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[husbandhoshi]

title: eat. play. love.

pairing: seungcheol x f!reader

wc: 19.4k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Looking forward to talking with the two of you.

Wait—two?

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

CC: Choi Seungcheol.

"Choi Seungcheol?!"

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

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

"I—he," you stammer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Choi Seungcheol's name stares back at you.

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The meeting goes exactly how you would expect.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You know what?"

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

"What?"

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

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

"I'd rather starve."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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"You'll never guess what I have."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And a seat at Momofuku."

"And that."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hide behind your computer screen.

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

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

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

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

Seungkwan works hard, but the devil always works harder.

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing you can do to stop him, huh?

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

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Beware the wrath of a woman scorned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hook, line, and sinker.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Seungcheol?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who said I was pretending?"

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

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

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

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

"I never said that."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How To Antagonize Your Date In 5 Easy Steps.

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm no quitter."

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

Definitely not that one.

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

"Why, so you can steal my job?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In your periphery hovers his wry, wanting smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, pity looks good on you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fair. You gonna ask me about mine?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Running away?"

"Bored," you lie.

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

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

"Unfortunate."

"How do you think I feel?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Field trip?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"N-not both ways?" you croak.

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

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

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

Whatever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But, thank you."

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

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

"I'm retracting my thank you."

"I'm devastated. Really."

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

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

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

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

"Thought you knew it was Wonwoo."

"Yeah, but why?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who hurt you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I wouldn't say nothing."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You in a rush?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Definitely bad at food, you muse to yourself.

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

Now that—nothing could have prepared you for that.

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

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

"Stop that."

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

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

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

"Is it working?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Seungcheol is my enemy, remember?"

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

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

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

You almost choke on a blueberry.

"Absolutely not."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm running out of options."

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

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

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

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

Your entire body heaves with the sigh that escapes you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Lucky you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A gift. A pithless, wrinkly one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, you're definitely going to cry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You count the seconds till he walks away.

One. Two. Three.

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

"Hey, you ok?"

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

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

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

"Whoa," he breathes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah, I-I think so."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And no text from Seungcheol. (Damn.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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"Here. Drink."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Thanks…?"

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

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

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

"You're literally the definition of easy."

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

"This is not a date. Dream on."

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

"It wasn't."

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

"Chicago."

"Same difference."

Your conversation continues as such.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hi."

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

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

The elevator dings.

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

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You have three reasons to get drunk.

1. It's Friday.

2. You finished your article.

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

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

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

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

So you get drunk.

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

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

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

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

"You got that right."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yours or mine?"

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

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

How To Ruin The Moment In One Easy Step!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Just dates. Nothing serious."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Holy shit. You live like this?"

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

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

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

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

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

You tentatively nod before dropping the noodles in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What, too many dates to cover?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The table stops rocking.

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

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

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

"You asked."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Wh—"

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

"Get. Out."

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

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

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

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Celery. Red wine. Short rib.

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

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

Fingerling potatoes, the red ones. A Vidalia onion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Monday feels tilted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You wonder what you'll be:

10 Signs She Is Clinically Insane.

It's Not You, It's Them!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

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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[sp0o0kylights]

You know what I want to see, I want to see more of Steve, Eddie, and Robin being 1980s small town kids from Indiana, by which I mean;

Robin is The Source of Gay Knowledge purely because her parents host Hippie Christmas and she managed to sneak away to find a neat bookstore in Indiana once. 

Her knowledge is not in depth. It's patchy, woven together through rumors, stories she heard or things she picked up from her parents' old pictures. She's got a handful of zines, one book, and some movies she managed to order for Family Video behind Keith's back.

She acts like she's Queen of the Queers because in Hawkins she pretty much is.

(Max and El ask her what a lavender marriage is once, something they overheard snooping around. 

Robin confidentially answers that it's code for when one woman dresses up as a man, fooling officials into wedding two woman.

She does not live this down two years later when they find out what it actually means.) 

Eddie doesn't spend every weekend in Indianapolis. 

Gas is expensive, his busiest days of his "job" is Friday and Saturday, and he has no fucking clue what the hanky code is. 

He's wearing that bandana because Metallica front singer James Hetfield has one on all their tour posters. 

Eddie does make it down to a gay bar though, by accident. Rick needed some back up for a shady deal. Promised Eddie a boatload of free drugs to sell if he agreed to just stand there and look mean. 

He was warned the bar they were meeting in was 'weird' and to not 'freak out' --which Eddie thought was hilarious given his nickname and general appearance, but whatever.

He doesn't understand when they get there, because it's just a bunch of hot men with hanky's in their back pockets everywhere.

Then he sees two women kissing and it clicks. 

He can't out himself in front of Rick, but one of the bartenders playfully dresses him down for his own hanky, letting him know all about the code and teasing him through his embarrassment. 

He's got an offer to come back and learn what color and which pocket his hanky should actually be in, a prospect Eddie was salivating at until Chrissy Cunningham up and died on his ceiling.

(He still wore the hanky, because the feeling of that bartender tugging it out and stuffing it back in might be the closest thing he's ever had to sex and he absolutely wants a repeat. 

He's young and horny, sue him.) 

Steve Harrington may not be academically smart but he's not dumb. 

He figured out a while back that the basketball team as a unit probably crossed the queer line more than once--or at least it did before Hargrove came in. 

( Brad Handly for example, went around slamming kids into lockers and screaming slurs like a fucking movie villain one Monday because the varsity team got dead drunk at Laura's party on Sunday and hey, look, there weren't that many girls there, okay?

They all had fucking hands and mouths. Everybody but Tommy was single and hot to trot. Nothing gay about it.

Its not even like they were kissing or treating each other like chicks. It was just Brad's first time and they got to tease him later for overthinking it. 

Dude graduated soon enough after and given Steve was on the team as a sophomore, he hadn't thought about the guy and why he might be freaking out so bad in years.) 

Robin's entire panic attack at Starcourt, and a few more after had Steve replaying that whole incident. Reframed it a bit, and, yeah.

In retrospect that had been extremely gay, actually. 

It sat with him a lot easier than he'd thought it would. Partially because of Robin, but mostly because that's just who he was.

Stranger things had happened to Steve and this one didn't want to kill, maim or otherwise eat him, so it got filed under 'interesting facts he should never tell his parents if he wanted to keep his trust fund' and then he went about his day. 

(Or he tried too, anyways.

It caught up to him when Eddie and Robin somehow figured out the other was queer and dragged him along to some bar Eddie had a standing invitation at, with demands for Steve to do what he did best.

Babysit.

Their magical trip was utterly destroyed when Brad Handly happened to be the very same bartender who had given Eddie the invite.

 Considering Brad's immediate bark of laughter followed by a hug and introducing himself as "Steve's gay awakening", Steve ended up having to speedrun through Eddie and Robin both having a crisis for him.

It didn't help that Steve had politely, and laughingly, corrected Brad with a casual; 

"Pretty sure that was Tommy man, but if it helps I think that tongue of yours gave Matt Burdon a crisis."

--which ended up with him answering a lot more gay sex questions with Brad than he cared too. 

At least he, through Brad, was able to help Robin connect to some local lesbians and--after a second crisis from Eddie regarding how Steve managed to have more sex than "the resident town freak and guy who actually knew he was gay, Steve!"-- even helped Eddie out by catching the metalheads tongue with his mouth later that evening.

The last one landed him a boyfriend, trust fund be damned.) 

[ericshoney]

Skipping School ~ Brothers!Sturniolo Triplets

Summary: Your friends pressure you into skipping school with them for your brothers to be at the mall at the same time, catching you out.

Warnings: swearing, peer pressure, teasing, nicknames, slight angst, fluff

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Oh come on you little goody too shoes, skip once."

You were sat with your friends at school. They were talking about going to the mall. Not at the weekend, now. Whilst you were suppose to be at school.

"What if something happens?" You asked.

"Nothing will happen, your being dumb."

You knew Nick, Matt and Chris were home in Boston for a bit and had promised you they'd take you out for dinner tonight and a late night drive as it was Friday.

With a bit more peer pressure, you caved. You had a free period last anyways so it couldn't hurt, right? And it wasn't like you'd see your brothers....right?

So you along with three of your friends, left school, heading to the mall. You kept looking back, waiting for the moment of a teacher to shout at you, but it never happened.

"Stop worrying so much."

You sighed as the four of you made it to the mall. You first went and got some food, eating and joking. You slowly started to relax, it was all going well.

"Let's go in there!"

You followed your friends into the chosen store, looking at some stuff. You weren't going to buy anything because you know you'd get questioned. You just followed your friends around, giving them your opinion if they asked.

Again, it was going well. You felt at ease as you walked around the mall. You thought it wasn't going to go wrong. Until you saw them.

Nick, Matt and Chris.

Your brothers were walking right towards you, laughing and joking as they carried many bags.

"Shit." You cursed, ducking behind your friends as you kept walking.

But your brothers were sharp. They could spot their little sister from a mile away. You kept your head down as you walked, until you bumped into someone.

"Hey kid." Nick called.

"Oh h-hey Nick." You called.

"What are you doing here?" He asked.

"Oh umm, shopping?" You replied.

"Your supposed to be at school." He said.

"Right." You whispered.

You looked up for your friends who had long gone, making your eyes well up with tears. How could they just leave you?

"No, no don't cry, sweetheart." Matt said, rubbing your shoulder.

"They left me. It was their fucking idea and they left me!" You shouted.

"Shh kid." Chris cooed as he pulled you into a hug.

"Let's go sit somewhere and you can explain yourself. Depending on what you say, we'll see if we tell mum and dad." Nick suggested.

You nodded as you walked with Chris' arm around your shoulder, to a little coffee shop. Nick ordered you all drinks before sitting down at the back.

"Alright kid, spill." Nick said as you all sat down.

You then explained everything. How it was your friend's idea to come here and skip. The peer pressure and teasing. As you told them everything, your brothers didn't look happy which worried you.

"I skipped a free period." You added.

"Well. Let's start simple, sweetheart." Chris said.

"Your friends are assholes." Nick said.

"Yeah." You agreed.

"We're not that mad, petal. Slightly disappointed that you still went along with it, but we understand peer pressure." Matt said.

"I'm sorry." You apologised, playing with the straw in your drink.

"We won't tell mum and dad." Nick replied.

"And we'll still take you out tonight." Matt added.

"But you gotta find some better friends." Chris said.

"There's a girl and guy in my science class, they are pretty cool." You responded.

"Then hang out with them!" Nick exclaimed.

You nodded and were glad your brothers weren't angry and knew you'd make some new friends on Monday.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tags:

@mattsfavbigtitties @lgbtq-girl @onelesslonelygirlbieber6 @sturniolo-fann @riowritesitall

[roosterforme]

Batting Practice Part 2 | Rooster x Reader

Summary: Despite his best efforts, Bradley hadn't stopped thinking about you since Monday. When Bob decided they needed a Team Mom, he sees an opportunity he can't pass up. 

Warnings: Fluff, angst and swearing

Length: 3700 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female single!mom Reader

Check my masterlist for more Top Gun fun! Batting Practice masterlist.

When Bradley arrived on base Tuesday morning, he saw Bob right away.

"I can't thank you enough, Rooster. Piper had so much fun yesterday, and I really think this is going to be good for her. The other kids seemed excited too."

Bradley zipped up his flight suit and grabbed his helmet. "The kids were easier to instruct than I expected. They made it fun." His mind automatically pictured Everett. And Everett's mom. 

"So you'll be back for practice on Thursday?" Bob asked, reaching for his own helmet.

Bradley scoffed. "You think I'm going to bail on the Tiny Eagles? No way. We have a championship to win, and I plan on being named coach of the year."

Bob laughed. "That's the spirit."

Nat strolled over, sipping coffee inside the hangar even though you weren't supposed to. "How was pee wee football?" she asked with a smirk.

"We've been over this before, Phoenix," Bob said with a sigh. "It's tee ball."

"She's just fucking with you," Bradley said, looking from side to side before he stole Nat's coffee and took a big sip.

She groaned in response. "Just finish it," she told him. "So, tee ball? How was that?"

"Fun!" Bob exclaimed. "Piper loved it. All the kids were great. And all the moms came up at the end of practice to introduce themselves and tell us we did a great job."

Nat burst out laughing as Bradley finished her coffee. "Yeah... I'll bet they did! They would probably love to show you two even more gratitude."

Bob looked confused, but Bradley just smiled against the coffee cup. "Moms are not my type. I told you that already, Nat." But he felt like such a liar. He could picture you so clearly in his mind, and he could remember how your voice sounded. Really, he was more excited about practice on Thursday than he should be, simply because you and Everett were going to be there. 

Maybe he would wear a Phillies hat to match with Everett.

"Rooster... every woman is your type," Nat said, patting him on the shoulder as she grabbed her helmet and headed for her Super Hornet. 

--------------------

Work was insanely busy, and Thursday arrived before you knew it. You were still answering client emails when Frank knocked on your door at lunchtime. 

"Come in!" you called, and thankfully he brought you a sandwich. You jumped up at the prospect of actually having something to eat, but Frank wrapped you in his arms before you could take a bite.

"I've missed you all week. You work too hard," he whispered, placing a soft kiss next to your ear. "Wanna come over this weekend?"

You should say yes, especially since Everett was going to have a sleepover at your sister's house. Plus, this would be your last free Saturday for a while, since tee ball games would be starting up.

"I'll have to let you know," you told him as his lips connected with yours. 

But you were thinking about how it might feel to kiss Coach Bradley with his mustache.

Where had that thought come from? You let out a startled gasp, and Frank slipped his tongue between your lips. 

Bradley would definitely be a better kisser than this.

"Frank," you managed to say. "I'm starving, and I have so much work to do."

He sighed and squeezed your waist through your suit. "Try to come over this weekend, okay baby?"

You just nodded and unwrapped the sandwich as he left. Only four more hours until tee ball practice. You couldn't believe you were as ridiculous as the other moms, but here you were, thinking about your kid's coach while you ate lunch. 

But it didn't stop there. After you picked Everett up at school, he rambled on about tee ball and his coaches for the entire drive to the ballfield. And you started thinking about Bradley again.

"Can we go see the Phillies play again this year?" Everett asked as you pulled into the parking lot. 

"You know, Ev, it was supposed to be a surprise. They play the Padres on a Sunday afternoon, and I've been planning on getting us tickets."

After hesitating for a beat, you parked next to the Bronco again, which you were smart enough to know was a really dumb thing to do.

"Yes! Can we take Coach Bradley with us too?"

You pressed your lips together and shook your head. "Sweetie, he's your coach during tee ball hours. I don't think he's going to have time to go to a baseball game with us." 

Everett jumped out of the car and looked up at you as you took his hand. "But he likes the Phillies. I think he might want to go."

Once again you changed into your sneakers while you walked across the grass. You didn't want to get your son's hopes up, and you couldn't help but think that he wouldn't be so starved for attention if Danny came around more often. Your ex was legitimately the worst. 

"We can talk about it later, okay?"

You almost tripped over your own feet when you looked up and saw Bradley. He was talking to one of the overzealous moms, and he had his arms crossed over his chest, nodding along with whatever was being said. His biceps looked good, but you also immediately noticed the Phillies hat on his head. 

Bradley's eyes shifted to the side as you approached the bleachers, and he kind of smirked at you. He didn't even seem to notice when the other mom placed her hand on his forearm. But you did. You wished it was you touching him instead. 

"Mommy, I need my bag," Everett said, and you shifted your attention to your son. You helped him get his cleats on, and then you waited for the coaches to blow the whistle to start practice. 

"Can I have everyone's attention for a minute?"

You looked up to see Bob heading toward the bleachers where all of the parents were sitting. So you took the spot next to Everett on the bottom row, and Bradley shifted to stand closer to your end. 

"I just wanted to reiterate how excited we are to coach your kids this season," Bob said. "Coach Bradley and I have worked out most of the scheduling and whatnot, but we do need to have a Team Mom or Team Dad to help us with some tasks. Things like bringing extra snacks and drinks, and being in charge of sending out texts if the weather is bad. Also they would need to be available to help us with anything else that might come up."

