#place of No stars profile

[residences-of-the-darkforest]

Dark Forest Resident: Wildkit

Aliases / Nicknames: Mildkit, Cry-kit, Motherless

Gender: tom

Sexuality: homosexual

Family: Pollenpatch (mother), Hailsmoke (adoptive mother), unnamed father, Thriftkit, Rubblesong, Twighare (adoptive brothers)

Dark Family: Applesting (adoptive father), Mouseshell (adoptive sister)

Other Relations: N/A

Clan: ShadowClan

Rank: kit

Characteristics: easily frightened, selective mute, incredibly shy around strange cats, incredibly outgoing when around trusted cats

Murder Motive: wanting his bullies to leave him alone

Number of Victims: 1

Number of Murders: 1 (unintentionally)

Murder Method: pushing off of tree (blunt force trauma)

Known Victims: Thriftkit

Victim Profile: his adoptive brother, his bully

Cause of Death: side stabbed (pecked) by bird

Cautionary Tale: ??

Story: 

He never got to know his mother. She had gotten sick during pregnancy, and the premature labor was too much for her. She was only alive for a few days, but Wildkit was sure he could remember her soft fur curled around him...surely he must remember his mother. He had to.

But Hailsmoke insisted it was impossible. She wasn't one for heads in the clouds, and Wildkit couldn't help but wish she wasn't his adoptive mother.

He knew that she didn't like him. She didn't dislike him, but it was clear that Hailsmoke wasn't happy about their arrangement either. But she was the only nursing queen in the Clan, so she--and her three older sons--were Wildkit's family now.

Wildkit just wished that they liked him.

Thriftkit, Twigkit, and Rubblekit thought that a smaller brother was perfect--as a scratching post.

Wildkit tried to put up with it at first when they promised a prize if he let them practise their pounces on him, but soon enough he got tired of it, and he got tired of Hailsmoke's disinterest in stopping them.

But it turned out that the trio didn't care whether or not Wildkit allowed them to beat him, they would do it anyway.

Wildkit found solace in the elders' den, perhaps the only place in the camp he felt truly safe, as it was the only place he could be sure there would be someone to put a stop to his brothers' antics.

He had first run into the den while hiding from Thriftkit's sharp teeth, and seeing his distress, old Tigerdawn have offered to tell him a story to distract him.

Wildkit accepted, and was told a tale of a great cat, one who protected the weak and vulnerable, especially little kits.

Wildkit was entralled.

He visited the elders' den more and more, wishing he could hear stories of Mouseshell every second.

He thought of her often, wondering if her spirit was watching over him. He would imagine her swooping in to save him when his brothers were being mean, maybe taking him away from the Clan, taking him in as her own so he didn't have to be around Hailsmoke, Thriftkit, Twigkit, or Rubblekit anymore.

He could have a mother who loved him.

But that was a fantasy.

He had to be like Mouseshell....he had to be strong and stand up for himself.

It only made Thriftkit angrier.

Wildkit ran. He didn't care if he was leaving camp, he just wanted to get away. Why didn't they like him? Why were they so mean?

They were on his tail. Where to go?

He looked up and began to climb. It was thanks to his sharp kitten-claws and the tree's old, ragged wood that he managed to make it up the trunk and to a high branch.

But while that was enough to make Rubblekit and Twigkit stop, Thriftkit refused to be bested. He pulled himself up until he stood on the same branch, towering over Wildkit and threatening to shove him off of it.

"Leave me alone!" Wildkit closed his eyes and pushed hard. He heard a yowl and opened them in time to see Thriftkit slip.

His brother was still holding on, but it was obvious he wouldn’t be able to for much longer. He looked at Wildkit and pleaded for his help…

Wildkit shouldn’t have done it. But he was so scared and tired of being bullied and too young to fully grasp the consequences of his actions. He shoved at Thriftkit again, and his brother fell.

The thump was sickening.

The cries and screeches were deafening.

Rubblekit snapped that he was a murderer, and should be exiled.

Twigkit cried, shakily asking “why?”

They ran to camp—

They were going to tell on him.

He had to leave.

He scrabbled against the tree. It was among a large cluster, with his small body he could just make it to another tree that was close by enough to touch branches, then another….

In his haste, he got too close to a newly hatched nest, and instinctively the mother bird pecked.

Additional Information: 

—He finds Mouseshell in the Dark Forest. She doesn’t wish to be his mom, so her father takes him in instead and he becomes his adoptive sister (and they are both way better to him that his previous adopted family).

—Here’s the explanation for why he is super shy around others but instantly called Mouseshell “mom” the moment they met!

—If the first shove wasn’t enough to damn him, the second shove + running from responsibility was.

[michelleaneousart]

Hey everyone!

I'm still (somewhat) alive!! 🥳

I did this way back in 2020 actually, but it was meant for a zine (which, to my knowledge, never saw the light of day) and since I've been going through my computer and saw this, I figured I might as well post it now. At least it might fit the summer vibe (not where I'm at though, here it's only rain all day long...)

Hope you guys are all doing well x

[ufibar]

Doodles cause. Binge read to extend our reach to the stars above today and OH MY GOD I love it sm had to try to. Do some of the siffrin design doodles but I am SO bad at drawing armor so urh drops this and leaves

[ragnar0c]

Soft launching the Oracle of Stars carrd!

Oracle of Stars (oracle-of-stars.carrd.co)

Things are subject to change, in FACT with each new update things WILL CHANGE. but rn I have links to both places the fic is posted, fast links to the cast's character (toyhouse) profiles, and a chapter gallery! (not including author's notes yet bc I want that in a zine preferably.)

I'm thinking of maybe adding a chapter plot and/ or arc list. I'm open to recommendations too! If you want short bios on it or a tab w/ all the author's notes anything like that >_>

[ilovedthestars]

Hello I have just received a Brand New podfic of my work from the inimitable @blackestglass and I think now is an excellent time to do a combo of shouting out other cool people & shameless self promotion. If you like my fics (or have not read them but would rather listen than read), three of them are available as podfics! And you even have a couple options to choose from!

carry us to freedom, my prosetry fic about a SecUnit underground railroad and still one of my favorite things I've ever written for the Murderbot fandom, has been podfic'd by @mercurialfeet ! You can listen to it here.

what did i do?, a fic about Murderbot getting a lethal malware override and being afraid it didn't shut itself down in time, has been podfic'd twice! Once by @godoflaundrybaskets (here) and a second time (hot off the presses!) by @blackestglass (here)

As Your Legal Counsel, a short fic about Three meeting with Pin-Lee to discuss its options after Network Effect, has also been podfic'd twice! Once by @blackestglass (here) and a second time by @specialagentartemis (here)

Thank you to all the wonderful podficcers in the Murderbot fandom, you are such an important part of the community <3

[residents-of-the-darkforest]

Dark Forest Resident: Hollylion

Aliases / Nicknames: Bitch, Cheating Bitch, The Worst Mate Ever, Disloyal Foxheart, Heartbreaker, Dearheart, My love, Sweetie

Gender: female

Sexuality: heterosexual

Family: Goldsting (mother), Airnettle (father), Poolflake (aunt), Splinterwisp (uncle), Elderfleck (sister), Chasmmoon, Pricklestar (brothers), Torndrop, Boulderbloom, Sleekspike, Olivedapple, Mallowspots, Ratspeckle, Frigidshock, Stoneslash, Volcanonoise, Burdockpaw, Goosefluff, Ripplefrost, Cresspaw, Smokehare, Minnowspore (daughters), Shinefur, Echoheart, Scorchhaze, Pearpaw, Nettlefoot, Shatterram, Daffodilstripe, Nutpad, Fawnfleck, Fluffyheather, Birdfluff, Sootseeker, Flipjump, Jaypaw, Bluekit, Brightlily (sons), Laurelmurk, Archpatch, Summitdusk (granddaughters) Poolthrush, Shalequake (grandsons), Splashstar (grandmother) Jumpmask (grandfather), Pearfeather, Tabasco, Zelda, Chiquito, Alyconefleck (former mates)

Other Relations: unnamed mentor, Jaypaw, Boulderbloom (former apprentices)

Clan: Thunderclan

Rank: elder

Characteristics: cheats on mates, charismatic, connection to the Dark Forest

Number of Victims: 41

Number of Murders: 0

Method of Harm: cheating on mate, dragging her kits into her mess

Known Victims: Pearfeather, Tobasco, Fork, Zelda, Lazlo, Shadowkite Chiquito, Burrowfur, Lilacpatch, Burnetspot, Shinefur, Echoheart, Scorchhaze, Pearpaw, Nettlefoot, Shatterram, Daffodilstripe, Nutpad, Fawnfleck, Fluffyheather, Birdfluff, Sootseeker, Flipjump, Jaypaw, Bluekit, Brightlily, Torndrop, Boulderbloom, Sleekspike, Olivedapple, Mallowspots, Ratspeckle, Frigidshock, Stoneslash, Volcanonoise, Burdockpaw, Goosefluff, Ripplefrost, Cresspaw, Smokehare, Minnowspore

Victim Profile: mates, kits (indirectly)

Cause of Death: heart attack

Cautionary Tale: heartbreak has consequences

Story:

When she was a kit, she dreamed of having a loving mate. Pearfeather wasn’t that though. Always ‘too busy’ to spend time with her.

So who could blame her for seeking attention from others?

Tabasco was fun for a while.

When Pearfeather died, she turned to her new mate, Zelda, for a time, but he was so boring! Always so nervous around everyone.

So she may have messed around a bit.

And Zelda may have hated her by the end of their relationship, but it was fine, because she had a new mate!

But then Chiquito got mad because she had an affair, so she may have gotten a new mate, but then he died, so back to Zelda it was.

She ended up having a whopping 31 kits, and even loved some of them.

Sure Sootseeker murdered two of his siblings, but most of them turned out ok! So what was the big deal?

It wasn’t like a lifetime of breaking hearts could have consequences…

Additional Information:

--Submission by @ambitiousauthor

--Ambitious: "I have discovered the ‘have affair’ button on Lifegen"

--Her kits are listed as victims bc their mom constantly having blatant affairs really messed them up.

--For a split second I thought that this was extreme of StarClan to condemn her for this but then I remembered all of Squirrelflight's Hope.

[blusical]

PSA (because *apparently* it wasn't clear enough... /targeted): TERFs, Radfems and the sort aren't and will never be welcome on this blog. In fact, this blog is literally run by a genderfluid individual. Why are you even here in the first place? Get lost or get blocked.

Why the fuck are there even TERFs in *hockeyblr* of all places anyway???

[parfaitblogs]

hii, can I please ask a blurb of post prison spencer and shy reader? And sometimes he teases her but not out of malice? Like when she talks about something and doesn't look at anyone in the eyes to focus on what she's saying (that's what I do) and he moves his head in her sight so their eyes meet?

spencer reid x shy!reader. fluff/comfort. 0.6k words. post prison reid. use of "sweet girl". 

a/n: i wrote this in like ten minutes tops because there is something sooo special to me about comfort spencer. i literally loved writing this. i was giggling and kicking MY OWN feet. i'm all for angsty!doesn't know how to accept love after prison spencer, but i also need us to start the movement of fluffy!literally worships the ground you walk on after prison because you show him so much love and support he doesn't know what else to do spencer. i love him and you for this request thank u

spencer reid who likes to listen to you talk when he gets out of prison, because talking sometimes seems like too much for him. who will sit down with you on the couch that is so perfectly moulded for your two bodies, and let you talk your entire way through whatever movie he agreed to watch for you because you always talk better when your eyes are fixated on a screen.

spencer reid who will wordlessly nod along when you start talking about your day when you're in bed together, using your rambling as a distraction from the things that keep him awake at night. whose hands will probably be running through your hair while you talk animatedly with your hands, eyes staring up at the ceiling.

spencer reid who will go into the bathroom with you because "showering alone is so boring" and "i need someone to talk to!" who will then sit outside the shower and listen to you talk some more, a shower curtain separating your two bodies as you stare at the tiled wall in front of you, hands preoccupied with shampooing your hair. spencer reid who will sit with you in his lap in the study, arms around your waist. who will answer your questions about prison because you say them with such a softness he learns he cannot keep secrets from you. and there are stars in your eyes that tugs at his heart strings every time something he says upsets you. whether it be the things he did to survive or something as mundane as his daily routine that was so vastly different to your own. and because you never look at him, but when he talks you do, and he would do anything to keep your eyes fixated on him for longer.

spencer reid who will then ask you a question about your own time alone whilst he was in prison, watching as you avert your eyes almost instantly from him, staring at whatever you could pretend was interesting behind him. who’d entangle a hand in your hair as you speak, you not thinking anything of it until he is tugging on it to pull your hair back – so, so gently, because you had learned that even after prison, he treats you with the care one would treat chinaware. spencer reid who will raise an eyebrow when you stare at him silently in confusion, convincing you to keep speaking, only to slide his hand from your hair on the back of your head to your jaw, fingers tilting your head towards him because "you keep looking away from me, sweet girl. stop it."

spencer reid who will be so confused when you stammer out a response, losing all ability to speak because he's looking at you like that and his eyes are boring holes into your own, and your heart is fluttering and you're flustered and he realises why you never look at him. and he thinks it is so funny because "i've been your boyfriend for how many years?" and you protest that he must be an awful profiler if he's never noticed this before. and so he will poke your sides until you're a laughing mess, and then he will get all serious and hold your face in place and tell you to continue, rewarding you with a kiss on some part of your face every time you manage to get a sentence out, until the reward is so nice you're rambling like you usually do, but this time you're looking at him and he is so, so in love with you and he has to actively fight the urge to kiss you every half a second. and screw prison and screw trauma, because for a brief moment he decides it was all worth it to get you right here, right now.

your reblogs and replies are always appreciated dearly ♡

[hynzsn]

💭 LOSER BF ★

☆ choi soobin x male reader 18+ MDNI

-> loser!soobin x supermodel!reader

꩜ .ᐟ smut, headcanons

contents: top!soobin x bottom!reader, big dick!soobin, slutty!reader, cockbrained!reader, cock size, rimming, oral fixation, edging, barebacking, oral, cum swallowing, dirty talk, praise and degradation, rough sex, kissing, moaning, overstimulation, belly bulge, voyeurism, mirror sex, anal fingering, anal sex, forehead kisses, handjob, aftercare, foreplay

a/n - i didn’t mean for this to be so long lmfaoo 😭 i literally had to take a minute and realize how much i was yapping away… and the way i would’ve written more too… big dick loser boyfriends for the win!!!

