tell you the terms of my victory. I want you to move all of your backups away from this building. If I walk out of here and I see one cop, I will incinerate us all."

- "I can't do that."- I tried to explain, but it was useless.

- "Spencer..."

- "It's not me. What you're asking takes time."- so she leaned in closer, grabbed,–))(65+ my mic and spoke directly to the mic.

- "This is to whoever's in charge. Unless you guys want to be responsible for the biggest FBI disaster since Waco, you will back off now."- then, she sat down correctly and cut me a smug smile.- "Watch this."

We waited for a few minutes in silence. I looked around the room at all the people eating dinner, not even a single worry about what was going around them. Their lives were all in my hands, and I only had one chance to save us all.

- "Look at that. There they go."- Cat commented as the waitress started walking around the room, asking every customer to go calmly.

- "All we want to do..."- I started explaining, but she interrupted me.

- "Minimize the collateral damage. I get it. I'm not mad. It'll give me the cover I need to slip out. I just need to know it's clear, so do me a favor and tell your boss that nobody leaves until it's safe for me to."

- "Reid, perimeter agents are pulling back. You have to let her go."- Hotch whispered in my ear, but I refused to follow that instruction.

- "Well?"- Cat raised an eyebrow and waited for my reply.

- "Repeat, all agents, do not engage or pursue until the bomb is defused."- Hotch commanded, but I remained silent, sitting there, rearranging my thoughts.

- "Spencer..."- Adams insisted, getting annoyed.

- "You can leave."- I whispered and she quickly started moving from her seat. - "But you won't."- I said as she stopped walking and turned to look at me.

- "I'm sorry?"

- "Double or nothing. You need to sit back down."- I suggested and Cat stared at me, not believing my words.

- "Reid, what are you doing?"- Hotch asked, and I'm sure I heard my wife arguing at the back.

- "Wow, now you're stalling."- Cat said with a mocking tone of voice.

- "You played your trump card, but I have one, too."- she stared at me in silence, considering her options.

- "Thanks for dinner. I had fun."- and right after they had turned around and started walking away from me, I said.

- "I found your father."- and she immediately stopped walking. She stood there, considering my words, and probably trying to find a reason to leave anyway. Until her curiosity was stronger than her determination, and she turned to question me.

- "No, you didn't.

- "Look at my face. Am I bluffing?"- I simply stared at her with the most serious expression on my face- "I'll tell you where he is. But you need to sit back down and listen to the rest of my story."

- "No. Tell me now or I'll..."- but I cut her off, already tired of that whole situation.

- "Detonate the bomb? You're not gonna do that, Cat, because then you won't learn anything. You said you were good at your job because you think through every outcome. Well, guess what? So do I."- she didn't move for a moment. I could read the struggle on her face. Until she gave up, and sat again in front of me.

- "All right. Finish the story."

- "To prepare for this dinner, I had to learn everything about you, starting with your real name. Catherine Adams. Daughter of Daniel Adams, who did in fact leave the country in 1987 but returned in 2012. Based on confidential records in rehabs and sober living houses, which in turn pointed us to flophouses and soup kitchens. He couldn't put 24 hours together sober. And you can probably imagine my surprise when I discovered that he actually lives right here in D.C.

- "Where?"- she demanded to know, the urgency in her voice letting me know I was hitting the right spot.

- "It's not that simple. He was in bad shape when I found him. I showed him your picture and asked if we could talk about you. I needed to know what had happened, and if he could give me any information about you. But he couldn't."

- "He didn't remember me?"- Cat sounded insulted and hurt.

- "The alcoholism shredded his brain. I'm sorry."- I could relate to her, I knew what it meant to know your own family couldn't remember you. But I couldn't really feel sorry for her, considering the hell she and her team had put Garcia through.

- "You're not sorry. Sorry is what people say when they don't understand."- she paused and stared at me like she could actually read me. Which I didn't like one bit. - "Wait. Your mother, tell me."- I hesitated, I didn't know if I should answer that question with the truth, but if I didn't, if she felt I was bluffing, there were some serious chances the entire building would end up in flames. So I did what I had to do, even though I didn't like it.