You let your gaze shift from Bob to Bradley, and he was already looking at you. He nodded once as his lips quirked up into a smile. 

"Does anyone want to volunteer?" Bob asked. Almost every mom around you raised her hand without hesitation. 

Bradley didn't look away from you, and it was making you feel flushed. He slowly, purposefully put his hands on his hips and raised an eyebrow as if to say c'mon, raise your hand.

You didn't have time to be the Team Mom. You didn't even really want to be the damn Team Mom. It was something extra that you really didn't need to do. 

But... you felt your hand slip up into the air as if gravity no longer had any hold over it. Bradley's smile grew as you sat in front of him like a little girl hoping he would call on you.

Just as Bob was about to choose a different parent, Bradley nudged him with his elbow to stop him.

"Right here," Bradley announced, nodding and gesturing to you. "She's our Team Mom." You slowly lowered your hand, and you felt a little giddy at being selected.

Bob looked a little confused with the abrupt decision, but he just smiled at you and said, "Sounds good. Thanks for volunteering. Now let's get started with our practice."

He blew his whistle, and Everett launched off the bench. You could hear him tell Bradley, "You wore a Phillies hat! Just like me!"

Bradley laughed and said, "Sure did, kiddo. Thought we could match." He glanced at you one more time before he led the kids out onto the field.

-----------------------------

Bradley shouldn't feel so proud of himself right now. But he did anyway. He didn't even know what he was playing at with you. But as soon as Bob told him they needed a team parent, he wanted it to be you. 

"Jesus," he muttered under his breath as he set the ball on the tee for Henry to try to hit. You were probably married. Bradley probably just made himself look like an ass. But you raised your hand anyway when he tried to silently encourage you to.

"Nice hit, Henry!" Bob said, and Bradley clapped as the kid ran for first base. 

Bradley set the ball up again, this time for Everett. 

"You ready?" Bradley asked, earning him a big smile. "Just keep your swing nice and steady."

He watched Everett absolutely nail the ball and hit it right past Bob. He looked up at Bradley in surprise.

"Run, Ev! Run to first base!"

Bradley watched him take off like a shot and run past Bob, only stopping once he had stomped on the base.

When Bradley glanced over to where you were sitting, the smile on your face had him fumbling to get the ball back on the tee. You waved your fingers toward where Everett was jumping up and down, and then you looked at Bradley and bit your lip. Then you waved your fingers at him too before ducking your head.

He forced his focus back to the next batter who also hit it hard enough to take a base.

"These kids are actually good," Bradley told Bob as he helped guide Amber to first base while Bob pointed Everett to second. "But we need to practice running bases next week."

"Can't wait to play the Tiny Hawks next weekend," Bob said. "The Eagles are looking good."

Bradley and Bob high fived as the kids all gathered around them in the infield at the end of practice. "Great practice, Tiny Eagles," Bradley told them. "Now get some good rest this weekend, and we will see you on Monday for our next practice!"

The kids all started to run toward the bleachers, and the coaches followed them at a more leisurely pace. "Damn," Bradley muttered when he looked toward the parking lot.

When Bob gave him a concerned look, Bradley shook his head and said, "Everett's hot mom parked by me again. I've actually been thinking about her since Monday."

Bob's mouth dropped open. "You mean the Team Mom?"

"Yeah," Bradley whispered, nearing the bleachers and watching you switch Everett's cleats for sneakers.

"You have a crush on our Team Mom?" Bob asked a little too loudly for Bradley's liking. "That's why you picked her? Is that a good idea?"

Bradley just shrugged and took a deep breath. "Too late now, yeah?"

--------------------------

You felt a tingle wash down your spine and goosebumps break out on your skin. You glanced to your left, and sure enough, the coaches were standing right there. Bob was looking at you, and Bradley was running one hand over his face and readjusting his Phillies cap. 

Maybe you had imagined it. But you could still remember how he was looking at you, goading you, urging you wordlessly to raise your hand earlier. 

Because he had a crush on the Team Mom? On you? There was no way.

But as you stood, Bradley headed in your direction. He smelled good again, and he was so handsome. And his voice was so deep. You really wished your other two senses had experience with him as well. 

"Team Mom," he said with a smile. "Can Bob and I get your phone number for future correspondence and incidentals?"

"Mmhmm," you hummed, and when he handed you his phone, you added your name and number for him.

"Thanks again for volunteering," he said with a smirk.

You didn't know what to say, and you could feel your face growing warm as your nose scrunched up in embarrassment. "No problem," you managed, but instead of leaving, he inched closer, and his smile grew.

"I hope you don't feel like I pressured you." 

You just shook your head, mesmerized by the low register of his voice. "No. I'm happy to do it."

Everett suddenly popped up next to you, standing on the bleachers. "Mommy, check to see if Coach Bradley wants to come with us to see the Phillies this year. Please?" 

You turned back toward Bradley, about to tell him that Everett was just being overzealous, but Bradley was grinning at Everett and adjusting the bill of his cap.

"I don't know if your dad would like that, kiddo," Bradley said, examining your face carefully.

But then Everett's face really lit up. "He wouldn't care! He doesn't even live with us anymore."

You scrunched your nose again in embarrassment. Nothing like having your kid basically announce to a hot guy that your ex husband ditched you.

But Bradley's lips curved into a smirk. "How about your mom and I talk about it, kiddo?" he asked, and Everett gave him a high five. "Now that I have your number?" 

You just nodded as you started to shove everything you brought into the gear bag.

-------------------------

You had scrunched your nose up again, just like a kitten, and Bradley felt the urge to reach out and touch you. He'd love to take you and Ev to a baseball game. He thought he might even like to hang out with you one on one, now that he knew Everett's dad didn't live with you any longer. But now he was wondering if you were single or seeing someone else.

Bradley watched you hurriedly packing up Everett's gear while he ran off to say bye to Bob. But Bradley didn't walk away, instead he texted you so you would have his contact information as well. 

When you checked your phone, you looked up at him again and laughed. "Your name is Bradley Bradshaw? Brad Brad?"

He groaned and pretended to be annoyed, but he really wasn't. "My parents probably thought they were hilarious."

Your laughter had him grinning again. "It's not a bad name! I'm sorry I laughed." But you were still laughing.

"You're not sorry," he said with a playful glare. 

When you scrunched your nose again and ducked away from him, you said, "No, I'm not."

Then Everett streaked back over and asked Bradley to walk to the parking lot with the two of you, and Bradley was helpless to say no.

"You have fun again today?" Bradley asked him as he bounced around, full of energy.

"Yes! I even hit the ball!"

"Yeah, you hit it hard. You'll be a power hitter when you make it to the major league. We just need to work on your fielding."

You were smiling but looking straight ahead at your car.

"What position do you like to play?" Everett asked, eyes wide as he looked up at Bradley.

"Usually shortstop. Sometimes second base."

"Did you used to play for the Padres or something?" Everett asked, completely in awe.

Bradley just laughed. "No, kiddo. I played in college. Then I joined the Navy, because I definitely was not good enough to play for the Padres."

"You're in the Navy?" you asked him as Bradley opened Everett's door and took the gear bag from your shoulder. Even touching your body through your suit coat was enough to require Bradley to take an extra breath before answering you.

"Yeah. So is Bob. We're both aviators."

"Wow," you whispered. "Impressive."

"Mommy! I'm hungry!" Everett called from the backseat as Bradley placed the bag on the floor.

"Me too, Ev. I'll get dinner ready as soon as we get home," you promised him, and Bradley could tell you were a good mom. You kind of reminded him of Carole Bradshaw, if he was being honest.

"Be good, and listen to your mom," Bradley told Everett as he closed the back door and then opened yours. "See you on Monday."

"See you then," you replied softly, slipping into your seat before Bradley gently closed your door.

He waved at Everett who was reaching his arm out the window as you pulled away, and then he climbed into the Bronco and headed to the Hard Deck.

Bob was already there when Bradley arrived, and Nat was on them right away. "You two look adorable in your matching Tiny Eagles jerseys."

"Thanks, Nat. I feel adorable. Do you feel adorable, Bob?"

Bob just blushed and walked away with his cup of peanuts. 

"So how are the moms treating you?" Nat asked as they both waited for drinks at the bar.

Bradley rolled his eyes. "Just fine."

"Are you hooking up with one of them yet?" she asked casually. 

"What the fuck, Nat? No! I'm there to coach the kids!"

"Chill, Rooster! It's so easy to get you riled up when you're trying to hide something! Bob said you have a crush on one of the moms."

He just shook his head and thanked Jimmy for his beer. "I don't. She's just cute is all. Not my type. Never gonna be my type," he promised, heading toward the pool table. And as if he was trying to make his point to Nat, he chatted up the first woman who approached him and left with her number. He wasn't going to call her, but Nat didn't need to know that. 

He didn't even save the number in his phone, because yours was already in there. 

---------------------

In an effort to get that mustache and those biceps out of your mind, you called Frank on Saturday afternoon and agreed to head over to his place. 

He never cooks in his condo kitchen, and he hates when anything is messy, so you're not sure if you want to stay over or not. But you pack a bag just in case. 

When you get there, he has Thai takeout waiting along with a bottle of prosecco. "I'm glad you decided to come over," Frank whispered, running his hand up along your leggings while you tried to eat. 

"Yeah," you agreed halfheartedly. "Me too."

How had your life been reduced to this? Sleeping with a man you didn't have feelings for after ending a marriage to a man who never loved you? You wouldn't allow yourself to dwell on it for too long. 

"Let's head to the bedroom," he told you, snatching you out of your seat as soon as you finished your last bite of food.

As Frank ran his hands along your body and undressed you, it was easy enough to close your eyes and let your mind drift a little bit. Then his hands felt good, running up your sides and removing your shirt. It felt nice when he removed your bra and squeezed your breasts. It was even lovely when he pushed you down onto his bed and pressed you into the mattress with his weight. But when he started fucking you, it was just so mediocre. He somehow lasted too long, and you knew that you'd never be able to get off with him tonight. 

"You're so sexy, baby. Am I making you feel good?" Frank asked you softly.

You let your disappointment wash over you, but Frank didn't seem to notice the sad little gasps you made as he came before withdrawing himself and removing the condom. 

You checked your phone as you got dressed, and you nearly dropped it on the floor. You had a text from Bradley. A screenshot of ticket options for the Phillies vs Padres game the following month.

Bradley Bradshaw: Do you think Ev would prefer to sit behind home plate or in the outfield?

Now your heart was beating faster. Now you felt a little silly inside. Now you could imagine getting yourself worked up for a healthy orgasm.

"Everything okay? You keep looking at your phone," Frank said as he pulled his underwear back on. 

"Actually...." you started, and the lie was out of your mouth before you could stop it. "It's my sister. I need to go pick up Everett. But thanks for dinner."

Frank kissed you softly, holding your body against his before you broke away with a quick goodnight. You practically ran across the parking lot and jumped into your car with a smile on your face. Then you responded to the text.

Everett is going to think any seat is the best seat.

Bradley responded almost immediately, which shocked you since it was eight o'clock on Saturday night. 

Bradley Bradshaw: Well then why don't you tell me where you'd like to sit.

You pictured yourself sitting in his lap, and you felt very warm. When you started your car, you turned on the air conditioner as you drove away. 

His lap. 

You could picture yourself there so easily, like you'd already spent time snuggled up with him.

What was wrong with you?! You barely knew this man! 

It only took you five minutes to get to your house, and as soon as you walked in, your hand was sliding down inside the front of your leggings and into your underwear. You eased yourself down onto your couch as you touched yourself exactly how Frank never seemed to be able to. 

You stroked your clit just right with your middle finger, and then you came so quickly, it surprised you. 

When you caught your breath, you located your phone and responded.

Your call, Coach. What view do you like the best?

------------------------

Bradley was sitting at his kitchen island, considering all the filthy things he wanted to send back to you.

You were definitely flirting with him now, right? You had to be single, right?

He quickly typed out his response and hit send before he could change his mind.

Any seat where I can see you.

---------------------------

I am thrilled by how much love you all had for the first part of this story! I hope you keep on loving Coach Bradley! Thanks to @beyondthesefourwalls and @mak-32!

PART 3

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[theyanderespecialist]

The Deal (Scenario) Yanderes Asmodeus/Fizzarolli X GN Blitzo Reader (Helluva Boss)

[Hello, I am finally getting around to this one! I hope that you all enjoy this chapter! It is after Fizz quits and How Ozzie and Fizz's relationship changes. Maybe a little of that episode! So good luck! I hope that you all enjoy this. 

Disclaimer: You take the place of a Gender Neutral Listener 

Disclaimer 2: Fizz and Ozzie are a canon couple, they are not yandere in canon. This is just for fun and not to be taken seriously. Simping for fictional characters and yanderes is fine. Just do not be illegal or gross about it. Yanderes are not ideal partners to have in real life. Also, remember to separate fiction from reality and headcanon from canon.

(Yanderes Asmodeus/Fizzarolli) 

(No One's POV) 

Fizz had a crush on (Name) when they were kids. They were just such sweet Imps. Then the accident happened and a huge misunderstanding came from it. For over a decade he has hated one of the loves of his life. He mourned that he could have been with (Name). When Fizz learned the truth, that (Name) had wanted to see. That they do care. It made his heart ache. Also, it reminded him that they were dating Stolas kind of. That left him bitter and angry. 

He gets ready for his date with Ozzie and then hears Ozzie come in. 

"Why are you upset Froggy?" Ozzie asks him. 

"well you know how I used to have feelings for (Name)...?" Fizz asks. "After they saved me... These feelings reared their head again... I love you so much Oz... It is just hard." 

Ozzie pulls Fizz close. "It is okay Fizzy," Ozzie says. "I can tell why you love them, they are quite something." 

Fizz stops and looks at him. "Oz? Are you attracted to them?" Fizz asks curiously. 

"Yes, they are physically attractive, but it is more so that they saved you~ That they would never have hurt you like that, seeing them shoot your stalker~ That was kind of hot~," Ozzie says and kisses down Fizz's neck. "If you want, we could have them~ Keep them as our lovers ~" 

"We could?" Fizz asks, this was the best situation that they could get in. 

"We could, I still have to give them one of my crystals," Ozzie says. "Maybe we can even make a deal with them~ Make them ours, and ours alone~" 

Fizz grins, that would be the best of both worlds. He would have (Name) and Ozzie, both of them being the loves of his life and he would never EVER let go of (Name) again. They belong to them~ 

-Small Time Skip;  Brought to you by: Ozzie being an Evil Little Fuck-

(Name) was eating cheese and having a good time. When their phone rings, they answer it. "Hello?" They ask around a mouthful of cheese. "What do you need?" 

"(Name)!" An excited Fizz says. "Since we are friends again, I thought I could have you over for dinner. You know, just me, you, and Ozzie." 

"Okay?" (Name) draws out. "I mean I will not say no to a free meal, just is it you cooking or the lusty king? Last time I checked you burn water when cooking." 

Fizz blushes. "Yes, Ozzie will be cooking," He confirms. 

"Okay then, I won't say no to a good meal, and my daughter is out with Tex and the Queen Bee. She won't be back until Monday." (Name) says and starts to put on their shoes. "So I guess I am all yours!" 

Fizz smirks happily, Yes, (Name). You are all Mine~ "That is great, we will pick you up in a few." 

"Okie doki!" (Name) says and eats the last bit of cheese. 

They wonder what prompted this. They shrug, whatever a free meal is a free meal. Soon Ozzie and Fizz are there and (Name) gets in with them. They drove down to Lust, (Name) talked to Fizz, they could tell that he was nervous. Was it because he was on edge because of the dinner? It was his idea, not (Name's). 

They got up to the penthouse and there was a candlelit dinner. Wait what was going on? 

"Were you guys planning a romantic date before inviting me?" (Name) asks. 

"Kind of. The romantic date is for you, (Name)." Fizz says and (Name's) face goes a bright red. Oh boy! 

"Hehe, oh that is a lot!" They laugh. "What does that mean, you two want a threesome." 

Ozzie pulls out a chair for (Name) and they sit down. 

