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husbandhoshi · 1 year ago

Text

title: eat. play. love.

pairing: seungcheol x f!reader

wc: 19.4k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Looking forward to talking with the two of you.

Wait—two?

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

CC: Choi Seungcheol.

"Choi Seungcheol?!"

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

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

"I—he," you stammer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Choi Seungcheol's name stares back at you.

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The meeting goes exactly how you would expect.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You know what?"

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

"What?"

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

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

"I'd rather starve."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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"You'll never guess what I have."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And a seat at Momofuku."

"And that."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hide behind your computer screen.

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

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

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

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

Seungkwan works hard, but the devil always works harder.

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing you can do to stop him, huh?

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

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Beware the wrath of a woman scorned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hook, line, and sinker.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Seungcheol?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who said I was pretending?"

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

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

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

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

"I never said that."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How To Antagonize Your Date In 5 Easy Steps.

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm no quitter."

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

Definitely not that one.

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

"Why, so you can steal my job?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In your periphery hovers his wry, wanting smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, pity looks good on you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fair. You gonna ask me about mine?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Running away?"

"Bored," you lie.

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

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

"Unfortunate."

"How do you think I feel?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Field trip?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"N-not both ways?" you croak.

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

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

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

Whatever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But, thank you."

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

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

"I'm retracting my thank you."

"I'm devastated. Really."

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

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

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

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

"Thought you knew it was Wonwoo."

"Yeah, but why?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who hurt you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I wouldn't say nothing."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You in a rush?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Definitely bad at food, you muse to yourself.

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

Now that—nothing could have prepared you for that.

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

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

"Stop that."

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

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

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

"Is it working?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Seungcheol is my enemy, remember?"

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

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

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

You almost choke on a blueberry.

"Absolutely not."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm running out of options."

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

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

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

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

Your entire body heaves with the sigh that escapes you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Lucky you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A gift. A pithless, wrinkly one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, you're definitely going to cry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You count the seconds till he walks away.

One. Two. Three.

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

"Hey, you ok?"

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

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

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

"Whoa," he breathes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah, I-I think so."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And no text from Seungcheol. (Damn.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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"Here. Drink."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Thanks…?"

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

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

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

"You're literally the definition of easy."

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

"This is not a date. Dream on."

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

"It wasn't."

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

"Chicago."

"Same difference."

Your conversation continues as such.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hi."

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

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

The elevator dings.

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

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You have three reasons to get drunk.

1. It's Friday.

2. You finished your article.

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

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

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

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

So you get drunk.

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

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

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

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

"You got that right."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yours or mine?"

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

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

How To Ruin The Moment In One Easy Step!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Just dates. Nothing serious."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Holy shit. You live like this?"

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

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

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

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

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

You tentatively nod before dropping the noodles in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What, too many dates to cover?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The table stops rocking.

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

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

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

"You asked."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Wh—"

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

"Get. Out."

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

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

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

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Celery. Red wine. Short rib.

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

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

Fingerling potatoes, the red ones. A Vidalia onion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Monday feels tilted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You wonder what you'll be:

10 Signs She Is Clinically Insane.

It's Not You, It's Them!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Ask Samuel!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Congrats."

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

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

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

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

"No need."

"What about Seungcheol? Does he know?"

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

"What?!"

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

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

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

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

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

Instead you stand motionless, waiting, emptied.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

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

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

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

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

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

He gave up.

None of this should matter to you.

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

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

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

"You're an idiot, Seungcheol."

That does the trick.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"H-how?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Afternoon, boss."

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

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

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

"Friendly reminder we're at work."

"Everyone's at lunch, genius."

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

"You are the worst."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eat, Play, Love: A Guide.

Maybe you'd put it through. Maybe.

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

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vivid-dreamscapes · 7 months ago

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~♡~Caught~♡~ Bakugou X reader

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Tw: Swearing, suggestive themes Themes: Humor mainly Summery: Getting caught in the middle of being hot and heavy ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Well this was embarrassing. Just two seconds ago, you had been making hella love with your boyfriend, Katsuki Bakugou, at 2:56 AM. Things were going well, you were getting your brains fucked out, he was saying some not so SFW stuff to you, all that.

Then the ever so lovely Kirishima decided to burst in for gods knows what reason, and now you were stuck here, hiding under the covers of your boyfriend’s bed, naked, bound at the wrists with the black tank top he had been wearing, and gagged with the new ball gag he had been excited to try out.

Bakugou’s whole body tensed up in shock as the sound of the door banging open suddenly jolted him out of the state he was in, his eyes snapping to the door where Kirishima was standing.

He was so taken off guard by the sudden arrival that he could barely muster up a response to Kirishima.

“WHAT THE HELL SHITTY HAIR!?!!” The blonde yelled, trying desperately to prepare himself to act like nothing was out of the usual.

The fact that the two of you’s clothes were strewn on the floor didn’t help though. Hopefully Kirishima wouldn’t see them in the dark. And assume that Bakugou just slept shirtless.

Bakugou was practically holding his breath, hoping that Kirishima wouldn’t notice any of the clothes and just think nothing was odd about the room.

Unfortunately, Kirishima was not that thick.

“Hey man, are you alone in here?”

Your boyfriend let out an internal swear inside his mind as Kirishima asked that particular question, knowing that he could not say that he was alone in here without being obviously caught in a lie.

“Y-yeah, why?” Bakugou answered and then silently cursed himself at the slight shake in his voice.

Kirishima paused before looking up at him. “Nothing, I just-“

“Heyy, we bothering kcchan?”

Both you and your boyfriend went stiff. Oh no. For fucks sake. Denki Kaminari’s voice was heard as he poked his head into the room alongside Kirishima.

The spiky blonde heard the dumber blonde’s voice too, feeling his heart almost stop as he realized that not only was Kirishima there, but now Denki was too.

He wanted to strangle both of them for being so goddamn stubborn about coming to check on him at such an ungodly hour of the night.

“Yeah, why’s it so dark in here?” Denki pondered, looking around.

“Because I was trying to sleep, dipshit!”

The little electric boy raised an eyebrow before he recognized your ‘Yeah, I rolled my eyes at you, sue me’ shirt on the floor, plus your favorite bottoms.

He glanced over at Bakugou who was mentally swearing again, but still trying to act as innocent as possible.

“Hey Bakubro…?”

“What?”

You tended up and prayed your friend wouldn’t recognize the outfit as your own. But luck really wasn’t on your side today.

Denki glanced back at the scattered outfit in the floor again, trying to find any other excuse that wasn’t the one right in front of his eyes.

“Aren’t these Y/n’s clothes?”

Bakugou froze as Denki asked that question, feeling every cell in his body just scream at him to answer properly and not make it any more obvious. It didn’t help that they knew you two were dating either.

Your boyfriend’s mind was racing with a million things to say, but none of them were working. Everything he thought about saying failed before it even came out, his brain short circuiting as he tried to come up with an answer.

“Yeah…they are…” Kirishima said, speaking up for the first time with its that minute.

Denki looked up at the shirtless hothead, covering the rest of his indecent self but keeping it under the blankets. You had a nice view of his ass under there while you hid though. “Why are they on your floor?”

“Because…” Bakugou stopped a moment and cursed again before he finally said the dumbest thing he could think of. “…they were here earlier.”

Kirishima raised both his eyebrows at that, both him and Denki now looking at him with the same look of disbelief.

“Really?” Denki asked, clearly not buying the excuse, although he was still giving him the chance to dig himself out of the hole.

“…yeah.” Bakugou said, silently cursing himself again and praying they would just take the lie.

Unfortunately, Kirishima was far from stupid.

“Then why did they take their clothes off? And just leave them?” The shark boy asked, arms crossed.

Bakugou swore under his breath for the umpteenth time at that question, knowing there was no way to answer this that wouldn’t be extremely suspicious now. “…they took a shower…”

He said, the lie sounding just as terrible out loud as it did in his head. There was a moment of silence as Kirishima raised his eyebrow again. “Why would they come over in the middle of the day to take a shower and then ditch their clothes?”

Your boyfriend tensed up as he realized more and more that there was no hope in trying to lie about this situation.

“…Because.” He ever so genius-ly said.

Denki and Kirishima raised their eyebrows again, the answer sounding even more suspicious than before. They knew he was lying at this point, but it was so entertaining to watch him flounder around trying to cover up the truth.

After a moment, Denki broke the silence. “…and why are you shirtless?”

Bakugou wanted to strangle both of those dumbasses in the doorframe, silently cursing the fact that they had to pick this particular moment to come up here to bother him. “…Because I was hot.” He lied, knowing it was possibly the worst lie given these circumstances.

“It’s 66 degrees.”

“YOU TRY HAVING A QUIRK THAT GIVES YOU UNNATURALLY HOT BODY TEMPERATURES SHITTY HAIR!!”

Bakugou shouted again when Kirishima pointed out that it was, in fact, not hot enough to be warranting him to be shirtless. He was losing hope in trying to cover this up. He just couldn’t keep up the facade much longer.

“Okay, so you’re telling us that she came over, took a shower, left her clothes, and you’re in here shirtless, even though it’s not that hot out. You’re sure that’s right?” Denki asked with a raised eyebrow.

“….Yes.”

Bakugo’s eyes darted between Denki and Kirishima, a small voice in the back of his head begging them to just believe him so this would all be over, but a bigger part of him just knew they weren’t buying it one bit. They had him caught and they knew it.

After a moment, Denki spoke up. “Okay, so…prove it.”

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN PROVE IT?!”

Denki shrugged and gave a sly smirk.

“I don’t know, open the covers.”

“Hell no!!”

Kirshima decided to wedge in real quick before what got intense. “If you really-“

The red head was cut off as the familiar voice of your pink best friend was heard from the door over, saving you from this situation.

“Ejirou, are you coming back yet? I just found another toy we can use! This one vibrates~”

You all froze at Mina’s voice, coming from Kirishima’s dorm.

Knowing her, she had probably known you were going to be caught naked if this continued—by eavesdropping—and was helping you slightly.

But Oh how the tables have turned.

All three boys looked at the door as they heard Mina’s voice coming from it, their eyes wide as they realized that she was also up and possibly doing some frisky stuff in Kirishima’s room.

Neither one of them had expected her to say something so sus at that moment, and all three boys froze, their minds racing to try and figure out how to respond to this new development.

It ended up coming down to Denki and Bakugo turning to look at Kirishima with raised eyebrows.

Kirishima’s face was beet red as he turned to look at them both, his voice slightly shaky as he spoke. “I-It’s not what it looks-“

“Oh shut it shitty hair, and stop acting like you weren’t just trying to catch me when your doing the same thing.”

Denki nodded, arms crossed. “Yeah…hypocrite much?”

“Wait, you admit it!” Kirishima pointed to Bakugou as you giggled through the ball gag under the sheets. Your boyfriend gave them one warning look, a few sparks, and they were gone.

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

Sorry there wasn’t much reader interaction! This one was just kinda suppose for be silly and make yall laugh. And like usual, it ain’t proofread

#bakugo x reader #bakugou x reader #mha #my hero academia #katsuki bakugo x reader #katsuki x you #bakugou katsuki

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erwinsvow · 1 year ago

Text

𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥𝐬

summary: how you and rafe got started <3

author's note: if i could stop losing my brain cells over rafe cameron for a minute that would be great but i can't so here it is <3 this is mostly cute but in the shea cinematic universe this establishes the beginning of what can only be a hopelessly codependent relationship <3 more parts to come! also none of this would be written without the surge of inspo i get from reading every single one of @princessbrunette's posts but in particular this one, this one, and this<3 one!

now spinning: one of the girls by the weeknd & jennie

Rafe’s always thought you were cute.

Cute, he’d think to himself in passing, on a hot summer day when he was getting ready to take beers from the fridge and go find the boys at the country club. He didn’t need to steal anything, the waitress at the club always gave him whatever drink he asked for, but he just felt like taking them from the house today.

You were dawdling around the house with a bored Sarah, all dressed up with nowhere to go. Sarah was texting on her phone, likely engaging in a virtual fight with Topper. He’d feel bad, but the two of them did it to themselves. You were at the counter with Wheezie, leaning on your elbows while the two of you discussed something. He didn’t really care, until he met your eyes for a second.

Cute. The way you met his eyes and then looked away, face heating up. You were in a bikini and a coverup, probably waiting for his sister before spending the day on the beach or at the pool. The cover up was white and see through, covering everything to the point where no one could see anything but the faint yellow of your bikini underneath.

Leaning on the counter, when you looked away, he got a glimpse into the top of your dress. He could make out little yellow flowers on the material of your bikini and the outline of your tits squeezed against each other.

He grabbed a beer and opened it with his back tooth, spitting the cap out on the counter next to Wheezie’s book.

“Ew, Rafe, get your spit molecules away from my book.”

