#thanks! but i am just a little shrimp

[secondpersonpoetry]

you’ve probably already read it before, but the poem Party by Kim Addonizio really got me tonight. first thought was “oh man. yeah” and then my second thought was “how can i make this about my hockey guys somehow………..”anyway! have a good one! 

oh. oh.

​

[leatherbookmark]

god i’m so glad i took pics of her on my film camera. this is stupid because i have tons of them on my phone but. yea

[deadsetobsessions]

Sea Cryptic! Danny Pt.9

[Pt.1] [Pt.2] [Pt.3] [Pt.4] [Pt.5] [Pt.6] [Pt.7] [Pt.8] [Pt.10]

"Fan-sea meeting you here. You must be Phantom!"

Danny slowly turned around, grin blinding. "I shore am. Who's asking?"

Danny knew exactly who was asking. Bludhaven's vigilante, Nightwing. If the giant dark blue bird emblazoned on the front of his suit didn't give it away, the friendly demeanor and the puns would have. Plus, now that Danny's figured out who Tim was, the rest were pretty simple dots to be connected.

"Hi. I'm Nightwing. Thanks for saving Batman."

"I am Phantom. You are welcome. Please lecture him on the necessity of keeping the waters clean."

"Uh, I think he knows," Nightwing grinned. “So, why are you cleaning Gotham’s bay? I heard the Atlantic is nice this time of year.”

“Exactly. This?” Danny flapped a gloved hand around them, specifically at the moldy docks and the paint scraped board. “This is not nice. If it were nice, I wouldn’t need to be cleaning it. Look at that paint! It’s flaking off into the water! Does Gotham not have proper boat maintainance? That’s dangerous for the waters and seafarers!”

“Woah, you know a lot about boats,” Nightwing commented, crossing his arms and leaning back. What the hero didn’t know was that he knew more about boats than Danny did, as Danny’s hyper fixation was more focused on space ships and Dick had education à la maison de Bruce Wayne which usually meant an absurd amount of information for someone who doesn’t actually use boats as a regular mode of transportation.

“Rust! Rust is very much a thing!” Danny ranted, using his ice to scoop up water and using it like a makeshift filter. “It weakens bonds! It’s a tetanus hazard! And oh, don’t even get me started on how you people mutated the ocean life!”

“Mutated ocean life? I’m pretty sure we hadn’t. It’s just a little weird, right?”

Without another word, Danny dove into the weird ecosystem that was the Gotham bay. He came back holding a wriggling green thing the size of a worm.

“Do you know what this is?” Danny demanded. The thing flopped around on his gloved hands.

“A sea monkey?”

“They’re brine shrimp. Brine. Shrimp. Do you know what regular brine shrimp look like???” Danny shoved the thing at Nightwing, who took a step back.

“Not like that?” He replied, a quizzical look on his face.

“No, not like that! What in the ancients is this?!” Danny waved the weird sea brine that had started glowing faintly, like Danny’s natural ectoplasm glow. “Far be it from me of all people to judge evolution but this was all man made!” Danny gently tossed the brine shrimp back into the bay. “Brine shrimp is staple food for the ocean! You’ve got weird brine shrimp? You’ve got weird fish! Why is it impossible for this place to, for even one day, refrain from dumping hazardous chemicals or dead bodies in the water?”

“Ooookay, how about we take a breather?” Nightwing quickly glanced around, trying to find something to change the subject, feeling oddly guilty at the earnest expression on the kid’s face. “Uh, I was actually wondering if you’d swing by the waters near Blüd?”

Danny crossed his arms. “I clean the waters as a past time because you humans don’t know how to keep it clean. I am not a personal, on call, seakeeper.”

“Batman will pay you for your time,” Dick offered. Danny straightened. Amity didn’t actually cost that much to live well, but Gotham was a whole other ball park. The rent might be dirt cheap for a city, but the special pricey little add ons such as gas masks and space level insulation on top of the sky high insurance policies were draining what’s left of his half dead soul. As they say, Danny was a city dweller first and Phantom second.

“How much, when, and I won’t fish up the bodies unless he pays me extra.”

“Four thousand base pay, extra one hundred per identity, fifty for bodies with no shades, and on the weekends.”

Danny straightened as his mother’s steel spine, Jazz’s whip sharp wit, and his own craftiness made their appearance as he bargained. “Five thousand. Rate agreed, but I can only do every other weekends and I’ll have to call out some days.”

“Okay.” Nightwing rocked back on his heels with an affable smile. It’s Bruce’s money and it’s going towards his probable future baby brother, after all, even if said baby brother is a dead immortal Atlantis founder. Or something.

Danny groaned. “You are supposed to bargain back. But I’ll take it.”

“Great! Who do we got tonight?” Nightwing looked down at the plastic/burlap wrapped person Danny dragged onto the shores a bit ago.

“The lake kept the body cold, so it should be preserved adequately if you want to examine him,” Danny tilted his head to the side, the flames of his hair tilting with him. “He said his name is Gorganzo Bean.”

“Really?”

“Yes. It’s a nickname he got for eating a whole can of beans straight.”

“Yeah, that’ll do it. Any more details?”

“Sure.”

When Danny reached to take the money from Nightwing, he found that the hero had tightened his grip on it.

Danny pointedly dropped his gaze from Nightwing’s face to the money.

“Wait. I- I heard from a source that you could possibly smell souls.”