"thank you." 

"Anything for you," Ozzie says. 

Fizz pulls out a box that looks oddly enough like an engagement box. 

"We both want you, (Name)," Fizz says. "We do, really bad, but we know at this time you are bonded to Stolas, Ozzie can break that bind and then you will be free. To be with us." 

(Name) takes the box and opens it, there is a crystal to have access to the human world. "Oh... Frick." They could not even swear, this is a lot. 

They also have feelings for Stolas. 

"Stolas cannot love you like we can," Ozzie says. "He is using you for his gain, he made a contract with you, so you will have to fuck him." 

(Name) bites their lip. 

"But we," Fizz adds. "We love you so much, I always have loved you, from since we were kids. You are just the perfect most wonderful darling." 

"Fizz is right, why be with Stolas, who is not good enough for you, who does not appreciate you and does not stand by your side?" Ozzie asks, both were manipulating (Name's) emotional state. 

"I-" 

"Let us love you." fizz says and kisses them. "Let us show you how much you mean to us~" 

(Name) felt their eyes tear up and they slowly kissed back Fizz. Fuck it was always what they wanted. 

Fizz pulls away, this is it (Name) is almost their Darling. 

"So what do you say, baby?" Ozzie asks. 

"Alright." (Name) agrees it felt nice for someone to say they wanted them, and not ask for anything in return. (Name) felt loved and it made them feel good. 

(Name) made the deal and they did not know that they just swore themselves to the Sin of Lust and His Imp lover, forever! 

[YASSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS another Chapter is done! I hope that you all enjoyed this, and stay sexy, all of my sexy muffins!] 

[bellysoupset]

I cannot find the ask for this, but to the anon who requested sick Wendy + Max caretaker, here you go!!

------------------------------

"Marshall, you've gone over your hours," her supervisor had squinted at her in a tired manner, "again."

She was a resident doctor, meaning Wendy's hours were split between clinic, or more often than not ER in her case, and specialized clinic, where she took the neurology cases and discussed it with fellow residents and her supervisor.

Problem was, Wendy had taken half of Jon's general clinic hours during his three weeks away. She had figured it wouldn't be an issue, given those were up for grabs and she'd get a considerable pay bump that month...

"No, I didn't," Wendy pouted, rubbing at her forehead and drumming the pen impatiently against her notepad, "I did my math, I didn't go over 80 hours per the week..."

"You got Patterson's double shift last Monday and came in an hour early every day this week. That puts you at 96, Marshall," her supervisor, Dr. Jones, was a woman in her early sixties, who always looked annoyed, "I'm putting you on leave for the rest of the week."

"What-" Wendy's eyebrows jumped up, "you can't do that, ma'am-"

"The hospital cannot afford all the hours you think you can do," Dr. Jones glared at her, "and frankly, Marshall, it's neither financially feasible or healthy. Push me on this and I'm gonna request your psych eval."

Well, shit.

Really, what was there to even say?

Wendy's frustration at being forced away from work dragged during most of morning, until Jonah had sent her a string of laughing emojis when she told him about it and the text, You're pissed because you got a free vacation? get out of my sight Dee and Bella had sent her a middle finger followed by go FUCK YOUR BOYFRIEND, WOMAN!!!!!

Her mood had cleared up considerably as she was forced to realize this meant five uninterrupted days of waking up next to Vince and eating her boyfriend's cooking and getting dicked down until she forgot her name.

Her bag was 70% just lingerie and Wendy had put on her best matching set under her outfit — beige flared jeans, chunky white heels and a sage green frilly crop top, with silver jewelry — all but bouncing to her car. She had turned up the music and ignored the drumming behind her eyes.

By the time she got to Doverport, though, her headache had escalated enough to cause Wendy to shut the music off. She had taken the max dosage of tylenol already and her stomach was iffy from a mix of hunger and too much medication, since she had skipped lunch when trying to get to the town before the school day ended, so she could wait for Vin in the parking lot.

She was glaring at her phone, trying to will Vince to answer her text, when the screen lit up.

P.Mgnt: you're here???

This caused Wendy to pout. She had expected a more enthusiastic reaction than this.

Wendy: sorry?

Vince was typing back an answer immediately.

P.Mgnt: I'm sorry honey, I'm happy you're here. I just can't go meet you right now, I'm stuck in detention duty :/ I'm gonna be here for another hour :(

Ah, shit. Wendy rubbed angrily at her forehead, the throbbing there increasing considerably. It was a warm day and she really didn't want to wait in the parking lot for another hour... She just wanted him.

She considered telling Vince she wasn't feeling well, maybe he'd find another teacher to watch the kids, when another text came in.

P.Mgnt: Go ahead to my place. Get a shower and catch up on an episode of 911 , i'll be there soon🥰

Wendy sighed heavily, feeling a knot form in her throat and her eyes burning. The text wasn't dismissive and she knew it was only one hour and that she had dropped by surprise, but it still sucked and she really just wanted him.

Her headache spiked to the point it it felt like an actual physical drilling on her left eye and Wendy bit back a groan, getting inside her car once more. There was no kidding herself this was just a headache anymore and she felt even closer to tears, it was so unfair she got a migraine right now, of all times.

Not only that, but a sense of urgency overtook her. If it was a migraine, she needed to get to Vince's place quicker, before her brain forgot how to drive and was too busy attacking itself in a constant pain loop.

With something closer to a whimper, Wendy started her car.

-------------

Max Daniels was not a snoop, he'd like this in writing.

Sure, he had been very curious when he saw Vince's cute girlfriend in the parking lot, but instead of staying to meet with her boyfriend she had gotten in the car back again and left.

And sure he was tailing her, but that was only because the shortest route to his own place was through the main avenue and he was not about to take the longer way just to avoid her.

And yes, when she turned the emergency lights and pulled over on the side of the road, he had pulled over as well, but that was called Being A Nice Person, after all he knew the woman. What if she needed help?

He was currently sitting in his pickup, staring at Wendy's car and trying to figure if it was completely out of line for him to approach her or not. Vince wouldn't be pissed Max had tried to be nice to his girl, right? He didn't seem the jealous sort, but then again he had bitten Max's head off for less regarding the woman and he had been all sarcastic that one time Max hit on Wendy, before he knew who she was.

Why wasn't her getting out of the car, anyway?

With a frustrated sigh, Max got out of his own pickup and circled Wendy's pale pink sedan, until he was in front of the driver's side. She was crumpled forward, forehead pressed to the steering wheel and flinched visibly when Max knocked on the window.

His curiosity only grew as he saw her bloodshot eyes and Max jumped back as she pushed the door open and squinted at him, "yeah?"

"You need help, gorgeous?" The nickname rolled past his tongue, before he could think better of it, "you turned your emergency lights."

"Uhm-" Wendy pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead like she wanted to push her eye in its socket, "car-" she gulped down, frowning, "carsssmakin' a weird noise..."

Max's frown deepened, noticing the slight slur of her words, "are you okay?" he asked, really taking in her appearance. Her lips were pale and she looked close to the color of spoiled milk, eyes rimmed red...

"Mmm'kay," Wendy groaned, then a small, cute little burp shook her frame and she squeezed her eyes shut, "S'ry..."

Max was well versed enough with puking to recognize nausea from a mile away. He stepped to the side, but crouched down to touch her arm, "you're feeling sick?"

She nodded, gulping down, without opening her eyes and Max winced in sympathy, looking around her car. There was a suitcase in the backseat and a frankly ridiculously looking Stanley cup sitting the cup holder. Max chewed on the words, hesitantly, before saying, "would water help?"

Wendy shrugged, the hand that was pressed to her forehead digging in even more, so much it looked like she was gonna leave a bruise there. Max reached in and grabbed her cup, opening the lid and sniffing at it. Monster Energy, great. No wonder she looked sick, just smelling that made Max's stomach squeeze, he couldn't fathom drinking it.

He needed a new plan, because Wendy was leaning forward, elbows on her knees now and breathing slowly through her mouth, condition deteriorating by the seconds, "were you headed to Vince's?"

She nodded, then let out another little burp, this one not as dainty, with a brassy tone to it.

"Alright, hurl and then I'll drive you there. I can come back for your car later," Max decided by clasping his hands and the clap noise they made caused her to flinch, then another burp snuck up on her, this one turning wet... She whimpered and cradled her head with both hands, while Max moved further away so his shoes wouldn't get covered in vomit.

"Get it up, gorgeous, you're gonna feel better in a second," he figured her stomach was rejecting all that energy drink, as his own would've been, and planted a hand on her back, looking around to give her some semblance of privacy. It was a sunny day and the main avenue was quite busy, cars continuing to go past them.

Under his hand, Wendy's shoulders rolled and she let out a little choked, "Oh god-" before heaving and nearly falling from her seat. Max cringed, glancing down and noticing her wavy hair getting in the way, so he carefully held back her curtain bangs, just in time for Wendy to vomit. A small light brown puddle formed on the tarmac and Wendy let out a burp again, before melting into a coughing fit.

Max grimaced as he heard another whimper, then a gag, "there you go," he moved his hands so his left one could cup her clammy forehead, "get it up."

She nearly fell out of the door with the next heave, whole body lurching as a much bigger wave came up and splashed on the ground, causing Max to internally curse as the tips of his brown boots got splashed with puke.

Then Wendy went boneless.

He let out a yelp as she collapsed forward, only not falling because he was holding her, and puke be damned, Max crouched down in front of her, "Wendy, Wendy, hey-" he said frantically, patting her cheeks, "Wendy, c'mon, don't do this to me, open your eyes."

It was just a small black out, she started to straighten up again, but Max's heart was now in his ears. He couldn't believe his luck if girl died on him. He pushed her hair back, no longer trying to be gentle, hating how white she was, "Wendy?"

"Sssstop-" she grabbed his wrist, whole face scrunching up with pain, "talkin..."

He snorted in disbelief. Some nerve she had to tell him to shut up!

"Well, fucking excuse me if I'm worried! If you die on me, your polar bear of a boyfriend is gonna have my head!" Max glared at her and Wendy opened her eyes. He knew they were pretty, but he couldn't remember their color. Now he saw they were a beautiful dark green shade, currently welling up with tears, "wait, no- No, don't cry-"

"Stop. Talking," she said strongly, as tears ran down her cheeks and gritting her teeth, "hurts..."

Oh.

Max felt stupid and embarrassed, his whole face turning red as he understood why she was shushing him. He wiped the tears with his thumb, trying to collect his thoughts. She needed to be lying down in the dark, not sitting on the side of the road with a puddle of puke in between them.

"C'mere," Max whispered, grabbing her arms and throwing them around his neck, silently praying she was too out of it to comment on how touchy he was being when they were basically strangers. There was no other way of getting her out of that car, "hold on me," he wrapped an arm around her waist and lifted Wendy out of the car.

It was a good thing she was so tiny, because he managed to lift her up entirely, so she didn't clumsily step on the mess. She was panting in pain against his ear, burying her face in his shoulder, body tense as a slab.

"Almost there," he stumbled forward with her, all but bracing against his pickup. Max opened the passenger door, then cringed, "sorry, uh- Excuse me," he mumbled, then hugged her waist and lifted Wendy up to sit in the passenger side. Whatever misplaced intimacy he was feeling, was promptly ruined by her gagging and burping up a small stream of puke, down his shirt.

Max froze, while Wendy's forehead pressed to his shoulder, like she couldn't lift up her head. Her shoulders were shaking as she sobbed and he rubbed her back, "it's alright, gorgeous, don't even worry about it," he sighed, straightening her up to rest against the passenger door. It was terrifying how quickly she had become unresponsive, "I'll just put this down in Vince's tab, don't stress it."

He leaned over her, grabbing his shades in the glovebox and then planting them on her face. Wendy let out a little sigh, body melting slightly, "t-thanks..."

"Yep," he grimaced at the mess in his t-shirt, wanting to remove it, but worried it'd make her uncomfortable if he was shirtless around her, "I'm gonna lock your car, be right back."

At her car, he grabbed her purse and suitcase in the backseat, her keys still in the ignition and then stripped his shirt, using her Monster energy drink to wash off the puke. He'd rather be smelling like that than vomit. Then he drove her car further to the dust shoulder and turned off the emergency lights, locking it.

Wendy was curled up as much as she could in the passenger seat and Max squeezed her knee in a friendly manner, before driving off.

[mandy-asimp]

Forever home

Melissa Schemmenti x reader

Warning: hurt, lots of crying, yelling, throwing things, miscommunication, insecurities, a few swear words, fluff at like the veeeerrrrry end

A/n: I'm sorry if I forgot any warnings, I didn't proof read, I literally had this idea off of like a spurr and just started going

"You tanked Janine! Took the whole school with you! It was impressive." Melissa poked at the younger teacher. Not knowing you were walking out the building.

"Leave the poor girl alone, she tried to help." You stood behind the red head. "Janine I think you made a choice and it didn't give you what you wanted, but it's nice that you care so much." You didn't look at the two, focusing on your class before you threw a water balloon at one kid.

Your class lit up and you took the to the open park across the street. Missing the rest of the conversation held between the two.

Today you wore a white top, not really planning to be playing in water today. So while your class left, you were in your classroom. Soaked to the bone.

The knock on your door made you head snap up. "Oh! Hey Janine?" You flashed a smile. "What can I do for ya?"

"I just wanted to say thank you. For the words you said earlier. You really had my back. And you know how Melissa is." She stood cautiously by your door.

You furrowed your brows, "Janine why are you just standing by the door? You're free to come in more. Hey did you eat today?"

"Im fine I was just stopping by. And I was gonna wait...but I should eat now since I'm hungry." She nodded like it was some new discovery.

"Well it's me and Melissa, but I also know Gregory is going out if you wanna go with him. You wont get bullied by Melissa." You joked. Still drying out your shirt.

Janine watched for a second. "You and Melissa? What's that all about?" Her curiosity peaked. "Also I have an extra shirt if you wanna change?"

"No I'm good, I have to go home to change anyways. And me and Melissa? We're just friends I guess." You played it down. "She was the teacher I began with. She made me like it here a lot and then during the pandemic, she let me come stay with her and her husband. I usually had headphones playing loud music so they had time together. She got mad at me for it a lot cause I never came up for dinner."

"You lived with her?! How did you manage?" Janine was baffled by the new found information. "Does that make you like the second person who knows so much about her? After Barb?"

You shrugged and didn't see harm in talking about the past a bit. "She gives you a hard time cause your new."

"Ok but that doesn't explain how you went from her student teacher to living with her?" Janine pushed. She needed to know what was the reason for the favoritism.

"Are you ready?" Melissa's voice came from the door way. Ending the conversation entirely. The 2nd grade teacher in front of you frowned at the nasty look the older gave. "Still can't believe you tanked. Like the whole school Janine. The. Whole. School."

"Melissa," You warned lowly. Getting into a short staring match with her. Which you won with a smile. "I have to run home and change, but then I'll be there for dinner."

"Whatever." She scoffed and walked away.

You had to take a deep breath before having to deal with her. "Janine, just don't listen to her. She's clearly just upset you took whatever fish she had in the fridge. She'll find something new Monday. Have a good weekend." You led her out the room.

Once you got home, you could find no sight of Melissa. No car in the driveway, no opened wine, nothing. You tried to call her, but got the voicemail. Five times. You looked for her location, but got her at the school.

With one last call, you changed and just went to the restaurant. Sitting at the table while dressed in your best. But after waiting for half an hour, you decided to just go home. Tipping the waiter for putting up with you and holding up a table.

You felt embarrassed. There was also anger and fury in you. You called Melissa while on your way home, leaving a voicemail. Going on about how when she's ready to pull her head out her ass and talk to you, you'd be ready.

What you didn't expect was that to lead into tomorrow.

Staurday.

You woke up in a bed alone. It had been years since this feeling. You groaned in frustration and went looking through the house. Not any trace. No note. No car. Nothing.

You let it play out, maybe she just went out early and would be back before noon. Constantly checking your phone to see if anything would come from her.

By five you were at Barbs in tears. You explained you hadn't seen her for twenty-four hours now. How you got nothing from her but she left Friday with a scoff.