“Who reads in the summer anyways? You should be glad for my spit if it makes you stop.”

“It’s my summer reading, Rafe, not everyone can just skip their assignments and get away with it.”

“Please, what have I skipped?”

You and Wheezie turn to look at each other and start laughing. He cracks a smile too, unexpectedly.

“Actually, it’s a great book. You’re missing out, Rafe,” you say, with a smile gracing your face, and he realizes he’s never actually heard the sound of your voice. You’ve maybe said hi to him twice, and both times Sarah had dragged you away within seconds. You even sound cute. His name on your tongue sounds even cuter.

“Really? Maybe I need to give it a try.” You laugh again, meeting his eyes this time.

“You can’t have my copy, I already put my annotations in this one-“

“Stop yapping, Wheeze. I’m not gonna take yours.”

“Actually you have a copy in the library upstairs. I borrowed it last summer.”

“Really, kid? Wanna come find it with me?”

Your face heats up so much you turn away. He smiles then, and he smiles again when you follow him up to the library.

“This one is fantastic too, it’s about this young girl in England-” your voice continues to describe the plot of the book in your hand. You shelve it and then your eyes immediately land on another, another classic, another favorite. You ramble off the description but Rafe’s hardly paying attention.

He’s trying to recall when you had become so cute, so pretty. He thinks he’s never noticed you after you walk away with Sarah, or when he walks away from you two lounging on pool chairs, your nose in a book like always.

This is different. When had you become so irresistible?

Your pretty hair falls down your back. It sticks to your neck when the two of you are outside in the sun, in the heat. He has an urge to lick the sweat off just to see how you’d blush and feel how you’d squirm. Your eyes are warm and bright, but you’re still too shy to meet his blue ones, even when it’s just the two of you.

And it has been. Just the two of you, recently, almost all of the time. Sarah’s always off with her stupid friends and Wheeze is at home doing her summer work.

The two of you travel to every ice cream parlor in the eight in the next few weeks. Conversation comes easily, even though you have nothing in common. He hasn’t picked up a bag from his dealer since he started talking to you, he realizes. Hasn’t felt the need to get high.

You’ve never even smoked weed, much less snorted coke. You’ll drink at a party with Sarah, but not too much, and you always end up being the sober friend holding back the vomiting girl’s hair. At the bonfire that he invites you to, your eyes keep darting around, seeing if anyone needs your help.

Rafe moves so he’s standing right in front of you, blocking your view.

“Hey, kid,” he says quietly, leaning in. You’re boxed in, with Rafe and only Rafe on your mind. The clean, attractive scent of his cologne. The way it lingers on his clothes, like the button up you’re wearing over your pink dress.

He picks up the red cup in your hand and places it on the log beside you, balancing his beer next to it. His hands are cold from the bottle but you don’t mind much. He takes your wrists first, holding them in place, and then slides down so your hands are touching.

“What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?” You were looking down at the hands, where the two of you were connected, but his voice makes you look up. He’s looking at you, and you want to hide your face. Your fingers twitch beneath Rafe’s grip. He holds on even tighter. “Don’t look away, princess. We gotta work on that, huh?”

You feel your face heating up at the nickname. You wish you were home so you could scream into your pillow.

“Sorry, sorry,” you scramble, trying to look up but you can’t find the strength or the will.

You’re embarrassed. Of course you are—this is Rafe, and you’re just you. Rafe is the one you’ve had a crush on since you knew what crushes were, and you are still the awkward little thing you were the first time you met him.

His gaze burning holes through you makes you want to run and hide. Because this is Rafe, and right now you’re one of his girls. The ones Sarah’s complained about the whole time she’s known you—they get too attached, act all clingy, and then are replaced before long.

You hear Rafe’s quiet laughter. You’re still boxed in, feeling hot and clammy even though he’d given you his button up not thirty minutes ago because you felt cold.

“What’re you saying sorry for?” You look up quickly, and then look back down. Then Rafe’s hands leave yours, and he holds up your chin until you’re looking right into his eyes. “Hmm?”

You feel like puking.

“I-I just, well I just-”

“You just what?”

“I don’t think I can be, um, be one of your flingy, uh fling-type girls. So, you know, maybe all of this isn’t a good idea.”

“Fling-type girls?” he questions. He’s holding back a laugh, which makes you irrationally upset. You shove hard against his chest to free yourself from the cage of his arms.

“Yes, your fling-type girls. You have a new girl on your arm every week, and everyone knows it, and I refuse to be one of them, because it’s just embarrassing and dehumanizing,” he watches you ramble on. He smiles, but you don’t notice. “And frankly, I deserve better than that.”

“Are you done?” You glare back at him.

“Yes, and not because you said that. I was done anyway.”

“Good.” Your face drops for a second, thinking you overstepped and totally overreached regarding his intentions, but then Rafe surprises you—he leans in and kisses you.

You weren’t expecting a playground peck, but the way he’s kissing you completely surpasses any and all expectations (and fantasies) you’d dreamt up. His grip on your hips is hard, and his tongue is almost down your throat. It’s messy, and wet, and when he pulls away, there’s strings of spit connecting you to each other.

You should wipe your mouth before anyone sees, but you don’t. Your heart is racing, and you can barely speak, much less move.

“If I wanted you to be one of my girls, I wouldn’t have spent the last three weeks listening to you blab about books and buying you ice cream. You’re gonna be my only girl, and that’s that, okay?”

You nod dumbly—words and motions still not quite back yet. You feel flushed. People’s eyes are on you both.

“Now, do you wanna head out and go get a cone?” You nod again. “Good girl. And watch your mouth.”

#eeeeeee #im so nervous about this #anyways if you liked it lmk <3 #the characterization is hard fdsjnajfnj #rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #outer banks

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kunaigirl · 2 years ago

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Happy Disability Pride and awareness month! Let's talk about Epilepsy!

Hi there! I got tired of seeing my condition (that impacts my literal every day life) being left out or forgotten about during discussions about disabilities, so I made my own post about it! Let's go!

First Off! What the heck is epilepsy? Epilepsy is the fourth most common neurological disorder in the world, and it's a chronic medical condition. Epilepsy is a brain disorder that causes recurring, frequent, triggered, and unprovoked seizures to occur.

The official Epilepsy Foundation describes seizures as follows: "Seizures are sudden surges of abnormal and excessive electrical activity in your brain, and can affect how you appear or act. Where and how the seizure presents itself can have profound effects...Seizures involve sudden, temporary, bursts of electrical activity in the brain that change or disrupt the way messages are sent between brain cells. These electrical bursts can cause involuntary changes in body movement or function, sensation, behavior or awareness." (Source link)

Sounds like a lot of fun right? This is our life. Even with medication, we can be VERY limited to what can be safe for us. Seizure medications are NOT a cure, they only exist (at least as of now) as a tool to help have your seizures less often, or be triggered less intensely. Even on medication, seizures can still happen.

If you have epilepsy as a child like I did, it impacts your entire growing and developing experience. I spent MANY times as a child in and out of hospitals, neurologist and specialist offices, an getting so many EEG tests done. The pain of scrubbing the glue out of your hair for DAYS is horrible.

At a young age my seizures were so frequent and serious, it impacted my brain's ability to retain information. I had to re-learn the names of things at age 8 and 9. I had to re-learn HOW TO READ at age 10. I had to be home schooled because the public school system of my state at the time refused to work with me. I have VERY distinct and vivid memories of crying over my little baby ABC's book that I needed as a 4th and 5th grader. I knew I should've known this by this age. I knew that at one point I already did, and it was TAKEN FROM ME.

As an adult, I'M NOT ALLOWED TO DRIVE A CAR. And I can NEVER go to see a movie in theaters or go to see concerts or live music. There are entire TV shows I don't get to see. I can't go to clubs, arcades, dances, or raves. I miss out on A LOT of fun things. I always do, and I'm WELL AWARE of the fun I'm missing out on. The social, casual, and fun life experiences I'll never get to have. That WE'LL never get to have. And oh yeah! Seizures can KILL SOME OF US. Yep.

And the list goes on, and every person with epilepsy experiences it differently. There are multiple different types of seizures you can have, they're NOT always convulsing on the floor. For example, I have complex-partial-myoclonic-seizures. Meaning my muscles DO twitch when I have seizures, but I'm not always completely unconscious and sometimes I'm even able to stay sitting up. However, I'm still very "off" and can't focus or remember much for a good while after the fact. I can't talk or communicate during one, even with my slight bit of consciousness.

My experiences are not universal, I just wanted to talk about it and bring it up. It helps to talk about it even a little bit. Here's more about different kinds of seizures. Here's more about common seizure triggers. Here's more about CORRECT seizure first aid. And here's more general information/resources.

Please stop leaving us out of disability awareness. Please stop ignoring us or saying we're "not really disabled" or anything else like that. Please. Why does it always feel like the only people who care about epilepsy, are people WITH epilepsy? We're so tired of being ignored by others who don't have our condition.

If you're an epileptic person reading this, I see you. I love you. You're so strong, we all are. I believe in you, I believe in us. We're so much stronger than we get credit for, and it's going to be ok. Your anger and frustration are valid. Your emotions and struggles are real. You're valid, and I see you. Hang in there, we got this.

#epilepsy #epilepsy awareness #actually epileptic #disability pride month #disability awareness month #disability awareness #ok to reblog #disability pride

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imagining-in-the-margins · 1 year ago

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Sunscreen & Statistics (S.R.)

Summary: Reader asks for Spencer’s help putting on sunscreen (and washing it off after). Request: Spencer lecturing Reader on the statistics of wearing sunscreen, but his mind going blank when reader needs him to help put it on. A/N: This is my (first) entry to my Summer Sunshine Challenge! Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader Category: Smut (NSFW, 18+) Content Warning: Spencer POV, so much sexual tension, mutual pining, heavy petting, fingering, rough sex, unprotected penetrative sex, coworker relationship, so many statistics (showers, skin cancer, sunscreen, sex), schizophrenia mention, Reader wears a bikini Word Count: 5.6k

MASTERLIST

It was a beautiful day—the kind that artists had attempted to capture through many mediums. The summer sun was relentless, stretching its rays across every inch of the region. Even the shade hardly seemed spared, with bits of bright light slipping between green rustling leaves.

This seemingly idyllic set of circumstances offered the BAU a wonderful excuse to stay behind on the sunnier coast. Everyone was quick to buy new bathing suits and Rossi had already begrudgingly extended an invitation for everyone to stay at his favorite luxury hotel (on his dime, of course, or none of us would’ve made it).

The celebrations were already in full swing, and everyone was blissfully happy. It was, after all, the perfect day to hang out by the pool. So, they did. Each and every one…

Except for me. I stayed inside.

I wasn’t trying to ruin the fun. I had my reasons. Some were more reasonable than others.

Others were scary and slightly embarrassing. They wore a smile so bright it would rival the sun and managed to make me turn red even quicker than the star could. The kind of reason that turned me to nothing but a blubbering mess of a man.

I should’ve known better than to try to avoid her, though. Because that reason, that very important and tempting enchantress of a reason, always seemed to find me at the most inopportune time.

“Are you still hiding in here?”

I nearly jumped through my skin at the sound.

“No!”

I turned to find her staring back with an entertained, albeit disbelieving stare.

“Sort of. Maybe,” I felt compelled to continue.

When she still didn’t believe me—for obvious reasons—I finally conceded, “Yes.”

To my joy and eternal shame, she laughed like it had been an intentional joke.

“Well, I got banished back inside because I forgot sunscreen, so I’m trying to figure out where JJ left her bag,” she sighed.

Thankfully, that had been something I could help with. Despite everyone’s enthusiasm when they’d tossed the bags into the center of the suite lobby, I had managed to determine who owned which brightly colored pattern.

From my seat in the center, I reached over to pull JJ’s bag from the fray.

As soon as (y/n) spotted the motion, she was quick to exclaim, “My hero!”

Immediately, I felt the blood rush to my face.

I suppose there were worse places it could have gone.

“How did you forget sunscreen?” I asked.

“I hate the way it feels, so I almost never wear it unless forced,” she shrugged. Then, she turned to me, pointing the bottle like a weapon as she explained, “Plus, it always feels like they’re trying to trick me with all the numbers. I don’t know what SPF is. They could just be lying to me.”

“Well, the good news is that even a weak sunscreen is helpful,” I tried to reassure her. “Regular daily use of at least 15 SPF can reduce your risk of squamous cell carcinoma and melanoma by up to 50%.”

“Is that right?”

“Yeah. I can tell you more about this product specifically, if you want.”

When I held out my hand, she was quick to hand me the bottle. I was, in turn, very happy to have an excuse to look at something other than her before all the blood left my brain.

“Okay, so, this one is an interesting formula. It offers a decent coverage and—,” I started, but my voice died just as soon as I looked up.