- "Is... is this part of the game?"- I questioned her, thinking about all the people listening on the other side of my microphone.

- "No. The game's over."

She was dead serious, and I couldn't really hide anymore. It was my last chance to make sure things went down smoothly. So I answered with complete honesty.

- "When I looked at her medical chart, it didn't make any sense. The medication that they gave her should have been helping, but I couldn't figure out what was making her so angry. So, I went to see her. The moment I walked into her room, I saw it. For three seconds... She didn't know who I was. I had her tested that morning, and I found out that night. That she had early-onset of dementia. Most likely Alzheimer's."

- "Did you test yourself?"- Cat asked immediately. I still don't know if she felt any kind of empathy for me, but her eyes were locked into mine. - "No, you didn't. You were too scared."

- "Did you know?"- I heard Penelope asking someone I assumed was my wife. (Y/N)'s voice on the other side whispered yes as I continued looking down at my hands.

- "I thought I dodged a bullet when I turned thirty and didn't have a schizophrenic break like her, but this is somehow bigger and scarier because I can actually see it happening. All the memories that we used to share are just dying. I can't stop it. I can't help her. All I can do is find people that I can help."

I was sharing way too much during that dinner. And all because I needed to find a way for Cat to relate to me, to make her weak, call her bluff, and lock her behind bars.

- "Is that really why you showed up tonight? To help me? Do you know how many men have told me that they wanted to help me? How do you think that worked out for them?"

I couldn't reply 'cause I all heard at that minute was JJ announcing Cat had armed the bomb, and they were all trying to find a way to get everybody out there as quick as possible. All I could do was try to gain more time.

- "You're right. You don't need my help. You don't need anyone's help. You are completely in control."- but as soon as I spoke those words I saw Morgan and Tara struggling with a woman at the bar who I could guess was Cat's partner, the bomber. And before I could react, I felt a gun against my temple, as Cat grabbed me and forced me to walk.

(Y/N)'s point of view

Watching my husband being held basically hostage by a serial killer who had a gun against his head was probably one of the scariest things I faced working with the FBI. What I hated the most that day was knowing I wasn't even in the same building with him. And there was nothing I could do to help him.

Garcia held my hand tight as we stared at the screen. Cat Adams was so tiny next to him, and yet, he couldn't do anything to defend himself but try to get in her head.

- "FBI. Everybody stay calm, please."- Morgan said from the other side of the room as he held his gun out and kept his eyes locked on Adams. The only thing that kept me sane at that moment was knowing Morgan would do anything and everything to keep my husband safe.

- "We're gonna be smart about this and talk it out. Aren't we, Cat?"- Tara asked her as she cuffed the bomber.

- "That's up to you."- Adam replied with a threatening tone.

- "Get everyone out of here."- Spencer basically begged as he stared at Morgan and Lewis in front of him. She commanded the civilian to get out quickly and she took the bomber out herself. But Morgan remained there.

- "Morgan, you, too."- Spencer added.

- "I'm not going anywhere."- a part of me sighed relieved when I heard Derek's reply. He moved closer to Cat, pointing his gun at her head the entire time.

- "Guess we're right back where we started. You and me with a gun."- I hated the way Cat looked at my husband, 'cos though I'm certain there was a part of her who knew she was already doomed, she was in fact enjoying her time with him.

- "Reid, it's time."- Morgan commanded, but Spencer shook his head.

- "No."

- "We don't have a choice. We have to do it."- Derek was serious and Cat got immediately curious.

- "Do what?"

- "Morgan, shut up."- my husband begged, but Derek didn't listen.

- "There's one thing he hasn't told you yet."

- "That's not true. He's lying. Don't listen to him!"- Spencer was scared and freaked out as Cat turned to him nearly offended.

- "What haven't you told me?!"

- "Nothing. I told you... nothing! Nothing!"

- "What don't I know?"- Cat asked Morgan and he simply answered.

- "We brought your father here."- I knew they were lying, her father wasn't there. Spencer tried to find him, but it was a dead end. So Morgan and my husband were putting out a show for her, and all I could hope for was that she fell for it.

- "Here? He's here?"- Cat was hurt and shocked. Was it because she couldn't believe we had found him? Or was it because she couldn't find him herself?