That night you stayed at the kindergarten teachers house. Her and Gerald being the nicest people to you while in such a state.

Barbra had watched you two fall in love. The first year you two worked together, she knew you were the one. So seeing you crying over such a thing hurt her. It enraged her that her friend could do such a thing.

That night, before dinner, Barb tried calling Melissa. Getting the voicemail, and she wasn't going to call back. She explained calmly but with so much venom about the harm she's caused. How you can sobbing to her.

"Why don't you come eat with us? Get something in you?" She offered to your lifeless body. You were so numb you couldn't. You just shook your head. "Y/n, sweetheart, please. I know it hurts but you have to get something in you."

"What if she never comes back?" You whispered out. "I don't know what I did. I...I don't know how to control this. I was angry. So so angry at her for standing me up. But now I just I want her home. But what if she doesn't come home?"

Barbra hugged you. She held you on to you tight. Feeling you tremble in her embrace. She held you until your cries subsided. Holding you even through uneven breathing and the soft sniffling. Scared that if she let go, you'd think you had no one.

"Come on, we can make plates and eat on the couch tonight. Watch your favorite?" She offered. Seeing the smallest sparkle in your eyes. "I'll make you a small plate, and if you want more, you can grab more."

You nodded and mumbled a thank you. Slowly trying to find The Devil wears Prada.

Sunday.

You woke up on the couch. Frowning that you still had no sign of Melissa. You cleaned up your stay and wrote Barbra a note thanking her for everything and saying you'll see her Monday.

On your drive back you stopped at the store. Desperate to find something to distract you for another day.

You picked up a Lego set, one that you didn't need but knew it would take your entire day.

Driving home, you had a large pool of hope to see her car. It hurt you to know that you were getting hopeful for the worst. And then it hurt when you didn't see the red truck. That red truck that you had star gazing dates in. That red truck that you've made out in. That red truck. Tears streamed down your face when you got inside.

They kept falling as you showered and changed. You wore one of her sweatshirts and a pair of shorts. Crew socks protecting you from the cold floors. They felt colder than normal. The whole house did.

It was empty.

Your Sunday was filled with movies, legos, and multiple water bottles. Your phone next to you as you desperately awaited a call or a text.

Monday.

You woke up to rustling. "Mel?" You quietly called. Voice being dry and hoarse from sobbing yourself to sleep. You sat up and rubbed your eyes. "Melissa?" There was no one, it was still dark in the room. The tv being the only light.

"I'm sorry, but it's just me. You weren't answering my text about if you were awake." Barbra's voice came through the dark.

You stayed silent as your lip trembled. Tears rolled down your face. "I...Barb." Was all you could say. She nodded and walked over. Pulling you from the bed and hugging you.

"Why don't you get ready and I'll drive you to work today?" She held your face, her thumbs wiping your tears away. "We can even stop for breakfast."

You nodded and got ready. Not putting much effort in, and everyone knew when you walked in the morning.

Your hair was freely down and you were in jeans. But you hardly wore jeans unless it was Wednesday or Friday. And the button up that belonged to Melissa was untucked. Your socks didn't match. You had your glasses on and hardly any makeup.

You moved in silence while in the lounge. Head held down and picking at your nails until the coffee was done. You took it straight and walked silently to your class. Not coming out until you had to print your papers for the day.

Ten minutes before she's counted late. You counted those second that made up the time. Once the kids came in and she didn't, you rushed back with your papers holding in your tears.

You sent her one simple text. Turning off your phone for the morning and masking everything for your kids.

Thankful that gym and lunch was back to back. Giving you an hour and a half or so to cry. It was only three minutes into that time before Barbra was comforting you again.

You had cried so hard that you had to throw up. You were surprised by yourself today. You've never cried this hard. Never. And now you were dry heaving.

Barbra was leading you down with your head buried in her side. You could hear her say something, but you couldn't bear look at who she said it to.

You knew who it was, especially went you felt your heart get pulled back. You wanted to run to her. To cry into her knowing she was safe and she was here. Yet, you couldn't. You just let Barbra walk you to Ava. Leaving you with her.

Ava, when she cares, she get serious. And seeing you, one of her more valued workers, made her serious.

She held you for the rest of the time you had. Letting you cry into her shirt. She didn't care you were soaking it with sadness, she just wanted you ok.

Once your time was up, you wiped your face. Giving a final hug to your boss before trudging to the lunch room.

When you opened the door, your heart wanted to burst. The overwhelming emotions seeing her talking to your class. You mustered it all up, ignoring her entirely as you collected your class.

On the verge of tears when your hand brushes against hers. A shaky breath left your body when it happened.

The rest of the day you stayed in your class. Feeling relieved when your kids left and it was just you.

A few tears fell out your eyes as you packed up. Taking in your silence as you left the building. You didn't stop and talk to anyone. Just walked out to your...Barbra.

You instantly spun in your feet, ready to head back but there she was. Not Barb, no Melissa. You wiped away the tears that started falling faster. "Shit," You whispered in annoyance. Making a beeline to the eldest teacher

Barb was expecting you. But not with this many tears. "You know you can't avoid her forever. She's hurting just as much as you are."

You nodded, knowing she was right. "It just hurts to see her after being completely ignored. I just...I couldn't even figure it out."

"Well, I'll drive you home." She knew you didn't want to get into it. She knew most of it already anyways.

When you got home, there was no truck again. Barbra asked if you were going to be ok and you had to be. You couldn't keep her forever so you just nodded.

When you got in, you poured a glass of wine and changed. Balling up on the couch and watching another movie.

Waiting for that door to open again. Needing her walk through the door tonight. If she doesn't you might died.

Tuesday.

You sat in the teachers lounge this morning. Not letting tears get you today.

"Oh! Y/n! Its good to see you! Where were you yesterday?" Janine came in, a bright smile on her face.

You hummed, "busy morning. I got nothing done over the weekend." The lie fell from you with ease. "And its good to see you as well Janine."

Everyone else began to fill in. And you could sense when Mel came in. You could sense her any day.

The morning was quiet with you. You didn't sit next to Melissa, instead you sat next to Janine. Listening to her watch videos for the wish list.

"Janine, I swear if I hear one more preppy video," Melissa turned in her chair. "You should put a pair of headphones on that list."

You gave a quiet scoff. "Janine, I wouldn't stress it. I think it's adorable how you're making a video for your classroom needs."

Melissa looked at you next, right before turning while shaking her head. "Well maybe you should just date Janine." She whispered so quiet only Barb heard it, and you could tell it.

"Melissa!" Barbra scolded, never seeing such a side of her friend. Her brown eyes quickly jumped to you. "Y/n..."

"No. If she wants to be immature and childish, the so fucking be it." You collected everything and rushed out. Tears burning in your eyes.

The rest of the day you avoided everyone. Not wanting to give into the tears that begged to spill. You were tired of crying. Tired of being tired.

The woman you've been with for the past five years is suddenly someone you've never met. You've met jealous Melissa, and this was not that green monster.

That night you stayed up. You expected her to come home tonight. After what happened you expected her to. But she didn't.

It hurt. It burned. It shattered. You couldn't understand what the hell was happening. So you called her. Not getting any answer, but you laid it out in the voicemail. The emotions ripping at you.

Wednesday.

You didn't go to school. You stayed home and sulked. Crying the entire morning. Only stopping for an hour or so to drink water. Just to cry it all out again.

It was a repeating pattern with it. That was all your day was. You couldn't believe you were crying this hard for someone.

Yet, it'd be terrible if you weren't crying over her. You spent the past five years with her. Even though it wasn't official till last year though.

You were with her through everything, and now she's just throwing you away.

That night you stared at yourself in the mirror. First silently, then after an hour, you screamed. You screamed so loud you heard dogs start barking from streets down.

Thursday.

Tomorrow would mark a week of whatever is happening. Not...that anyone was keeping track or anything.

You went to school and just kept to yourself. It was a you day where you talked to nobody. You hardly talked to your students.

You gave them papers of what they knew to just do extra practice and did your own thing.

And at night you did what you did for what seems like a month, sat with a glass of wine waiting.

Friday.

A week. A week if not talking to her. A week without a text. A week without a call. A week of constant tears. A week of hurting.

You walked into your classroom and see a box. A familiar box that you adore so much. There was a blue sticky note on top.

Your heart thumped loudly. Each step was a louder thump.

You read the note and a small smile tugged at your lips. But then you let the pain she cause catch up to you today.

You went through your day, a bit more on edge. A bit meaning you were shaking the entire day since reading the note.

By the time you were home, you were downing water. Trying to calm the nerves that we're eating you alive. They took over your body and you felt cold and clammy.

The door opened. You wanted to throw up everything. You wanted to be eaten alive by the floor. To be abducted by aliens. Ran over by a train. Honestly anything to not be here.

"Hun?" A soft voice called in. She walked further into the house. And when you laid eyes on her, you couldn't.

The mixture of rage and sadness forcing tears out. You began yelling. It didn't stop, you just kept yelling. Screaming things you didn't know you wanted to say. You stepped closer and closer and once you were close and she stared at you, she looked shocked to think you could say such, and it made you even more mad.

You threw your hands up and kept screaming. You began throwing objects, being conscious of what you had. Nothing was breaking to satisfy you.

You grabbed your wine glass, note it still had a bit of wine, and threw it at her. Instantly shutting up when it fell to the ground where she used to be standing. You were thankful she moved, but the feeling that glass had made you pant.

"I know you're upset," she began. But it didn't go long because you kept going. You laid it on to her heavy. You've never yelled at someone like this before.

You plopped down when you were for sure done. Watching her with puffy eyes.

She began to talk. And as she went on, you still didn't hear her reasoning. It was just a long apology of how she knew she was wrong.

"Please, I'm sorry." She looked at you longingly.

You shook your head. "You don't get you just apologize and not give me a reason. You left me for a week without saying a word. You stood me up at dinner Mel. What did I do?" You croaked.

Melissa's eyes went wide and she rushed to crouch in front of you. Holding your face and wiping away tears.

"Honey none of this. And I absolutely mean none of this, was your fault. I...I let my insecurities get me. On Friday when you were defending Janine and then talking to her alone," she got out quietly. The fear of you looking at her differently feasting on her.

You could only begin crying. You slipped off the couch into her arms. Sobbing so heavily. Melissa wrapped her arms and held you tightly. Even when you tried hitting her chest and pull away. She could only apologize at you.

Tears of her own showering your head. Neither one of you able to part. You not wanting her to disappear ever again, and her not wanting to see you pained the way you are.

It was well past midnight when you came through again. Stirring around trying to determine where you were.

In your bed with a bonding like grip on you. You couldn't move but you moved enough to wake up Melissa.

"Mel..." you softly spoke. Grabbing at her hands to loosen them. Only making them tighten around you.

"No..." she grumbled. "I can't let go of you."

"Melly? I'm not asking you to let go of me, I'm asking you to just let go of me." You pulled at her hands again, getting the to let go. You rolled over to prop yourself up. Looking down at your woman as her face was so relaxed.

Her eyes fluttered open. Instantly filling with tears. "Please don't leave me..." her tears began falling. "I know I was wrong but please. I cant go through it."

"Melly, I'm not leaving you. You did a terrible terrible thing and I still hardly know why, except that it had something to do with Janine?" You pushed hair out of her face and getting comfortable in her arms again. "What went through that head?"

Melissa moved to rest lower and bury her head into your chest. You knew she needed to be held, so that's what you did. She explained it all to you while you played with her hair.

"And I just....it kept eating at me that you were tired and wanted someone young. I know not Janine but I wanted to get it over with so you couldn't break my heart." She finished. The sun peaking up and through your blinds. "And when you yelled and said what you said, I had a reality check."

You pulled her head back slightly to see her face. Leaning down and kissing her so passionately.

"I will never, and I mean never, mean what I say when I'm mad. It will never mean anything until I have time to calm down and talk sensibly. I was so so hurt that you did that to me though. And it hurt even worst because I knew I still would love you after it all. Because I love you Melissa." You kissed her forehead.

You took in this moment. You had the woman you swore to marriage within your own head. She was your forever. Since the first day with her she was your everything.

"I love you too, y/n." She smiled. It was the most genuine smile you've ever seen this woman give you.

The look in that woman's eyes before you both fell back asleep was all you needed to know she was your forever home.

[natashaslesbian]

Scarlett and her daughter are going out to eat, having a great time until the paparazzi show up. Scarlett is protecting her daughter who is panicking

Paparazzi

Word Count:

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“You ready to get going kiddo?” Scarlett called as you came down the stairs “yes mommy” you said. Today was Wednesday, meaning it was your special afternoon with mommy. Scarlett always made sure she had Wednesday afternoons free so she could collect you from school and take you out to do something special. Today you’re going for ice cream, a treat after receiving your most recent school report. Your mom always knew you were a smart kid and at only 8 years old you were top of the class, Scarlett was so proud of you. “Let’s get going then baby” your mom said as she took hold of your hand and lead you to the car.

The whole journey you thought of what ice cream flavour you were going to have and what toppings would go with it. You were unaware of the car trailing behind you and didn’t even notice when Scarlett took a few wrong turns in order to get rid of them. “Are we there yet mommy?” You asked from the backseat, the long ride making you fidgety “almost sweetie, just a few more minutes” Scarlett said, eyeing her wing mirrors to check she wasn’t being followed and sighing a breath of relieve after realising she wasn’t.

You were thrilled when you finally arrived, allowing your mom to help you out of the car and walk with you to the small ice cream shop. You were sat at a small two seat table in the corner next to the window after Scarlett had ordered both your desserts. You spoke about all kinds of thing with your mama, you told her all about your week at school and your new best friend Chelsey. Scarlett told you all about her week at work, on Monday she had been at the outset office and yesterday she was filming for a new movie.

The time slipped away as you enjoyed your bubblegum ice cream and rainbow sprinkles. An hour had soon raced past and Scarlett decided it was about time you headed home. When you stepped out in the street a gentlemen on the other side of the street had his eyes glued on you “come on sweetie let’s take a little walk back to the car” Scarlett said, leading you in the opposite direction and away from the man. When you turned the corner with your mother a large group of people came running towards you. “There she is!” Someone called “it’s Scarlett Johansson!” Another shouted.

“Mommy” you whined as you grabbed hold of Scarlett’s arm “it’s okay baby come here” she said as she lifted you up in her arms. “Scarlett can you tell us anything about the new movie?” A pap asked demandingly, the crowd around you both closing in quickly. “Scarlett how old is y/n now?” Another woman asked. You hurried your face into Scarlett’s neck and wrapped your arms tightly around her “mama” you cried. Scarlett pulled you as close as she possibly could into her body, gently kissing your forehead.

Soon you made it to the car park, followed closely by the large group of flashing cameras. Scarlett was trying her best to just ignore all the people, her sole focus was getting you away from them. Now next to the car, your mom propped you down beside her to find her keys. “Scarlett this way!” A man shouted as he pushed through the crowds colliding with you in the process and knocking you to the floor. “Hey!” Scarlett screamed as she came to pick you up “get the fuck away from my daughter!” She yelled, the man backing up slightly.

Scarlett helped you into the car before shutting the door “you lot are sick!” She screamed at the crowd “I know I chose this life but my daughter did not! You dare touch her again and I will shove that camera where the sun won’t shine” your mom angrily said, a few members of the pap has already given up and backed away, off to find their next target. “Lighten up Scarlett this is our job” the smug man said “and my job is to protect my daughter, you publish any pictures of her and I swear you’ll be behind bares before you know it! Get lost!” Scarlett screamed, taking a step towards the gathering of people.

It seemed people didn’t expect her to get so angry and many of the paps moved away quickly. The rest stood in shock, fearing the wrath of Johansson. “Don’t make me tell you again” Scarlett said, causing the rest of the group to scuttle away. Your mom opened the car door and climbed in next to you “I’m so sorry baby girl are you alright? They’ve gone now I promise” Scarlett cooed as she pulled you into her lap. “Don’t like it” you sniffled “y/n sweetie I’m so sorry, this is all my fault I should’ve known the paps would come and find me” Scarlett said as she held you close. “Not your fault mommy” you said as you reached up to wipe away a stray tear falling down your moms cheek.