♡︎♡︎♡︎ likes, comments and reblogs are highly appreciated ♡︎♡︎♡︎

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

from the outside, it seems like you’re completely out of soobin’s league. you, a stunning supermodel, adored by millions, with your stunning looks and perfect body, the epitome of grace. then there’s soobin, with his shy demeanor and awkward charm. to the world, you’re the unattainable star, while soobin is just some lucky guy who somehow managed to capture your heart.

fans and followers constantly comment on how lucky soobin is, how they can’t believe someone as gorgeous as you is with him. there are endless discussions about what the hell you see in soobin, some assuming that it’s to make yourself look better while others assume there’s some hidden charm to soobin.

in interviews, you’re always asked about your relationship with soobin, with the interviewers always hinting at the disparity in your “league.” however, you always smile and talk about how much you love soobin despite the insinuations there.

you always drag him along to high-profile events, where you’re the center of attention, cameras flashing and people fawning over you. soobin always stays in the background, looking proud but out of place in the world of glitz and glamour.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

but behind closed doors, only soobin knows the truth about your relationship, how the dynamics change drastically. he knows how good he can make you feel with his pathetically large cock, turning you into his little cockbrained slut. in private, soobin holds all the power. he can make you feel things no one else can, reducing you to a moaning, desperate mess who lives and breathes for his cock.

soobin’s cock is easily over 8 inches long, closer to 9 on on his good days, with a thickness that stretches you out in the most deliciously obscene ways. its not just the length but the girth too - so thick that your fingers can barely wrap around it fully. the prominent vein running along the underside pulsing with soobin’s heartbeat, a tactile reminder to the power contained in his large cock. the head is broad and perfectly shaped, a deep, enticing pink that contrasts with the pale skin of his cock. when soobin is fully hard - and he always is whenever you’re around - his cock stands proudly, curving slightly upward.

when soobin’s inside of you, you can always feel every inch, every vein, every throb, stretching you to your limits and beyond. it’s a size that leaves you breathless every time, your body trembling with the effort to accommodate to such a magnificent intrusion. the way it fills you up, bottoming out with every thrust, makes you feel claimed, owned, and utterly satisfied.

during forpelay, soobin’s hands are always a bit shaky, his touch tentative as he explores your body. there’s an endearing uncertainty in the way soobin’s fingers trace over your skin, as if he’s in awe at the privilege of touching someone so perfect. soobin’s hands are gentle, almost reverent as they glide over your curves. he takes his time, savoring every inch of your body, his touch soft and affectionate. he loves to explore your body with his lips and fingertips, leaving a trail of kisses and gentle bites.

soobin’s eyes are always locked on yours, filled with adoration and desire. he loves watching. your reactions, the way your eyes flutter shut or roll back when soobin hits the right spot.

even after countless nights together, soobin still blushes fiercely whenever you tease him or compliment his cock. his stuttering attempts at dirty talk often turn into breathless, mumbled confessions of how much he loves making you feel good.

in the privacy of your bedroom, you’re always on your knees, worshipping soobin’s cock with a fervor that belies your public persona. your eyes are always glazed with lust, your lips stretched around soobin’s length, and your hands trembling as you try to take soobin as deep as possible. soobin loves to see you like this, usually taking control of the situation. he guides your head, setting a rhythm that has you choking and drooling all over his cock.

you, who commands rooms and hearts with ease, becomes a pleasing mess for soobin. you beg to be filled up, to be stretched out by soobin’s large cock, your voice high and desperate. “please, soobin, i need you inside me,” you whimper, your body trembling with anticipation.

once soobin is inside you, you transform into a cock-drunk slut, your mind blissfully blank except for the overwhelming sensation of being filled to the brim. your eyes roll back, your mouth falls open, and incoherent moans spill from your lips as soobin thrusts into you with a ruthless rhythm.

when soobin finally let’s go of his inhibitions, his thrusts become rough and demanding. he loves to watch the way your body responds, the way your back arches and your mouth falls open in a silent scream. the bed shakes with a force of his movements, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

★ soobin’s kinks ★

barebacking: there’s something intensely intimate about the feel of your bare skin against his own. soobin loves the raw connection, the way he can feel every clench and flutter of your needy hole around his cock.

overstimulation: soobin takes a perverse pleasure in pushing you to your limits. he loves to watch your body shake and tremble, his cock still buried deep inside of you as he grinds out every last drop of pleasure. your cries of “too much,” only spur him on, knowing that you love every second of it. he knows exactly how to drive you wild, teasing you until you’re a trembling mess, begging for release. “is this what you wanted, y/n? to be my pretty little cockslut?” soobin murmurs, his voice low and commanding.

belly bulge: soobin is obsessed with the way his cock creates a visible bulge in your belly. he loves to press down on it, feeling himself through your skin as he watches your eyes roll back in bliss. it’s a visual reminder of how deeply he’s embedded in his lover, a sight that never fails to drive him wild.

praise and degradation: soobin gets off on the power of his words. he loves to shower you with praise, telling you how beautiful and perfect you are, especially when you’re writhing in pleasure. conversely, he also enjoys calling you his “pretty little slut,” or “cock-hungry whore,” the contrast driving both of you wild. the mix of tenderness and roughness is a potent aphrodisiac for him.

voyeurism: thought not always explicitly expressed, soobin had a hidden voyeuristic streak. he loves to watch you touch yourself, seeing the way your body responds to your own hands. the sight of you pleasuring yourself to the thought or sight of soobin, is intensely erotic.

rimming: soobin always ensures the environment is perfect - soft lighting, clean sheets, and a sense of privacy that allows you to fully immerse in the moment. he gently guides you to lie down, spreading your legs to give him full access. soobin starts with light, teasing touches, running his fingers along the sensitive skin of your inner thigh’s and ass. the soft caresses, making you shiver with anticipation, your body already responding to soobin’s expert touch. soobin’s tongue makes the first contact with your rim, a light tentative lick that sends a jolt of pleasure through your body. soobin loves the way you gasp and you arch your back, silently begging for more.

soobin’s licks become more deliberate and thorough, his tongue exploring every inch of your sensitive hole. he circles the rim, flicks his tongue against it, and presses in just enough to make you moan with need. your reactions fuel soobin’s desire. the soft moans, whimpers, and gasps that escape your lips are music to soobin’s ears. he knows exactly how to use his tongue to drive you wild, alternating between slow, sensual licks and rapid, teasing flicks. soobin’s hands aren’t idle during this act. one hand spreads your cheeks apart, giving him better access, while the other hand stroke your cock.

as your moans grow louder and more desperate, soobin increased the pressure and intensity of his tongue. he pushes his tongue deeper, lavishing attention on your needy hole, making sure every movement is filled with purpose and passion. your body only responds beautifully to soobin’s rimming. your hips start to move, pushing back against soobin’s mouth, seeking more of that incredible sensation.

sometimes, soobin adds to the sensation by slipping a finger into your hole alongside his tongue. the combination of his tongue and finger stretching and teasing your brings you to the brink of ecstasy. once soobin feels that you’re on the edge of ecstasy, he transitions from rimming to planting gentle kisses all over your ass and lower back.

mirror play: soobin loves taking you in front of a mirror, making both of you watch as you’re being filled and fucked. the visual of your expressions, the way soobin’s body moves, and how his huge cock disappears inside of you is such a huge turn on.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

★ soobin’s favorite part of your body ★

soobin finds every part of your body captivating, you’re an absolute masterpiece in his eyes. but if he had to choose a favorite, it would undoubtedly be your lips. there’s something about them that mesmerizes him.

your lips are incredibly soft, a perfect blend of tenderness and sensuality. soobin loves the feeling of them against his own, the way they move with gentle, teasing caresses that make his heart race. your lips are incredibly expressive. whether they’re curved in a sly smile, parted in a gasp of pleasure, or pouting in a playful protest, they communicate a myriad of emotions that soobin finds irresistible. soobin can’t get enough of kissing you. he loves the way your lips, respond to his, the way they model together in a perfect dance of passion.

waking up to you, soobin’s first instinct is always to kiss you. whether you’re on the couch, in bed, or even sneaking a moment in public, soobin’s favorite way to show his affection is through deep, passionate makeout sessions.

oral fixation: there’s a special kind of pleasure that soobin finds in watching you use your lips and moth during sex. kissing down his body, pleading and begging for him, or taking his cock into your mouth, your lips drive him absolutely insane. soobin often finds his hands drifting to your lips. the way they part under his touch, how they feel soft and pilant underneath his fingers. sometimes when your moans grow too loud, soobin gently pressed his fingers to your lips, silencing you with a soft but commanding touch. the sight of your lips wrapped around his fingers, the way your tongue flicks against his skin, is incredibly sexy for soobin.

sometimes, words aren’t necessary. a simple kiss from you can convey more than a thousand words - a promise of love, a reassurance, or an unspoken desire. soobin cherishes these silent conversations, finding comfort and connection in the language of their lips. on days when soobin feels stressed or overwhelmed, your kisses have a healing power. the gentle press of your lips against his forehead is likes soothing balm, washing away the tension and worries that weigh him down.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

★ soobin’s favorite place to cum ★

is inside of your mouth. the warmth, the softness and the way you look up at him with adoring eyes as you take soobin inside of your mouth, swallowing every drop of his cum, the way your lips glisten with his cum after he pulls out, when you lick your lips with a satisfied look on your face, it’s all like a drug to him.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

after your intense sessions, soobin always holds you close, whispering sweet nothings and stroking your hair. you cling to soobin, feeling safe and cherished, completely satisfied and throughly used.

you wear soobin’s marks with pride, hidden beneath your designer clothes. bruises, love bites, and the occasional handprint are all reminders of who you truly belong to, symbols of the nights spent being fucked by your loser boyfriend.

when you’re out in public, you and soobin share secret smiles and knowing glances. no one else knows the truth of your relationship, the depth of your connection, and the intense pleasure you share. It’s your private world, a hidden paradise where your true desires are fulfilled by the only person who truly understands you.

[moonchild1]

jeon jungkook fic rec list (Ⅸ)

hi everyone wow it's really been a while and i'm on list 9 already damnnn that's alot and list 10 is like half way complete already... soooo you might notice a change in the set up this time around i liked how it looked on my ao3 list so i added it here as well, i absolutely love this list like i've gone over this list a million times it's filled with alot of fics i was absolutely obsessed with, you know how attached i get to the characters and this list holds quite a few of them too so i hope you enjoy reading them as much as i did and you fall for them too... remember to give lots of love to the authors of these fics they are absolute geniuses and deserve all the respect and love in this world for creating these beautiful fics and sharing it with us so be sure to give them a follow, like and reblog or even leave a little comment i'm 100% percent sure it would mean alot to them 🥺🖤 also as these fics contain smut no under minors allowed/interact... if you would like to share some of your favourites or just wanna ramble about fics you love send me an ask i love hearing from you guys and happy reading everyone till next time ✨🖤

a- angst s- smut f-fluff

series

dreamcatchers by @ggukcangetit f a

↬  DI Jeon didn’t need a new partner. Unfortunately, his superiors felt otherwise; especially considering the extremely high-profile murder that had just taken place in the port city. Recent transfer, DI Choi Yuri finds herself confronted with a new cityscape, unfamiliar people, a hostile partner, and a homicide that is certain to bring back unpleasant memories.  

block party by @minlucent f s a

↬ moving into your new apartment brings back memories of your biggest mistake. neighbours au e2l

a little bit of your heart by @yoongiofmine f s a ft. myg

↬ you had everything you could ever dream of; the career of your dreams as a music producer, the best friends you could ever wish for, and a exes-turned-friends-turned-fuck-buddies relationship with min yoongi. you knew you and yoongi would never move past that and you were okay with it. Until a friend from your past comes back into your life, offering to give you everything you deserve, everything yoongi couldn’t. Will jungkook show you what you’ve been missing? Or will the new guy threaten yoongi enough to do something about it? 

lost stars by @/yoongiofmine f s a

↬ Jungkook was lost. He didn’t know who he was anymore, so he decided to leave and find himself. But he wasn’t expecting to find you along the way, an island girl who has no idea who he is. Jungkook has a secret. But so do you. idol au s2l

secrets we keep by @/yoongiofmine f s a

↬ Being a camgirl was never your main goal in life, but when the pandemic hit and you lost your job, you were desperate. Now, two years later, the world is back to normal and  you are one of the top creators of OnlyChingu; the South Korean version of OnlyFans. A website where idols hide behind anonymous profiles in search of that connection they lost during lockdown. Jungkook was never into this type of stuff. Until he ran into you. He knows you’re his perfect girl, his ideal type. Will he be able to put his own insecurities aside when chasing you? Or will you let the secrets you keep ruin you? idol au

i hate you, i love you by @jungblue s a

↬ You hated him at seven, warmed up to him at twelve, and liked him at fifteen. Now the two of you are twenty years old and inseparable best friends… and you’re absolutely in love with him; he’s in love too—just not with you. 

fatal attraction by @jungcock s a ft. kth

↬ your dangerous ex-boyfriend comes back to haunt you in more ways than one. exes au serial killer thriller

pub golf by @taleasnewastime f s

↬ One night. One stupidly hot man, who just keeps appearing in every pub you go to. Six friends. Nine pubs. Nine drinks. Ten million stupid rules. Let the chaos begin. s2l

animal by @cutaepatootie f s a

↬ boxer jungkook au ANGST

things you don't know by @btsgotjams27 a

↬ It’s been seven years since you last saw the boy that broke your heart. After moving back home, you try everything you can to avoid seeing him around town, but destiny has a wicked way of doing the opposite.

entangled by @caelesjjk f s a ft. kth

↬ Jeon Jungkook is Spider-Man. He saved your life twice. But he’s also been your sweet lab partner in college for the past two years and now someone who is more than just a friend. You care about him…maybe even love him. But something tells you that you aren’t quite sure what love even is. How could you when you have feelings for someone else as well? Kim Taehyung is the handsome stranger you’ve seen around campus and somehow ended up dancing with at Club Onyx. You were upset that Jungkook had stood you up once again and Taehyung made you feel like you were on top of the world. What you didn’t know that night, is the dark secret Taehyung is trying desperately to hide, but the closer the two of you get the more difficult that becomes.

when the end comes by @oddinary4bts f s a

↬ Seven years after you've started dating Jungkook, long distance creates a wedge in your relationship. When the only solution seems to be breaking up, you go your separate ways even though love still lives in the two of you. Will you find a way back together, or has the end come for you and Jeon Jungkook?

new girl by @jjkeverlast f s a

↬ after finding out your boyfriend of 6 years cheated on you, you find yourself moving in with three guys in a loft. what could possibly go wrong?

horizon by @/sokooks f s a

↬ The way you approached life had started to break down Jungkook's emotional barriers. Jungkook couldn't deny that he was drawn to you in a way that was entirely new and unfamiliar. You had become more than just an assignment; you had become someone he genuinely cared about. It was the way you made him feel. With you, he felt more human than he had in a long time. Despite his best efforts to remain detached, his heart had other plans. angel au

searching for nirvana by @/sokooks f s a

↬ he shouldn't be here. he shouldn't be touching you the way he was- but he was here before him. he was your friend, not him. he knew your body, not him. he wanted to be the only one to touch you the way you liked. he he wanted you to remember that. despite the fact that he already had someone waiting for him. best friends au cheating au.