Because there she was, pulling her top over her head to reveal the barely-there bikini beneath it.

I knew I only had a few seconds to shamelessly ogle her before she would find out, and I greedily accepted the sight of soft curves that all consisted of and led to her.

My eyes traversed her body the way I wished my hands could until I was left practically trembling.

The blood wasn’t in my face anymore. It wasn’t even anywhere near my brain. To the point I’d barely even noticed she’d already taken her pants off until her voice snapped me back to reality.

“And what?” she said.

“What?”

“… You stopped talking.”

“I did?”

She reached forward and grabbed the bottle from my hand. If she’d noticed the way I had been looking at her, she didn’t say anything about it. She just sort of… smiled.

“Are you alright, Doctor?” she asked.

“Yes,” I lied.

I might’ve been able to answer honestly if it hadn’t been for the way she dumped the contents of the bottle into her hand and began lathering it over her legs.

“A-Anyways,” I tried to continue. With a wavering voice and wandering eyes, I rambled, “to maximize protection you should really use about an ounce of sunscreen with an SPF of 30. Anything over 30 is, well, like you suggested, sort of a scam.”

All the while, there she was, smoothing over slick skin that smelled like summer.

“An ounce, huh?” she hummed as her hands traveled between pillowy thighs to coat skin the sun could rarely reach. “Feels like you could make it a drinking game with enough motivation.”

“Drinking alcohol actually dramatically increases your risk of sunburn, so you should definitely wear more sunscreen if you’re drinking,” I muttered absently while my eyes stayed firmly fixed between her thighs long after her hands had abandoned the area.

“Noted,” she said, the end of the word tinged with a little bit of amusement.

I looked up at her to try to understand what had excited her, or perhaps annoyed her.

Or at least, I tried to look at her face. My eyes made a few involuntarily stops along the way. Once they settled safely back on her smile, however, she was quick to get my blood pumping in a different way.

“So, will you help me?” she asked.

“With what?”

She scoffed, then laughed.

“… the sunscreen? Duh.”

Despite my best efforts to make any sense of the request, I was, once again, a hopeless, lovesick idiot.

“W-What?” I babbled, “You… You want me to put it on? You?”

“I can ask JJ if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“No!” I blurted out with both hands raised in opposition or surrender.

Didn’t seem to matter which.

I tried to explain it away, but my attempts to bolster my good character seemed even less convincing than the sudden outburst.

“N-No, no it’s fine. I-It’s… why would that make me… uncomfortable? I’m fine. I can do it.”

“Wow. Convincing,” she teased.

And that is what it was. There was no anger in her tone; not even a hint of resentment. She laughed, and I did, too.

“Okay, I admit that wasn’t very convincing. But seriously, I can do it. Promise.”

She spoke through her teeth when she muttered, “Whatever you say.”

When she tossed me the bottle back, we were both surprised to find that I’d caught it.

My hands, still shaky, were quick to close the gap between our bodies. The sunscreen felt nearly frigid compared to our skin, but she didn’t seem to mind.

In fact, she rewarded the sensation with a dreamy sigh and a slight arching of her back.

That motion, however small, felt like fire to an already ruined man. I tried to stay focused on more innocent areas. I worked my hands over knotted muscles in her shoulder and tried to free her of those burdens, too. With each swipe of my thumbs, she would let out the most delicious rumble that made me want to do it again.

Each time that I pulled away to add more, I came back a few inches lower until my fingers nearly slipped beneath the top of her bikini bottoms.

At that moment, with her arched lower back pressed against my palms and my fingers brushing against the little fabric between us, she shivered. Silently, I watched as the goosebumps covered her skin like a sheet.

Reaching forward to grab hold of the couch in front of her, she arched her back once more. The movement seemed intentional, closing a couple inches of the distance between us until there was almost nothing.

With more speed than I’d intended, I stepped back and nearly fell.

“O-Okay, I-I think that’s it!” I said with a squeak.

To my dismay, she stayed exactly where she was for a long moment. In fact, she deepened the stretch and fell forward with a sigh before she whined, “Shame.”

I tried to calm my fast beating heart while simultaneously trying to run from the thoughts that continued to chase me the longer she stayed bent over. My hands were still buzzing from the contact, and I felt almost lightheaded from the strength of the unrelenting erection still struggling against compression shorts underneath my pants.

(I had been right that I would need them if she was going to be there.)

And there she was, finally standing and stretching her arms over her head. They dropped back down and I couldn’t stop myself from admiring the effect of physics on her chest.

“It felt nice to be touched like that,” she sighed.

I couldn’t respond to that without making a complete fool of myself, so I tried to distance myself from the moment, instead.

“You’re actually supposed to wait 30 minutes after application to go into the sun, but, y-you can probably just sit in the shade and wait.”

“Did you already apply yours?”

“I’m not taking off my clothes so I could do it myself,” I explained.

I should’ve known better than to doubt her ability to get whatever she wanted—which, at the moment seemed to be my catastrophic defeat.

“Well, that’s not fair,” she whined, “I want to return the favor!”

“I-I mean… I’ll probably have to reapply it to my face soon, but I doubt you want to—.”

“Awe! Fun!” she cried before I could finish the thought, “Gimme!”

“Oh… um, okay.”

I handed her the bottle and whatever I still had of my heart. With expert fingers, she spread the chilly contents over my cheeks. We were both smiling, the expressions growing wider and more genuine as she started to play with pliable skin.

I involuntarily joined in on her laughter. Her hands and eyes were so warm, I couldn’t help but melt into a puddle in her palms.

The moment ended far too quickly. I missed her immediately, but she made sure that my smile didn’t fade.

“There. You’re only sort of pasty now,” she sighed contentedly before adding, “Mostly red, actually.”

“Gee, I wonder why,” I grumbled back. The sarcastic tilt to the sound wasn’t lost on her.

I realized in that awkward, somehow lonely quiet that I loved her more than I’d thought.

I almost wanted to tell her. I’d even opened my mouth, ready to spill the contents of my soul and hope for the best.

I never got a chance, though. Because before I’d uttered a single syllable, she jumped with her own realization.

“Oh, I forgot the most important part!”

“What?”

She turned away from me and dove her attention into the pile of bags without further explanation. I watched as she dug through clothing and whatever else she’d stuffed into her tote until she stood triumphantly with a closed fist.

“What?” I asked again.

She held up a single finger in reply.

I followed her instruction, waiting patiently as I watched her uncap a small tube of chapstick and use it to thoroughly coat her lips. Once again, I was left to shamelessly stare at a beautiful woman as she dutifully cared for herself in a way I’d wished I could.

Swallowing the lump in my throat that carried heartfelt confessions, I spoke again.

“What am I waiting for, exactly?” I teased.

Her eyes narrowed with what seemed to be a playful warning.

“Sunscreen application,” she explained flatly, “Duh.”

I paused. My head cocked to the side and my face twisted as I struggled to find any explanation for why she’d needed me for this part.

“Wha—?”

Then, just when I’d started to speak, it hit me all at once.

And by that, I mean she kissed me.

With both hands cupping already-reddened cheeks, she pulled me forward until I could taste flavored lip balm and her.

Her lips opened, sliding against mine with an undeniable affection that made my whole body tense. I tried to hold her, but it all happened so quickly that by the time I raised my hands to her arms, she was almost gone.

“There!” she said happily, “Now we’re ready.”

For what? I wanted to ask.

But before I could make myself speak, she was already gone.

I spent the next several hours outside.

The rest of the team seemed both surprised and not surprised about my decision to join them. After all, everyone knew I didn’t particularly enjoy pools or any body of water, and, despite my Vegas origins, the sun and I didn’t quite get along.

But they also knew I liked her.

It had never been more obvious than it was that day, when I emerged from the safety of darkness with freshly kissed lips and an expression filled with utter confusion.

(Y/n) was quick to greet me in her usual manner. She said nothing about the kiss.

Part of me had even started to wonder if I’d hallucinated the whole thing. Maybe the doctors had all been wrong, and I was already waist-deep in psychosis that manifested purely through happy memories of her.

It would be an odd presentation, sure, but at the time it somehow felt more likely than her returning my affections. But as soon as I started to convince myself, she would flash me a glance that set my already overheated body on fire. Even as she peered up at me from the edge, I could still see her smile under the water.

She wore that same look in her eye she always did when we were alone. It was a slightly unnerving but mostly flattering feeling. It felt like being wanted by a beautiful woman.

I’m definitely losing it.

That was the only reasonable conclusion to reach. Because when she emerged from the pool, I could’ve sworn she paused before to make sure I was watching.

Of course, I was watching. I made sure that my flawless memory captured damn near every droplet as it caressed her curves. I stared, practically worshipped the sight of her lips parted with a relieved exhale that I could see leave her chest.

The blood was gone again. I was doomed.

“You’re still hiding, huh?”

I was too afraid to answer until she took the seat closest to me.

“No, not hiding, just… staying safe,” I explained through my typical awkward smile.

I pointed up to the umbrella above me, but she didn’t look. Her eyes stayed glued to me.

“It’s probably time for me to reapply, huh?” she laughed.

I liked the way it sounded, so, I laughed, too.

“Yeah, to be honest, you really should’ve done it a couple hours ago, but I didn’t want you to think I was… a wet blanket or a pervert.”

She snorted at the suggestion. Her eyes squinted, playful as always and carrying some meaning that evaded me.

“It’s very interesting that those were the two options that came to your mind,” she said.

I panicked.

“I don’t know, it’s weird, isn’t it? Me insisting you should let me touch you?” I rushed, “I’m not crazy, right? It’s… weird! It’s…!”

She sighed.

At first, I mistook the sound for annoyance. But when I looked into her eyes, I knew that wasn’t right.

Because she looked… like she had been caught in a dream. A melancholy fantasy of something she felt was just beyond her reach.

She was looking at me, I realized, exactly the same way I looked at her.

“You’re not crazy, Spencer,” she said with a smile, “Just a little oblivious.”

My lips twitched as I fought a smirk that came through, anyway.

“I can accept that.”

She seemed pleased, as if I’d given the right answer.

“Well, the good news is I’m done with the sun for the day,” she announced.

Her eyes finally left me as she once again stretched her arms over her head and left me to ogle her like an idiot. Then, when I was thoroughly distracted, she glanced around like she was checking to see if anyone could hear her.

“They don’t seem to be calming down, so…” she said, much quieter now, “any statistics on what I should do with sunscreen when I’m finished with it?”

“No statistics, per se, but you definitely should wash it off. It can be pretty irritating for skin,” I answered matter-of-factly. “Not to mention the salts and chemicals from the pool.”

“I see,” she laughed.

Then, when she realized that I was, in fact, a hopeless, perverted fool with no blood in his brain, she made her intentions much clearer.

“Will you help me with that?”

Not clear enough for me, though.

“What?” I asked.

“With the sunscreen,” she answered simply.

“Uh—.”

Even that eloquent thought couldn’t make it through a parched, tightening throat. With each passing second and every syllable uttered, my voice got higher and even more unstable.

“I’m sorry, are you—what—w-what are you asking me?”

That’s when she took my hand, bursting with laughter as she dragged me from me seat with the most terrifying, alluring, and magical answer.

“Come on, pretty boy.”

I followed her without question but many concerns—the largest of which was the fear that she was actually leading me to my demise by humiliation.

Those worries grew tenfold when she yanked me over the threshold into her private room.

I stumbled forward and practically fell into her arms. But she was waiting for me, seemingly anticipating the clumsiness. Her hands were still soft, still soothing on boiling skin as she guided my lips to hers for the second time that day.

That time, I was prepared.

My hands covered her sun-kissed cheeks and pulled her even closer than she’d done to me before.

She tasted like salt and sugar from summer fresh fruit. I gave her every breath that I had, panting hopelessly against her lips each time that we broke apart.

Her hands were gentle when they found mine. I was reluctant to leave her until I realized that she was simply repositioning them to less innocent areas.

Still, I hesitated to go any further. I let my hands rest softly against her hips while I struggled to express my relief.

“Thank god,” I laughed, “I was sort of worried you were going to beat me up for staring at you all day.”

Her eyes locked onto mine with a hunger that seemed almost insatiable.

“No, I like it when you look at me like that,” she stated so simply it hurt. “In fact, I think I want to thank you.”

Before I could ask her how she intended to that, she made her intentions very clear by grabbing my dick through the fabric of my pants.

“So, tell me… any statistics on why we shouldn’t have sex in the shower?” she asked.

I don’t know how she’d expected me to think clearly. It actually seemed like she was purposefully trying to make it harder for me to form any words at all.

“It’s actually—,” I started just to stop when she started stroking the full length of me with devilish fingers.

“It’s actually really dangerous to try to have sex in the shower,” I tried again.

That time, she began applying a cascading pressure through playful fingertips. I spoke faster, trying to finish any thought before I truly lost my mind.