Scarlett gently brushed a hair away from your face “I promise I’ll always keep you safe baby girl, as long as I’m here no one will ever hurt you” your mama said as she slowly rocked you “I know mommy” you smiled up at Scarlett “I’m alright” you said. Scarlett smiled back at you “my brave girl” she said “shall we go home and have a snuggle?” She asked. “Yes please” you cheered.

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Taglist<3

@saraaahsstuff / @dannipotatoo / @tobiaslut / @a-simpfortessa-lesbriean / @marvelnatasha12346 / @yelenasdiary / @mousetheorist / @ashadash0904

[written-in-flowers]

Lovesick: Chan x Male!Reader Pt. 4

Pairing: Bang Chan x Male!Reader | Side pairings: Minho x Chan, Minho x Male!Reader (unrequited)

Word Count: 7k

Genre: Horror, Angst, Smut | AU: Yandere!au, Videogame!AU, Highschool!AU

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

Summary: After being sucked into the dating simulator "Lovesick", Park YN has to defeat five rivals to reach his goal. However, he soon learns his rivals aren't the only thing he must contend with for Chan's love.

Tags: Graphic depictions of violence, Main Character Death, dark fic, dead dove: do not eat, yandere behaviors, yandere!reader, stalking, murder/violence, blood and violence, toxic relationships, mentions of murder, unrequited love, mentions of domestic violence, school massacre/genocide, implied teacher/student relationship, homophobic parents, mentions of bullying/trauma, obsession, possessiveness, manipulation, high school setting, anal sex, anal fingering, edging, eventual smut, pool sex, locker room sex, blowjobs, choking.

A/N: PLEASE READ TAGS BEFORE READING! I'm not responsible for any feelings you end up having because you ignored this warning and the ones above.

Han Jisung: Tuesday < | > Seo Changbin: Monday

****

Han Jisung: Wednesday

You arrived at school before either Jisung or Chan reached their lockers. Despite your growing desire to stalk Chan, you followed Jisung instead. You noticed the gift box he carried throughout the school, and wondered what was actually inside. No doubt it will be a new manga or an anime-related item. You briefly thought of what gift you'd give Chan, but instantly shut it down. That’s not who you are. Chan is a game character; you can’t take him home when you win the game. 

‘Ah, but how nice it’d be to keep him.’

You pushed that out of your head and kept walking. You followed Jisung up the stairs to the second floor, and waited for him to enter his classroom. As you stood by the drinking fountain watching the door, someone came up behind you. 

“Ah, Minho-hyung!” you jumped back into the wall, seeing the older boy standing there with a small grin. “You scared me!”

“I’m sorry, YN-ssi,” he frowned, “I didn’t mean to. You seemed deep in thought and I didn’t want to bother you. You’re on the sophomore floor again.”

You’d throttle him if you could. Lee Minho was becoming a pest that you couldn’t flick off. “Um, yeah, I stopped for some water,” you gestured to the fountain. “I was heading up to the library to study some before class.” 

“Wow, such a diligent student,” he grinned. “Most kids go back outside or mess around in the classroom.” 

“I guess so…yeah.”

Minho gazed around the hallway then shortened the space between you. In a whisper, he said, “Look, YN, I’m not going to turn you in or anything, but I wanted to warn you: getting involved with Hwang Hyunjin is a bad idea.”

You froze and examined Minho’s face. He saw the seriousness in the narrow, dark brown eyes, mixing with a tinge of concern. “I don’t know what you mean,” you replied innocently. 

“I was throwing away some trash from the student council room when I saw you talking to Hyunjin in the art room,” he began. “I saw you…purchasing…some stuff from him, and I wanted to warn you that you shouldn’t do it again. What if a teacher caught you with that stuff? You could get in serious trouble and get kicked out of school.”

“What I do in my free time isn’t your business, Minho-hyung.”

“I know it’s not, but I…I don’t want you to get kicked out over something stupid.”

“Why would you care if they kicked me out?”

“Because…” Minho hesitated, swallowing a lump in his throat. You saw him give your face a once over before saying, “Because, the school is known for having high academic achievements. A lot of the students here come from prominent families who want their children to receive the best education. I think having someone like you here makes this place look better. You have really high marks, good examination scores, and you’re part of the school’s swim team. I’d hate to see all that potential go to waste because you decided to start interacting with somebody like him.” 

“I appreciate your concern,” you said, “But, I have my reasons for meeting Hyunjin. We’re not friends or anything. I just needed some stuff from him.” 

“I see…” he nodded. “Still, Hyunjin runs with a bad crowd, and it’d be a shame if you got mixed up in it.” He changed topics and said, “I was actually heading to the library too. The student council is starting a campaign for school safety. The council and I feel it's important we make people aware of safety tips they can use when they’re alone. I was going to start designing the pamphlets to hand out. Maybe you can help me with them; I hear you’re very creative.” 

How could he have heard that? You haven't talked to anyone besides Chan. “No thanks, Hyung. That sounds admirable and everything, but I gotta go do something before the library and I might miss it if I keep dawdling. I’ll see you around.”

 “But, YN-”

You slipped away before he could say anything else. Who did Minho think he was butting into your business like that? He had some nerve thinking you should take his advice. You managed to make it to Jisung’s classroom, and your heart dropped. Jisung’s bag was hanging from his desk hook, but the gift box he’d brought with him was gone. You frantically gazed around the room to see if Jisung left it somewhere else, but it was pointless. Quickly, you went back down the corridor to the staircase. If you were lucky, you might catch Jisung before he gave the gift to Chan. They’d most likely meet in the school garden. You felt your phone buzzing, and you hastily pulled it out.

“Lee Minho seems to really like you.” 

“Whatever. I don’t care about him.” 

“You should reconsider Chan, to be honest.” 

“What?! No way! Then I’d be stuck here!”

“But, isn’t Minho the more obvious choice here? He’s handsome, intelligent, successful, ambitious, and strong. People really look up to him, and being seen with him would raise your reputation A LOT.” 

“My reputation is fine, thanks.”

“His family is extremely rich too. His mother is a politician. His dad owns the largest chain of department stores in the world. He could make you happy, give you the world on a platter. You would want nothing with him on your arm.” 

You stared at the screen. “I don’t want Minho. I want Chan.”

“Okay, yeah, but does Chan want you?” 

“He does! That’s what I rebuilt this whole game for! I rebuilt it so that I could get closer to him and make him love me!” 

The confusion fueled your desperation. Without saying anything else, you put the phone back in your pocket and continued onwards. The phone continued vibrating against your leg. Bott’s dumb advice could wait. You walked through the school until you reached the outside, which was still packed with students heading to their destinations. You’d reached the school garden entrance when you gasped. 

“Here, Chan,” Jisung and Chan stood by the shed again. He held out the white and red gift box, and said, “I got you something. I felt awful about yesterday and the day before, and I hope this makes it up to you somehow.” 

“Jisung-ah,” Chan smiled fondly, “You didn’t have to get me a gift.”

“I wanted to,” he said, a light blush on his cheeks. “You’re…you’re very special to me. I look up to you a lot, and I’d hate it if you thought less of me.”

You prayed that Chan wouldn’t open the gift. You prayed that somehow, someway, he’d save it for later and give you time to replace it with your own. Unfortunately, the cards weren’t in your favor. Chan untied the bow and opened the box. He pulled out a new copy of Eternal Light, which made Chan’s face light up. 

“Wow! Jisung!” Chan nearly laughed, “This is the newest one! How’d you get it? It isn’t supposed to be out yet here for a few months.”

“My dad had sent it to me,” he smiled. “He’s in Osaka right now, and he saw it in one of the anime shops. He thought I’d like to have it. I read it all in one night, and I thought you’d like to keep this one. It's a special edition too! The creator signed the inside!” 

“Jisung-ah, I couldn’t keep this. It’s yours.”

“No, no, it’s okay!” Jisung insisted. “I preordered mine ages ago, so I’ll have my own. I wanted you to have this one.”

“This is…this is really wonderful, Jisung. I really love it. Thank you.”

You bit down on his lip so hard, you nearly drew blood. Everything you’d done yesterday had been for nothing. You wanted to kick something. You wanted to scream. You’d failed to stop one of the interactions. Your odds of ruining their friendship dropped a few points. Rage burned through every vein in your body, scorching the delight to make way for the anger, and the world turned gray and red again. 

“Doesn't killing him sound better now?” Bott’s newest message came. “You lost a chance at sabotage. It'll be hard to make up for that now. Like I said, the second floor is usually empty after school. There's a supply closet with some things you could use. Ooh! There's this cool knife in the Occult club you can use or this big wand thing in Drama. They make great weapons.”

“I'm going to have to do something else. Murder would be too suspicious right now.”

“Where's the fun in that? That's one of the best parts!”

“Maybe I can gossip about Jisung? You know, lower his reputation so he leaves school. If I start now, then it should work by the end of the week.”

“Or you can just KILL THE FUCKER!”

Your heart started pounding in your ears, making it hard to keep your breath steady. You stayed by the entrance as both Jisung and Chan left together, trying to control the anger burning inside you. You observed Chan’s form as he walked away. You wanted him so badly. You wanted every part of him. Nobody would love him the way you would; nobody cared about him like you did. Had you not proved that much with all the trouble you went through for him? 

“Killing these rivals literally makes your life so much easier. It's fun. Not all this sneaking around stuff.”

Wait, no. You are doing this to get home. You had no interest in really staying with Chan. But, you’d bring him along home if you could. Then, you could have him all to yourself. 

“Take advantage of your rage mode, and find Jisung! A little bit of murder doesn't hurt anyone.”

Needing to control your “rage mode”, you stormed up to the boy’s bathroom where solitude lived in the tiled room. Hints of cleaning chemicals and fluids reached your nose as you bent over the sink. You tried splashing water on your face to remove the vision, but it didn’t seem to work. It only grew darker thinking of Chan in Jisung’s arms. You pictured a successful confession that led to the pair becoming a couple, and you receiving a ‘game over’. Then, you’d die. You thought of Chan being kissed and touched by Jisung; them going on dates, going on trips and enjoying life together. That should be you. That was going to be you. You slammed your hands on the sides of the sink as you thought of the couple somewhere else right now. What if all his new coding caused Jisung to reveal his feelings earlier? They could all think for themselves now after all. It was possible. 

You screamed through gritted teeth and smacked the hard porcelain again. You couldn’t let that happen. You just couldn’t. You cursed yourself for having messed with the game’s design in the first place. Pride and ambition put you on this path, and now you have to redo everything over again. You took out your phone. 

“Hello?” 

You gasped at the high voice of Han Jisung from the bathroom’s entrance. You spun around to see him walk in with concern on his face. “Are you okay?” he asked, seeing your wet, red face. “You look sick. You should go see the nurse.”

“And you should stop seeing Chan!” you retorted. 

“Huh? What do you mean?”

“I see how you look at him! I see the way you’re always going after him! Leave him alone, he’s not yours!”

“Look, I don't know what's going on with you, but you should probably go to the infirmary and lie down. It’s not good to let stress get to your head like that.”

“You better not confess your feelings before Friday,” you said through gritted teeth, death in your gaze. “Or I’ll kill you. I swear to god! I’ll fucking kill you!”

“You shouldn’t say things like that to people,” Jisung frowned. “That’s a serious threat to make. I could report you for that, but…I can see you’re very upset right now, so I’m not going to take it seriously.” He moved carefully towards you, “Now, as for Chan, he’s my friend. Yeah, I have a crush on him and I want to tell him how I feel, but you’re nobody to be telling me what I can and can’t do. I like him, and I’m going to tell him.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.” 

Too deep in your anger, you had not noticed the change in personality. Jisung was normally soft-spoken and shy. But, here he was standing his ground and almost provoking you. It was a trick. It was a damned dirty trick. 

“Chan probably doesn’t even like you,” Jisung spat, “You’re the weird new kid who follows him around. You think I don’t see you constantly stalking him whenever he leaves the garden? Or how you leer at him during lunch times? I know it was you who stole the book from my bag. I know it was you who poisoned his lunch. I’m not gonna let you keep sabotaging my friendship with Chan because you’re a creepy little shit.”

“I’m not creepy…and Chan does like me! He will like me!” the words ripped through your throat and out of your mouth like venom. You grabbed the sink with trembling hands, trying to steady yourself.

“Psh, as if. Why would he want you when he could have someone who actually cares about him?”

“Because he won’t have a fucking choice!” 

In a howl of fury, you launched forward and tackled Jisung to the ground. Straddling the skinny boy, you grabbed both sides of his head and slammed  it into the hard floor. Too dazed from the first hit, Jisung didn’t have time to try pushing you off or fighting back. Your screams filled the small room. You could feel the tips of your fingers hitting the floor at the same time as Jisung’s head, blood starting to soak through the dark curls and onto the skin. You finally stopped when you heard the final crack, and saw Jisung’s head split like an egg. Blood poured out onto the floor, and pink brain matter showed beneath the split bone. You heard nothing except the loud pumping of your heart. You stayed kneeling on top of Jisung as you took in the boy’s lifeless expression. Pure wrath powered through you, your fists curling as they shook. You couldn’t stop it. Simply seeing his pretty face underneath you, bloody and lifeless, only made you angrier. 

Maybe killing was the fastest way to get home. 

“YN?” 

Through the pulsating grayness, you saw Minho standing at the door. You should scramble from the body. You should come up with a lie that Jisung attacked you; that this was self-defense and you weren’t at fault. However, all Minho did was calmly lock the bathroom door. 

“I guess that’s a wrap for Han Jisung,” he sighed, hands in his pockets. “This won’t be hard to clean up.” 

“Wha-what?”

“Jisung is the sabotage route,” he said, “But I told you murder is a better option.” 

“But-B-But…”

“Don’t worry about the students,” he dismissed, “I sped up time so everyone is in class right now. I normally stick to the phone, but when you freaking ditched me, I might have amped him up a bit. I knew you might crack but, shit, dude…You did a number on him,” he said with a soft laugh. 

His voice wasn’t scolding or angry. It was soft. Soothing. 

“I’ll admit though,” he continued, not concerned by your shocked expression, “Watching you sneak around school and come up with ways to sabotage your rival was getting intriguing. But, when you spurned me today…I guess I got carried away with the coding.” He looked down at Jisung with you, “You know, I never get tired of seeing them killed? I know that sounds weird, but you’d be surprised at the creative ways people think of murdering their rivals. One guy tried setting him on fire once,” he snorted a laugh. “Another player beheaded him. I made so many interesting, unique ways of getting through the levels, and you chose the sabotage route. I used to call it the pacifist route since it doesn’t involve murdering or kidnapping anyone, but you’ve made it quite interesting. Like, that thing with distracting the nurse! Most people waited until she went into the next room. I really like your thoroughness.” 

“What are you talking about? What’s going on?”

Minho pulled out a smartphone from his pocket, started texting and waited. The pink phone vibrated loudly. You fished quickly to pull it out and read Bott’s next message. 

“Hey, dumbass. Did you really think I wasn’t in the game with you?” 

The older boy laughed at your dumbfounded expression. “You’re…Bott?”

“Yup,” he nodded. “I'm the developer’s self insert character. I am Bott, your know it all guide to Lovesick. I usually just drop suggestions and hints on what to do, but you made me curious. I didn’t think you’d explode like this though,” he chuckled. “Jesus, you obliterated him.” 

“I…I don’t know what’s happened to me,” you admitted, looking at the blood drying on your fingers. “I don’t know what came over me. It’s like all the pent up frustration at this game lashed out.”

“That and not having Chan, right?” 

“I couldn’t stop myself. It’s like my anger has this tight grip on me, and makes me do it. When Jisung started saying that Chan would never love me, I lost it.”

“I don’t blame you,” he said. “It was the same for me when I lost Chan.”

“When you lost Chan?”