twelve hours by @whatifyoulivelikethat s a

↬ you have twelve hours to make jeon jungkook fall in love with you. he's about to get married. you're the entertainment at his bachelor party - a burlesque dancer. long ago, he used to be the class representative and you used to be the class delinquent. nothing has changed and, yet, everything has.

when it all... by @7deadlysinsfics f a

↬ what’s there to do when your husband says he thinks he doesn’t love you anymore? you pick up the broken pieces the best you can and try to move on

better than me ? by @/7deadlysinsfics f s a

↬ jungkook is clear on what you both are to each other. still, he doesn’t want you to think anyone else is better than him

our first and our last by @thedefinitionofbts f a ft ot7

↬ The first time you met Jeon Jungkook was on your tenth birthday. On that day, he was nothing more than the strange man who jumped into a dark portal that suddenly opened in the middle of the park. The ten year old you just stood in the grass, strands of hair ruffling from the calm breeze that swooped by; head slightly tilted, bright, innocent eyes wide open and staring at him with wonder and disbelief. There was a certain amount of confusion, but your young mind was too naïve to question his actions or what they entailed. soulmate au

dancer in the dark by @gwoongi f s a

↬ Money can’t buy you happiness. Jeongguk, for the longest time, thinks he’s happy. Truthfully, Jeongguk doesn’t know what happiness is until you find him. rockstar au

together by @httpjeon f s a ft.pjm

↬domestic!au, couple!au, stoner!au, gamer!au

hot bot by @/httpjeon f s

↬ purchasing a Hot Bot wasn’t exactly something you ever really planned on. when you do, however, it sends your life down a path of convoluted government schemes and dark secrets.

stardust by @iamtaekooked f

↬ You didn’t believe in soulmates until you lay your eyes on Jeon Jeongguk, the younger brother of your best friend’s husband. That is when you see the red string beginning encircled around your pinky and ending in his

serendipity by @rohobi f s a

↬ After you reveal your inexperienced sexual status to your best friend, Jungkook grapples with the news, startled by the idea that the girl he always thought could get anyone, is a virgin. After finding his porn at 3AM, you decide that maybe it’s about time to stain the white sheets of your world with the colors of a forbidden fruit Jungkook seems to have in the palm of his hands.

chasing shadows by @colormepurplex2 s a

↬ Your job gets you into trouble sometimes. Who would have thought crime journalism would put so many targets on your back? But, it’s happening again, someone’s threatening you. Only, this time, it’s not just you that’s in the crosshairs. Your best friend, Enola, is out on assignment and can’t help like she usually does. So, what does she do instead? She sends her brother, Jungkook, armed with a magic bag, a charming smile, and deductive reasoning skills that prove his worth as one of the best PI’s around.

I gasp once, and in that breath, I accept you in by @inkofyoonkoo f s a

↬ In which Jungkook arrives to your small town to spend the holidays, and you slowly let go of all the ghosts of your past. s2l fwb au

sweet nothing by @adonis-koo f s a

↬ Being a guest at the Jeon Estate after a mishap of being kidnapped and dragged into your brothers affairs isn’t all that bad. Truth be told it brings you a lot closer to the mobster and owner of the estate Jeon Jungkook himself. His two rules are simple, don’t cause trouble and don’t give him a hard time. Somehow you manage to constantly do both in the most endearing way despite being pregnant and waddling around most of the time.

three's a crowd by @/adonis-koo s a ft. jimin

↬ When your mom’s fairytale life begins to bleed over into your world you’re suddenly caught between two men and one big secret, what was supposed to be a relaxing trip soon begins to spiral out of control. All you wanted was a free vacation… ceo au

sleepwalking by @taexual f s a

↬ due to unfortunate circumstances, you ended up managing your ex-boyfriend’s band. you thought you’ve both made peace with it, but suddenly he’s very eager to prove to you that first love never dies.

empty space by @ahundredtimesover f s a

↬ It started as friendship, turned to a casual fuck, then ended in heartbreak. Turns out, he wasn’t who he said he was, and years later he enters your life again, forcing you to face all the emotions you’d been trying to bury. 

OR Officer Jeon looks really hot in his uniform and you wish you didn’t hate him as much as you do.

as the world burns around us by @today-we-will-survive a

↬ You haven’t seen the sun in two years. The Virus wiped out a good three quarters of the world’s population and then the wars that followed wiped out half of that. After everything happened, it was only a matter of time before the different countries started blaming each other and emptied their nuclear arsenals. You’re still surprised Seoul survived – if you can call what it has become “surviving”

hotter than hell by @chateautae f s a

↬ jungkook, lucifer and king of hell, has been cast out of the crimson underworld for a reason he’s unsure of. embarking on his journey for the answer should’ve been easy, if it weren’t for you, the human that nurses his wounded body in her home, and accidentally witnesses the truth of his identity. kickstarting a hellish adventure with the devil himself, you discover lucifer is the most infuriating company ever; and jungkook finds out that maybe his answer to returning home lies within his annoying human confidant.

to turn a bad thing good by @/chateautae f s a

↬ jungkook’s drunken one night stand goes awry when he comes to learn not only is he being forced into an arranged marriage, but it’s to the very girl he abandoned that night—and things get a lot more complicated when you’re the best hookup he’s ever had.

J’aime by @baepop f s a

↬ You’re the newest hire at a local café and head barista Jeon Jungkook takes you under his wing.

Written in the Stars by @/baepop f s a ft. kth

↬ You’re the girl of Jungkook’s dreams, literally. The only problem: you’re taken by his best friend

make me forget by @roseannekook f s a

↬ You are the lead vocalist and main dancer of your company’s first girl group, but on the fourth promotion of your debut song things don’t go as planned. At the brink of an uprising scandal, you seek refuge in the bathroom stalls…and find it in the arms of no one else but BTS’ golden maknae Jeon Jungkook.

one of your girls by @ggukiepie s a ft. pjm

↬ fwb au college au fuck boy au inspired by the song

boy in luv by @/ggukiepie f s a

↬ just two idiot best friends in l*ve college!au, bff!jk, athlete!jk, student council president oc, cheerleader!oc

the boy who left by @/gujoonim a

↬ As your eyes staring deeply into your possible client-to-be’s eyes, something crossed your mind, it was that pair of eyes that you were looking for when you being abandoned at the aisle on your wedding day. ceo au

love sewn by @jvnghxope s a

↬ You’ve never cared about the thin-as-paper walls of your beloved apartment until Jeon Jungkook moved next door. You could hear everything –from his late-night parties on Saturday, to the quality time he spent with his girlfriend in the intimacy of his bedroom. One day, everything ceases. Days turn into weeks, weeks turn into months and you find yourself knocking his door before you can think it twice.

not yet by f s @bratkook f s a

↬ jungkook feels the pang of guilt in his gut when you spot your recent ex out with his new girl, and what better way to make the jerk hurt than to have him believe you were now dating him, the neighbor he had been insecure about your whole relationship.

one shot

blazes of deceit by @periminkle f a

↬ when the opportunity to finally venture past the stone walls you’ve grown up in presents itself, you jump at the chance to discover the origin of those mysterious lights—even if the trip comes with a harsh truth and a suspicious, yet undoubtedly attractive, tour guide. tangled au disney au

southpaw by @starshapedkookie f s a

↬ Knowing Jeon Jungkook for the better part of your life, you thought you knew everything about him. Well, that was before you two disappeared from each other’s lives at least. When Jungkook suddenly finds himself buying you a coffee to rekindle your friendship, it leads to much more than you bargained for.

house of cards by @jeonggukingdom s a

↬ What does safe mean when you are chased by zombies, when every corner you turn could be the last one for you? What do words like home and future mean when you’re always on the run and every moment could be your last? They mean nothing and everything at the same time and Jeongguk is all of the above. He is your safe haven, he is your home and he is your future. But things like that crumble easily in your world.

enouement by @littlemisskookie s a

↬ War is Hell, but it’s what you had to do to take your brother’s place. Of course, between the days of Hell are little slices of Heaven you’d call your Captain, Jeon Jungkook. mulan au disney au

miss taken by @junghelioseok f s

↬you pride yourself on being a professional, but sometimes your students' parents really test your patience. single parent dilfjk jk e2l

the ex text by @shadowkoo f s a

↬ The 2 AM texts have started again. It’s a bittersweet familiarity that you can’t run away from, and despite wishing to forget him: no one will ever measure up to the exceptional standard set by your ex, and you’ll never have anyone as good as him either. Like a permanent mark on your heart, Jungkook’s presence has become an insatiable craving, an addiction you'll never outgrow or cast aside.

the proposal by @hansolmates f s a

↬Jeon’s the editor-in-chief for Big Hit Publishings, a closet romantic with a penchant for antagonizing his assistant on the reg. When his work visa is in the process of being renewed and he takes a trip to Norway, his eligibility to stay in America is on the line. However Jeon Jungkook doesn’t go without a fight, and in order to save his job he offers you a proposal you can't refuse. based on the movie the proposal e2l

red and gold by @/thedefinitionofbts f s

↬It’s no secret that genius, billionaire, international playboy, and philanthropist- Jeon Jungkook, better known as the CEO of Jeon Industries-and even better known as Iron Man, is one of the most intelligent, wealthy, and powerful men in the world. There’s nothing that can get to him or his ego, that is, until you happen to show up and give him a run for his money. 

burning bright by @snackhobi s

↬there are no secrets in the drift. if jungkook were to see the mess inside your head and heart, laid utterly bare, he’d turn away from you. based on the movie pacific rim

but we loved young by @jl-micasea-fics s a

↬Jungkook is everything you’re not, the ying to your yang. Your tight knit friendship nurtured from childhood survived the major life events that most don’t, and to that end, you suppose you’re fated to be together, until unrequited longing is eventually noticed, and boundaries are forever crossed.

the shoulder on which you cry by @lemonjoonah f s a ft. knj

↬ after moving away from your hometown five years ago, you’ve struggled on every return. each trip back being made out of haste due to an unfortunate event in your life. namjoon has always been there to help you through those moments. but when he can’t be there to support you during your current trip home, jungkook offers to stay by your side and be the comfort you need. 

illusion of choice by @hobibliophile f s a

↬ You’ve grown up with the Jeons, Jungmin and Jungkook, for as long as you can remember, your parents being very close. But little did you know that this is because you are in fact arranged to be married to the Jeon heir, Jungmin. However, a tragedy causes Jungkook to take up his brother’s mantle, and that includes becoming your fiancé.

the blue princess and her red rose by @/cutaepatootie f s a

↬ After all, he was her red rose, while she was just another one of the many blue roses that grew in the dying gardens of Greyria. princess au

rigor mortis by @readyplayerhobi f s a

↬ A night out at a bar results in you going home with a young and attractive police officer. But if you think the night was something to remember, that’s nothing compared to waking up to find a zombie outbreak in the city. A chance encounter with Officer Jeon leads to him helping you escape from the plague infested city.

lowkey by @joonbird s

↬ Jungkook is the nude model for your art school’s life drawing class.

part-time lover by @sketchguk f s a

↬there is no crime more perfect than marrying jeon jeongguk. your relationship is nothing more than a ruse - while your friends pester you for being perpetually single, jeongguk desperately needs a wife to complete the pristine image of a family, fooling his way through the parent interview at the nation’s most prestigious private school. only time will tell how deep your lies will run as you find home in one another’s minds. because untangled in the moonlight, he is but a spy, exposing a secret world of corruption, and you, an assassin, ridding the streets of danger one hit at a time. 

sweet apple biscuits by @rosaetae a

↬ a story about someone who receives letters from themselves ten years in the future and asks them to fix all their regrets and save a particular boy. inspired by the anime 'orange'

i'll be home by @wwilloww f s a ft.knj

↬ When your first love, Jungkook, disappeared from your village five years ago, no one thought he would return, let alone on the night of your betrothal to another man. 

white lies by @noteguk f s a

↬ in which Jungkook lies his way out of and into trouble. But he can’t tell white lies when it comes to you. 

yes coach by @/taleanewastime s

↬ You play in a local netball team and as a new season starts you have a new coach. Enter Jungkook, he may look soft, but he turns out to be a hard taskmaster, one who ruffles your feathers when he makes some changes to the team. Tensions grow between you through the weeks, until they finally reach breaking point.

spf 50 by @gimmeyoon f s

 ↬ If you have to spend your summer home from college working a job you hate, it might as well include sitting by the pool with Jungkook. Now if only kids could stop vomiting in it.

fifth wish by @jiminrings f a

↬ jeon jungkook, world-class socialite and nepotism baby, should be out every night to celebrate while he’s at his prime. why should he fake-date his bodyguard instead? alternatively, jungkook regularly throws coins to wishing wells with only one desire in mind — to get rid of you.

blacklisted by @/httpjeon s a ft. kth

↬after departing from your dom, you’re assigned to two incredibly powerful men.

↬looking for other jjk fics or the other members check out my library

[residences-of-the-darkforest]

Dark Forest Resident: Mouseshell

Aliases / Nicknames: Mouse, Squeaks (by Applesting), Clumsy-paws

Gender: she-cat

Sexuality: pansexual, aromantic

Family: Hazelwing (mother), Applesting (father), Ivypetal, Tigerdawn (sisters), Pebblestorm (aunt), Browneyes (uncle), Doebur, Curlfire (cousins), Amberstar (grandmother)

Other Relations: unnamed mentor, Flypaw (apprentice)

Clan: ThunderClan

Rank: warrior

Characteristics: craves attention, formerly sweet, currently cruel and bloodthirsty, optimistic, friendly, sociable

Murder Motive: vengeance, to get attention, rage

Number of Victims: 11

Number of Murders: 10

Murder Method: neglecting help in fox attack, burying alive, poisoning, beating to death

Known Victims: Firebelly, Grassnettle, Specklewhisker, Flypaw, Badgerclaw, Amberstar, Tigerdawn, five unnamed Clanmates

Victim Profile: those that annoyed her, random selection, her apprentice, the deputy, her grandmother, her sister

Cause of Death: flesh torn out by Ivypetal

Cautionary Tale: ??

Story: 

"It's better if you step aside."

"Move out of the way."

"You're not needed."

These, among other words, became ingrained into Mouseshell's head. It was hard for them not to be, they were repeated too often for her to be able to forget them.

She already expected to hear them whenever she went to offer help with something or to join a patrol.

It wasn't that she was incredibly clumsy or unusually annoying. The fact that she was an outcast wasn't because of who she was. It was who she wasn't.

Her uncle, the medicine cat, had a vision the day she and her sisters were born, just moments before Hazelwing went into labor. It foretold a future of greatness, a heroic destiny, saviours to all the Clans.

That's what her sisters would be.

A third cat was not seen in the vision, and when a third kitten was born, cats were surprised. Browneyes had perfectly described Tigerkit and Ivykit's pelts, down to the little speckles on both their snouts before he saw them, but he hadn't expected Mousekit at all.