“There is a—fuck—a 44% chance of injury,” I forced out.

Her hand stopped. She cocked her head to the side with a brilliant smile and asked, “Is that right?”

I was almost relieved. Almost.

“Yeah, and…”

Then she started taking off my pants.

“A-and it can be quite uncomfortable for a woman without additional lubrication,” I said while shaking my head.

Even my subconscious knew I was speaking against my own self-interest, that I could’ve just accepted her question as rhetorical. I could’ve just shut up and go along with whatever she wanted because I would always be happy so long as she was happy.

She dropped down as she pulled my pants to the ground and revealed a second set of bottoms. I couldn’t be sure of it, but she seemed vindicated when she realized how hard my body was struggling against the compression shorts.

“The movies make it look so fun, don’t they?” she hummed as she stood back up. “I guess it is pretty dangerous. And inconvenient.”

“Yeah, but also, I sort of wish I hadn’t said any of that,” I responded immediately, “Let’s do it anyway.”

Thankfully, she found my eagerness charming and not pathetic (or perhaps those were the same to her). Her fingers sneaked past the band of the compression shorts, but she didn’t make the move to remove them yet.

Instead, she used her free hand to lead mine straight to the knot holding her bikini bottoms together.

My fingers twitched. She leaned closer, her cheek pressed against mine and her breath hot on my ear as she said the most beautiful words.

“We can shower after, then.”

“Thank you god,” I cried.

Practiced fingers untangled the knots within seconds, and I fought the urge to stare at her newly exposed skin by kissing her instead.

Her skin, still wet, was chilled enough from the cooler air that she barely reacted when I backed her against the ceramic countertop in the bathroom.

She leaned back, groaning with relief when I finally undid the knots of her top.

Again, I shamelessly admired the wonderful world of physics as it was displayed before me. With each breath, her chest lifted and came closer to my own.

Seemingly sharing the same thoughts, she reached forward and practically tugged my shirt off of me.

As soon as I could, I held her naked body as close to me as I could. My hands covered her lower back and drifted further down her hips, seeking every inch of cold skin that remained.

“God, you’re beautiful,” I whispered. I couldn’t see most of her, but the memory from mere seconds ago was as vivid as it would ever be. “Words don’t exist that would ever do it justice.”

She pulled back, still toying with the tops of my shorts with that insatiable look in her eyes.

“I’d say take a picture, but I think your memory might rival a camera,” she giggled.

“I’ll never forget this,” I promised her, “I’ll never forget you.”

But there were so many other ways I’d yet to see her. So, after carefully loving each inch of her hips, I turned my attention to the burning heat between her thighs.

At the same time my finger slid through slick folds, my lips found hers once more.

“I wanna make you feel good,” I slurred.

Her lips parted in a broken gasp as I tried to do just that. I inched eager fingers between tight muscles and didn’t even bother fighting the urge to moan into her mouth.

She swallowed that desire and returned her own with a growing enthusiasm. My fingers grew faster, sloppier in their gentle beckoning for her to fall apart.

“That’s it. Good girl,” I reassured her when her breathy moans became pitchy. “Oh, you deserve to feel so good, sweetheart.”

That spark in her eyes had turned into a wildfire further stoked by my praise. I leaned into it; I became more confident in my loving her. Her walls were tense and insistent, seeking something more than what my hand could give them.

I withdrew them despite her immediate protests. She recanted any complaint as soon as I moved drenched fingers to the small pearl at her center.

Her moans became shameless, and I accepted them as an imminent victory. She rocked her hips against my hand, riding it to find her elusive end.

All the while, her eyes were locked onto mine. She refused to look away, forced us both to acknowledge that I was the one who brought her here. To the edge of the abyss, to the ultimate euphoria.

“That’s it, pretty girl,” I said through a smirk, “Come for me.”

She followed the direction with the utmost enthusiasm. She fell forward, favoring me to the cold countertop. I caught her but continued my relentless efforts to please her.

I kept going, kept cherishing her until she whimpered from my touch. Then I held her. I pet her damp hair and laid a gentle kiss atop the crown of her head.

“Good girl,” I assured her.

But I wasn’t finished yet.

“Now turn around.”

She perked up the second she’d heard the order. Although she’d barely caught her breath, she turned on shaky legs without question.

My hands found her hips just like they had before. Except this time, there were no bikini bottoms. There was only pillowy flesh and the strong muscles of her backside pressed firmly against my dick.

Barely moving away from her, I finally freed myself from the confines of compression shorts. I groaned with relief and noticed how the sound made her back arch further.

When I lined myself up at her entrance, she rewarded the action with a dreamy sigh.

It wasn’t enough for me. I wanted to see the look on her face, to hear the desperation in her voice before I gave her what I’d fantasized of from the moment I met her.

My hand knotted in her hair. I pulled her back from her comfortable position braced against the countertop. I held her up so that I could whisper in her ear the same as she’d done to me earlier.

“This is what you wanted, right?” I asked, as if her whimpers hadn’t been answer enough.

“Yes,” she moaned, “please.”

The sound of debauchery on her tongue sent shockwaves through me. My cock twitched involuntarily, bumping against satin skin now dripping with desire.

I barely resisted the urge to slam into her with full force. Instead, I stayed there, with just the tip of me inside of her as I groaned.

“Oh, I’d give you the whole world if you asked me like that.”

“This’ll do for now,” she giggled.

Her hips began to sway as she rocked on her toes. She chased even just a half inch more of me and rewarded me with beautiful sounds when I finally started to sink into her.

“That’s it…” I sighed.

Her confidence was quickly shaken, though, as my pursuit continued. Not even half of my dick was inside her when I felt her start to tremble.

“You can take it,” I assured her.

She responded by tightening her muscles even further, resisting the gentle stretch of her body as it accommodated my own.

“That’s my girl,” I groaned. The blinding heat of her demanded my full attention to the point that I was barely coherent as I slurred, “You’re doing such a good job, sweetheart.”

But all it took was one word to unravel my best efforts.

“Spencer,” she whimpered.

Any hesitance I had vanished without a trace. I thrust my hips forward to the hilt with so much force that she scrambled to stay on her feet. Manicured nails struggled to find a grip the ceramic before my next motion.

I took my time pulling back, and I watched her struggle with the fullness that was our bodies come together. I reveled in the sight of her heaving chest and clouded eyes.

That time, I didn’t fight the urge to slam into her. I even pulled her back as I did it, bringing our bodies together over and over again with a blissful type of violence.

With each thrust, I watched her reaction in the mirror. I made sure that my mind captured each second of her pleasure. Each time her jaw dropped open with whines and praise in the shape of my name.

“Please, Spencer,” she keened with a white-knuckled grip on the edge of the counter.

I hadn’t been sure what she was asking for, so I continued to love her the same as I always had.

But she only became more frustrated, sobbing with pleasure the next time my hips crashed into hers.

“Harder,” she cried out.

And I tried. I tried to follow her instruction, to grant her the release that could only be found in the fullest expression of years of repressed passion.

The problem wasn’t my unwillingness to give my everything to her. Rather, it was the siren’s call of resistant, relentlessly desperate muscles.

“You’re so fucking tight,” I ground through clenched jaw.

Then, with a small and wavering voice, she insisted, “I can take it.”

Every atom of my being burned with a suffocating desire. It felt nearly feral; fully free to show her just how badly my body ached to be with her.

She began slamming back against me with a similar fervor and I almost made myself stop.

“Fuck, I’m so close, but I don’t want it to end,” I begged her.

But that beautiful, evasive, brilliant star of a woman just giggled. I could practically feel myself leaving bruises in the shape of my fingertips and she couldn’t have been happier.

Through the mirror, she looked at me and reminded me of the full, unrelenting power of the sun.

“Don’t worry,” she purred, “we can do it again later.”

That was all it took. With just a look, she practically brought me to my knees.

“Fuck!” I choked as I slammed into her with my full force. We both nearly collapsed against the counter, but I managed to pull her hips down harder against me just as I found my release.

The blissful heat of her grew to new heights as I filled her. Each wave of pleasure caused her to shiver with sheets of goosebumps.

I watched through half-lidded, lust-clouded vision as she accepted every inch and every drop of my desire with a euphoric smile.

“Sorry,” I said while trying to catch my breath. Even when I managed to capture some breath, it escaped me with a laugh as I explained, “I… I wasn’t expecting you to say that.”

“Don’t apologize,” she slurred.

I might’ve thought she was just being merciful if she hadn’t immediately followed, “That was fun.”

It was so obviously sincere, but I was so ridiculously stupid that I had to be sure, anyway.

“Yeah?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she laughed.

The sound was even more beautiful when I could feel the vibrations from within. I groaned from the thought of how it might feel for her lips to be wrapped around my cock. It twitched inside her, and she responded with a small whimper.

My hips bucked one more time, forcing me to the hilt before I withdrew in one quick motion.

I stood there for a moment, holding her hips steady as I watched the evidence of what we’d just done drip down her thighs.

My stomach was filled with butterflies doing flips and there was no accounting for the blood that still hadn’t made its way back to my brain.

(Y/n) was patient as ever with a pitiful man.

“Come on, pretty boy,” she chuckled as she took my hand, “help me get clean.”

Despite my best efforts, there were significantly less attempts to get clean in the shower than I’d expected. It was only thanks to her self-preservation that we didn’t end up having sex in the shower, although we came pretty close.

I could never tire of kissing her, but I realized I could love her just as much with lather as I could with my lips. My worship shifted as I dutifully cared for her the way I’d always wished I could.

When it was over, I didn’t give up. I followed her into her bed and she made no attempt to stop me.

In fact, she moved closer to me until my arm could reach around her waist and her head rested on my chest.

“Any other statistics you want to share?” she mumbled, now sleepy from the sun and… other activities.

“Always,” I answered. “Like, did you know, I have now joined the 54% of people who have slept with a coworker?”

“Fascinating. Was it worth it?” she chuckled, having already known my answer.

“Yes,” I told her, anyway. But the way I always did when it came to sharing statistics, I couldn’t stop myself. “Although, there is a smaller subset of that group that’s even more interesting.”

She gasped, quickly pressing her fingers to my lips to stop me from ruining her moment.

“Let me guess—at least half of them fucked in the office,” she said.

And in that quiet, private moment, the only thing more beautiful than her hopeful smile was the fact she’d gotten it right.

“You are, without a doubt, the most attractive woman I’ve ever met in my life,” I confessed.

She gave her wholehearted admission that she felt the same in the best way she could.

With a cheeky smile and the utmost sincerity, she asked, “What are the odds of that?”

(Tell me what you thought about this fic here!)

Looking for another mutual pining summer-themed fic? Check out my 11.2k oneshot Lost Time, where Reader and Spencer spend their mandatory leave taking the Spring Break Spencer never got to have.

Reid Taglist: @mrs-dr-reid , @dreatine , @hopefulfangirl24 , @laurakirsten0502 , @dontcallmekittens , @rintheemolion , @andreasworlsboring101 , @imsuperawkward , @wentz2005 , @lovejules888 , @dashneydanger , @materialisthicc , @violetspoetic , @mslowlife , @conniesanchor , @trippol-threat , @will-byers-needs-a-hug , @poo-tay-toot , @bookobsessedfreak

Complete Taglist: @cynbx , @emsma11 , @mediocre-writer , @fightingdragonswithwho , @andiebeaword , @jayyeahthatsme , @pepperthealien

Thanks for reading!

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid smut #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds smut #spencer reid self insert #imaginingafterdark

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yauchfilms · 9 months ago

Note

anything with logan and being back in florida ? would appreciate!!! 🫶🏻🫶🏻

sunburn ✢ logan sargeant (18+)

pairing: logan sargeant x reader (established relationship)

warnings: smut, porn with plot (lots of exposition sorry i got carried away), one use of y/n, soft dom!logan, switchy!reader, fingering, edging, unprotected p in v, lots of pet names, begging, lots and lots of praise, body part worship if you squint, cursing, logan’s a simp, reader is implied floridian, implied childhood friends to lovers, sunburns, fluffy intimacy

summary: it’s been too long since y/n has been back in the states and she is NOT used to the florida sun like she used to be, but don’t worry, logan knows how to take care of her.

word count: 3.5k

author's note: sorry i got soooo carried away with this i don’t know what came over me. this was NOT supposed to be smut but im just a florida girl crushing on a florida boy here y’all lmao. i’m down so bad for this man that i just went kinda crazy. also this was my first time writing smut so pls bare with me. this is inspired by my friend (and fellow logan girly) who just acquired a nasty sunburn lmaoooo. enjoy!!!!

it had been quite a while since you and logan had been back home together. well, not really, but the weather was typically a lot nicer in the winter months than in the spring and summer, and you were not used to it. after you and logan moved to london together full-time, you rarely saw the sun anymore, and your matching pale complexions certainly reflected that sentiment.

obviously, the miami race weekend was a big deal for the whole sargeant camp. aunts, uncles, cousins, childhood friends, and grandparents would be making their short trip down i-95 to see logan race, but it also meant that you and logan could spend a week together at home, in the sun, in each other’s company. a free vacation of sorts. logan’s parents were busy getting the house ready for the hordes of guests that were to soon occupy the space, so you and logan were more than happy to get out of their hair and into the back yard for some relaxation.

it was sunday, and you found yourself lounging out on the dock, lost in a romance novel that was probably making you lose brain cells, when you heard a familiar voice calling out to you.