“The real Chan,” he elaborated. “In the real world, he’d been a guy that I knew from school. I had a super big crush on him, but was too scared to say anything,” he said. “I thought I could make an exact replica of him. He’d be in my image and he’d love nobody but me. I figured if I couldn’t have Chan in the real world, I could have him in a fantasy one. I created Lovesick as sort of an rpg horror game where you had to kill other people who wanted your crush. Chan was my muse, my inspiration, my whole world. I wanted him so badly. I wanted to kill anyone who got in my way.” 

“Did you?”

“Obviously not.” He then said, “Things only got worse when I finally plucked up the courage to tell Chan about my feelings.”

“What happened?” 

“He rejected me…I told him how I’d felt about him for a long time. I said that I wanted nobody but him. He made me feel alive; he gave me a purpose to keep going in life. I told him he’d be happy with me; that we’d be so happy together…but he said no.” You saw sadness begin to creep over Minho’s face, “He told me a friend of his found out about the game. They said that I’d created a love interest that looked like him, and he said it freaked him out a little. I tried saying it was a coincidence, but he didn’t believe me. He said I had no right to use his likeness in a video game without his consent, as well as using his name. He threatened to sue me if I didn’t take him out of the game.” 

“That must’ve really hurt.”

“It tore me apart. I couldn’t give up the game, which was my only source of true happiness and validation. But, I also wanted to keep Chan in my life. Later, I was served papers to either take down the game or remove Chan from it. Lovesick’s Chan was the only piece of him I had left. It was the only thing that still kept him in my life, even if it wasn’t in reality. I wanted to die. If I couldn’t have Chan or Lovesick, then why should I keep living? So, I took a kitchen knife and killed myself…I don’t know how it happened or who was responsible for it, but my soul somehow latched itself to the game. I woke up the way you did: in the bedroom before school.” 

“You played the game then?”

“And won,” he grinned proudly. “I thought I’d finally get to have Chan, and life would be great, but then the game restarted. I didn’t get to keep Chan. I stayed within the game, though Chan continued to be out of reach. It’s like this place is some hellish time loop. Whoever gets stuck here, stays here until they either win or die.” He sat back on the floor, despite the blood pooling nearby. “I continued playing the game in an endless cycle, killing my opponents in a variety of ways just to have a few seconds of Chan’s love. It became tedious. I got tired of having to do all the hard work whenever I killed or ruined someone. Then, it was like the game itself answered my prayers.

“Some idiot picked up the game after it had been developed and released into the world. I don’t know if he died or was hypnotized or what, but he somehow ended up here like me. He suddenly became the game’s main character, and I was booted into a regular NPC. Well, dude, this is my game. I can’t be a damn side character. I made myself a rival by messing around in the control room like you did. I changed my appearance, gave myself top boss-level status, and lived within this little world I’d made in my basement. I created the persona of Bott, a sassy, know-it-all who guides players through the game, and watches the chaos happen. I knew nobody would ever actually reach Chan, since I always outsmarted or simply killed them before they could get to him. When they lost, they’d get a cut scene of me confessing my feelings and Chan accepting them, followed by him kissing me.” 

He turned his head to you, “It wasn’t until you came that things got interesting. I normally keep my distance from players until they reach my level, but when you redesigned the game to work in your favor, I couldn’t help myself. I meant it when I said I’ve never had a player like you before. You’re following the rules of the game, but you’re not at the same time. I’ve really enjoyed it so far.” 

“Um…thanks.”

“I also didn’t expect you to actually develop feelings for Channie,” Minho said. “The other players might’ve found him attractive, but they never tried making connections with him before.” 

“I don’t know what I’m feeling exactly,” you admitted, looking at your blood stained hands. “I thought it might be Sunghoon’s coding still in my system, but it doesn’t feel that way anymore. It feels so…real.” 

Minho stared at you for a moment, taking in your expression and he clenched his jaw. “I know what you mean. Things can feel pretty real in a video game world, huh?” He stood up from the ground, and lent you his hand, “Come on. Lunch time is gonna start soon, and you gotta get cleaned up.” 

You felt too exhausted to say anything else. You helped Minho wrap up Jisung’s body, and clean up the bathroom like you’d done the first time. You carried the corpse through the empty hallways and outside to the school garden. You both thought it’d be fitting for Jisung to be buried near his precious strawberries. You watched Minho as the latter dug up the hole with you. 

His story sounded like something out of an anime or a really cheesy drama. The betrayal and heartbreak made sense, but something about the story worried you. Killing himself over a video game was pathetic. You thought back to Jeongin’s warning from before. He told you not to listen to Him, and you suspected he meant Minho. 

“Well,” Minho breathed out, brushing dirt off his hands, “That’s him settled. Changbin’s next.” 

“I know.”

“Got any ideas on what you’re gonna do with him?”

“Not really. I know nothing about him aside from him being athletic, and that’s pushing it,” you said, doing the same and putting the shovel back in the garden shed. 

You’d have to check the student info before proceeding forward. You figured you’d tail Changbin tomorrow to get a feel of his routine and the people in his life. Perhaps then you could come up with something. You still had many things to process before moving on to the next day. 

“Wanna grab lunch together?” Minho asked. Before you could decline, he added, “Being seen with me would boost your reputation immensely.”

You chuckled, “Eh, I think my reputation is good enough, thanks.” You really wanted to see Chan. Your body ached to be near him. The morning left you feeling drained, and Chan always brought so much relief. “I gotta get started on getting some skill points.”

Minho saw right through the lie, “You can get those later at after-school activities. I’ve seen your friends list, and it isn’t as long or as balanced as you think.” He took your hand in his own. You noticed how cold Minho’s hands were, the bony fingers slipping between your warmer ones. Rather than connecting you, you felt it separating you more. “I’m telling you. Reputation and friends help in the long run. Can’t you humor me for a bit?” You heard the hopefulness in Minho’s tone, “I did just help you bury a body. You could at least have lunch with me.”

Chan might be in the cafeteria by now. You guessed walking with Minho wasn’t as bad as going alone. You nodded, and you both set out for the cafeteria. Walking beside Minho, people smiled and nodded their heads at you. You worried that maybe they knew what you’d done to Jisung, but that really was foolish. You didn’t have blood on you anymore, and all evidence laid buried in the garden. As they walked towards the cooking club room, a younger student came out holding a tray of pecan swirls. You noticed the pink streaks weaved into her thin black hair. 

“Hey YN-oppa! Hey Minho-oppa,” she beamed, “You guys want some swirls? We just finished making them to promote the club!”

“Thanks, Chorong-ssi,” Minho smiled, taking one with a napkin to bite into. He spotted your stunned face, “YN-ah, aren’t you gonna take one? Chorong and the club worked hard on these.” 

“Sure.” 

You took one and bit into it, seeing the pleased smile on the girl’s face. It was delicious, with its mixture of cinnamon and pecan flavors. 

“It’s great,” you grinned at her, “Thanks.”

She smiled, “I hope you join the cooking club, Oppa. We’d love to have you.”

You raised an eyebrow, nodding as you bit into the sweet treat again. 

“See you around, Chorong-ssi,” Minho told her, steering you away before you said anything. 

“What was that about?” You asked once out of earshot. 

“I told you being with me raises your reputation.” He then said, “And, well, you’re attractive and Do Chorong likes any guy that’s remotely attractive.” 

“School slut?”

“Far from it,” Minho explained, biting into his snack again. “I created her in case a player wanted to go the ‘matchmaking’ route with a rival.”

“Matchmaking?”

“Yeah, where you find out what your rival likes in their partner, mold an admirer to their taste, and then pair them up. Since Chorong likes everyone, she’s easy to use.” 

You decided to keep that in mind for another time. 

That was when Jeongin came walking towards you. Minho, busy finishing off the pecan swirl, did not notice the panicked realization that came over him. Other people might not see it, but you did. He looked away from you right as he passed by. You wondered what it could be about before you realized you and Minho still held hands. 

Jeongin meant Minho in his warning. 

Minho walked beside you with a satisfied, happy expression, nodding at faculty and students who recognized him. Someone might have thought he walked on clouds. You were unsure how to feel. A lingering uncertainty bundled as you looked at Minho. A cold sweat rushed over you, sticking to your skin and making your hands clammy, when you realized it. This is a game of manipulation and deception. You tried pulling your hand away, but Minho quickly captured it again when they reached the cafeteria doors. Walking past tables, people saw your joined hands, then started whispering to one another. You caught envious glares or excited faces from other students. You knew what they were thinking, and wished they didn’t. You slid your hand out of Minho’s once more, but he instantly recaptured it. 

“Don’t do that again,” Minho warned. 

“I don’t want people getting the wrong idea about us,” you said, glancing back to the room and searching quickly for Chan. 

“You mean you don’t want Chan getting the wrong idea.” Minho sighed, pushing hair from his face, “It’s only lunch. I want to get to know you, YN. There’s no harm in that, is there?”

“I’m supposed to be trying to get Chan to like me.”

“No, you’re supposed to get your beloved,” Minho corrected you. “Whether he actually likes you or not isn’t important to the goal. All you’re meant to do is get him. It’s not my fault you started messing around with the universe to make things work in your favor.” He gave your hand a soft squeeze, “Don’t worry about Chan for now. Let’s grab some food and talk. I know a nice spot in the courtyard where we can get some shade.”

You guessed you owed Minho that much. If he were after you, he would’ve turned you in when he saw you on top of Jisung, but he didn’t. He’d helped instead. You nodded, and let Minho guide you into the lunch line. You hardly paid attention to the food being served or how Minho took hold of your hand again. You thought back to Chan, who was most likely on his way or would be enjoying himself in the garden. You hoped so, then you could look at him at least. Seeing Chan brought so much comfort, which you needed after today.

You and Minho took your lunch trays to the school courtyard. Disappointment sunk your stomach when you didn't see Chan anywhere. You took a seat with Minho underneath one of the trees, and wished to see Chan soon. The older boy began digging into his meal, while you idly pushed noodles around on your plate.

“What’s wrong?” Minho dared to ask, as if you'd not murdered and disposed of a body two hours ago. “Not hungry?”

“I’m fine,” you said, spooning some broth into your mouth. “Just thought Chan might be here.”

“He’s in the garden,” Minho said, “Probably on his way to the cafeteria.” 

“How do you know?”

Minho smiled, biting into a piece of chicken from his plate, “He was supposed to meet Jisung there. But, now that Jisung isn’t going to show, he’s gonna assume the underclassman forgot about their meeting and go to lunch.”

You washed the noodles down with juice, though you barely tasted anything. “Somebody will notice he’s missing,” you stated.

“And they’ll tell one of the teachers-” Minho nodded.

“-The teacher will then call the police to report it-”

“-The police will probably show up here-”

“-And question everyone-”

“-Decide that they have no evidence or suspects and leave-”

“-And Jisung will be declared ‘missing’.” You then said, “I noticed nobody’s gone asking questions about Kitae. Why is that?”

“The staff did report him missing,” he ate more, “And they questioned some people, but nobody saw anything. They don’t have any reason to question you because you weren’t seen with the body or a weapon.” 

“Did they question you?”

“Of course. I’m the student council president, and Kitae was the Freshman class’s representative. They asked if I knew where he went after the morning council meeting, and I said I had no idea. I told them Kitae and I weren’t particularly close, and they took it as that.” He then added, grabbing a tangerine on his tray. “As easy and fun as murder can be, it wouldn’t be wise to outright murder Changbin. The more deaths or disappearances that happen here, the higher the safety alert goes. The principal already warned the hallway monitors to keep their eyes peeled for any suspicious activity. They’re all anxious to find who’s responsible,” he eyed you as he peeled the skin, “So, we need to make it look like an accident. We need to be careful. We gotta work out a strategy for Changbin.”

“We?”

“I might as well help you openly,” he shrugged. “Bott clearly wasn't effective. If you’d played the game the way you were supposed to, then you would’ve gotten through this level quicker.” 

“But, that’s so boring. It was kind of fun scheming to get my way. Difficult and tedious at times, yeah, but still fun.” You picked at the small section of kimchi the school served, “Changbin’s going to be a challenge though.”

“Why’s that?”

“I know almost nothing about him. I know he’s the athletic archetype, and is on the swimming team. His dad does business overseas, and he’s traveled around, but that’s about it.” You sat in thought for a moment, “I’ll need to tail him when his week starts, and see his routine.” 

“He’s definitely a superstar athlete,” Minho agreed, “He’s not only on the swim team. He does track-and-field and soccer too. He’s got a creative side, from what I’ve seen in the art and photography clubs. He’s reasonably popular around school, but not enough that he’s surrounded by people so less witnesses and more chances to lure him away from crowds.” He looked over your shoulder, “Ah, speak of the devil.”

You glanced over to see Changbin walk into the courtyard with a group of boys. You noticed their letterman jackets all depicting different sport logos on the arms. Changbin had the swimming logo on his right sleeve, along with a running man patch and a soccer ball. He and his friends stood underneath a tree across from you and Minho, not paying attention to the people looking at them. You watched Changbin. He smiled freely and laughed often. You saw that he carried a clear green water bottle. Inside was a thick substance that could only be some kind of protein shake. You were sure Minho threw it in there so the player had opportunities to poison Changbin’s drink. But that would be too obvious and too stupid of a move right now. 

“Is he smart?” you asked, seeing Changbin pretend to box with one of the other boys. 

“Eh…define ‘smart’.”

“I’m sure he has to be if he’s able to stay on all these teams.”

“Not if he’s super good and has won medals and achievements for the school to brag about,” Minho said. “Whenever he obviously fails a test, the teacher passes him anyway. They need to keep their star athlete in school.”

“Why would Chan like someone so dumb? He should be dating someone on his own level intellectually. You know, somebody he can talk to and have deep conversations with,” you said, “Not a neanderthal who can do a few good laps around a pool or a track.” 

“Changbin might have an empty head, but he’s thoughtful and sweet. He’s very passionate about his hobbies and interests, which is something Chan likes. They don’t share similar tastes, but Changbin is willing to teach him and Chan enjoys learning new things. He cares about other people, and always tries his best at anything he does. Chan likes that sort of thing. Changbin likes Chan because he’s athletic too, and very smart. He's Whimoon’s golden boy," Minho said, eating another piece. "Everybody likes him. It’ll be hard to convince people he’s done anything wrong.”

“Okay, so what do you suggest then?” 

“Poison his shake, obviously.”

“Wouldn’t another death put the school on alert?”

“Not if it looks like an accident.”

You thought about it for a moment. Jeongin’s warning floated through your head once again. Play by the game’s rules, not Minho’s. But, surely Minho is the game if he created it? You stared at Minho’s smirk, eyes glinting with mischief, and couldn’t get Jeongin out of your head. 

“Is there anything else I can do?” you asked after a while. “Poison seems so easy.”

“It is. That’s why you should do it,” he said. “It wouldn’t be hard to get poison. You can either make one in the chemistry lab or buy one from Hyunjin. It’ll cost you a lot to buy it from Hyunjin, but I can always change that for you.” 

“Death sounds risky.”

“This game is all about risks. Poison him. It’ll be worth it to see him choke on his gross protein shake.” 

“Shouldn’t I, as the player, get to choose my own route?” 

“I’m the developer. I’m only trying to help you.” 

Play by the game. “If you don’t tell me, I’ll figure out a way myself.” 

Realizing he wouldn’t win this time, Minho sighed defeatedly. “Tail him next week and see if you find anything you can use against him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Everybody at this school has secrets,” he said. He moved closer to you and faced the groups in the yard. “Each of them has something that you can exploit if you choose to. Like Song Sungmi? Her parents are actually poor, and she pretends to have money so she can fit in. Jeong Yunho? He runs a secret gambling den in his family’s basement. And let’s not forget Park Yuri who sells naughty photos of herself on the internet.” He took up another piece of tangerine, and said, “Changbin has one. You only need to find out what it is, then you decide what to do with the information.” 

“What’s the secret?” You asked him. 

“Give me a kiss and I’ll tell you,” Minho sneered, giving you a wink. 

“I’ll figure it out on my own then.”

Minho huffed, and moved away from him. “You can do several things with his secret. You can expose it so then he feels humiliated and withdraws from school. You can blackmail him and force him to stop liking Chan. You can use it to befriend him, even.” 