What is worse than being an ordinary warrior?

Being an ordinary warrior whose littermates are destined for greatness.

Everybody wanted to be friends with the prophesied sisters.

No one wanted to be friends with the outcast.

It begged the question that her Clan, and family in particular, asked over and over: why was she excluded? Why is she not meant for greatness too?

Most cats silently agreed that if she were to be included, she would surely mess things up somehow, would make a mistake that would result in horrible consequences, and that that is why she was left out. And that idea that they convinced themselves to be fact made them wonder more.

If they let her build their dens, would she make a vital mistake?

If they let her lead a patrol, would she fail badly?

Amberstar, her grandmother, would always keep her behind to watch the camp during a battle. "Another time," she would always promise. Mouseshell figured out long ago that another time would never come.

She would have given up long ago if she weren't so desperate to be needed. To be welcomed. To be told, for once, that she wasn't in the way or being a bother just for standing there.

All she craved was to be seen.

But every time she tried to prove herself, she failed miserably.

She tried to catch a plump squirrel from the highest tree in the territory--it was leaf-bare and it was the biggest prey anyone had seen--but the branch below her paws gave way, and in her fall, she ended up dislocating the ankle of her Clanmate who went to catch her.

She convinced Amberstar--for the first time--to let her lead a patrol after she found a new badger set and wished to drive the beast out, only for it to be abandoned with the only resident of the hole being a hare--which Mouseshell scared away so they couldn't even eat it. In that time, RiverClan attacked the camp, and because Mouseshell told Amberstar to send out a big patrol of the Clan's strongest warriors, ThunderClan lost. Of course, it was all blamed on her.

Everything always was.

All her life, for moons and moons she tried so hard every single day to make her Clan, and more importantly, her family, proud. And every day she failed and was treated worse.

Hazelwing was nice enough. She was kind to Mouseshell and enjoyed her company the most, but duties kept them apart. Tigerdawn was always pulled from one patrol or task to another, and by the time she had any freetime--which was typically when the day was over, she didn't have any time to do anything but eat or sleep.

Ivypetal, too, was ordered to work all day every day. They were meant for greatness, after all, surely that meant they were the best when it came to building dens, or hunting, or fighting, or any chore whatsoever. Unlike Tigerdawn however, Ivypetal's lack of free time made her resentful of her unspecial sister, and that misguided anger only distanced the sisters further.

But the worst was Amberstar. She was the one that Mouseshell was so desperate to make happy. It was her who Mouseshell needed so badly to see pride in when she looked at her, not disappointment, or regret, or irritation.

Irritation that she was there.

Regret that she existed at all.

Mouseshell couldn't take it anymore. She needed answers, needed a proper explanation as to why it was her destiny to suffer. So one night, she snuck out and headed for the Moonstone. Surely StarClan would answer her, right?

But even as she touched her nose to the stone, there was nothing. No explanation. Not even a single comforting word.

On the way back, Mouseshell was attacked by a dog. It knocked into her, dislocating her shoulder. She had been terrified as its' slobering jaws loomed over her. The only reason she was able to walk away was because a kittypet had seen the attack and had gotten its Twoleg's attention.

When the Twolegs put the dog safely away, they took her in and treated her injury--as much as she protested, fearing they would force her to become a housecat. Thankfully, after they had treated her and left her be to explore the house, the kind kittypet showed her the way out. He had been nice enough to walk with her to her territory, ensuring she got home safe. Mouseshell couldn't help but wonder when the last time someone cared about her like that.

She offered him a place in the Clan, but he politely turned her down and wished her well.

Part of her was nervous. In the time it took her to go to the Moonstone and come back, with all the activities that took place in-between, nearly two full days had passed. Amberstar would be furious with her. Ivypetal would snort and say how she had wasted everyone's time with search patrols.

Ha.

She had been so naive. Or maybe she had been hopeful.

Hopeful that Amberstar's fury was really just worry about her grandkit's safety. Hopeful that Ivypetal would have insisted on being on every single patrol set out to find her sister.

What a laugh.

No one had even noticed she was gone.

That was...well it didn't feel right to say that it was the tipping point. In truth, the iceberg had been slowly, every slowly, tilting over for a long time now. No, this was the point where it splashed into the icy cold water.

All that time trying to prove herself to them. Trying to get them to show her that they love her. That they see her.

Oh, they'll see her.

Like the metaphorical water around her, her demeaner had shifted. She no longer smiled at everyone just to brighten their day. They didn't deserve her kindness. She no longer went out of her way for a Clanmate that wouldn't even thank her.

She wouldn't bother talking to cats that avoided her. That self-imposed solitude became much more comforting than she had expected it to be all those moons she had been avoiding it. Turns out, you can't be hurt by someone if you don't bother yourself with them. You can't hear the hurtful words telling you to go away if you're too far. You can't see the odd glances from the older cats, wondering what is so wrong with you, if you're not around them.

Her thoughts had shifted as well thanks to her solitude bringing different, darker thoughts with it.

The problem wasn't her. It was everyone else.

From the moment she was born, they treated her like a sickness. Pity at best, even from her own parents.

But they weren't blind, not entirely terrible. They could see that she had grown withdrawn. They tried to reach out to her, her father telling jokes in an attempt to make her laugh while her mother told her over and over that she could always talk to her if she needed to.

Too little, too late. Piss off.

Tigerdawn, in a small break in which she was enjoying a meal, offered to share it with Mouseshell. "I haven't seen you all day, sis. Tell me about it. Caught any squirrels?"

The question had been innocent. But all Mouseshell could sense was mockery. She only gave Tigerdawn a cold glance before walking past her.

Even Ivypetal had tried, shockingly enough. But it was painfully clear that she didn't wish to talk to her youngest sister at all. It had been their parents who pushed her.

Mouseshell had been alone in the forest when her sister approached her, barely able to contain her annoyance at having to talk to her. Ivypetal had been the only one that Mouseshell didn't keep her Happy, Everything's Alright demeanor around: they both didn't like each other and they both knew it. But there was still some pleasentries, the little smile given just for face. But they were alone now. And even if they weren't, Mouseshell had stopped caring about what others thought of her long ago.

The weak attempt at a talk had quickly developed into an argument. Then Ivypetal pushed her, and Mouseshell pushed back. In a matter of heated seconds, they were rolling on the ground, clawing and screeching until they were pulled apart.

Get this, this is the real kicker: not one cat blamed Ivypetal for the fight. Not even the both of them! Nope, it was all Mouseshell's fault, even if no one knew what caused them to go at it in the first place. Ivypetal was destined for greatness. Of course she wouldn't be the first one to strike.

At least she had the decency to look guilty as their mother checked her over, asking if she was okay while Amberstar scolded Mouseshell.

After both their wounds--minor scratches--were treated, they were punished. And by punished, that means that Ivypetal got to collect moss just outside the camp for what was likely no more than two trips, while Mouseshell had to travel all the way across the territory to collect herbs after 'wasting' them.

But she couldn't even have peace in that. Because someone as troublesome as her needed a guide to keep her in check.

Firebelly had never been a fan of Mouseshell, for the same reasons that nobody was. A little older than Mouseshell herself, the bratty she-cat acted like the all-knowing mentor that Mouseshell had to obey.

This is the best route. Don't you know that?

You're going to ruin the herbs if you pick them up like that.

No, no, no.

Wrong, all wrong.

You're wasting my time.

Mouseshell couldn't take it anymore. She snapped at Firebelly to shut up. It was a loud bark, Mouseshell had never been so thunderous in her life.

Firebelly had opened her offended jaws to retort when a fox burst out of the trees. Mouseshell's shout had attracted it. Quickly, she dove up a tree and saw in horror that Firebelly hadn't been so lucky.

The fox had her pinned by the tail, lips licking its sharp fangs.

Firebelly had stared at the fox in absolute terror, than to Mouseshell safely in the trees. She had begged her for help.

Mouseshell's muscles tensed, preparing to leap down when--

Why?

It was so sudden, so out of character for her and yet it rang so deep in her body that it kept her paws rooted in place.

Why should she help someone who didn't even like her?

Why should she help someone who had just been ridiculing her?

She was safe. Why should she risk that? Did this cat really matter more than her own safety? Surely not.

She paused, stilling, then settled back down.

Firebelly's eyes widened further before--

No one would know. The thought almost made her smile.

And no one did.

Sure, they would probably blame her, but they wouldn't know that she had deliberately sat down as Firebelly was mauled just before her.

She thought of that again.

She had deliberately sat down as Firebelly was mauled just before her.

It was almost absurd, how different it was from the cat she had long to be for so long. From the cat she thought she was. It was freeing. It was funny.

No one else mattered but herself. It took the fox attack for Mouseshell to fully grasp that. All her life she had put aside her own happiness for the sake of someone else's, partly because she had truly been a kind cat, partly because she hoped it would get more cats to like and accept her. But when it came right down to it--her or someone else, she chose the former.

She was free.

She was shocked as well when no punishment was given. A tragic accident, nothing she could have done. Neither her mother nor her father refused to leave her side for the next couple of days, utterly distressed at how close they had come to losing her.

The thought alone nearly sent Tigerdawn into a spiraling panic, which she was then actually sent into when Firebelly's torn body was brought into the camp, making the horrible situation all the more real.

Amberstar gently told Mouseshell to get rest, to forget about those herbs and just do whatever felt right right now.

Ivypetal lingered nearby, unsure if Mouseshell wanted to see her, but unwilling to let her sister out of her sight again. How dreadful that Mouseshell had almost died horribly right after the worst fight in their lives. If it had happened just a few moons earlier, it would be endearing. Now, Mouseshell drank it all in, thoroughly enjoying their worry, their guilt and pain, their attention.

And as time went on and that attention slipped away, she couldn't help but wonder...if it had happened again...

She wasn't an idiot. She couldn't be obvious about it. If everyone was killed by a fox and she was always the lone survivor, it would be incredibly clear that something was going on.

Some more moons passed while she thought carefully. One night, she snuck out and dug into the hare's burrow. The next day, she told Grassnettle that she had scented milk there, knowing full-well that the tom would want all praise on himself and that he would claim that he had scented it, and that he wanted to lead a patrol there to collect the feast.

Mouseshell insisted on helping out. Nothing noteworthy there, she always insisted on helping. Grassnettle as well as Specklewhisker eagerly dived into the burrow. Mouseshell, above, heard their gasps when they found nothing there. Then she pushed aside the stick she had set up. They didn't have enough time to escape before the den collapsed on them.

Mouseshell rolled herself in the dirt to really sell the appearance. Then she waited, paws thrumming with thrill, to be sure that they had suffocated before desperately trying to dig them free.

She had acted the part perfectly. I'm so sorry, I tried!

They had assured her. It's alright, you did all you could.

Then the awful news: Specklewhisker is breathing!

It was infuriating. Though Mouseshell's kin focused more on her, the rest of the Clan's attention was aimed primarily on the much more injured warrior. A loose end. No worries, Mouseshell only needed to tie it up.

She had remembered what Browneyes had said about those red berries...

Oh, what a shame Specklewhisker had succumbed to his injuries before he had a chance to wake. At least his short survival made the reality of almost losing Mouseshell, again, all the more real.

Those berries gave her an idea, one she was already planning to use when the attention stopped. Oh, how eager she was! She could just skip across the whole camp.

Specklewhisker's death had been different. With Firebelly, all Mouseshell had to do was sit back. With Grassnettle, it was more planned, more personal. But with both of them, she only had to stand by as death came to them, more or less. Could have easily looked away. But Specklewhisker? Mouseshell had to look at him as she killed him, had to come up close and touch his body and force the berries down with her own paws. And right inside the heart of the camp too!

Her heart had never beat so fast in her life. It was exhilarating, an experience she would never forget and already wanted to relive. But that would have to wait.

Once again, all attention was on her in the best possible way.

The urge itched at her like a bothersome flea when the attention went away, but she forced herself to act like it didn't bother her. She had to put at least some time between each 'lucky survival,' otherwise it would be odd.

She had noticed that, while she enjoyed Specklewhisker's death, the attention she got that time around wasn't as good as the attention she got after the fox attack, and she realized the likely cause--guilt.

The second time around, her family was treating her better. Not as well as her younger, naiver self had hoped, but still better. But right before the fox, she and Ivypetal had the worst fight of their lives, and Amberstar was furious with her, and the rest of the family was too worried that she would snap at them as well to say anything.

That must be why it was so much better then, because not only did she almost die, but their last words to her would have been of anger or a cowardly lack of words at all!

She just had to bring out their anger a bit...

Oops! Sorry Browneyes, she didn't mean to squash the herbs!

Oh that was your robin, auntie? She's sorry, she thought it was meant for the elders! But you can have what's left...looks like a skinny vole...

Oh no! So sorry sis, she didn't mean to trip and ruin all your work on the nursery walls. What a clutz!

It was almost funny. Before she would make genuine mistakes in an attempt to gain their positive attention. Now, she was making purposeful 'mistakes' in order to gain their negative attention--to be turned into positive attention.

But it wasn't the attention itself that she enjoyed, much as she did. It was their pain. The guilt as they looked at her, the sorrow, the shame. She could see it eating away at them, and she fed off of it.

It was time.

She called some Clanmates over for a meal. It didn't matter who, so long as they ate.

She had found a raven--big enough to feed five cats--and stuffed it full of nightshade. She paid close attention to where the plants were, where some had clusters while other parts only had small droplets of the poison's essence. That's where she would eat.

Maybe it wasn't very logical.

Maybe it was stupid.

Maybe it was downright crazy, but Mouseshell didn't care. She would accept it.

Before the next dawn, everyone had fallen incredibly ill. Mouseshell did get sick, but she was still significantly better than the other four--not that she didn't act the part. To anyone else, she was in just as bad a condition and in just as much danger of dying.

One Clanmate died that night. Another lasted two more days, and the last sputtered and coughed for three more. That left Mouseshell, still so weak and scared.

Hazelwing wrapped around her every day, soothing her as if she were still a tiny kitten. Applesting would tell her stories to take her mind off of the pain, personally hunting her every meal. Her sisters were her most frequent guests after her parents.

Strong as Tigerdawn physically was, she had a soft interior, and practically bawled every time she stepped into the medicine den and saw Mouseshell's state.

Ivypetal had visibly trembled. After the second death, she had laid beside Mouseshell while the latter was definitely asleep, and begged for her to get better--begged her and StarClan, and said how sorry she was for how she treated her.

It was nice. Not the apology itself, oh no, it was much too late for that, but hearing that irritating she-cat in so much distress? Mouseshell had to force herself not to smile.

She was rewarded for her survival in the form of an apprentice. Something she surely would have loved...at some point. But this excitable, much too-hyper kit would be a drain on her plans. How was she to kill when she always had a blabber-mouth following her every step?

But it could be good, she realized. There are many ways to get attention.