- "He's right outside."- Derek continued talking, his gun not moving from her head. - "Reid thought he needed every bargaining chip he could get."

- "Morgan, I'm begging you, don't. Don't."- Spencer begged for him to stop talking, but Morgan didn't pay attention.

- "Every bargaining chip he could get to convince you to do the right thing."

- "How is this the right thing?"- Cat asked. She was nervous, clearly the thought of being close to her father had an immediate effect on her.

- "Your father killed your mother. And there's no statute of limitations on murder, so you really need to think about your options right now. You shoot him, I will kill you. Or if you surrender, you will live to testify against your father."- Morgan showed his cards.

- "That's not good enough."

- "We can arrange it for the two of you to drive into custody together, and then you can remind him of who you are."- Cat eyes shone at those words, but Spencer argued immediately.

- "If you give her this, she wins. Don't do it."

- "Kid, I am trying to save your life. Now let me do that."- Morgan was serious. A beeping outside caught their attention. - "They're bringing him in right now."

- "You're really upset about this, aren't you?"- Cat stared at Spencer, who looked in fact affected by the whole situation, but didn't reply to her. Instead, Morgan continued talking.

- "This is what you wanted, isn't it, a chance to finally hurt the man who deserves it?"

- "They all deserve it."- Cat clarified.

- "He deserves it the most."- Morgan made his point and Adams took a minute to consider her options.

- "Only if Spencer escorts me out."- I hated the way she pronounced his name.

- "Deal."- my husband whispered, annoyed and Cat finally dropped her gun.

I swear, I let out a breath I never realized I was holding, and stared at Spencer handcuffing Cat and walking out of the restaurant. I looked at Garcia and she had tears in her eyes.

- "Hotch?"- Morgan said to the mic.

- "Yeah."

- "We are coming out."- I hugged Penelope immediately and felt her sobbing against me as Hotch moved closer to us and put a hand on her shoulder.

- "You want to go home?"- he whispered and she nodded, crying.

- "Let's get your things packed up and get a celebratory drink, ok?"- I offered her and she chuckled.

- "You can't drink, munchkin."

- "You are gonna have to drink for me, then."

Spencer called me ten minutes later. He was in the car with Morgan on their way back from the case.

- "Hey chipmunk. How are you?"

- "I'm ok. You?"

- "Just tired."- he whispered and sighed. There was a lot more going on in his head, but I knew he couldn't share it at the moment, and I was not going to push him to say anything.

- "I'm gonna drive Pen to her house."

- "Morgan's"- Garcia corrected me as she grabbed one of her bags and started walking. I quickly followed her, carrying another bag with her things. - "Savannah texted me, she has celebratory drinks for us."

- "Ok, I'm driving her to Morgan's. If you are with Derek, wanna meet there and go home?"

- "Yes, that sounds like a good plan."- neither of us said a thing for a moment. I whispered I loved him and got into the elevator with Garcia.

- "How is he?"- Pen asked when she noticed I was putting the phone back into my pocket.

- "Tired. Probably upset, she forced him to face her mother's disease in front of all of you."

- "I'm so sorry, (Y/N)."

- "Thank you. Let's focus on the good things that happened today. That psycho is finally locked and you are safe to go home one more time. I'm sure Sergio is excited to have you back"

- "I miss him. And my plants! I just can't wait to be home the entire weekend, clean the place, and enjoy my space."

- "I'm so glad you are finally going home."

- "Me too. Who is taking care of my Birdie tonight by the way?"

- "She is at my mother's. We didn't know how this was going to go, so we thought it was better to take her there and have a "nana and Birdie" sleepover. My dad was supposed to hang out with them for a while."

- "I love how they manage to co-grandparent her so well."- I chuckled at Garcia's comment and nodded.

- "Me too. I wish they were this civil when I was growing up, though."

- "Come on! at least you know they won't traumatize Birdie."

- "No, I'm guessing that's our job as parents."- I joked and walked to my car. Garcia followed me quickly, and in a few minutes, we were on our way to Morgan's.