“Huh, interesting.” 

“Very.” 

Exposing a dirty secret sounded like an intriguing route. You knew another disappearance could make things harder. You began wondering what Changbin’s secret could possibly be, since he seemed far too sweet to have any. You spent the rest of lunch trying to figure out what route to take with Changbin; Minho spent it staring at you. 

****

You sped through the rest of the day to get to swim practice, the only place you saw Chan uninterrupted. You walked into the locker room to see the other team members preparing for the pool. You peeked into the aisles of lockers before finding Changbin. He sat on the bench in his uniform, texting and smiling at his phone. You noticed it wasn’t a smartphone but a slim black device with a plain cover. You took note of this and moved onwards.

You passed by into the next aisle where you found Chan by his locker. Like everyone else, he immediately switched from his school uniform to his swim uniform. You took a second to admire his body in the tight uniform. You'd do anything to steal those trunks and take them home. You briefly thought of the napkin you’d stolen and the faint saucy scent that had been on them.  

“Hi, Chan-hyung,” you smiled, coming up beside him to open your own locker. 

“Hi, YN-ah,” he replied. “I didn’t see you in class this morning. I hope everything’s okay.”

“Oh, everything’s fine,” you said. “My alarm didn’t go off and I overslept.”

“Alright, as long as you’re okay,” Chan grinned. He then hesitated as he reached for his swim cap. “YN-ah, this might sound like a personal question, and it’s none of my business, but I’m only curious.”

Your stomach churned, but you still said, “You can always ask me anything.”

“Are you and Lee Minho dating?”

You laughed nervously, pushing hair from your face, “Um, wh-what do you mean?”

“Well, I was in the cafeteria today and I saw you two holding hands. I thought maybe there was something between you guys.”

You knew this would happen. You scrambled for an excuse, any excuse, to explain it. The thought of Chan losing interest because he thinks you're taken lodged a breath in your throat. “No, no,” you said quickly, “We’re not dating. Minho’s student council president, and he wanted to show me around.” 

“By the hand?”

“I guess. He said it was so I didn’t lose him in the crowds. I suppose people took it differently.”

Chan’s worried expression brightened after this. That must be a good sign. You changed into your own swimsuit, but couldn’t keep your eyes off Chan. Why had Chan worried about you dating Minho? The prospect of Chan developing feelings made you happier than you'd ever been. Perhaps you might get to leave this damned game world sooner than anticipated. But then that meant leaving Chan as well. 

Walking to the pool area with Chan, you imagined him confessing his feelings to you on Friday. The game appeared to be running differently since you reconfigured it. It’d certainly speed things up if Chan fell in love with you. But, the dreadful thought occurred to you again. If you leave Lovesick, then you’d have to go home. You’d go back to your boring life that’s void of Chan. You’d have to continue life without him, and the thought alone nearly brought you to tears. You couldn’t stand the thought of not having him. You needed him. You didn’t care if it was your game files fueling these ideas; you loved Chan. You loved him more than anyone else; your rivals only liked Chan for his looks. You loved him for his heart. 

You considered ways of getting Chan alone before Changbin appeared. Your blood simmered seeing the two exchange friendly words, watching the other members swim. You didn't like how Changbin looked at Chan. You didn't like the way Changbin’s boyish sweetness seemed to shine brightest around Chan. Your Chan. YOUR. Chan. You tightly gripped the towel ends on your shoulders, absentmindedly pulling them tighter on the nape of your neck. You'd love nothing more than to strangle the stupid boy until his face turned purple, but no. Another death on campus could make things more difficult. You needed to know Changbin’s secret.

Quickly, you dove into the pool and began swimming towards Changbin and Chan at the other end. When you reached them, you climbed out and rubbed off excess water from your face. Chan turned his head at the sound. 

"Chan-hyung!" you smiled excitedly, "Did you see my dive? I think it was one of my best."

"I'm sorry, YN-ah," Chan said apologetically, "I didn't. But, I'm sure you were great."

"It was okay," Changbin voiced disinterestedly. "You were a bit shaky at the beginning."

"I'm still getting used to jumping off your boards," you told him, keeping the defense out of your voice. "The ones at my old school were a bit stiffer, and these boards  are so springy." 

"That's okay. You'll get used to them soon," Chan assured you. "I heard you're very good."

"Thanks. You're good too," you replied. 

Changbin's eyes glinted with envy before turning away. 

“Wanna race, Hyung?” you asked Chan, putting a daring tone into your voice. “Loser buys snacks after practice.”

Chan grinned, dimples sinking into his cheeks, “You’re on. Changbin-ah, you want in?”

Changbin stared between them, and shook his head, “Nah. You guys go ahead. I, um, have stuff to do after practice.”

“What’s up? Too chicken to race me?” You challenged with a smirk.

“YN-ah, don’t be mean,” Chan nudged you playfully. “Changbin has a busy schedule, so he’s always running off after practice. He can join in another time, right Binnie-yah?”

“Yeah. Another time.”

He was hiding something; he couldn’t meet Chan’s eyes as he responded. You headed towards the springboards with Chan, but turned to look over your shoulder. Changbin had picked up his phone from the depths of his towel, and was texting someone. A dealer? A secret lover? You were eager to discover it, but you’d have to wait for Changbin’s level. The wait alone could kill you. 

“How many laps?” Chan asked, stepping onto his board. 

“Two.” 

You and Chan began your friendly competition. You won the first round, but Chan won the second. Declaring it a tie, you both left the pool when practice ended. You offered to still pay for the snacks, but Chan’s money hit the snack counter first. He was so sweet. You truly saw yourself becoming Chan’s boyfriend. 

*** Later That Night ***

This was bad. This was very bad. They’d certainly never expected it to happen. 

Minho never revealed himself to players before. He usually stuck to the shadows and played ‘Lee Minho, Student Council President’ as the player stumbled their way through the game. He'd lie in wait until the player reached the final level, then attack. He always changed how he did it too. Sometimes he killed them on the first day; other times, he toyed with them. He'd delete objects from the game right as they'd set a plan. He'd wire certain characters to stop the player from achieving their goals. The players smart enough to outwit him ended up in a fist fight with Minho at the end. He'll usually be a wild animal by then. They particularly liked it when he lost. Fondly, they recalled the time a player, a big brute of a man, grabbed the scrawny boy and bashed him into the wall repeatedly. The Game couldn't help but reward the player handsomely with a female Chan they'd created. 

But, now he's outright revealed himself to you. Of course, Minho lied right to your face, but they knew the truth. 

They stopped. They might not have their own body anymore, but it still stung. The burning hot pain came like a phantom ache, and they recalled the night Minho locked them away. He hacked into the game through the controls, and changed everything the creator built. They'd lost their body and their mind. They became a prisoner in their own home. Watching their captor be tortured and killed became their one source of happiness. 

They went through the camera views to watch you. You laid flat on your stomach in bed, holding a stained wadded up napkin in your hand. This could not be Sunghoon’s coding anymore; other players walked around with his personality and desires, but never acted on them. Did this mean you'd naturally developed feelings for Chan now, no longer restricted to the codes? They couldn't help being joyful at the idea. You having set them free meant they could float around behind the pixels creating their world. They could never touch or speak to you, but they can watch out for you. They could help you. Unlike Minho, who has the minimum control, they made things appear out of thin air. That was the beauty of being the game's true developer. 

That was the beauty of having been Bahng Chan. 

****

A/N: The plot thickens!! Can Minho be trusted or should YN stick to his gut? What's up with our little binary friend too?? We'll find out. Please reblog and like <3

[kekaki-cupcakes]

Request for Nico di Angelo!

Hello! If it's okay, may I request Nico with a (GN or male) reader whos got like, super serious mommy issues? Like, they'll be in a bad mood during the last day of summer solely because of the fact that they have to see their mom once they get home. And it's not even bc they're a misbehaving kid, it's just because their mom absolutely sucks. Maybe where their mom has a bunch of pointless rules, too. Like, nothing to do with cats, praying every morning, going to church every Sunday and church school every Monday, etc. And readers just done with life during the year. They'll purposely go on quests the last week if they get the chance just so they don't have to go home, too. Lmao, just realized this is sorta venting in a way, so sorry. It's alr if you cant do my req. Take care and have a nice day/night!

this is a short one but I really like it, so... and by the way, if anyone ever wants to just vent in my inbox please feel free too, there's no judgement on this blog and you're so strong <3 <3 <3

You don't have to be sorry for doing it on your own---Nico x reader with a shitty mum [fluff, dw] »»————-　★　————-««

-Nico would be that person who’d offer to kill anyone you hated

-But he would be completely serious

-Like, no fucking around. He knows how much you despise your mum. But it’s so very hard to hate parents because they're still your parents. Godly parents are a whole different story, but the mortal ones are hard to loathe without feeling shit about it inside, so it becomes this sort of silent resentment. 

-Nico knows that. Sort of… well, from knowing you, really. And he may have planned out your mortal mother's death in a very excruciating way, with a few backup plans just in case.

-You shut that down when he mentioned it subtly, so he went back to rubbing your back and bringing your favorite snacks from the stash Cecil had secretly [everyone knew] imported from the mortal shops, then hissing at people like a rabid cat when they asked where you were. 

-He’s very good at scaring campers off.

-You’d be eating shitty junk food and sweet red strawberries in your cabin and listening to Harry Styles’ song Matilda [Hazel had bought you his record for your birthday last year] pretending your head wasn’t spinning with thoughts about how much you wanted to run away from home, and then the shadow’s by your bed would thicken and your boyfriend would just launch himself onto you.

-You’d gotten pretty used to it, obviously, and now you were pretty much immune to jumpscares. 

-It was a handy skill to have considering how many horror movies you and Nico would watch together. He liked to critique how realistic the deaths actually were, and you liked to watch his nerdy face and tease him for jumping when Ghostface crept out from behind a doorway. 

-But sometimes, mainly the days before you had to return to your mother and the house filled with crosses and rules and arguments and not enough pet cats for your liking, not even movie marathons and picnics in the strawberry fields could help your mood.

-So, Nico would resort to his back up backup plan [not the murder one, the happy boyfriend one], which was cuddle piles. 

-It had taken him quite a while to get used to touch, but between Jason’s ‘how to ask out that random dude you're obsessed with’ classes [you were the random dude] and the fact you liked to hold his hands, he would say that he was quite the expert on hugs now. So he’d wear the biggest jumper he could find, probably one of Hazel’s flowery ones, and drag you into bed. 

-Thankfully his bed was no longer a coffin [they had been turned into bookshelves] and was big enough for you both to squish in. So he’d stroke your hair and nod understandingly when you scoffed about how stupid it was to send a literal child of a Greek God to a church. 

-It wasn’t even a nice church, apparently. It smelt like socks. 

-He had a very good speech for these complaints, which you both knew the words to by now.

One day, very soon, you’re gonna get a job, or a smart person class at college, and you’ll never have to go to Sunday school again. We’re gonna get our own house too. With lots of tea and toast. And rescue cats. And we can name them after your favorite famous people and book characters and we’ll have a huge squishy couch too we can watch horror movies on. 

There’ll be lots of posters on the walls and no one will tease you about being a little kid and you can wear whatever clothes you want. Maybe not orange ones though. I think we’re all sick of oranges. 

And all of our friends can visit whenever they want to, and we’ll have all of their snacks as well. And toothbrushes.  

And we can have Christmas there, without all of the bad stuff. We can decorate the tree really badly. You don’t have to invite your mum. At all. And if she shows up, her coffin will be shaped like a fish. They’re a real thing, you know, fish-shaped coffins. 

You’ll never have to see her again. We’ll have our own place. I promise.

You can throw a party full of everyone you know, and not invite your family, 'cause they never showed you love. You don't have to be sorry for leaving and growing up.

I promise. 

»»————-　★　————-««

[freaky-wasatch-range]

hey, tumblrstake! I've seen several posts on here about how we wished mormons had more cultural traditions/holidays, so I want to share with y'all my family's memorial day tradition.

every year, about 300+ of my extended family gather in the podunk town of oak city, utah to take over the town hall for the weekend and then serve free breakfast to the town on monday morning. it's called the "edward partridge memorial day breakfast" or 'MDB" for short.

edward partridge immigrated to the U.S. from great britain and was the first ordained bishop of the church. he is my great-great-great-great-great grandfather. edward partridge's grandson, aesel lyman, started the breakfast, declaring that the tradition would continue until edward partridge came and got breakfast himself. today marked the 52nd annual MDB, and this year, we fed 1069 people.

the customary breakfast is: sourdough pancakes (they're really freaking good and the batter is hand-stirred by an army of little kids), fried eggs, fried ham, oak city milk, and an orange juice called Tang. that same army of little kids get the honor of "running" food from the griddles in the town hall's back courtyard to the gym where we serve the breakfast, and of course most of the adults are given a job to do as well (cooking, serving, hospitality, utensil rolling, the most recent newlyweds get to rinse the empty batter buckets with a hose... you get the gist). members of the fam bring their plates straight to the griddles when we want to eat. we all wear special aprons. the atmosphere is always kind of electric :)

the night before, we have a thing called "the program" where we watch the same grandparent-originated skits and sing the same favorites-of-our-grandparents songs that we've been performing for decades.

some other traditions that have endured at the mdb: games of P-I-G (kind of like H-O-R-S-E), a couple hundred people playing bunco at the same time, blasting louis armstrong during the breakfast, a baseball game for the kids, red velvet cake, older kids teaching younger kids to throw mountains of playground-gravel down the slides (I was little when that started and it's been going on for over a decade now lol), and, of course, visiting the oak city cemetery and telling stories about our grandparents.

I'm really blessed that on memorial day I get to spiritually honor my five generations of grandparents buried in oak city instead of just making vague allusions of thanks to the military industrial complex. most white americans have been completely isolated from any kind of ancestral culture/specific traditions (because that's what racist assimilationism demands), so I find our weird and sometimes difficult annual reunion to be really special. whatever this is is mormon culture to me.

so, idk, hopefully this was inspiring and gave you a new way to think about memorial day. I hope that wherever I am in the world, I can continue this tradition with the friends and family I have around, serve a community with free food, and do it in honor of some modern pioneers and martyrs.

here's some photos of my dinosaur, jared, wearing my keffiyeh and hanging out in oak city over the weekend:

[pinksiames]

Post war!clegan but its housewife Gale and bread winner John

Gale who spends hours cleaning the house and baking constantly. He has a little stand he runs out in the lawn for kids to come up and get free treats while their playing outside, also having fresh lemonade made with it.

He feels the need to take care of the kids in their neighborhood because of how his dad was, making sure their house was safe for all of them

They both decorated the house but it was mostly gale, John has his man cave in the basement

Housewife Gale who leaves constant reminders around the house of John’s appointments coming up on sticky notes. “Dr app at 7am Monday! - love buck” “don’t forget your lunch in the fridge - love buck” “brief case is by the shoe rack. - love buck” he can’t help but fuss over his man.

Bread winner John who loves coming home to the smell of gales cookin, slipping his arms around his tapered waist from behind. John who has several framed photos of him and gale, always flashing his wedding band at work so EVERYONE knew he was taken.

He had a woman from accounting try and come up to him, being seductive, flashing her cleavage and saying she’d probably be a better lover than Gale. Without saying a word Bucky calls up the house phone, tells Gale what she said, hands the phone to her, and Gale absolutely RIPS into her.