You get it when you almost die.

You get it when you lose someone close to you (something she learned watching the family of her victims).

It really is boring training someone who you know will die before their ceremony, but she couldn't just kill Flypaw right away. No, they needed to 'bond' first. They would have such a good rapport in everyone's eyes, before it was so harshly snatched away.

But hey, she enjoyed getting her paws dirty, didn't she? And Flypaw was smaller, weaker. It would be easy and it would be fun.

She should have made sure that it was quiet.

Flypaw had screeched for help before Mouseshell held her down in the stream, but they were so far from camp, she didn't imagine anyone would actually hear her, not at this time of day.

But Applesting...her father truly was an odd cat.

He had stared at her in shock, and Mouseshell stared back, debating on if she should wait for him to make the first move or if she should do it herself. She was surprised when Applesting--expression still shocked--began digging at the ground. She tried to tell him that they could just bring the 'paw back to camp, but he had shaken his head. The Clan wouldn't be happy if Flypaw died on her watch, and Flypaw's parents...it was better that they thought she was taken by some Twolegs.

Mouseshell had to admit, he made some good points. After they buried Flypaw, they hurried back to camp to break the news, but just before they burst through the entrance, Applesting had stilled. His eyes were distant, wide as ever and filled with horror as he whispered his question: "why did you do that?"

In response, Mouseshell had asked, "why did you help me?"

"You're my daughter," was all Applesting could manage before continuing into the camp with a quivering intake of breath.

While she was happy she wasn't getting exiled for murder after having her crime witnessed, Mouseshell was immensely displeased at having her patience for four moons go unrewarded. No one even knew that Flypaw was dead! Sure, she was comforted for losing her apprentice and not being able to save her and yadayada but that wasn't the same.

But there was a silver lining. While Amberstar was tearing Mouseshell a new one for losing her apprentice, Mouseshell realized something. She watched as her grandmother snapped orders to other warriors, who followed without a second thought, eager to please her (or at least eager to not be in the line of fire). How did it take her so long?

What better way was there to get attention than to become the one cat in the Clan that everybody pays attention to, admires, obeys? She should become the leader!

But she had to be careful. Applesting was watching her strangely. Looking at her like she wasn't his kit, but a monster come to take her place. But he didn't say anything. She was still his kit, his daughter, his baby, and he couldn't have anything bad happen to her, no matter how awful she was.

It was a few days later when Applesting confronted her. He brought her into the forest to talk, before whirling around and snarling. But as furious as he first seemed, it was clear that he was terrified. Not of Mouseshell, but of the truth he had to face.

He asked her if Firebelly really was killed by a fox--if any of them were really killed by bad luck.

Mouseshell asked him what he thought. Did he think she's capable of such vile acts? Of lying to everyone? Of committing murder after murder?

When that caused Applesting to stumble in his despair, she assured him that she never targeted him. He was a good father. That's why he helped her, isn't it? That's why he's not going to say anything. From most cats' mouths it would be manipulative, but from her it wasn't. She didn't need to guilt her father into silence. She already knew that he wouldn't say anything, that he never would. It was more to reassure herself. He would be quiet. Her secret would be safe.

It was time to act.

She would befriend the deputy, Badgerclaw. Get him sick. Then she would be the one who visited him every day, getting him food and herbs and everything he needed to get better. And when she wasn't doing that, she would fill in his role by sending out patrols and keeping the Clan in check. Not only would he see her as a good friend, he would see her as perfect deputy material. Then she would take out old Amberstar, Badgerclaw would become Badgerstar and name her his deputy, then he would have an accident--

That was the plan, at least.

She had slipped Badgerclaw too many nightshade berries, and the sickness he was supposed to recover from ended up killing him.

Tigerdawn became the new deputy instead of her. Of course, it would be someone destined for greatness, wouldn't it? Why would Amberstar pick her, the cat who always messed up and who lost her own apprentice?

Well, Amberstar had to go. Tigerdawn would see reason--or, more hopefully, she would be blinded by her love for her sister and pick her as the new deputy.

Amberstar's death was fun, and surprisingly easy! She was old and weak, all strength was a facade that came from her short temper and high rank. But alone in the forest, it was easy to overpower her. Sinking her claws into that old bat's skin was amazing! As was the thrill of the chase, the shock and terror and sadness in her kin's eyes--Mouseshell wished she could do it over and over again. But she only got to do it three times.

Everyone was devastated. Yes, so sad, but anyways Tigerdawn had to receive her new name. Mouseshell was thrilled. Until she overheard her sister speak with Browneyes, asking his opinion on who she should pick as her deputy. Mouseshell's name didn't come up once.

All that work for nothing! Failure after failure!

No more plans, no more thinking things through. What was the point when it all comes crumbling anyways? She would act on what she wanted to do now and that alone, and what she wanted to do now was rip her inconsiderate sister to shreds.

She followed Tigerdawn to the Moonstone. She was alone, as Browneyes had to stay behind to watch a queen close to delivering her first litter.

Tigerdawn was stronger than her, and much bigger. Mouseshell had to be careful....In her current state of mind, that simply means to jump her from behind, rather than any more full-proof plan.

She managed to get in some good bites on the back of Tigerdawn's neck before her sister flung her to the ground, but in spite of her sister's greater strength, Tigerdawn refused to fight back--refused to fight the sister she loved so much. She didn't understand what was happening, why Mouseshell--who she only ever saw as caring and sweet--would attack her so viciously.

There were only so many times she could shove Mouseshell away--who still snarled and clawed and bit--before she had to use force and pinned her to the ground, demanding what in StarClan's name was going on.

But it wasn't Mouseshell who answered. It was Ivypetal's voice that broke into the fight. "Murderer!"

She knew everything. Applesting had told her everything when he realized that she had gone after Tigerdawn. He would do anything for his baby, but not when she was going to hurt another child of his. That was the line.

It was two against one. She couldn't lie her way out of this, they already knew the truth. She couldn't fight her way out of it either. She was already struggling with Tigerdawn, but now there was two of them.

The only option she had was to admit defeat. Have her sisters either exile her or drag her back to the camp to be held as a prisoner.

While they cried and begged her for answers, asking why she would do this, how she could be so cruel, she made up her mind. She lunged.

She knew she would not win, not a chance. But she would rather die than admit defeat, and heck, why not tear apart the great, prophesied sisters while she did it?

She didn't want to give them the chance to simply hold her back. They were going to kill her or die. She was fine with either option, either they would suffer physically or emotionally.

It was Ivypetal who dealt the killing blow, not that she wished it. Unlike their youngest littermate, neither Ivypetal nor Tigerdawn had a single bloodthirsty bone in their body. When Mouseshell's body fell limp, all they felt was complete sadness. They held each other close, bloodied and sobbing.

They dragged her body a little ways, wanting to bury her among lily flowers in a spot where once, long ago, the three had played all day.

Additional Information:

--Tigerdawn and Ivypetal returned to camp without visiting the Moonstone. Tiger didn't want to become leader after that, so the role was passed to someone else.

--Ivypetal was pregnant when she killed Mouseshell, likely finding out only the day before.

--They decided to keep Mouseshell's acts a secret. Later, Ivy named one of her kits after her.

Neither sister fully emotionally recovered from that day.

--Other members in Mouse's family had 'great destinies' as well, as it further isolates her. Her grandmother is the leader. Her uncle is the medicine cat. Her mother and perhaps aunt did something amazing (I imagine something similar to canon cats finding new territory or discovering the Moonpool, something big like that).

--Speaking of other family members! Her aunt is her mother's sister. Doebur is female while Curlfire is genderqueer. We didn't see them in the story, but they were a part of their relatives' lives!

--Base: F2U Base by SweetBloodCat on DeviantArt

[gildedoak]

Episode 7: Beignets!

I rewatched S2E2 of Helluva Boss ("Seeing Stars") and got hit with that BANGER of a line from Loona about dads having issues and messing up all the time but still caring. VIVZIE, I am sensing a THEMEEEEEEE.

And thank you for all the lovely comments thus far! I'm so tickled to see how many folks connect with this, whether you're from the American South or not. Food is such a core love language for so many people.

SOUTHERN COMFORT FOOD SERIES Chicken and Waffles Sweet Tea Peach Cobbler Hushpuppies Crab/Crawfish Boil Gumbo (plus character notes!) Beignets part 2 Shrimp and Grits Cornbread Biscuits and Gravy Pecan Pie/Sugar Pie Fried Catfish ??? - Season 1 Finale

Description under the cut!

[IMAGE DESCRIPTION: Radioapple comic

PANEL 1: (Lucifer sits atop a barstool-like chair on his balcony at the hotel. He's curled up in on himself, quietly crying with his head in his arms as he slumps over the marble balustrade and his tail curled around his ankles.)

PANEL 2: (Alastor gently sets a large platter of fresh beignets next to Lucifer's arm, and Lucifer glances up, looking miserable.) Alastor: (offscreen) You're not a bad father, you know.

PANEL 3: (Alastor strikes a jazz-hands pose as a canned laugh track emanates from his cane.) Alastor: Granted, YES you did fail spectacularly! You fail A LOT. But...

PANEL 4: (Closeup of the lower half of Lucifer's face as more tears fall down his cheeks.) Alastor: (offscreen) ...you're consistently, SINCERELY trying. And that is incredibly important.

PANEL 5: (closeup of Alastor's right eye in profile) Alastor: It's certainly more than my father ever did.

PANEL 6: (Alastor reaches over and places a hand on Lucifer's, which is still clutching at his upper arm. Though we can't see Lucifer's face, he's sitting a little straighter, looking up at Alastor.) Alastor: (offscreen) Or yours, for that matter.

END DESCRIPTION]

[husbandhoshi]

title: eat. play. love.

pairing: seungcheol x f!reader

wc: 19.4k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Looking forward to talking with the two of you.

Wait—two?

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

CC: Choi Seungcheol.

"Choi Seungcheol?!"

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

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

"I—he," you stammer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Choi Seungcheol's name stares back at you.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

The meeting goes exactly how you would expect.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You know what?"

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

"What?"

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

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

"I'd rather starve."

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

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

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

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

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

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

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

"You'll never guess what I have."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And a seat at Momofuku."

"And that."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hide behind your computer screen.

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

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

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

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

Seungkwan works hard, but the devil always works harder.

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing you can do to stop him, huh?

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

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Beware the wrath of a woman scorned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hook, line, and sinker.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Seungcheol?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who said I was pretending?"

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

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

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

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

"I never said that."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How To Antagonize Your Date In 5 Easy Steps.

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm no quitter."

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

Definitely not that one.

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

"Why, so you can steal my job?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In your periphery hovers his wry, wanting smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, pity looks good on you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fair. You gonna ask me about mine?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Running away?"

"Bored," you lie.

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

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

"Unfortunate."

"How do you think I feel?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Field trip?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"N-not both ways?" you croak.

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

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

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

Whatever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But, thank you."

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

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

"I'm retracting my thank you."

"I'm devastated. Really."

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

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

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

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

"Thought you knew it was Wonwoo."

"Yeah, but why?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who hurt you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I wouldn't say nothing."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You in a rush?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Definitely bad at food, you muse to yourself.

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

Now that—nothing could have prepared you for that.

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

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

"Stop that."

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

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

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

"Is it working?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Seungcheol is my enemy, remember?"

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

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

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

You almost choke on a blueberry.

"Absolutely not."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm running out of options."

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

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

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

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

Your entire body heaves with the sigh that escapes you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Lucky you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A gift. A pithless, wrinkly one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, you're definitely going to cry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You count the seconds till he walks away.

One. Two. Three.

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

"Hey, you ok?"

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

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

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

"Whoa," he breathes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah, I-I think so."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And no text from Seungcheol. (Damn.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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"Here. Drink."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Thanks…?"

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

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

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

"You're literally the definition of easy."

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

"This is not a date. Dream on."

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

"It wasn't."

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

"Chicago."

"Same difference."

Your conversation continues as such.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hi."

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

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

The elevator dings.

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

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You have three reasons to get drunk.

1. It's Friday.

2. You finished your article.

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

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

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

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

So you get drunk.

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

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

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

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

"You got that right."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yours or mine?"

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

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

How To Ruin The Moment In One Easy Step!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Just dates. Nothing serious."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Holy shit. You live like this?"

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

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

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

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

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

You tentatively nod before dropping the noodles in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What, too many dates to cover?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The table stops rocking.

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

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

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

"You asked."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Wh—"

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

"Get. Out."

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

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

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

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Celery. Red wine. Short rib.

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

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

Fingerling potatoes, the red ones. A Vidalia onion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Monday feels tilted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You wonder what you'll be:

10 Signs She Is Clinically Insane.

It's Not You, It's Them!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Ask Samuel!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Congrats."

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

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

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

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

"No need."

"What about Seungcheol? Does he know?"

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

"What?!"

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

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

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

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

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

Instead you stand motionless, waiting, emptied.

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

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

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

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

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

He gave up.

None of this should matter to you.

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

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

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

"You're an idiot, Seungcheol."

That does the trick.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"H-how?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Afternoon, boss."

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

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

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

"Friendly reminder we're at work."

"Everyone's at lunch, genius."

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

"You are the worst."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eat, Play, Love: A Guide.

Maybe you'd put it through. Maybe.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

[mv1simp]

I have heard your prayers dark!max simps, rejoice now and go forth in peace 🙏

What You Need ♥️

Max Verstappen x Friend’s Girlfriend!Reader

I got everything you want with me, I do everything he does times three. he’s what you want, what you want (I’m what you need)

You've just started dating Daniel and find yourself spending a lot of time with his old team mate, Max Verstappen - who's dark gaze and wandering hands always seem to be on you. It's okay though, Max cares for Daniel as a friend and by extension you too, right? You have no idea Max had already decided long ago you were the perfect girl...just not for Daniel, but for him instead.

Content includes: 18+ MDNI, smut, innocent virgin! reader, manipulative dark!max, size kink, cheating, very dubcon, somnophilia, drunk!reader, Daniel is a bad bf for plot, 4k WC

Max Verstappen stares at you across the crowded room, the dozens of drunk and dancing people at the house party he was at doing nothing to distract him. You’re giggling prettily at something a friend had said, lifting an almost empty wine bottle to your pink glossed lips and not noticing the heated gaze of the 3 time F1 world champion. As always. He tilts his head, a lion eyeing a baby deer, studying your profile and ignoring the attempts at conversation people make to him.

You’re a mystery to someone like Max - a guy who always has whatever he wanted. He drove the fastest cars in the world, fucked the hottest models, and lived in a penthouse in a city with the most expensive real estate. Everything he desired was at his fingertips - except you, Daniel's Riccardio's newest girl. He had no idea how his former team mate had found you amongst all the trashy influencers and plastic models in Monaco. You’d recently started coming to the paddock, quietly cheering on Daniel in his RB garage several spots down from Max's own first place spot - and that was where Max met you the first time. You were a natural beauty, so sweet and innocent, easily got along with the others on the grid, and were smart, too - studying to be a doctor. And to top it all of you didn't seem to even care that Max was Max Verstappen, world champion - which only intrigued him more.