Spencer's point of view

We got out of the car and walked to Morgan's house after a quiet drive. I had called my wife, and I could tell by the tone of her voice that she knew exactly what was going on with me. I also called Sofia to find out how Raven was doing. I was feeling somehow paranoid after that evening. I knew Cat was locked, but I couldn't shake off the thought of her hurting my family.

- "You want to come in, decompress a bit?"- Morgan asked suddenly, and stopped walking as we stood in the middle of his front yard.

- "I'm good. We are probably just gonna go home."- he nodded and stared at me, most likely trying to find the words to say what he wanted to say.

- "That was an intense case."- Morgan whispered and I chuckled. Intense was a simple way to call it. I had another dozen words that were harder than it.

- "Yeah. It's over. Network's gone."- I tried to focus on that, but I knew my friend was not going to let it go.

- "Yeah. Reid, that medical research that Savannah gave you, was that..."- and I simply nodded.

- "Yeah."

- "You are gonna get yourself tested, aren't you?"

- "One of the data points that her research told me about was age. I'm too young to display the chromosomal signs, so I'm just gonna have to learn to live not knowing."

I could tell Morgan wanted to tell me everything was going to be ok, but he didn't get a chance, because the front door of his house opened and one very drunk Garcia walked out, followed by (Y/N) and Savannah.

- "Oh, my God!"- Garcia opened her arms and stumbled all the way to our side in her huge heels.

- "Oh, hey, whoa, whoa, whoa. What is happening right now?"- Morgan questioned her, surprised to find her in such a state so quickly.

- "You're what's going on. Right now is what's."- Garcia looked at me and I couldn't help but start chuckling- "You are here. Do you know what's happening right now? It is, it is done. The Dirty Dozen is done! Yes, done!

I'm in it!"

- "How much did she have?"- Morgan asked his girlfriend as I felt my wife wrapping her arms around me in silence. I hugged her tight and kissed the top of her head as I heard her sighing. She was my home and my peace, and I was finally happy 'cause I was with her.

- "She started out with Jaeger."- Savannah explained and Morgan wide opened his eyes, shocked,

- "Jaeger?! Ok...."- Derek chuckled and stared at Garcia, who hugged him and repeated over and over how much she loved him until she saw me one more time.

- "And you! I love you so much! You two make such beautiful babies!!"- I heard my wife giggling as Garcia turned to Savannah and continued spreading her love. - "And you, I should be jealous of you because you're so hot. But I'm not. I'm not. I promise you I'm not. I'm not. I promise. No, I'm not"- Pen looked at us and tried to convince us all. - "'Cause you know what? All I feel in here is love. I just... I am feeling, I'm full of love. So much love. I'm wearing too many clothes."

- "Shit! Garcia, don't get naked!"- my wife argued immediately as Penelope started walking back into the house, trying to take off her sweater.

- "I got this!"- Savannah announced as she quickly followed Garcia back into the house.

- "I'm gonna get my things."- (Y/N) whispered and kissed my cheek.

- "You sure you don't want to reconsider?"- Morgan joked as she pointed inside the house and I just laughed.

- "I think we are ok. (Y/N) should get some rest and I really just want to go home."- there was a pause as I looked inside and saw my wife hugging Garcia one more time, as Savannah held a bottle of water, probably trying to convince Garcia to drink it.

- "Hey, kid."- Morgan said and looked at me- "Can I tell you something?"

- "Yeah."- but instead, he just took a step closer and hugged me. - "I just, uh..."

- "Yeah."- I whispered and nodded.

- "You know?"

- "I know. I know."- I hugged him back and felt the tears falling from my eyes. I know it was hard dealing with feelings sometimes, so it felt good to know Morgan and I both knew how much we meant to each other.

- "Good. Because I mean it."- he tapped on my back a few times and let me go, but kept his eyes on me.- "I'll see you Monday."

(Y/N) stared at the scene from the porch and waited until Morgan started walking to the house to walk toward me. She opened her arms and hugged him as well, kissing his cheek. I always assumed she thanked him for taking care of me. And I always felt he had my back. He was my brother. Always had and always will be.

- "Come on, honey. Let's go home."- my wife whispered and held my hand. And I meant it when I said she was my home.

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