Never had any problems with anyone else since

Gale some times during the week will go eat with John during his lunch, mostly to keep an eye out on any other potential accounting ladies

Everyone at the office refers to gale as the misses :)

John who makes sure to do everything in his power to keep Gale happy, even getting him pregnant (he’s got a bad breeding kink)(also raging simp)

Gale to John is what Morticia is to Gomez

Gale surprisingly likes being pregnant (he’s not ashamed to admit it’s because of how much John coddles him when he is)

Nothing can compare to The nightly massages John gives him, or when he’s standing behind Gale, he’ll lift up his bump to alleviate the pressure on his back

John goes into ultra protective mode when gales knocked up

He loves rubbing up on gales baby bump, talking to their baby, telling them no matter the gender he’s gonna teach them baseball

The sex they have when they’re trying is atrocious

Beds broken, sheets ripped apart, gale can’t hardly walk for a week, the amount of bite marks the both of them have

John takes his ass to pound TOWN

John who now also has more framed pictures of when the babies come, of Gale in the hospital holding their baby (he keeps a copy in his wallet), newborn pictures, his boss ends up having to come over to tell him he’s gotta stick to max 7 cause it’s a fire hazard having so many

Gale who goes and does mommy and me yoga just to get out of the house since he’s been cooped up for weeks

They are for sure PTA parents all the way through

[harrywavycurly]

Sarah my dear dear sweet Sarah I am on my knees begging for a look into the future with One Night Eddie and Reader when Dotty is older! I’ll take anything! I just love them🥰😇

Hiiii babes!!! You’re so sweet, I will give you some conversations with Eddie and Reader where Dotty is older like toddler-ish and in kindergarten! I hope you enjoy!💖

-find all things It Was Just One Night here ✨

“Why is she wearing that?” “Because we are going to the pool…” “Eddie…you can’t be serious.” “Uh yeah? I’m off for the day and she said she wanted to go do swimmies so…that’s what we are going to do.” “The pool is closed today….it’s Monday.” “What? No it’s not it’s closed on Tuesday’s.” “Are you calling me a liar?” “Why are you like this? No I’m not calling you a liar I’m just saying the pool is normally closed on Tuesday’s.” “Okay then walk down there and see if it’s open…we will be here putting on sunscreen.” “And if it’s closed? Then what?” “Then you’re going to be dad of the year and go get a blow up pool and put it in the backyard….duh.” “Right! Yeah that’s a good idea….love you I’ll be back either in a few minutes or like an hour depending on…what happens when I get to the pool.” “Sounds good.” “Uh..you..wanna say anything to me before I leave?” “Oh sorry..love you too…now hurry up we wanna do swimmies.”

“You have to make her eat something other than chicken nuggets and Mac and cheese.” “Why? She likes what she likes and besides she had broccoli with her Mac n cheese.” “Babe she can’t have your eating habits okay? She needs to like…try new stuff.” “What exactly is wrong with my eating habits Eddie? Hmm?” “I’m not doing this with you…just please maybe tomorrow we can try something new? She’s like four now so she isn’t as picky as she was when she was a baby.” “Next thing you know you’ll be buying her a water bottle from hell to keep track of how much she’s drinking.” “That’s not a bad-” “just let her eat what she likes Eddie…it’s hard enough to even get her to eat her nuggets…that’s why they have to be in fun shapes or she gets bored and won’t eat anything.” “Gee wonder where she gets that from…” “i can’t help that I am more likely to eat something in a fun shape than something that looks boring…now go see if she wants more chicken.”

“It’s her first week of kindergarten and we are already getting a call from her school?” “Don’t look at me…all I did was drop her off at her classroom and went to work.” “Baby…you’re a horrible fucking liar..what did you do?” “I didn’t do shit Edward…” “just tell me.” “I just want to say you would’ve done the exact same thing if you were the one who dropped her off.” “Stop stalling and tell me what happened.” “This bitchy ass mom was walking behind us and I heard her say something about Dotty’s shirt and-” “her shirt? The one she wore today?…it’s just a Metallica shirt…” “exactly and she was saying how she felt sorry for some kids and how their parents dress them.” “Oh god…did you hit her?” “What? No I didn’t fucking hit her you asshole….I dropped Dotty off to her room and then I saw the mom in the parking lot and I…just told her how I felt about what she said.” “Right…and what exactly did you tell her?” “That she doesn’t need to feel sorry for my daughter…but..I might’ve said that I feel sorry for hers because she has a boring ass bitch for a mom.” “Jesus….how are we going to explain ourselves out of this? The principal is the one who wants to meet with us.” “Just toss them some Eddie charm and offer a free oil change or something.” “You’re going to have to apolo-” “it’s bad to lie so..I won’t be apologizing to her.” “You’re so annoying…fine I’ll go in there alone and…see what I can do.” “That’s my man! Go knock ‘em dead.”

“Look at her…doing the monkey-bars all by herself…remember when she needed us to help her up the steps so she could go down the slide?” “Yes…she’s growing up too fast…next thing you know she’ll be asking us to drive her places and never wanna be seen with us.” “Speak for yourself…I’m a fucking cool dad she’ll wanna be seen with me.” “Really? You’re wearing a Fanny pack right now…nothing about that says cool dad.” “It’s easier than carrying the backpack around…it has all the things she needs in it.” “I will say…we are way cooler than those parents over there…total helicopter parents.” “Oh yeah they look like newbies…won’t even let their little boy go down the slide alone.” “He’s so cute though.” “I bet we’d make a cute little boy…” “who’s we? I told you this baby factory only does limited editions and Dotty is a one of one.” “I guess Dotty is all we really need…she is kinda perfect.” “She really is isn’t she? We got lucky with her.” “I love you.” “I love you too..even when you wear your lame ass Fanny pack.

[svltzmans]

it's nice to have a friend - f.g.

a/n: hiii i love fiona so much and i love writing for her 🫶 thank you to dinosaur anon for requesting this one! it actually brought me tons of comfort to write so i appreciate it so much

warnings: cigarette smoking, mentions of sex, not proofread!

"debs, can you please just eat the lunch i make you?"

"but i just had peanut butter and jelly yesterday."

"we've been over this, peanut butter and jelly is the cheapest and easiest."

debbie huffs, storming off and taking her paper lunch bag with her.

monday is fiona's least favorite day of the week, for countless reasons. she has to return to making lunches and hundreds of other chores to make sure every one of her siblings is ready and at school on time.

it hurts to not be seen and appreciated for the work she does every day to keep her family afloat, even though she knows her siblings are still young and don't understand the magnitude of the impact she has on their worlds.

after successfully encouraging liam to take a nap and sending the others off, fiona finally gets to sit on the couch and breathe.

before she knows it, she's waking up to lip and ian walking through the front door. she figures she must have fallen asleep, her exhaustion having finally caught up to her.

"you're such an idiot," lip sneers, clearly in the middle of a fight with his brother.

fiona sighs, rubbing the sleep from her eyes and standing up.

"god, i need a cigarette," she mutters to herself, stepping outside onto the stairs and grabbing a lighter from her pocket.

"rough day, huh?" a voice asks from the sidewalk. fiona looks over to see her neighbor, y/n, standing in front of the house.

"to say the least," she responds, taking another puff of her cigarette.

"you know, if you ever want to sleep in or go out or something, i can watch the kids."

"for what, 100 an hour?" fiona asks, laughing to herself. she expects y/n to laugh too, but she's stonefaced.

"no, for nothing. i'm serious. i know it can't be easy dealing with this shit every day. you deserve a break."

fiona is shocked by y/n's response. she wasn't sure what to expect, but it wasn't free childcare.

"i'll let you know."

"cool. see you around."

fiona watches as y/n leaves, walking toward the grocery store on the corner. she can't help but be slightly suspicious of her offer, thinking she must want something in return. regardless, she smiles to herself, feeling like someone finally recognized how hard she is working.

"she definitely wants to get in your pants," lip insists. "she doesn't want any money?"

"no, she said she didn't. it does seem kinda suspicious, but she sounded so genuine about it."

"she must just be a really good flirt then."

"i don't know, lip. it seemed like she actually just wanted to help."

"okay, so let her. see what happens."

fiona lets herself imagine the possibility of having a few hours to herself. she could take herself out to eat, go on a walk, go to the store. she could do whatever she wanted with her day and not have to worry about her siblings being taken care of.

"i'll do it."

fiona stands tentatively on y/n's doorstep, debating on whether she should actually knock or not. lip could be right, or he could be completely misjudging the situation.

eventually, she forces herself to gently tap on the door, and it only takes a few seconds for y/n to open it.

"oh! hey fiona, what's going on?"

"i'm here to take you up on your offer."

"to watch the kids? yeah, of course. want me to come over now?

"that would be great, v and i are planning on going to get some dinner and drinks."

"sure, i can hang out with the kids until you get back."

"you're a lifesaver. how much do i owe you?" fiona feels inclined to pay y/n for her kind gesture, despite her declining money before.

"fiona, i told you you don't owe me anything. now, go enjoy your time with v."

reluctantly, fiona leaves for her dinner with v, silently praying that her siblings are in good hands.

y/n decides to cook something simple that she knows all the kids would enjoy, opting for pasta with a few different sauces to choose from.

fiona had told her siblings that their neighbor would be spending the afternoon in the house to make sure everything was under control, but they weren't expecting a meal.

"this is great, thank you y/n," ian smiles, finishing his plate and heading to his room.

the other kids nod in unison, agreeing with their brother's compliment.

y/n notices that liam had pretty much covered his entire face in sauce, and she can't help but to giggle to herself. she wipes his face clean with a cloth and gets the youngest gallagher ready for bed.

the rest of the siblings were used to their own routines and were in their rooms after dinner. in her solitude, y/n cleans the kitchen behind her, and eventually ends up giving the entire bottom floor a quick clean. she knows it would give fiona one less thing to worry about.

when fiona walks through the door at around midnight, she finds y/n sitting on the couch, watching whatever was on the television set.

"hey, welcome back. how was dinner?"

"really great. thank you again for doing th... did you clean the house?"

"yeah, i made the kids dinner and started by just cleaning up after myself, but i ended up just kinda doing the whole bottom floor."

"y/n this is... thank you so much. can i please pay you? at least a little bit? you are seriously amazing and i..." fiona stops, feeling herself start to ramble. she is in pure shock that anyone would care this much about her and her siblings. just out of the goodness of their heart.

"i'm happy to do this for you guys, seriously. you better not even dream about paying me, fiona," y/n smiles, feeling her heart grow warm seeing how much this meant to fiona.

"do you wanna, maybe stay? chat a little bit?"

"that sounds really nice, actually."

fiona and y/n quickly fall into stride with one another, and before they know it they have been talking for hours. they talk about just about everything, and by the end of it they are both feeling much more connected.

"shit, it's 3am," fiona laughs, finally looking at the clock.

"damn, that flew by. i should probably get some sleep."

"you and me both," fiona stands, y/n following suit.

"y/n?"

y/n turns, facing fiona.

"yeah?"

before y/n knows it, fiona is pulling her into a tight hug.

"thank you so much, again."

"any time. i mean it."

"before you leave, i have to give you something," fiona says, speed walking into the kitchen and returning with a small piece of paper.

"my number. if, you know, you wanna watch the kids again. or hang out with me, maybe," fiona smiles, nervously handing y/n the paper.

"both of the two will definitely be happening again," y/n responds, finally leaving the gallagher home and returning to her own.

the next day, fiona pulls lip aside.

"she's so amazing, lip. she really didn't want anything in return. she wanted to help. and she talked to me for hours."

"well, you better ask her on a date then, huh?"

"you think i should?"

"it seems like she's actually into you. and not just in a sex way."

fiona's cheeks turn a deep rose shade as she cracks a smile, earning a dry laugh from her brother.

"fi's in love!" he yells, running around the house as fiona chases.

when y/n wakes up the next morning, she's surprised to hear a gentle knock on her door.

when she opens it, she's surprised to see fiona on the other side, holding a bouquet of flowers.

"i know it's kinda early, but i wanted to give you these. and i wanted to ask if you wanted to go out for breakfast. my treat."

"it's never too early to see you, fiona. i'd love to go to breakfast with you. can i just have a second to change out of my pajamas?"

the pair both burst into laughter at the image of y/n in her pajamas, standing on the doorstep.

"that might be a good idea."

[la-kuntessa]

A Very Classy Night

For the Hellcheer Discord Hotties

NYC

June, 1989

It’s such a beautiful, iconic, warm and sexy New York night that they have to take advantage of it. 

They’re dressed up, having left a fancy party thrown by or for a big donor at Chrissy’s dance school. It was in a fancy apartment on fifth avenue. Champagne, h’ors d’overs (Chrissy’s favorite food), beautiful art in a gorgeous, million-billion dollar apartment and an open bar. 

Super classy.

Eddie was on his best behavior, he charmed all the rich wives and their staff. He meticulously pressed his suit and bought a tie with matching pocket square. He wore his pointy boots and his hair neatly tied at his nape. Chrissy thinks he’s so handsome she could die. 

They bounce the classy party before everyone gets too drunk and things get inappropriate (Eddie thinks there’s a very sexual vibe between donors and dancers. Like, they throw money and you dance for them. Chilling.)

They’re not ready for this night to end, though! They have to hit as many bars as possible because they look and feel so cute. They want to get drunk and make out at a bar, then they want to go home, get stoned and make out some more.

A perfect Saturday night. 

So Eddie’s twirling Chrissy as they walk down Fifth Avenue and they find themselves in front of the Plaza Hotel. 

There’s fancy people coming in and out and they all look like they’ve been partying. Must be a wedding. It is a Saturday in June, after all. 

Hmmmm. 

It takes very little to persuade Chrissy to try to sneak into this fancy wedding. 

They enter the hotel from a little used side door, feeling like spies. Chrissy is giggling so hard it makes Eddie get the giggles and they have to take some circular breaths to calm down. They put Eddie’s jacket on Chrissy, she holds her heels. Eddie tucks his hair into his popped (ugh) collar and he puts on his sunglasses for extra asshole vibes.

They stumble over, pretending to be drunk yuppies, like they’ve been at this party for hours. There’s no one to check them so they walk in with purpose to the bar. 

The room is massive and there’s so many people…

This could be fun.

They grab two passed champagne flutes and sip nervously. 

No one is looking at them. 

The coast…is clear? 

They nibble on some canapés.

They hit the dance floor when the band starts up on some Temptations. 

They eat a couple of eclairs from the Viennese table.

This might actually work!

They’re back at the bar when one of the bridesmaids approaches them. 

Uh oh.

“Great party right!” Chrissy chirps.

“Totally,” says bridesmaid “Who are you with?”

Oh NO.

“Michael!” Eddie croaks. “We’re Michael’s kids!”

“Michael who?”

“Michael Michael!”

Chrissy acts fast.

“He’s right over there!” she points to the far side of the room.

The bridesmaid looks over-

-THEN BITCH THEY ARE RUNNING-

Ok, not running, running, more like scooting away at a fast clip.

They zip down some halls and miraculously find a unisex bathroom to hide in.

Chrissy and Eddie are laughing and trembling so hard, oh my god. 

They wait until they’re sure no one has followed them or called the cops or whatever rich people would do to two scalawags such as them. 

Eventually they slide out and slink onto 58th street where they indulge in a cab to 13th street to stop at the Pony Keg because Eddie used to work there and drinks for (mostly) free. 

On Monday Chrissy tells her dance friends about their adventure (turns out they left just in time. Things indeed get sexual; Antoine blew a waiter in the service stairwell and Lisette got multiple offers for threesomes. {She’ll do it if they pay her $500 cash})

So everybody had fun!

Years and years later, they’re at a HUGE charity gala at the Plaza. They’re having a great time schmoozing, sipping Champagne, feeling very rich and famous, when Eddie turns to Chrissy and says sotto voce 

“ok, if anyone asks, tell them we’re with Michael” 

Chrissy is confused, but Eddie sees the realization wash over her. She makes an undignified, loud, explosive laugh-snort and doubles over laughing, ending up squatting then sitting on the floor. 

She’s crying laughing, she can’t breathe.

She’s doing Chrissy Laugh #234- “ah-HA! Ah-HA! Ah-Ha!” one of Eddie’s faves.

He’s holding her wrap and purse so they don’t end up with her. ON the floor of THEE Plaza Hotel. “Christine, please! The press is here! She’s not drunk, I swear!” he laughs. She’s so fucking cute, he wants to kiss her all over her adorable face. 

The cameras flash all around them.

There’s a picture of Chrissy in her beautiful midnight blue satin gown, her hair, gleaming, diamonds at her ears and throat, at this major event…looking like she peed herself on the floor of the Plaza. 

This picture?

It ends up in Vanity Fair. 

It’s framed on Eddie’s desk.