The first time you talked was when his car had skidded out badly on the RedBull practice track, leaving a nasty cut on his forearm that you had patiently sutured and bandaged, sweetly explaining how to look after his wound with a concerned expression. You really were the perfect girl, and Max had decided right there and then that he had to have you for himself. You were wasted on Daniel - and besides, you two had barely started seeing each other a few weeks ago, just “casually” the Australian has said. Daniel was an idiot for not making it official with you. Ah well, all the more easier for Max to claim you instead.

But you never seemed to have eyes for anyone but Daniel, which perplexed the Dutchman to no end. Max was the one in first place, in the top team that every driver dreamed about, the richest and fastest one on the grid - while Daniel drove as a second rate RB driver, a shadow in the glory of its primary Red Bull team. Yet you'd be beaming at Daniel excitedly as he finished P12, while only shyly saying a brief congratulations to Max in P1 at the afterparty. Max was never one for losing, though - he just needed time to get you to give in and accept everything he could offer you. There was no way you would be happy with a 2nd rate driver - no, he knew what a diamond like you really wanted was someone like him. And it had been easy enough to be around you more and more under the guise of hanging out with Daniel.

Like that time he'd invited you both to his yacht for New Years'. He'd seen your eyes light up in awe at the luxurious vessel, and later than evening when everyone had gone to bed but you were still out admiring the stars, he easily came upto you, large hand grazing your back, standing a lot closer than one might to a girl his mate was dating.

He'd casually pulled a diamond choker out from his pocket and held it out to you on a thick finger. Your eyes had gotten wide at the beautiful gift - big, crystal clear jewels with a dangling pearl "M" in the centre. To say thank you for fixing my cut, he explained. And the M for your last name, right? You had blushed and stuttered uncomfortably at the romantic gift, refusing to accept it - Max, is this Cartier? Oh my god, how expensive was this?

Max joked that his hands were a multimillion asset and you deserved a fitting gift for saving them. Besides, it's rare in my line of work to meet someone so genuine who actually cares for me. You'll take it, right? Since we're friends now? You'd felt guilty at his pouting expression, hesitating but having no choice but to say yes - it was just a friendly thank you, after all, right? He stepped behind you to put it on, his lips brushing your ear as he bends down to your petite height. He doesn't miss the way you shiver at his touch and smirks as he traces a large palm along your neck before bringing the clasp together. Wow, Max, it's truly so beautiful, thank you, you breathe, entranced as you look at the jewels - Daniel was so lucky to have such a caring friend! You completely miss how Max gazes down your cute summery off-shoulder dress, his height behind you giving him the perfect view of your delicious tits - where a pearl M now dangles just above them. He feels a delicious satisfaction at the sight of you in his necklace, on his yacht, and within his arms. Yeah, it's beautiful, he agrees, smiling with just a touch of darkness. Looks great on you. You smile back innocently, not realising the M around your neck didn’t stand for your last name but rather for the M in Max.

Another time, you and Daniel had joined Max's extended group for a weekend retreat to St Tropez. Max hadn't seen you in a while, since you had been busy sitting final exams. But the wait had been worth it when he saw you in your cute little baby pink bikini and gold waist chain. And it had only gotten better when he found you later, dozing alone on a sunbed in the Spanish heat, your idiotic boyfriend nowhere in sight and leaving you unprotected to Max's predatory advances. You blinked your eyes open sleepily as Max set down a chilled G&T at your side. You thank him sweetly, too lazy to sit up properly and just lean over to suck up the refreshing drink from the straw, giving Max an enjoyable teaser of what you might look like sucking something else of his. Sorry I haven't been much fun, you say apologetically, especially after you've been so nice to invite me. I'm still catching up on sleep from my exams.

Max assures you not to worry about anything, telling you to nap to your hearts' content, making you giggle cutely. You look around, trying but failing to see Daniel and pout cutely when he's nowhere to be found. He'd promised to put sunscreen on my back, you explain, slumping back onto the comfy cushion with a yawn. I'm really sorry to bother you, Max, would you mind? I don't want to burn-

Max snatches up the golden opportunity, Don't worry, schat, he reassures, and you tiredly file a mental note to google that word later. I'll take good care of you. You smile at him gratefully, closing your eyes as he slowly rubs across your tantalizing caramel skin with his large, rough palms. You never notice how his steely blue eyes greedily roam up and down your body, but you do gasp in surprise when he slowly undoes one of your bikini strings, turning to look back at him - just have to get under them to apply it properly, sorry, you're a little burnt here, Max’s apology sounds so sincere that you say Oh, of course, turning back around and feeling silly for getting worried. So you don't question him further when he undoes the other set of strings on your bikini top, your back now completely exposed for him, and his warm palms feel sooo good against your aching muscles that you accidentally let out a moan. This time you hastily apologize but Max chuckles, saying your shoulders carried the tension of a hostile terrorist-hostage situation. He offers to give you a hand with a deep muscle relaxation massage he uses.

You hesitate, not sure if this is pushing the boundaries of what's okay, but when Max says that he does this for Daniel all the time, you relax, surely Daniel wouldn't mind then, right? It's all too easy to fall back into a light sleep as Max continues to rub the stress out of your sensitive little body, his hands so much larger and stronger than your boyfriends’ that it makes you feel reallyyy good in places you didn’t know you could be. You're too content to care when Max's touches drift down your sides, grazing against the full swell of your tits, or when he goes lower, and lower, and your bikini bottoms are now undone and he's squeezing across your juicy ass, making you moan sweetly while half asleep. You're completely soft and relaxed underneath him, forgetting that your own boyfriend hasn't yet touched you in the intimate places Max now had. If you had looked back you would have seen Max lazily stroking his erect, big cock as he stood over you, taking some pictures for later as he spreads your pliant chubby thighs and zooms in on the wet slick that had started to gather in between your legs and drip down then. Smirking to himself with the proof that your body was so affected by him, he jerks himself off with rapid pumps, breathing heavily as he shoots a large load of hot, white streaks all over your tan ass. You hmmm at the feeling, jiggling your hips, but don’t bother fully awaking to investigate as Max huskily leans down and whispers in your ear that you just needed a bit more cream there, sweetheart.

You nod, settling back into a comfortable sleep as Max rubs his cum all over your ass territorially, smirking darkly at how innocent you were. By the time Daniel returns to your side, he finds you still snoozing peacefully, your bikini tied back up in perfect little bows and Max long gone.

As the days went on you found yourself more and more in the company of Max, and you couldn’t deny the flutter you felt sometimes now when you looked at the older Dutch man. He was so handsome, so generous, and so considerate of you - so much more than Daniel was - and you felt immensely guilty at the disloyal thoughts that would spring up. Especially since Max was just being a good friend to you but you were starting to develop all sorts of inappropriate feelings. One training weekend you decided to be a good girlfriend and took a freshly packed homemade lunch down to the Redbull track to energize your boyfriend.

Max caught sight of you first, and easily fed Daniel some bullshit about the RB social manager needing him to review an insta post - just on the other side of the track. By the time you walked into the garage it was just Max, who told you that Daniel had gone out for lunch, actually, one of his friends was in town. That French model, I think? Oh! Yep, the one who was in Vogue last month.

He didn’t miss the flicker of uneasiness that spread onto your face as you were informed your boyfriend was out on a lunch date with a model. Oh, you say, feeling insecure and stupid that you’d come all the way here - but Max easily wraps a strong, comforting arm around your shoulders and reassures you, insisting that you join him for lunch instead and surely come for a ride, yeah?

He completely takes your mind off your worries by speeding you around in his racecar on a hot lap, and you’re screaming in pure excitement and delight, one hand automatically grabbing his large thigh. He’s so much faster and smoother than Daniel, and you bite your lip as you watch him sexily manoeuvre through tight corners. Afterwards, your stomach is all queasy from the speed and he laughs and helps you out of the car, and you end up having a picnic by the waterfront with your homemade grilled sandwiches and slices of lemon cake. God, this is so good, Max moans as he scoffs down a second slice. You’ve completely ruined my diet. Daniel’s so stupid to miss out on a lunch like this. If you were my girlfriend, I’d never spend a meal away.

You blush at his words, feeling flattered but also a little on edge - it was a bit strange of Max to wonder what it would be like dating you when you’re dating his friend, right? You pick at the grass, suddenly avoiding his gaze and feeling guilty again. Max notices immediately, eyes narrowing, but changes the topic to ask about how your studies were going to which you respond enthusiastically. Afterwards, you thank Max for being such a caring friend and knowing just how to cheer you up. You miss how his jaw clenches at the word "friend", because he would much rather be known as your boyfriend - or preferably, husband.

Later, for good measure, because he never did things half heartedly, he asks his good friend - the French model on the Vogue cover last month - to swing by the RB station and greet Daniel, his mate who’s a big fan and would love to meet her. Conveniently, the paparazzi just happen to capture the moment when she kisses his cheek, and within hours the photos have blown up about Daniel's latest fling and you’re being sent it by all your friends. It leads to a huge fight between you and Daniel, making you storm off only to end up calling Max, crying and apologising but asking if he would pick you up. He’s all too eager, arriving within minutes in his sleek Aston Martin, all comforting and warm as you sob into his secure chest and he presses a gentle kiss to your forehead. But despite it all you still shakily smile and thank him, saying you should head back and work it out with Daniel. You were just too sweet and loving for your own good. Max needed to step up his game plan - if it wasn't money, status or his charm, how would he sway you into his arms?

The final piece of the puzzle came together at the Barcelona Grand Prix. The Redbull and RB drivers all happened to be sharing a hotel that weekend, and as Max is walking back to his room one night he hears moaning coming from Daniel’s room - the one that he knows you’re sharing with him. Being the perv he is, Max doesn’t hesitate to crack open the shared ensuite door and see his naked ex-teammate rutting up against your plump ass, sliding his small dick back and forth between your asscheeks as you lay on your stomach - fully clothed in a shorts pajamas set, looking almost bored. Confused, Max tries to figure out what the fuck you’re doing - only to get his answer when Daniel pathetically whines please, honey, please can I take these off, I want to be inside you-

No! You snap at him, turning to face him with a glare. I told you, I’m saving my virginity for marriage. Stop asking me. This is all you get.

Oh, shit. You were a fucking virgin? Max’s jaw is practically on the floor and it takes him a few minutes to collect himself before he quietly closes the door and leaves to ponder on this new information. You really were the perfect girl for him. He was going to claim you in every sense of the word - until no one had any doubt about who you belonged to. He smirked, already hatching up a diabolical plan.

And that was how Max now found his gaze fixed at you, barely a week later, at this house party where you’d clearly had too much to drink. Swiping his phone out his pocket, he shoots a text to his very helpful friend the Vogue model again - this time asking her to help out a certain Australian driver who was quite sexually frustrated at the moment. Having sorted out the issue of your boyfriend for the time being, Max strides over to you, who’s now all alone in the kitchen messily trying to pour another drink. You’re dressed in the cutest little pleated miniskirt, stumbling on matching kitten heels, and Max feels all the blood rush to his cock as he sees you’re wearing the diamond choker he gifted you.

You haven’t seen him yet so he comes up behind you, guiding your hands to pour the drink smoothly. You giggle, assuming your boyfriend has arrived, and rub your ass against his crotch. Daniel! You exclaim happily, turning around and burying yourself in the Redbull hoodie he wore. Mmmh, baby, you’re here! You love when he wears this hoodie, because sometimes you like to cuddle it and wonder - just for a few seconds! - if it was Max's arms around you instead. Not that you'd ever admit these illicit thoughts to either party.

Meanwhile, Max’s eye twitches at the insult of being called the name of his supbar ex-teammate, but then you’re rubbing your pink nails all over his shoulders and back and pressing your soft, curvy body against his much larger frame and drunkly whispering have you been working out? You’re sooo much bigger and musclier than I remember you being, it’s super hot!

Max can’t help chucking at your cute antics, telling you let’s go somewhere more quiet, baby. Grabbing your drinks, he easily tosses you over his shoulder and exits out the back door to avoid your friends, slapping your ass for good measure as your miniskirt rises up, making you yelp in excitement. He definitely must have been working out because you can't ever remember when he has lifted you so easily before! He leads you into the dark and empty pool house, well and truly away from any prying eyes.

Throwing you onto the plush sofa, he purposely leaves the lights off as you squint up to see his dark, tall silhouette. You whine for him to come closer, asking where did the music gooo and after connecting to the speakers he drops down next to you. You climb eagerly onto his lap, excitedly yapping about how much you love this Redbull hoodie. His large hands automatically come up to rest on your ass, thick fingers sliding underneath your miniskirt and pulling your thong to the side as he begins teasing your slit. You instinctively grind against his leg, pushing back against his fingers, cause wow, baby, when did you get so good at this? You meet his eyes finally when you lean in to kiss him and you squeal in surprise as you realise just who you’re desperately humping. Mmmh-Max?!? Ohmygod what are you doing here-

Max is immediately annoyed that you seem to have come to your senses, but as you begin to pull away, he hatches a new plan. I just came to tell you the bad news myself, schat, he says earnestly. You’re confused at what he means but he pulls up his messages and shows you a video (his friend works very fast, after all) that has you recoiling in disgust. But Max makes sure that you see every second of it - of the French model filming Daniel’s pathetic scrunched up face as she rides him into oblivion, him moaning please can I come, mommy?

Max has to resist his snort. Fucking pathetic. You could do so much better - with him. Sorry you had to hear it like this, Max lies through his teeth, not sorry one bit, I just wanted you to hear it from me and not the news outlet. But you just climbed on top of me and began doing all this and I couldn’t stop it-

His guilt trip works perfectly and you’re back to bouncing in his lap, teary eyes, saying I’m so sorry Maxie, that’s all my fault, I thought you were Daniel but I guess we’re broken up now, can I make it up to you? What can I do?

Bingo. Tilting his head, Max smirks darkly at you. Can you just use your lips to drain some of the stress, baby? It got all tense cause of your grinding. You widen your brown doe eyes, confused but he just guides you down with a strong hand to sit on your plump ass in between his legs. My lips? You say breathlessly, and Max nods, guiding your head to his crotch as you immediately start sucking on his straining bulge. Like-like this Maxie? You ask innocently, voice muffled. Not quite, Max strains through gritted teeth. Unzipping himself, he guides his thick length out against to rest against your face with a thwack. Your eyes go wide at the size. Maxie is much, much bigger than your boyfriend.

Ex, the world champion corrects, as you accidentally say it out loud. He’s just an ex now. Now, you going to be a good girl and clean up the mess you made?