“y/n!”, logan yelled from where him and coco were playing on the grass. “have you been applying sunscreen?”

you put your book down, letting out a small huff at his question. logan often took a rather paternal role over you, not in a weird or demeaning way, but rather in the sense that he always has your best interest at heart. and you loved that about him, loved how he always wanted to take care of you without being asked.

you looked down over the chaise longue you were laid out on, thinking there was a bottle of SPF next to your drink, but all that was there was the can of sparkling water you had been nursing.

“don’t have any; i’ll be okay!” you called back, hoping that would be the end of it.

“you want me to bring you some? it’s no problem,” logan replied, positioning himself to get up off the ground.

“don’t worry about it; i’m coming inside soon anyways!” you half-lied, knowing that logan usually respected your wishes when it came to things like that. you knew you weren’t necessarily telling him the truth, but he knew you and your stubbornness, and he knew it was not his business to try to fix it.

another few hours had passed, and logan and the dog had long gone inside to find something else to do. you had stayed out, vowing to finish your book in one sitting. as you closed it, you stood up from the lounger, grabbing your long-abandoned can from the ground, wrapping yourself in the towel that you had been laying on, making your way back into the comfort of the house – and the air conditioning.

walking in through the kitchen, you pass logan’s mom, who was cooking dinner for the family.

“oh sweetie, looks like you got some color on you!” she exclaims, chopping up some vegetables.

“yeah, it’s been a minute since i’ve had time to tan! i missed the florida sunshine too much.”

“well, logan’s in his room, and dinner’s in about an hour if you’d like to freshen up,” mrs. sargeant said sweetly, motioning towards the hallway towards logan’s room.

upon your arrival, logan moved his laptop out of his lap and onto the bed next to him. you took the towel off your shoulders, leaving you in just your bikini, when logan’s eyes went wide with shock.

“what, it’s not like you haven’t seen me in a bikini before?” you quipped, reacting to his sudden change of expression.

“y/n, you are bright red, like ferrari red,” logan replied, serious as a heart attack. you make your way to the vanity over his dresser, taking in your current state. logan was right. you were burnt.

“what the fuck dude, i swear i wasn’t out there that long,” you snapped, poking and prodding yourself in the mirror, letting out a wince when you stumbled over a particularly sensitive area.

logan gets off his spot on the bed, making his way towards you, joining you in front of the mirror. his hands immediately fall to your hips out of instinct, but he makes sure not to grab too tightly due to your new look.

“baby,” he says, placing his chin onto your shoulder. you let out another wince, reacting to his touch. “i told you to wear sunscreen. now look at you, my little lobster…”

“this isn’t funny,” you pout, and he leans forward to place a chaste kiss on your lips. you spin around in his arms, now facing him face-to-face rather than through the mirror.

“stop pouting baby, and go hop in the shower, please. the sooner you get some cold water on you, the better you’ll feel. i can feel the heat radiating off you from here,” logan said with a giggle. his hands linger around your ass, and he gives a slight smack to send you on your way, which elicits a shrill yelp from you due to the sensitivity of the area.

“are you at least going to join me?” you question as you make your way to his en suite, stopping in the door frame with your arms crossed across your chest. logan lets out another giggle.

“and listen to you whine the whole time? no thanks, plus i showered like an hour ago,” he replies, which garners a predictable whine from you. “if you make it quick, i might have something that can help you,” he adds, and you turn on your heel into the bathroom, shutting the door with a slam.

and he was right; the shower hurt like hell, but you know that had he been there, you wouldn’t have been able to properly soak in the cold water, so you silently curse him for being right.

you walk back into logan’s room, wrapped in your towel, when you see him sitting on the bed, scrolling mindlessly on his phone. he hears you approach, putting his phone down and grabbing the clear bottle off the bed next to him.

“i found you aloe; well, my mom did. she said your burn is one of the worst she’s seen,” logan said, presenting the bottle to you like it was a participation trophy.

“is that supposed to make me feel better or worse, logie?” you questioned, feigning offence from his comment.

“well, the comment probably won’t, but hopefully the aloe does,” he replied. “c’mere, baby,” he cooed, his arms outstretched, welcoming you into his arms. you take your spot on his lap, legs draped over his thigh, wrapping your arms around his neck to keep you in place. logan places a kiss to the bridge of your nose, and along your cheeks, leaning in to admire the newly-formed freckles that were threatening to peak out from underneath the harsh redness of your skin.

“your freckles are back; reminds me of when we were little, trying to catch fish with my dad in the backyard. you were so bad at it; still are to be honest, but it’s okay because you still look cute trying to bait a hook,” he laughs, his breath giving a cooling sensation to your cheeks, and you wish he would keep talking just to feel his breath against your skin.

“logan, baby, the aloe?” you suggest, knowing that the time he’s wasting is killing you. all you crave is the feeling of the lotion on you, and his hands being the ones to apply it.

“sorry, didn’t mean to get sentimental on you, just being here with you makes me think about stuff like that. i sometimes wish we could go back…” logan trails off, and you know what he’s thinking about. he often thinks about the memories of you growing up, how much he missed you when he moved away to the uk, and what it meant to get you back. you like to think of those moments too, sometimes, but he often gets in his head about it.

“i know,” you coo, lifting a hand up to card through the longer hair on the back of his neck, as a way to soothe him.

he lifts the bottle of aloe up towards you.

“may i?” he asks, cocking an eyebrow up in an inquisitive way.

“of course you may. how do you want me?” you ask, a mischievous look in your eye.

“do not say it like that, you minx,” logan shot back, your innuendo catching him by surprise.

“keep talking crazy like that, and we might have a problem,” he snapped, although with no actual malice behind it. “you can lay on your tummy first, though, and i’ll go from there, if that’s okay,” he said, his expression softening as he looked at you.

you climb out of his lap and onto your stomach on the bed next to him, and he straddles your back to get the proper angle.

“this okay?” he asks, tugging slightly at the towel that is still loosely wrapped around your back.

“log, you’ve seen me naked countless times; of course it’s okay,” you quip, turning your head so he can see the side of your face. he leans down, planting a sloppy kiss to your cheek, blowing a raspberry there. this elicits a giggle from you, wriggling underneath him.

logan drags the towel down your body slowly, his fingers barely grazing your warm, sensitive skin, standing up on his knees to pull it out from under you.

“i know we aren’t having sex or anything, but could you at least take your shirt off or something? this feels too clinical,” you say, causing logan to burst out laughing above you.

“you are not a real person, i swear to god,” he quips, pulling his shirt over his head in one quick motion. “is that better, princess?” he says sarcastically, using the nickname he only gives you when you’re acting like a handful.

between your fits of giggles, you let out a “mhm” that signals to logan that he is free to proceed. this evokes an eye roll from logan that you catch out of the corner of your eye.

his attitude doesn’t last long, however, because before you can protest, his lips find your shoulder blade, peppering kisses along the top of your back, feeling his stubble graze across your skin. it burns, but feels so good at the same time.

“so sweet for me, logie,” you groan, melting into his touch. he reaches for your hair, still damp from the shower, to move it out of his way, as he makes his way across the plane of your body.

all he can manage is a drawn out “hmmmmm” as he feels the warmth of your skin along his cheek.

he pulls away suddenly, and you whimper at the loss of contact from him.

“i know, i know,” he cooes, and you hear the bottle of lotion being opened just out of your periphery.

his hands make contact with your skin again, feeling the sensation of the cool liquid as he massages it in. his strong hands make their way up and down your back, causing you to arch only slightly, if it wasn’t for him sitting squarely on your ass.

“you’re killing me, logan,” you half-whisper, his actions genuinely taking your ability to speak at a regular volume, the intimacy of it all being just a little too much for you.

“feels good, huh?” he asks, and although you can’t see it, you can tell that he’s cocked his eyebrow at you, and you’re surprised he’s been able to behave himself this long.

his hands work swiftly, massaging the liquid in with long, deft fingers, the sensation driving you crazy.

“logan, i want you, please,” you whine, looking up over your shoulder to meet his gaze, your eyes softening in an almost begging manor.

“i thought you said we weren’t–”

“i lied. i’m a liar. i need you right now,” you beg, as logan stands back up on his knees to allow you to roll over underneath him, him now settled on your thighs.

“fuck, baby, i can’t say no to you,” he huffs, not sure exactly how to make the next move. he looks down at you splayed out in front of him, taking in the sight before him. a hand reaches down to caress down your chest, fingers grazing slightly over your nipple, causing your breath to hitch.

“we have to make it quick, okay? can you be good for me?” he asks, his hand lingering on your left breast.

you let out a whimper, shaking your head slightly.

“words, baby,” he sighs, his fingers massaging into the tissue of your chest.

“yes, i’ll do whatever you want,” you whisper, unable to find your voice with how turned on you were.

“that’s my pretty girl,” logan cooes, leaning down to place a kiss on your lips, adjusting himself so he’s slotted between your legs. the kiss deepens, his tongue finding its way into your mouth, as he swallows your muffled moans, trying to avoid the awkward conversation with his mom later.

“gotta be quiet, baby,” he whispers, his hand running up and down your side, the warmth of his hand searing your sensitive skin.

“god, i feel like we’re in high school again,” you say, rolling your eyes at him.

“except i wasn’t nearly as good then as i am now, though,” he smirks, diving down to leave a trail of kisses from the corner of your mouth to the base of your neck, softly nibbling on your pulse point.

“are you gonna prove it?” you ask, trying to rile him up.

this question evokes something in him, his breath against your skin coming hot and sudden, and you could feel the deep exhale from his nose.

leaning up to your ear, he whispers, “you are such a brat.”

the sensation from the whisper mixed with the sting of his words sends a shock straight to your core. he’s not always the best at dirty talk, but he still somehow knows exactly what to say and when to say it.

“touch me, logan,” you manage to squeak out, your breath growing heavier the more you took in his words, and he was eager to oblige.

with that, the hand that found comfort on your hip trailed its way down between your bodies, grazing the softness of your stomach, fingers oh-so-gently teasing your folds.

“so wet, huh? so worked up for me? you drive me so fucking crazy, you know that?” he growls, his voice rasping as he begins rubbing small circles against your clit with his thumb. “one or two, baby?” he asks, and you know exactly what he means.

“two, please”, you whine into his mouth, body arching up into him before he even has the chance to touch you properly.

“good girl, take it so well,” he groans, sliding two fingers into your cunt, almost too slowly. his voice is almost unrecognizable, the threat of being too loud taking over. his thumb continues its pattern on your clit.

you feel the tension building as he fucks his hand in and out of you, but not before you feel him slowing his pace down.

“i know you wanna come now baby, but we don’t have long. i’m gonna stop, and we can come together, okay?”, he half-whispers.

his hand moves from its spot between your thighs back up toward your lips, as he rests his fingers on your bottom lip, cocking his eyebrow at you.

“o-okay,” you squeak out, and with that, his fingers push past your lips, urging you to suck them clean, and you oblige, swirling your tongue around his digits, tasting yourself on his fingers.

your hands trail down between you two, your fingers dipping underneath his shorts and boxers, toying with the waistband.

logan removes his fingers from your mouth, opting to move back to your jawline, planting lingering kisses along the bone.

“quit teasing, baby, want you on top. let me see those pretty tits of yours, yeah?”, he smirks, knowing that him complimenting your body drives you crazy in the best way.

you oblige with a searing kiss to his lips, opting to pull his shorts down in one motion, cock bobbing free and slapping across his stomach. he reaches down to finish taking them off, throwing them on the floor with your long-abandoned towel.

he rolls you both over with ease, you now on top. your fingertips graze his chest, down to his abs, grabbing his cock and giving it a few quick pumps to make sure he’s ready.

“ready, log?” you ask, your hands now on either side of his head, his blue eyes sparkling back up at you, your hips and ass now up in the air waiting for his cue.

he leans up to chase your lips, trying to kiss you, just out of his reach.

“please, baby, i can’t take it much more,” he begs, using his arms to pull you down to him, sinking down on him, and meeting his lips with yours. now it’s his turn to moan into your mouth.

“fuuuuuck,” is all he’s able to get out, his hands finding their way to your hips, trying to help you relieve the lack of sensation. Your hips roll for the first time over him, and his hips immediately buck up into you.