You nod obediently and sloppily take him into your mouth, choking and gagging as you go. Max moans blissfully as he finally has you, angling his flash onto your face - just to help you see what you’re doing, he lies sweetly - whilst recording the filthy blowjob he’s tricked you into performing. You moan around his length, Max is always so thoughtful towards you! You’re determined to clear up any ounce of tension your earlier actions had caused him - not noticing that his cock is only getting harder as you coat with it your saliva and lip gloss.

Swearing at your eager mouth and nearly finishing early, Max sadly has to put an end to this as he has other plans in store. He manhandles you again, this time carrying you in his arms up the stairs and tossing you onto the bed. Before you can orient yourself he’s yanked his clothes off and climbed on top of you, asking you to open your mouth wide so he can check you’ve drained him properly. You do so dumbly, and Max messily spits before shoving his thick tongue down your throat as you start moaning again. Mmh, don’t think you got it all, sweetheart. Max says disapprovingly. Plus, you made me all messy with your lipgloss. How am I going to go back to the party like this, huh?

You go teary eyed again at the demanding tone, anxious you’d made Max mad. You beg to suck him off again, promising you’d lick up all the mess this time, but he sighs, running his hands through his hair and saying not enough, think I need to relieve it a different way. You nod eagerly, whatever you need Maxie, but squeal in suprise when he grabs your ankles and lifts your legs up over his shoulder, flipping your skirt up and ripping your panties in half to expose your dripping pussy. Maxie- Ohmygod, what are you doing, is this really- you’re babbling frantically, hearing a voice at the back of your mind tell you Max was taking this too far.

Max cooes words of reassurance at you, Shhh schat, this is the only way to feel better, okay? You’ll help me out, right? After I helped you?

You hesitate but give in, unable to resist your growing desire for the handsome driver. He grins cockily at you, leaning down and lapping at your intimate parts with his skilled tongue, saying he just needed to make sure you were all relaxed first before he started. You feel bad that you’re enjoying it this much, since Max has to do all the work himself, but it feels soo good, and you moan Max’s name over and over as he starts sliding his fat aching cock in between your slick folds.

Almost there, baby, he hisses, sweat running down his back as he yanks your crop top off, leaving you in the sparkly choker with his initial across your heaving tits. He turns the camera back onto your blissed out face again, wanting to capture the expression on your face when he enters you for the first time. You smile back adoringly with your doe eyes, unaware of just how long of a night he had in store for you or how many times you would come apart on his cock, your precious virginity now all his.

And the next morning when you’d arrive on the paddock, meekly walking past the RB garage and straight into Max’s Redbull motor home, he would reply to Daniel’s confused texts with a picture of his hand across your bejeweled throat, hickeys littering your tits, so that there would be no more questions about what you were doing at Max’s side. Just how you were always meant to be ❤️‍🔥

—————————————————————————

A/N: GUYS I need to write some fluff after this I feel like I’ve objectified this poor man with like 7 straight smut stories in a row omllll

[faithshouseofchaos]

“Don’t you trust me?” — dark!Ex!Mafia!Lando Norris x fem!reader part six

Part one part two part three part four part five part six

Word count— 3.1k

Warnings — smut light fingering, oral fem!receiving, Lando low key manipulated the reader into having sex

The sun had just begun to set, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink. You were dressed in a pretty sundress, feeling a mixture of excitement and anxiety. It was your first date with Lando, and you couldn't help the butterflies fluttering in your stomach.

Lando picked you up, looking handsome in a suit and tie. As soon as he laid eyes on you, a smile tugged at his lips. "You look beautiful," he said, his eyes roaming over your outfit.

You blushed under his gaze, feeling a bit self-conscious. But you couldn't help the smile that graced your lips in return. "Thank you," you replied, smoothing down the skirt of your dress. "You look very nice yourself."

You slid into the car, the leather seats cool against your skin. Lando shut the door behind you and rounded the car to the driver's side. He got in, started the ignition, and pulled out of the driveway.

The evening air streamed through the open windows, making your hair dance around your face. The radio played softly in the background, a song that you recognized but couldn't quite place.

Lando glanced over at you, his eyes sweeping over your profile. There was a strange mix of intensity and softness in his gaze as if he was fighting conflicting emotions.

"Are you excited for tonight?" he asked, breaking the comfortable silence between you two.

You nodded, a thrill of anticipation running through you. "Yes, I am," you replied. "I'm a bit nervous too, I can't lie. But I'm mostly just excited to spend time with you."

Lando chuckled at your confession, the sound warm and inviting. "Nervous, huh? Don't be. It's just us out tonight. Just you and me."

His words were reassuring, but there was an undercurrent of possessiveness in his tone that made your heart flutter.

Despite the slight unease that his words incited, you shrugged it off. You didn't want to overthink this; you just wanted to enjoy yourself.

"So, where are we going?" you asked, curiosity getting the better of you.

Lando smirked, keeping his gaze focused on the road. "It's a surprise," he said, drawing out the word in a tantalizing manner. "You'll see when we get there. Trust me, you're going to love it."

You wanted to pry more, but the mischievous gleam in Lando's eyes told you that he was going to keep it a surprise until the last moment. So, you settled back into your seat, the anticipation in your chest growing with each mile the car covered.

Eventually, Lando pulled the car up to a curb, and you saw that you had arrived at a fancy restaurant. The building was made of brick, with large windows that let in the last bits of the day's sunlight. The sign out front boasted a five-star rating with the name "Bella Vista" written in elegant cursive letters.

Lando turned off the ignition and turned to look at you, a proud smile on his face. "This is where we're eating," he announced, opening his door. He got out and walked around to your side, opening the door for you.

"Bella Vista," you mused, your eyes wide with awe. "Isn't this place like, super expensive?"

Lando led you to a table near a corner, its location providing a measure of privacy. He held your chair out for you, waiting until you sat down before taking the seat across from you.

A waiter soon came over, presenting you each with a menu. As you scanned it, you couldn't help but be impressed by the selection. From the classic spaghetti carbonara to the more exotic seared scallops with truffle oil, there was a range of dishes for every palette.

Lando, noticing your expression, chuckled. The sound sent a frisson down your spine. "See something you like?" he teased, his eyes glinting with a hint of mischief.

You blushed, caught off guard by his question. You hadn't realized that you had been so openly gazing at the menu. "Everything on here looks amazing," you admitted. "I don't know what to choose."

Lando reached across the table and patted your hand. "It's alright, love. Take your time." His touch sent another shiver down your spine, his fingers lingering on your skin for a beat longer than necessary.

Eventually, you decided on a simple but flavorful dish of linguine with clams and white wine sauce. Lando chose a steak dish, medium-rare, with a side of roasted vegetables. The waiter took your order and went to the kitchen, leaving you both with the soft glow of the overhead lights and the flickering of the nearby candelabras.

Lando leaned back in his chair, his gaze never leaving you. There was a strange intensity in his eyes as if he was committing every detail of this moment to memory.

"You're staring a lot," you suddenly blurted out, the words slipping from your lips before you could catch them. Your cheeks flushed, heat rising the back of your neck.

Lando smiled a slow, cocky smile that caused the butterflies in your stomach to swarm. "Can you blame me? I mean… look at you," he said, his eyes traveling over your form.

The heat in your cheeks intensified, warmth spreading down your throat. Lando's unabashed appraisal wasn't unwelcome, but it was also incredibly intense. You found yourself at a loss for words, unsure of how to reply to his blatant flirting.

"Cat got your tongue?" Lando teased, clearly enjoying the effect he was having on you. He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, and his chin resting on his entwined fingers.

"I..." you started, your voice coming out as a croak. You cleared your throat, trying to ignore the way your body was reacting to his attention. "I... I just wasn't expecting such directness," you admitted, your voice a bit shaky.

Lando's smile widened, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "What, do you prefer men who dance around their feelings, beating around the bush?" he asked, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

You shook your head, a small laugh escaping you. "No, I appreciate honesty. But your intensity is a bit much," you said, both charmed and a tad overwhelmed by his undivided attention.

Lando chuckled, his gaze never leaving you. "What can I say? When I see something – or someone – I want, I go after it with everything I have," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous purr. "And I want you, love. I make no secret of that."

You swallowed hard, a lump forming in your throat. Lando's unfiltered desire for you was both flattering and slightly unnerving. You couldn't deny the attraction, but the intensity of his possessiveness was... a lot to take in.

Just then, the waiter arrived with your meals, setting the plates down in front of you both. The fragrant aroma of your linguine wafted up to your nose, temporarily distracting you from Lando's intense gaze.

The rest of the meal went by in a blur. You tried to focus on enjoying the delicious food, but Lando's unwavering attention kept stealing your focus. The way he watched you, the way he leaned forward on his forearms, how his eyes darkened every time you bit your lip... It was maddening.

Eventually, the meal was finished, and you found yourself sitting back in your seat, a bit dazed and a lot flustered. Lando, sipping on the last of his wine, observed your expression with a satisfied smirk.

——

As the weeks turned into months, your relationship with Lando had settled into a routine. Despite the initial intensity of his possessiveness, he had mellowed out somewhat, albeit with occasional bouts of jealousy when another man looked your way for a second too long.

But you had grown to care for him and his sweet if not often intense, charm. He was always bringing you little gifts, sending romantic messages during your busy work hours, and showering you with adoration whenever he could.

One night, after you had spent an enjoyable evening together, Lando was sitting on the edge of your bed, facing you. His eyes were dark, his expression thoughtful as he watched you put on your nightgown. The atmosphere in the room was heavy with something unsaid.

"Love..." Lando started, his voice a low rumble. He patted the space next to him on the bed, silently beckoning you closer.

You complied, sitting down next to him. You could feel the warmth of his body even through the fabric of your nightgown, and that familiar shiver of nervousness and anticipation went through you when he put his hand on your bare thigh.

"There's something we need to talk about," he said, his fingers massaging small circles into your skin. "I think it's time we took our relationship to the next level."

Your heart skipped a beat at his words. Taking your relationship to the next level could mean a lot of things. But given the tension in the air and the way Lando was looking at you, there was a very good chance you knew what he was hinting at.

"What do you mean?" you asked, your voice a bit huskier than you intended. Lando chuckled huskily, clearly enjoying your flustered response.

"You know exactly what I mean," he murmured, his hand moving higher up your thigh. His touch was gentle but firm, making your body react in ways that you were becoming very familiar with whenever he was near.

"We... we've only been dating for a few months," you protested, though your argument was getting weaker by the second. His touch was sending sparks of pleasure through you, making it hard to focus on anything other than him.

"And I think that's more than enough time..." Lando leaned closer, his lips barely hovering over your neck. "You're mine, love. And I plan on having all of you."

Your breath hitched as Lando's lips grazed your skin. His words sent a wave of heat coursing through you, making it hard to form a coherent thought. "But... but what if I'm not ready for that yet?" you managed to whisper.

Lando pulled away, his expression turning darker, his voice dropping even lower. "Are you saying you don't want me?" he asked, his grip on your thigh firming slightly. "That you don't want us to become closer?"

"No, it's not that," you quickly shook your head. "I do want that... I just... I'm scared it's too soon, that's all. I want things to be perfect."

Lando's expression softened a degree. "Nothing is ever going to be perfect, love," he said, his lips returning to your neck, his breath hot on your skin. "But I promise you, I'm not going to let anything happen to you. I'll take care of you... of us."

Your breath hitched as Lando's mouth found that sensitive spot behind your ear. He knew your body all too well now and had learned all the places that made you shiver and gasp. "Lando... I..." you started, your words lost as he sucked lightly on your earlobe.

"Don't overthink it," Lando murmured, his lips moving down your neck, leaving a trail of burning kisses in their wake. "Just let me take care of you." His hand moved higher up your thigh, his fingers slipping under the hem of your nightgown.

Your breath grew shallow, your pulse racing. Lando's touch was both soothing and igniting, making your body hum with a mixture of pleasure and tension. You weren't sure if you were ready for this, but the way Lando was touching you, the way he was looking at you as if you were the only thing he wanted... it was making it hard to say no.

"You trust me, don't you, love?" Lando whispered, his lips returning to your ear. His hand continued its journey up your leg, his fingers now dancing along the bare skin of your inner thigh.

"I... I trust you..." you murmured, your voice a gasp as Lando's hand continued its path, dangerously close to the most intimate part of you.

Lando hummed in approval, his mouth now trailing kisses down your neck and toward your collarbone. His hand moved higher, his fingers now tracing the edge of your panties. "Then let me show you how it can be between us," he murmured, his voice low and rough with desire.

You were now trembling, your body a mix of want and trepidation. Lando, sensing your hesitation, gently pulled back, his fingers still resting on the edge of your underwear. "If you don't want to, say the word, and I'll stop," he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. He looked at you, his eyes searching yours.

You searched his gaze, looking for any sign of deception or manipulation. But all you saw was intense adoration and desire. Hesitantly, you nodded, your voice a trembling whisper. "I... I want to..."

Lando inhaled sharply, his eyes darkening further. In a swift, smooth motion, he rolled both of you so that you were lying on your back, him hovering over you. His eyes roamed over your body, taking in every inch of exposed flesh.

His hands began roaming over your body, touching and caressing every inch of skin he could reach. He pushed your nightgown up your thighs, his touch leaving a trail of heat in its wake. His mouth followed, his lips and tongue exploring every contour of your body.

Your breath came in ragged gasps, your mind a tangle of sensations. Lando's touch was both gentle and relentless, his mouth finding all the spots that made you shiver and gasp. His hands roamed freely, his fingers tracing the edge of your underwear, a silent question for permission.

You were helpless, completely under his spell, your body responding to his touch in ways that both frightened and excited you. "Please..." you managed to murmur, arching your back to press closer to him.

Lando raised his head, looking at you with eyes filled with hunger and lust. "Please what, love?" he asked, his voice a mere rumble.

"Please... don't stop," you gasped, your voice cracking a bit. Lando's lips curved into a sly smile, his fingers slipping under the edge of your panties, sending a jolt of pleasure through you.

"Mmm, you're so eager," he murmured, his mouth returning to your neck. His fingers continued their exploration, teasing and pushing you to the edge. You were whimpering now, your body taut with anticipation.

He chuckled darkly, his voice rough with desire. "You like it when I touch you like this, yes?"

"Yes... god, yes..." you managed to gasp, your hands gripping the sheets underneath you as Lando's touch became more insistent, more demanding.

Lando growled in your ear, his breath hot on your skin. "You're so beautiful," he whispered. "All mine."

His mouth returned to yours, his kiss fierce and possessive. His tongue tangled with yours, and his hands continued their restless journey, making you moan and writhe beneath him.

Suddenly, he pulled back, his eyes dark with lust. "Lift your hips."

You obeyed without thinking, your body responding to his command. Lando's fingers looped into the waistband of your panties, slowly, torturously pulling them down your legs.

He pulled the fabric away, leaving you exposed to his gaze. His eyes roamed your body, taking in every inch of you. Then, he leaned back, his hands going to the buttons of his shirt.

He unbuttoned his shirt with quick, efficient precision, his eyes never leaving you. The sight of his muscled chest, the trail of hair leading downward... it made your mouth go dry.

Lando's eyes darkened as he took off his shirt, revealing acres of tanned, toned muscle. He crawled back on top of you, covering your body with his. The feel of his skin against yours was electrifying, sending jolts of pleasure through your nerves.

His mouth found yours again, his kisses more urgent now, his body pressing into yours. His hands roamed over your bare skin, his touch sending shivers down your spine. His lips left yours, trailing down your neck, your collarbone, your chest.

His mouth reached the valley between your breasts. He nuzzled the sensitive skin there, his breath hot on your flesh. "You're so soft," he murmured against your skin. "So beautiful..."

His mouth continued its journey down your body, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. His hands gripped your hips, holding you in place. "I want you so badly, love," he whispered, his voice raw with need.

Before you could respond, he shifted, settling between your thighs. His mouth found the sensitive skin at the inside of your thigh, his breath hot on your core.

You gasped, arching your back off the bed. Lando's lips and tongue teased the sensitive flesh of your inner thigh, his stubble scratching against your skin, the sensation both maddening and exciting.

He moved higher, his mouth now hovering over your most intimate parts, his breath hot on your skin. "I want to taste you," he murmured, his voice a ragged growl. "I've wanted it since the first day I saw you."

“L-Lando…” you managed to gasp, your mind fuzzy with pleasure. The thought of him touching you, using his mouth on you, was both thrilling and nerve-wracking. No one had ever done that before.

"Shh, love… just let me take care of you," he murmured, his voice soothing yet determined. His hands held your hips firmly, preventing you from moving away.

Then, he did something you never would’ve expected. He leaned down, and his tongue found your most sensitive spot. The pleasure was so intense You cried out, your body tensing at the unexpected sensation. Lando was relentless, his tongue moving in firm, delicious circles, sending jolts of pleasure through your core. Your hands gripped the sheets, your mind a tangle of sensation and He chuckled against your skin, the rumble sending vibrations through you. "No one has ever done this for you before?" he asked, his voice a low, gruff whisper. "No one has touched you like this?"

You managed to shake your head, your body writhing beneath his. It was too much, too intense. No one had ever made you feel this way. Only Lando, only him.

"Good," he murmured, his tongue continuing its torturous work. "I want to be the only one to make you feel like this, love. I want to be the only one to touch you, to taste you...."

His words sent a shiver down your spine. The possessiveness in his voice was both arousing and a little frightening. You knew that if you gave yourself to him, he wouldn’t let you go easily, if at all.

———————————

Tagged— @ashy-kit @astraeaworld @67-angelofthelordme-67 @anedpev @amatswimming @alwayzbeenale @bblouifford @bbtoni @biancathecool @barcelonaloverf1life @badassturtle13 @charlesf1leclerc @crashingwavesofeuphoria @clowngirlsstuff f @dark-night-sky-99 @dudenhaaa27 @eugene-emt-roe @entr4p3 @embrosegraves @formulas-bitch @formulaal @f1ln4dr3cl16mv33 @hangmandruigandmav @ironcowboycopnickel @jeffs77 @jinx53 @lightdragonrayne @lollypop90907 @laura-naruto-fan1998 @mrsgeorgerussell63 @omgsuperstarg @oconswrld @otako5811 1 @purplephantomwolf @sweate-r-weathe-r @swifth0lic @strugglingyetvibing @toasttt11 @the-ghost-lovwr @tallrock35 @uluvjay @vellicora @venusisnothere @llando4norris @writtcnbycassie

[residents-of-the-darkforest]

Dark Forest Residences: WolfStar, GoldfishFur, & HollowStar

WolfStar

Aliases / Nicknames: Cursed One, WolfFern, Champion 

Gender: demi-tom 

Sexuality: asexual, demiromantic 

Family: SerpentWing (mother), PuppyNut (father), Rainkit, Bristlekit, Mistlekit (kits), 400+ other family members, 60 who were alive at the same time as him. 

Other Relations: unnamed mentor, HalfSpeckle, BeaverJay, BlotchPad, SmallBlossom, AspenLight, MidnightTail, (apprentices) 

Clan: WolfsfootClan 

Rank: leader 

Characteristics: bloodthirsty, good fighter, reclusive, confidant 

Murder Motive: ambition, fun 

Number of Victims: 80+ 

Number of Murders:  80+ 

Murder Method: luring to fox, clawing/ripping throat out, drowning, shaking to death, disemboweling, skinning, poisoning, hypothermia, burning alive, breaking bones, blunt force, placing maggots into open wounds 

Known Victims: RobinKit, MorningKit, PatchKit, BoulderKit, RunningHare, RaccoonFur, PranceBlossom, PheasantJaw, GoldPelt, BadgerRiver, PinkFoot, TawnyPatch, SheepFang, WolfFeather, BlackKit, DayFur, CrestedSlip, FirePoppy, GrassKit, HayBird, ChasingShade, BristleFur, DuskCatcher, HatchNose, QuickKit, ThunderHorse, BreezeSplash, BriarNose, HollyPaw, SmallBeam, MallowLightening, HeronStorm, SleekDrift, LongRump, JumpLotus, SpiderWhiskers, PrickleFur, BroomDust, HollowStar/Stripe, CicadaStar, WolfFade, NeedlePelt, BitternFur, LarchKit, CrookedStone, PloverTuft, BogEar, BraveSkip, RainFur, FawnSnow, RushWish, FawnLeaf, LoudPelt, BlackSpeckle, ShardSpeck, Jayhorse, BubblingSky, OrangeRoar, HalfSpeckle, TroutPeak, PiperNoise, BeetleShade, DancingWhisker,   BayBlaze, SnapDragonBerry, ShrewHeart, CoconutTooth, GoldPelt, BadgerRiver, many rogues 

Victim Profile: Clanmates, rogues. 

Cause of Death: blood loss from many injuries

Cautionary Tale: beware the quick cats with long legs and sharper claws that haunt the forests

Story: 

WolfFern was born in a very large Clan mostly made out of his kin, but he never got very close to anyone except GoldfishFur. 

WolfFern grew up to be the incredibly ambitious apprentice to the deputy, WolfFade. 

It was truly a shame when sweet, elderly WolfFade showed up dead outside camp after WolfFern was made Champion. 

He didn’t have any issue with killing his mentor. It was just a necessity to become leader. WolfFern spent a moon planning how to get rid of CicadaStar, but in the end he didn’t need to. The anxious, thin leader who never shared how many lives he had left got sick and, to WolfFerns luck, was on his last life. 

Within a moon of becoming a warrior, he was deputy. Within a moon of becoming deputy, he was now leader. 

WolfStar starting killing. Sometimes those who annoyed him, sometimes for fun. 

He began washing his paws very frequently, which his best friend GoldfishFur noticed. GoldfishFur helped him kill many more cats, and forced WolfStar into a code of sorts. Helped him cover his tracks. And in return, GoldfishFur was made deputy. 

Over many moons his kill count grew, and he even found a mate of convenience. He had very few friends, and needed a way to keep connected to the Clan. To seem devoted to them. They had RainKit, MistleKit, and BristleKit together. 

Many, many more Clanmates died, and Wolfstar realized that he didn’t feel any grief in killing any of them, not even his kin. 

He took on many apprentices, and even appointed a Champion: HollowStripe, however he would have to wait until HollowStripe was no longer with kits. 

GoldfishFur helped him commit countless more murders and continued to do so after he retired early from his chronic joint pain in his front leg. BroomDust was an easy deputy to manipulate, but everyone knew GoldfishFur called the shots. 

The only time WolfStar truly grieved for was their father, PuppyNut. Wolfstar never received visions, but that night he prayed for PuppyNut to visit him. 

The secrets, the constant lies and covers, all the small injuries hidden in his long fur caught up to him and he lost it. He killed ten Clancats in front of the clan, and everyone was too scared when GoldfishFur turned on them as well to stand up to the cruel duo. 

And, to his Clan's horror, he began skimming the corpses and piling them in the centre of camp as an example. 

At the next elder's ceremony, he slashed SpiderWhiskers throat out. A couple cats died from the stress, more killed by GoldfishFur and WolfStar. HollowStripe was an easier deputy to manipulate anyway. Eventually WolfStar and GoldfishFur organized an attack with a group of rogues. 

WolfStar died of his injuries, but not before nearly exterminating the Clan. 

GoldfishFur 

Aliases / Nicknames: Two-faced Tom, Goldy

Gender: demitom 

Sexuality: bisexual 

Family: CoconutTooth, WhirlAster (parents), HerringBreeze (mate), GuppyShadow, TallyPaw  (daughters), MilkPaw, KoiPaw (sons) 400+ other family members, 60 who were alive at the same time as him

Other Relations: unnamed mentor, PoppyHeart, LaurelNight (apprentices) 

Clan: WolfsfootClan 

Rank: deputy (retired)

Characteristics: cold, goofy, good kitsitter, manipulative 

Murder Motive: to protect his best friend 

Number of Victims: 80+ 

Number of Murders:  80+ 

Murder Method: luring to fox, clawing/ripping throat out, drowning, shaking to death, disemboweling, skinning, poisoning, hypothermia, burning alive, breaking bones, blunt force. 

Known Victims: RobinKit, MorningKit, PatchKit, BoulderKit, RunningHare, RaccoonFur, PranceBlossom, PheasantJaw, GoldPelt, BadgerRiver, PinkFoot, TawnyPatch, SheepFang, WolfFeather, BlackKit, DayFur, CrestedSlip, FirePoppy, GrassKit, HayBird, ChasingShade, BristleFur, DuskCatcher, HatchNose, QuickKit, ThunderHorse, BreezeSplash, BriarNose, HollyPaw, SmallBeam, MallowLightening, HeronStorm, SleekDrift, LongRump, JumpLotus, SpiderWhiskers, PrickleFur, BroomDust, HollowStar/Stripe, CicadaStar, WolfFade, NeedlePelt, BitternFur, LarchKit, CrookedStone, PloverTuft, BogEar, BraveSkip, RainFur, FawnSnow, RushWish, FawnLeaf, LoudPelt, BlackSpeckle, ShardSpeck, Jayhorse, BubblingSky, OrangeRoar, HalfSpeckle, TroutPeak, PiperNoise, BeetleShade, DancingWhisker,   BayBlaze, SnapDragonBerry, ShrewHeart, CoconutTooth, GoldPelt, BadgerRiver, many rogues 

Victim Profile: Clanmates, rogues. 

Cause of Death: thrown into pit of starving rabid cats, snake bite. 

Cautionary Tale: beware the quick cats with long legs and sharper claws that haunt the forests

Story: 

GoldfishFur got along perfectly with his Clan. In fact, he was very popular.

When he caught WolfStar in the middle of a murder, GoldfishFur killed the cat before it could scream to him for help. 

WolfStar exposing the murders was very against their original plan, but GoldfishFur still used it to his advantage. The Clan now fully trusted him instead. 

He regretted the murders when he saw his Clanmates grieving, and he grieved for all the cats he had killed. One, however, nearly broke him: ChasingShade.

The two were fighting with a fox when GoldfishFur’s weak leg gave out, and the fox tore out ChasingShade's throat. 

When the deputy, BroomDust, spoke badly about WolfStar, GoldfishFur killed him before the Clan as an example. The sweet, goofy cat turning on his family. 

GoldfishFur had kits whom he loved, and desperately tried to keep out of the way of the rogue attack. The Clan fought back, stronger than they’d expected, and GoldfishFur was bitten by a snake after being backed up over the snake rocks. 

Before he could succumb to the venom, he  was torn apart. 

HollowStar

Aliases / Nicknames: HollowHearted Leader, HollowStripes

Gender: tom 

Sexuality: unlabelled 

Immediate Family: DuskCatcher, MallowLightening (parents), ShardKit, BrookLeopard, RubbleShade (daughters) LongKit, GrassKit (sons), many unnamed siblings

Other Relations:

Clan: WolfsfootClan

Rank: leader, Champion 

Characteristics: proud, ambitious, good fighter, excellent den builder

Murder Motive: exterminate all of QuickStar’s descendants 

Number of Victims: 60

Number of Murders: 60 

Murder Method: poisoning via deathberries and lilies, hiring rogues. 

Known Victims: WolfLilac, BrookLeopard, RubbleShade, many unnamed Clan cats

Victim Profile: cats from QuickStar’s family tree 

Cause of Death: neck torn out by wolf 

Cautionary Tale: beware the quick cats with long legs and sharper claws that haunt the forests

Story: 

HollowStar lasted a few moons after he became leader to the once thriving ClubmossClan, now shaken down and beaten from the inside. 

With so many cats having been murdered at the paws of WolfStar and GoldfishFur, the lan was left in shambles. Cats turning on each other, Clans spreading word of curses. It was all too much. They had to be right! It was all a curse! 

For decades, the Clans have been plagued by QuickStars legacy. It had to end. But first, HollowStar had something to do first. 

He only killed one cat directly, and that was WolfLilac. He couldn’t stand to hear her name called across camp. 

She was fierce, and put up a big fight. He earned a couple scratches along his back in exchange for her life. 

Next, he gathered as much deathberries as possible alongside his two surviving daughters, born secretly to a rogue and haven grown up in Twolegplace. They were young, and listened to him out of an eagerness to impress their father. 

They squeezed the deathberries into the pond, and within a day, half the Clan was seizing, frothing at the mouth, and convulsing on the ground by the drinking pond. 

His daughters waited patiently by his side while the screams slowed, more and more surviving cats deserting. If they were of QuickStar’s decent, they were swiftly disposed of by some rogues who were helping in exchange for safe passage through the forest. 

His daughters should have checked the prey he’d given them, for maybe they would have noticed the lily petals left inside it the day prior. 

It was finally over! Starclan would be so proud of him! 

The scent of blood quickly overtook the forest, leaving HollowStar in the middle. He should have realized that the starving wolves would have been interested in the easy meal.

Additional Information: 

--Submission by @wills-woodland-warriors

--Wolf:

Wills: "I left a lot out, but he’s one of my favourites and is incredibly interesting. He hid that he was killing for years from his clan. He never had an attachment to his kits or mate, only ever getting close with GoldfishFur and HollowStripe."

*He drove the Xlan mad. No one was brave enough to stand up to him. 

*He’s a very big and strong cat, and he’s about as ruthless as Alder/Myrtle and GremlinFrost. 

--Gold:

Wills: "also a very interesting cat from clangen, and again one of my favourites."

*Almost all events from these two stories are from clangens generated story itself!  cv Clangen Images are  from the brief moments he was in starclan during his trial. 

--Hollow:

*Few of QuickStar’s decendants possibly got away, but not very many. 

*HollowStripe was actually a very sweet child before WolfStar took him under his wing (arm? Paw?) 

*The end of QuickStar’s legacy!