“patience, baby. i thought i was the desperate one?” your words go right to his cock, making him buck up once again, making you speed up your motions. you feel the effects of his desperation on your body, the coil in your stomach winding tighter with every bounce on his cock.

“fuck, you’re close, baby; so am i,” logan pants, the physicality of it all catching up to him. he knows your body so well; he can always tell when you’re about to come.

with his observation, you lean back with your hands behind you on his thighs, your hips continuing to roll against his body, eliciting a low, grumbling moan from logan. he loved you like that, all cock-drunk and lazy on top of him. it also meant that he had a perfect view of your tits, both his hands reaching to grab at them as he continued fucking up into you.

“these are so fucking perfect. all mine. i can’t believe you’re all mine, baby,” logan pants, both of your movements becoming lazier, as he rolls your nipples in between his fingers, feeling your already-tight walls close in on his cock.

you can feel your orgasm quickly approaching with his presence on your tits, and you know that he isn’t going to last long, either. you lean forward, diminishing the space between you two, giving logan the opportunity to bear hug you. his thrusts up into you send you over the edge, your orgasm ripping through you, causing you to let out a muffled moan onto his right pec. your vision goes slightly blurry for a second until you hear a grunted “fuck, baby”, followed by the feeling of logan’s hips sputtering underneath you. he comes shortly after you, spilling into you.

You collapse onto his chest, your highs riding out together. he doesn’t loosen his grip around your back, planting a sweet kiss to the top of your forehead, pulling out as you lay pitifully on his chest.

“so good for me, baby, so sweet. fuck, i’m so lucky,” he whispers, rubbing your back where, just a few minutes earlier, he was applying aloe lotion. he rolls you both over so that you’re now facing each other on your sides.

you reach a hand up to caress his face, feeling the stubble from a week’s worth of no races, the hair rough against your smooth palm.

“logie, you fucked me so good i almost forgot about this damn sunburn,” you giggled, “but now we’re done and it just hurts again!”

“guess that means i’ll just have to fuck you again,” logan smirked, burying his head into the crook of your neck, eliciting more giggles from you. you begin to hook your leg over his thigh, bringing you even closer, pulling him in for a passionate kiss. you almost begin the cycle over again until you hear a knock on the door that has you both frozen in your tracks.

“dinner!” you hear his mom cheer from the other side of the door, and then her footsteps clearly walking back down the hall towards the kitchen.

“guess not,” you teased, eliciting an eye roll from logan, who quickly gets up to pull you into the bathroom to get cleaned up.

#logan sargeant smut #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #logan sargeant #logan sargeant x reader

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arcanarix · 6 days ago

Text

f!sorcerer reader, dubcon, stalking, possessiveness, harassment (there will be a non sorcerer reader version)

bully!satosugu aren’t your average bullies. they aren’t bogged down each time you ignore their attempts at getting under your skin. they know you’re smart and know better… but so are they and they do too. and maybe they’re less interested in breaking you down more than simply getting to know you :)

(but they need to understand you aren’t your average target. you can and will stand up for yourself. you don’t show much interest in general and that just baffles them.)

bully!satosugu…who aren’t the kind to dominate the small world of jujutsu tech one because there’s no reason for that or anything to gain from it either but they are instead viewed as just two boys sharing the same brain cell. shoko and utahime tell you not to pay them any mind; they’re just two dumbasses with an overinflated sense of importance being speshul grades. nanami even reiterates the fact. plus they annoy everyone, so it’s not like you’re a special case here.

bully!satosugu who get all up in your space and in your business, ignoring your protests when they snatch your books and notes out of your hands and lap and geto’s scooping you into his strong hold instead.

“why’s a grade 3 sorcerer wasting her time? trust me, we have better things in mind for a pretty thing like you,” geto purrs.

“and besides, what use is a grade 3 in the field when the two strongest can just take care of everything? hmmmm?” gojo taunts while fiddling with a stray strand of your hair.

instead of seeming intimidated, you’re just annoyed that your work has been disrupted. you don’t give them an outward reaction, just a deadpan, “if you don’t let me go i’ll use my curse technique to castrate the two of you.”

that seems to work for now!

bully!satosugu who…for some reason hover over you like they’re your bodyguards yet you treat them as if they’re not there the entire time. even if gojo can usually annoy someone to the point of tears, you don’t react, instead you’re able to completely tune him AND geto out.

how… Unnerving! Perplexing?

bully!satosugu who HATE to see you divert your attention to anyone else be it nanami or haibara or even shoko and utahime. something sets them off when you giggle a little too hard at some off hand deadpan remark nanami makes, you keep making eyes at him like you like him and not them. what’s up with that? and then they see nanami resting his hand on your thigh……….

and shooting a glare their way, as if to ward them off of you or else? wha?

bully!satosugu who aren’t keen on the idea of you trying to have a life outside of them (you never wanted a life with them from the start, but you digress) so they corner you in one of the empty lecture halls. you tell them you don’t know what they mean. in fact you insist, because you really don’t understand (or really care either). you have no regard for them, but they seem to hold so much interest in you and they don’t like that you don’t appreciate their attention so you had to get it instead from fucking NANAMI.

setting your book on your lap, you meet their accusatory gazes with disinterest.

“i don’t have to entertain any of this,” you remark, “i’m not interested in engaging in something like this when we’re in an environment where we’re forced to coexist. i will acknowledge you as my peers but nothing more.”

thinking you have the last word, you get up and brush past them, but geto grabs your wrist and twists you around. you grunt.

“maybe we have to show her why she should want us by her side, satoru,” he suggests in a low, dangerous tone.

“will she actually learn this time, though?”

“oh, it doesn’t matter. we can always repeat the lesson until she understands,” geto yanks you toward him until your back hits his front, your breath hitching as you feel a growing erection through his baggy uniform.

“you both might find better payoff deepthroating each other,” you scoff.

geto’s nostrils flare at that.

“such a foul mouth,” he snarls, "better watch that tone with us."

“yeah,” satoru pitches in, inching closer with a little smirk. “maybe we ought to plug it up.”

TBC???

234 notes · View notes

ziminy · 8 days ago

Text

Nightshift pt.3

Having them as roommates was a problem

Tags: smut, mdni, ageless and blank blogs will be blocked, explicit language, f!reader, college au, Gojo and Geto as housemates , jealousy (again), filming, fingering, oral (f and m giving and receiving), public s[e]x (in the car) , panty stealing, crying, hand job, double penetration, squirting, threesome, hair pulling, edging, overall just me going feral again,

Author's note: I'll be honest with everybody in here, I'm embarrassed by what I'm writing. My creativity surprises me sometimes.

Author's note(again, sorry): I wanted to post it sooner but I'm busy with school and shit. My classes are in the morning and I'm this close on dropping everything for some sleep 🤏 (I wrote this a few months ago and all I can say is that life is so much better after dropping out.)

Pt1 Pt2 masterlist roommatesmasterlist

Life is strange. It's amusing the way it works. Fascinating, you could even say. Goofy, perhaps. But a thing was clearly, as long as you're housemates with Gojo and Geto you'll never live a peaceful day ever again.

Truly strange.

And you can't even figure it out when it all started, because now it's just normal. Your worries flew out the window a long time ago. Did you think that your relationship was weird? Yes. But it's not that unusual if you don't think about it.

You were anxious because they were anxious. Their weird energy got to you, that's why you ran away. Or maybe your thoughts got to them and now it was this game where everyone goes back and forth for nothing. Fighting over things that aren't even that deep to begin with. Conversation will always be the key. And if you know how to use it, then you'd have access to so many doors in life.

That's some philosophical talk, and we don't do stuff like that in this house. It was an idiot trying to show how dumb the other is, even if they share the same brain cells. Everyone were dumbasses in here. No one knew how to communicate or use the so called keys. Everyone were on their own trying to do what they know the best.

It's complicated. What is right and what is wrong? What made you so irresistible that made those hungry wolves to want to eat you alive? What made you so gorgeous that they couldn't take their eyes away? What made them want to compete with each other when they used to share women like air, changing the person next to them like socks. Here's a lady, and now another.

No one wanted to share anymore. All they wanted to do was to prove that one can have you more than the other. A competition with no start and finish line until you decide to make it stop. Which one you liked more? Which one made you stay up at night or make your pussy wet by just thinking of him?

Which one did popped up in your head first? Did you touched yourself think of someone? The thoughts could go on and on. It was truly amusing the way they didn't try to talk to you. Only make fantasies in their heads while observing you. So small, so cute. So ready to take that cock right now.

One had to do the first move on proving something that it doesn't need to be proved. Someone will cry, someone will laugh. One will end up victorious while the other will be sad. It can be both of them who's crying. It can be a whole another mf that gets you in the end.

Someone need to do something. Quick. Fast. Just hurry up.

And the one who did the first move was Gojo. Just the way he asked you to move in with him, he was also the one that made the decision on what's going to happen next.

It was simple. It wasn't even a move to get you. It was more to piss Geto off. It was to annoy his friend with the fact that he fucks you when he's out. It was to show him that you're having so much fun when he's not home. It was an audio of your sweet moans opened at the wrong time.

Geto didn't had the time to check his phone when he was out. Now that he got home, he walked in the kitchen, ready to eat something with you and his other housemate. He sat down on his chair, took a few bites and then press play on what his friend sent him. Moans. Everyone stopped and turned their heads on the dark haired man.

"Suguru, you dirty bastard." Satoru laughed. You looked in shook. You didn't even recognize the voice of who ever was that on his phone.

"Satoru, why would you send that?"

"Satoru???" you looked at the white haired man and all he did was to laugh.

It was just the start. Next time Geto received a video.

It started with Gojo placing his phone on the kitchen counter, facing you who was washing the dishes. He left his phone there and walked behind you, kissing you softly as his hands went down on you. You only sighed. You stopped whatever you were doing for him. His hands already in your pants, fingers rubbing your clit slowly. Your soft sounds, the way you let him do what he wanted to do. Suguru's eyes were fixed on the screen. He wanted to turn up the volume so bad, to hear you. He wanted to listen to your voice. And then the video stopped with Satoru fucking you with his fingers, his eyes moving on the camera, smirking.

Fucking hell.

How unfortunate for him to be away from home. Why does he have to be out here instead of being in that damn house.

So he waited. He waited until he got home. He waited a few days for his dear friend to go away, to just be out this house so he could get his hands on you.

Ohoho. And when he did.. He placed his phone on the couch, to face your lower half, getting in the picture your thighs and him who was in between your legs, eating you out.

He was doing it with so much passion only to make you loud. To make you clearly shake for the camera to capture it. To make your hands go in his hair so hesitantly, not knowing if you should pull at it or not, if you could even touch him. His arms were flexed, looking so big compared to your body. He was doing it intentionally, he even did a few pushed ups before he even pressed the record button.

He didn't wait for the sun to shine at the right angle for nothing. Everything was calculated, from the way the camera captures your body, to the best place in the house.

And it sure did backfired at Gojo, who was staring impatiently at the clock. When can he go home? When can he see you himself? That fucker. He thinks he can play his game? The game Satoru started? To think that he's the one jealous now.

And here was the plan for the other video the white haired man did. Or this is how it went.

Skin against skin. Usually he would have been scared of crushing you with his weight, but today? His body on top of yours, chest against chest. Your bare skin touching him with nothing in the way, your legs wrapped around his waist. Whenever you or him tried to get a little away, someone dragged the other back. Your nails into his back, holding into him like your life depended on it. Everything felt so intimate. The way you looked at him. Those big eyes that Geto calls ugly. That dumb little smile. You looked in love. In love? No. It can't be. Can you even love to begin with?

Is this what made you happy? Playing this gentleman of a man? Someone who will hold you tight in moments like this? I mean, who doesn't. But did you really liked it that much?So much that you'd look at that guy he calls his friend like you've been in love with him all your life? You're not even doing anything, just kissing, you're bodies being pressed against each other.

He had to try it himself.

Just like before. He waited for the right moment, then acted his plan up. Because if he'll get interrupted or wake up with an unwanted guest he'll go nuts.

He wasn't horny. He wasn't even in the mood to do something today, all he wanted to see was if you were like in that stupid video.

He sat at the edge in your bed, watching you getting your clothes off, never taking his eyes of you, always making you stay in front of him where he can see you better. His hands carefully placed on you, slowly dragging you into his arms.

He kissed your jaw, your neck, his hands all over your body. Just wanting to feel your skin, the warmth you gave him. How you looked so different compared to him. You were glowing, you were like a flower carefully placed in a field full of sunlight. And he was the moon who wanted to take all that happiness. The way you smiled under that damn sun, he wanted to take that away.

"Suguru.." you said his name so lovely. He was really going to bite you.

"Kiss me." he ordered. He wanted you to do a wrong move so he could punish you for looking so warmly. You let him in your arms so easily. It made him mad.

You cupped his face in your hands and kissed him. It was so quick that he bearly even noticed.

"You call that a kiss?" he wrapped his arms around you and let himself fall down in bed, dragging you along with him. You yelped. You closed your eyes by how suddenly that was.

Skin against skin, huh? To hold you so close that you basically become a part of him.

He just got an idea.

He wrapped his hands around you while you were on top of him, trying your best to not fall into him. All he did was to tease you. His mouth on your chest, kissing and biting your nipples. One of his hands on your ass while the other was rubbing your back. Making you move your hips without even think on him. What he needed was you all needy for him.

And when he finally got you all desperate, he opened his camera, acting all nonchalant. Acting like he does this on a daily basis, like he have you all over him like this.

"You want me that bad?" he was a good actor, or at least that's what he thought.

"Stop playing with me. I need it right now." his heart skipped a beat, and so did Satoru's when he saw the video. The way you looked down at Suguru. The way you moved his pants to let his cock free, almost jumping on it instantly. It was his laughter that made you stop for a moment. You were frustrated, and you made sure to let him know about your feeling by looking angrily at him. He played with you for so long, you can't even count the minutes he played with your pussy. Fingering you so good and then stopped right when you were so close. He did this so many times that you don't trust a single word he says anymore. "You think it's funny?" you finally got his dick inside you. And oh, you're not going to stop until you get to actually cum this time.

"If you wanted me that much you should have said it earlier." he moved his hips forward, to help you. And to help himself.

"Dickhead." you slapped his chest softly. You couldn't listen to his words even if you wanted to. All you did was to move your hips, you needed any kind of friction. Anything that would calm the aching between your legs. Anything that would finally make you cum.

Your hand went between your legs, rubbing your clit, and biting your lip, refusing to let any sounds out that might feed his ego.

"Y/N." he looked in your eyes. He moved your hand away and he started to rub your clit. All you did was to gasp. "Focus. Move your hips like you mean it." this fucker. All he got from you were some little curses you let under your breath and you moving your hips better.

That video ended with you almost cumming. So close that it got Gojo gasping when he saw how fast the video ended. He didn't got to see you cum? The disrespect. The audacity. The idea he just got.

For the first time since you live there, Gojo call you in his room and placed you on his bed. Until now it was your room or any other place around the house. Anywhere but his own bed.

You never thought you'll get to sit in his bed like this. To get to do the forbidden tango in his room.

He got in bed next to you, placing you on his lap nice and cozy, your back pressed against his chest. "Hold this for me, ok?" he handed you his phone.

"What do you want me to do with it?" you asked unsure. You knew he was filming your little escapades for quite some time now, but to hand you the camera himself?

"Film it. Do whatever you want with it. Show me what you want me to see." you got a little unsure there.

"Alright.." you noticed that it was already recording before you thought of something. The camera was facing your face, capturing Gojo behind you. You moved it lower, now facing your chest, not even sure what he wanted to see.

His hands on your hips, slowly getting his dick inside your pussy. That warm thight pussy he loved so much. "Am I doing good?" his hand moved overs yours, moving the camera lower to film how it looked with his cock inside you.

"Make sure to capture everything." Suguru looked at his phone without any words. It didn't matter what Gojo might think of doing next, Geto haves to be the one with the better idea.

And another video was made.

Geto offered to buy the groceries. It was supposed to be Gojo's time this week, and how could he refuse someone else doing his chores for him? And so, Suguru dragged you with him.

The surprise look on Satoru's face to receive an video when you just left half an hour ago. You on top of Suguru in his car, because the dark haired man took Gojo's car for this quick trip. His excuse was that he mistook the keys with his.

He would had expected that video any time, but not today. Not like this. Not when he was took of guard. He couldn't help but look at the screen and turn the volume up.

You're half muffled moans and Geto praising the shit out of you. "Good girl, just like that." and you couldn't help but bounce on him faster. "Keep it slow now, we wouldn't want someone to notice us." oh, but he was actually dying inside for someone to see you two. Both of your roommates hoped for you to get caught.

"Suguru.." you moaned that name so sweetly. Honestly, Satoru was so jealous right now. If he knew sooner, he wouldn't had let someone else do his chores for him. He could have been in that car and fuck you.

He waited for you to come home. He sat right in front of the entrance, waiting for that fucker to appear. He needed to think of something even better. How about fucking you in Suguru's bed? Or making you wear his clothes to make his friend jealous? Even fuck you in them just to prove a point. Bath you in his perfume so you would smell like him. There was so many options.

And he got an even better idea.

He let you rest for that day. No, he let you rest for the rest of that week. Waiting for the perfect day, the perfect moment.

"It's my turn to do the laundry." Geto sighed. "You got anything else left in your rooms? Give it now." Gojo smiled and shook his head.

"I have nothing in my room." you said.

"Me neither."

"Alright then." he waited for Geto to get started with his work, then he dragged you in his room. He was so impatient that he didn't know what to do faster. He was taking your clothes off, his clothes, kissing you, rubbing that pretty pussy so you would get wet faster. He was so impatient that he didn't even prepared you first, the moment you layed on his bed he got in between your legs, forcing his cock inside your pussy. It hurts a little, but it also hurts his pride not being able to outdo his friend.

He's number one. He's the biggest person here.

He got his phone out as soon as he could move better, pressing the record button as fast as he could.

He was thrusting into you, not even once letting you breathe in peace. "You're pussy feels so good." that's all he could say. "Sucking me in like this." what he got in return was a photo of your underwear. A photo where Geto was holding some pairs of panties that he could recognize them in a instant, they were yours.

"I don't think Y/N would mind if I take some of these." Gojo stared at his phone screen. Tsk. He wasn't satisfied with the reaction he got.

"I'll keep the pair that I just took off her." Geto looked displeased at his phone screen. Would his friend be happy if he just barge in there and auto invite himself in? He didn't do that in the end, he already had other things to do. And if he just go there, Gojo would be the winner because that means he gave in.

"Alright, I don't what's going on between you two but I want you to stop." you went the next day in the kitchen, ready to put an end to this endless fighting of theirs. "I know you've been filming and sending the videos to one another, and I want this to end because this is going nowhere." you sighed. "If you want photos that much you should have asked me instead of fighting."

"You'll send me pictures of you if we stop fighting?" Gojo asked like he didn't heard what you just said. He ignored everything until you said that last sentence.

"That's not what I said."

"You said that you would." Geto totally listened to you, but again, he only understands what he wants.

"Did you even listen to me?"

"So, if we get along again and we stop filming you'll do it?" you could only sigh. These guys were so delusional that you couldn't even talk to them like normal people.

"Alright." you didn't even tried anymore, giving up was the best option.

"Is that an yes?"

"Yes."

"Well, that's good because we weren't fighting to begin with." Geto's words left you in disbelief. Huh?

"Ye, we just like to show what we're doing. Nothing much." Gojo said nonchalantly.

"Why didn't you said that earlier?"

"I was waiting for you to finish talking."

"Alright, so. For starter I want to get photos of your boobies. Some videos of you touching yourself here and there to make my day going when I'm tired. I want that pussy fully on display." Gojo already started a list.

"You could send me a picture right now." Geto's words didn't helped the situation.

"Show me what nudes you have in your phone." Satoru got next to you, trying to see your phone and what's in there.

It was your fault for thinking they're normal, because they're not, not at all.

Fortunately for you, your days became more peaceful. You kept your words to send them some pics now and then, and they stopped competing with each other. Oh, and don't think that you could send them the same picture, because they would get mad.

You hated there, but you gotta learn how to live with it, because you were also receiving stuff from them. A dick pic whenever they missed you, even some videos of them touching themselves moaning your name. It was just crazy. It never fails to make your jaw drop.

But your days came back to normal, no? Whatever normal even means anyway.

You woke up on another peaceful morning, because it was quiet and no one disturbed your sleep. You got up from your bed and went in the kitchen. Just wanting to feel their company there, maybe exchange some small talk and then fall asleep since you feel rather tired and lonely. Instead, you saw your house mates with another guy. A tall blonde guy who looked older than both of them.

You didn't know what to say, you just stood there trying to think of your next move. Go back to your room, it was none of your business, you shall not get involved.

"Oh? I didn't know you're up." the white haired man said before you could go back to bed.

"Good morning." Suguru greeted you, a cup of coffee in his hand.

"Good morning." you quietly said.

"Don't go just now. Come here." can you get a break? You did as he said, you went and sat down at the table at your usual spot. "Y/N, this is Nanami." Gojo said.

"Nice to meet you." you didn't know what to do.

"Nanami, this is our sweet Y/N." Satoru said it with this weird smile on his face. You had no idea what was going on in his head. Can he not embarrass you for once? You and Nanami sighed at the same time.

"I'm sorry for him. He usually behaves like this so I have no excuse." you said in Gojo's behalf.

"I don't expect much from him anyway." you studied the blonde a little. The expensive watch that was on his wrist, and the nice fancy shirt he had on. He had big shoulders, his muscles could be seen even through his clothes. His posture was flawless, everything about his screamed perfection. You didn't mean to stare, but he was definitely eye catching.

Your housemates were watching you. Who's fault was it for getting Kento here? They should have thought of how you'll react first.

They're jealous again.

They just managed to calm themselves and now it's starting again. This again, this again and again. Can they ever take a break?

Was this what you wanted? A guy like him? What's so perfect about Nanami, huh? Was it how he present himself? He looks tired, like he haven't slept in who knows how long. And yet, that didn't stopped him from dressing like usually or doing what he's supposed to do.

He looks like he was working a 9 to 5, and would treat you right. He looks like he would buy you flowers on a daily basis. He looks like he would remember all those small dates where it supposed to be an anniversary or someone's birthday. He looked like he was there to stay and put a ring on your finger. Was this what you wanted? A husband who would help you raise the kids properly?

Both Gojo and Geto gasped at the same time, they did a big mistake.

"Y/N, no." Satoru finally said something when he came back to reality. He haves to do something now so you won't end up married. Especially to Nanami, he looked like he would be perfect, that's what scares him the most.

"Y/N, go to sleep. It's too early for you." you looked confused at both of them. They told you stay there in the first place.

"Huh?" you looked at them in disbelief.

"Just go."

"Alright..?" you got up from your seat and went back to your room. What a bunch of weirdos.

That day, they promised to become just like the enemy, so that way you won't be impressed by some random fucker out there.

Their plan would fail so miserable, like always, but you can't do shit about it. It's not like you can figure their next move to stop them.

You walked out your room to get something to drink, only to be welcomed by them dressed like they were going to a job interview.

You looked at them, blinked a few times then looked behind you. No cameras or anything, or at least you can't see it. Was this some kind of prank? Was it some kind of special day today?

"You're speechless by how handsome I look, huh?" you blinked a few times. "No need to be shy, admire me as much as you need." Gojo striked a few poses.

"What's the occasion?" you asked getting closer to them.

"I always dress like this." the way Suguru lied with a straight face.

"You do? This is the first time I see you like this." you fixed Gojo's tie. "Do I need to wear a dress or something?"

You got dragged in your room and placed on the bed while they were looking in your closet. They put their hands on everything they saw, bras, panties and anything they could find. It didn't matter. If they see it, they'll get their hands on it.

"So what are we doing?" you asked.

"Playing dress up, isn't it obvious?" Gojo got something in his hands and got closer to your bed. "Hands up." he took your shirt off.

"I don't really see anything for you to try." Geto was still looking through your clothes.

"Let me get those down for you." Satoru took your pants off. His hands traveling back to your panties, wanting to take those off too.

"These stays on."

"Nuh uhh." he tried dragging your panties down, only for you to try to pull them up.

"Let me do it." you tried to protest.

"No." he slapped your hand. "We're playing dress up. Get those off and let me choose another pair for you." you gasped at his actions. Did he really just slapped your hand away?

"Satoru." Geto said something, making you to breathe reassured. "Move away. I'll do it." these fuckers. What could you expect.

"Alright, alright! I'll take them off myself." their eyes on you, you got their full attention. You raised your hips and with a simple move you took your panties off. Your actions will always work like magic on them. The way they're so captivated by such a simple movement.

"Put them back on." Satoru said, his eyes still on your skin. The scene from earlier replaying in his mind over and over again.

"You told me to take them off. Why would I have to put them back on?" you could only complain because of how childish this situation was.

Geto got on his knees in front of you, picking the small material that you just took off. "Get up." he commanded.

Can they stop playing with you for at least a moment? You did as he said tho, you got up and you couldn't do much since your way was blocked by the dark haired man. A kiss placed on your lower stomach before he put your underwear back on you. Your hands were on his shoulders, trying to hold yourself from falling.

"Not fair." Satoru dragged you back on your bed. Your back pressed against the blanket and Gojo in between your legs. He got your panties in between his teeth, slowly dragging them down and tossing it somewhere around the room.

"What got into you two again?" it was something sinister about how they look at you. Their eyes dark and filled with some kind of lust you didn't saw it before. It was normal for you to be horny, it was normal for them too, but now it was different. You had no idea if your insides would be rearranged or you'll have the sweetest time of your life. It scared you.

Gojo was breathing against your pussy, hot breath touching your skin over and over. It made you squirm a little. While Geto's hand went through your hair, moving it from your face. He sat down next to your head, his thumb slowly getting in your mouth, giving you something to occupy yourself with.

"Guys?" their silence was scaring you. All you hoped was that you could still walk tomorrow.

Satoru finally got his face in your pussy, he was practically making out with it. Never giving you a break from the start.

"Eyes up on me." Geto kept reminding you. You couldn't even close your eyes, because if you blinked too fast or too long, he also didn't like that.

You could feel Gojo's long fingers getting inside you. Moving them in and out of you for a moment, making you more wet than you already were. Then he started to curl them, instantly making your body shake.

One side was satisfied with your reactions, the other one not so much.

"Focusm" Suguru wanted you to only look at him. His hand now in your hair, keeping you in place so couldn't take your eyes off him.

"Y/N, look at me." Satoru said your name, placing a kiss on your clit before he started devouring it. Your back arches. Suguru gulped at your fucked up expression. It was cute, no, it was in so many ways that he can't describe it. You were breath taking, now and at any other time of the day, every position and anything you might do from any angle. He wanted to fuck you and see more. He was so close on pushing Gojo away and fuck you the way you deserve it.

Gojo didn't looked happy at the way his friend kept your attention all to himself. "Say my name." it was a beg, it was a request. It sounded like anything but demanding. He sounded needy. He needed to hear you praise him, tell him how good he makes you feel and move your hand in his hair.

"Look at me." Suguru kept demanding the same thing over and over again. It didn't matter who's name you said as long as you're only focused on him, right? That means he won.

However, you realized they're doing it again. That useless fighting. You don't want only one of them, you wanted both. A little bit of what they have to offer you. Whatever they wanted to show you, you'll accept it.

They acted like this ever since Nanami was there. They started acting like this out of jealousy.

You wanted to punish them somehow. It was for the useless things they're thinking about.

You opened your mouth, you wanted to say something, yet no word got out your mouth. What if you said another person name. Someone who's not in the room at the moment. Someone who's not usually here at all. Your eyes were sparkling thinking of ways of torturing them, Geto could see that. Those eyes that looked so lovingly now full of fireworks and that dumb smile you had on your face.

Think of him, look at him. Only see him. Say how much you wanted him. Him and him only. What made you full of life if it wasn't him?

You had to do it. You had to punish them for being selfish again. Yet you couldn't. No matter how much you would love to see their reactions, you knew you were digging your own grave. It's you in the end who will suffer for anything they might deserve.

What if you don't say anything at all? What if you keep your voice to yourself and not let them hear you at all. That's what the silent treatment is after all, no? And so you did, you bite your lower lip and put a hand over your mouth.

Geto could only laugh, thinking that you're afraid someone might hear you. No one besides them would hear a thing, he could reassure that. He moved your hand gently, hopping you'll understand him without a word needed. Yet you still refused to let out any kind of noise. "No one will hear you. So don't worry."

"I know." that's the only words you said. You knew and yet you still do it?

"Maybe it's because of you. Look the other way." Gojo said, his hands around your thighs dragging you closer to him.

"It's actually because of you." Geto said, getting more close to you. You didn't said anything. And this only gave them the wrong idea.

They were trying to imitate the enemy, so, maybe it was their clothes? Or maybe the blonde was still in your head and you were trying to think of him? It infuriats them. They only wants your attention, the way you looked at Nanami so curious, so full of questions. You don't look like that at them.

Gojo got up from between your legs and Geto dragged you up in his lap.

"Why you're being a bad girl? Hm?" Suguru's low voice purred into your ear, so close, it gave you chills.

"Are we not enough? What do you want more." you were sandwiched between them, your back pressed on Geto's chest while Gojo was in front of you, getting his body closer to you with each second passes. Your legs were wrapped around Satoru, mostly because he placed them like this, to make sure to have access to you as much as he could. While Suguru's arms were also wrapped around you, keeping you firmly against him, not letting you move an inch.

You still refused to say a thing even if you had no idea what they're talking about. You just got tired of their games, those stupid thoughts of theirs that made your head spin. You couldn't figure out what was going on with them, why were they like this. What made them like this.

"Say something." Satoru's voice had so many emotions in it. Rage, disappointment. Sadness? It was complicated, yet it made your pussy drip.

"Y/N, do you want to see me mad?" Suguru got one of your hands to his mouth, kissing the back of your hand. You were like a doll in their hands. Standing there without doing much. It was supposed to be your punishment for them, for fucking with your life like this when they could talk everything out. But now you want to back down. Mostly because you were feeling scared. Their eyes were scary, the roughness in their hands scared you. How they're squeezing places around your body so hard that it might leave a bruise, and how quiet they became.

Should you apologize? You had no idea. Was it too late to say something?

You opened your mouth, eyes on you for your next move. Yet you still didn't say a thing. You close your mouth and looked away. If they're getting on your nerves you'll definitely say someone else's name to piss them off.

Are you not allowed to get mad? Do you have no right to do so? They did it with their own hands. You can put them in place however you want, whenever you wanted. No, in fact, you'll give them some time to think about this, about how they act in general. Sure, you have no problem with them being themselves, you love it. But it was until some certain point where you would tolerate their behavior.

You put your palms on the bed trying to get up somehow. That action itself made them go feral in the worst way possible. Why are you doing this to them? Their hearts almost stopped working.

"Don't do this, come on." no matter how mad you might be, their pleas sounded like a sweet melody. It was the way they're melting in your arms. Satoru's voice sounded broken when he spoke. You're not even doing much, yet it affects them so much. Both of them were weak for you, you got them on their knees trying to get your attention. Of course they would get mad if another is trying to get in.

You didn't said anything, only looking at them, those big eyes again, it was like the first time you interacted with them. So curious about your surroundings. You looked up at Suguru, and then looked at Satoru, who were looking at you trying to figure out what in the world is going on in your head.

"Say something." Geto's voice was so soft, even if he was angry at you. His hand went lower on your body, caressing your soft skin, somehow hoping that you'll warm up. Maybe you wanted more of their attention? "It's your fault." Suguru looked at Gojo.

"Me? You were the one who was like, look at me. Maybe she got enough of your ass." Satoru tried to imitate Geto's voice.

"Me? It's you. You started this." you tried to not laugh. You can't give up yet, all you wanted was to hear them say that they're sorry, or anything that shows that they realized their mistake, nothing more. But they're refusing to believe it's their fault.

"Alright, stop." you sighed softly. "Think about what you both did." they're still thinking about how you might be seeing another, forgetting about them. Moving out of this place and leaving them to be as miserable as they used to be, all sad and not even happy to be back home, spend all their time outside just to forget about their loneliness.

How dare you play with their feelings? For once in their lifetime they're serious about something and you're just toying with them? Gojo got his hands on your hips, dragging your ass on him, positioning himself after he undid his belt. With a simple movement, his cock was out his pants. Now he was getting in front of your entrance, ready to get inside. Why did you looked surprise, huh. "Why don't you think about what you did?" he's trying to imitate your words, like you're the bad guy.

You gasped when he pushed himself inside you all the way in with a single move, if he could at least give you an warning. Geto got your face in his hand, making you look up at him. "Inside voice. Don't let a single word out." this was ridiculous. What were they even thinking?

You frown, you didn't know what to say or do. You had them in your palm, right? Why were they like this then? This wasn't your plan. All you wanted was for them to think about their actions.

You wanted both of them, you gave your time to both of them. It wasn't only one who received your attention, it was both. You didn't let a single one feel left out, and they still dare to think that you're selfish.

"Bad boys." you said out of breath, trying to degrade them somehow.

"Oh yeah?" Satoru could only laugh. "I can show you how bad I really am."

"Sweetie, you have no idea what you're talking about." Geto felt amused by your words. They were so considered of you until now, or they tried. Sure, it might have not work all the time since they forget halfway through that's not only about them. But they tried, no? It was improvement in a way or another.

Gojo's hands were gripping your hips, moving in and out. The friction was overwhelming. You wanted to change the position, it was uncomfortable. You don't know where to even look when they were squeezing you between them.

Your hands were shaking, you didn't know where to put them since both of them annoyed you. You wanted to keep them to yourself, yet you were dying to do something.

You closed your eyes, grabbing your own thighs and leaving red marks on them from your nails, being around them was so stressful.

You bite your lower lip, trying your best to stay put it place. A few tears went down your face, the way Gojo was fucking into you was just.. Just. You can't even say words. "Cry for me. Let me hear that voice." Satoru's face went to your shoulder, trying to rest against it.

"Keep that voice inside." Geto was trying to push Gojo away. Wanting to tournament you for a little longer.

"Don't listen to him." the white haired man was out of breath, voice so low that it gave you chills. "Open your eyes, look at me."

Suguru's hand went under your chin, raising it to make you look at him. "Look at me." his voice sounded so soft compared to his thoughts and actions. You kept your eyes closed, wanting only to focus on their voices, on how they breathe.

"Fuck." Gojo said out of breath. He bite into your shoulder, making you groan for a moment.

Then a sudden thought went through Geto's head. He could do something so funny right now, something that could help you feel better, or not. It all depends on your performance. So, his hand traveled to your pussy, rubbing your clit in small circles and making your walls squeeze Satoru's dick. Couldn't they just act like this and stop being fuckers?

Without even thinking, one of your hands went of Gojo's shoulder while the other grabbed Geto's arm. You were shaking, you were biting your lip and you were so close. Satoru could feel that, and Suguru realized what was going on by your actions, you look desperate only when your about to cum.

Now, this is where was the funny part, at least for Geto. He dragged his hand back, leaving you with less friction than before. But that only caught Gojo's attention who understood what was going on without a single word needed. So, now you were left all alone without any kind of pleasure or friction, since even the white haired guy got out of you, leaving you there panting heavily and trying to understand what was going on. This left a bad feeling in your stomach, it left you all confused and trying to regain your conscious, your brain couldn't work properly.

"Why do you look so disappointed?" they were mocking you, you could feel it by the tone of their voices.

"Were you close?" so painfully close. That would have been a good orgasm if they didn't stopped.

Suddenly, you woke up being turned around, ass in the air and face pressed against your blanket. "Up." Satoru moved in front of you, making you rest your body weight on your arms.

"Be a good girl and you might cum this time." Suguru was behind you, placing a slap on your ass before he pushed his cock inside you.

You could feel a hand behind your neck, dragging your face up to look at the white haired man. He leaned down, placing a kiss on your lips for a moment before he too pushed his dick inside your mouth. They loved stuffing you good, didn't they? The way you struggle to take them, and yet doing so good.

Maybe it was your fault too, for ending up like this. You knew you shouldn't have fucked around with them, but you always go back, asking for more and letting them do whatever they wanted with you. Plus, you feel so good, like, so so good. It was impossible to hold back around you.

That's why they keep pushing more of them inside of you, trying to make you take more. Because you, yourself are greedy for more. You always end up begging for more, so how could they not give you more?

"Relax." Suguru said as he kept feeling you clenching around him, making him groan as one of his hands was traveling around your body.

But how could you relax? You were so close, and knowing them, they might deny you again. You wanted to cum, you needed this orgasm and if they're edging you again you swear you will leave through that door and find somebody who will give you what you want. They seemed to enjoy this, so why couldn't you do as well?

Your hand went to the one behind you, dragging him closer and making sure he stays there. Just a little more, it was so close. You might as well start crying because of how it was feeling.

A thing that they loved more than edging you over your limits was seeing you cum. It was something about the way you look when you're all fucked up. So it wasn't surprising when they dropped everything they were doing and focused on you, because they too know this would be a big one.

You woke up with your face against the bed sheets, hands all over you once again and all kind of words being whispered in your ear, about how good you're doing. How you'll get a lot more after this, how they'll make you cum again and again, for as long as you want. Well, you both know that some of those were lies, because it was more about until when they want this to continue.

Your cries were satisfying, and they aren't even afraid to admit that. How you grip the sheets underneath you, or how you moved your hand on Satoru, holding into him as you came, leaving a big mess on the bed as your body juices came out.

They both looked at you, not believing what they just saw. "Did you just squirted?" the white haired man said, whistling at the view you're giving him.

"I'm sure she can do it again, can't she?" that was more than enough to know that it would be a long day. You doub you'll be able to get out of bed any time soon, and who knows, maybe it won't be as bad as you think.

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