Danny yanked the cash out of Nightwing’s hand and shoved it into his shoulder. If that didn’t confirm Nightwing’s identity, he doesn’t know what would other than the guy telling Danny who he was. “You’ve been speaking with Danny. Yes, I can.”

“Can you tell what’s wrong with my brother?” Nightwing blurted out.

Danny stared at him, his legs flickering in and out to his tail form. “…Other than dressing in probably leather or Kevlar and going out to beat criminals with his bare hands?”

Nightwing opened and closed his mouth. He coughed awkwardly. “Other than that. Why is he- um, stinky? Soul-wise,” Nightwing added, clearly humoring the tinny little voice at the base of his temples that was an annoyed Red Hood saying that he showered. “He showers often. And is definitely not stinky body odor wise.”

“I am not a doctor. Well, not now anyways,” Danny said, thinking about his future PhD. “But he’s got a… soul infection. His natural immunity- all souls have a natural immunity against regular outside influences- is working hard to repel the equivalence of chronic bronchitis.”

“There’s… no way to help him?”

“I never said that,” Danny tilted his head. “Bring your brother to meet Danny. He could probably handle it.”

“The civilian?”

“His parents hunted my kind, once. He helped protect me and my people. If anyone knows how to cure it, it would be him.”

Phantom could not afford to deal with this right now, because Danny had a presentation tomorrow that he needed to finish.

“Oh. Thank you, Phantom.” Nightwing said, looking relieved and pensive. Danny decided right then and there that was Future Danny’s problem.

Danny nodded distractedly, blinking out.

He blinked back in. Nightwing jerked back. “Do you happen to have any examples of corrupt politicians in Gotham?”

Nightwing blinked before laughing. “It’d probably be easier to name the ones that aren’t.”

“Good to know. Thank you!”

——

A couple of days later, Tim and two older guys ambushed him in the quad.

“Hi! I’m Dick! This is my brother Jason! We’re Tim’s older brothers!”

Danny looked down at his hand- trapped in an overexcited handshake- and back up at Dick.

Whatever expression he was making, it must have been ha-fucking-larious because Tim and Jason burst out into laughter. Danny cursed his past self.

“Yeah?” Danny blinked. Wait. His smile grew and he made a face like he just realized something. “Oh. So you’re Nightwing?”

The laughter cut off.

“Haha, what?”

“Phantom told me you’d be coming but I, uh, thought you’d be in gear. Not… straight up telling me who you are?”

“You’re in regular contact with Phantom?” Tim demanded.

“Yeah, dude. After you- wait, you’re Red Robin!” Danny whispered.

“Oh shit, B’s gonna be pissed,” Jason drawled, looking mildly amused and hiding an extremely cautious, possibly lethal (if it weren’t for the fact that Danny’s pretty much impossible to kill with regular weapons) reaction.

“You’re one to talk. I’d smell your soul no matter what your disguise was.”

“…About that.”

——

You might be wondering: wouldn’t Dick know not to show up in civvies?

Yes. Except for the fact that Tim stalked Danny for weeks after he met Phantom and Danny hadn’t hung out with (himself) at all. They think Danny doesn’t know Phantom well enough to even talk to him much, despite being from the same town because: they’re all big city kids and have never experienced small town solidarity and, more importantly, gossip grapevines + they have no idea these two are the same people.

A deleted scene:

“When did you have time to talk to Phantom?” Tim demanded. Jason nudged Tim. That had hinted too much at what Tim was doing on his off hours and stalking was usually frowned upon.

“When I wasn’t talking to you, duh.”

[husbandhoshi]

title: eat. play. love.

pairing: seungcheol x f!reader

wc: 19.4k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Looking forward to talking with the two of you.

Wait—two?

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

CC: Choi Seungcheol.

"Choi Seungcheol?!"

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

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

"I—he," you stammer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Choi Seungcheol's name stares back at you.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

The meeting goes exactly how you would expect.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You know what?"

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

"What?"

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

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

"I'd rather starve."

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

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

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

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

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

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

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

"You'll never guess what I have."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And a seat at Momofuku."

"And that."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hide behind your computer screen.

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

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

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

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

Seungkwan works hard, but the devil always works harder.

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing you can do to stop him, huh?

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

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Beware the wrath of a woman scorned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hook, line, and sinker.

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

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

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

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

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

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

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Seungcheol?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who said I was pretending?"

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

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

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

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

"I never said that."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How To Antagonize Your Date In 5 Easy Steps.

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm no quitter."

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

Definitely not that one.

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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.

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[tender-rosiey]

horns — neuvillette x f!reader

a/n: i gotta work on wriothesley's

“papa!” your little girl coos, reaching out for her dad’s horns. her little hands hold them delicately as she kicks her legs and giggles.

she is so occupied by her dad that she notice you putting down a tray of her favorite cookies. you smile at her before leaning towards your husband.

“looks like someone else likes your horns as much as I do,” you tease neuvillette who’s busy smiling fondly at his little girl, before he looks up at you.

your arms are wrapped around his shoulders from behind. the hold you have on him is so comforting, so light and he can't help how his eyes soften and body further relaxes.

tenderness swim in his eyes, and he looks down at her again, “she looks just like you,” he sighs in contentment, “I couldn’t be happier.”

your heart clenches and you cup his face to press a gentle kiss to his cheek.

from the corner of your eyes, you notice your daughter repeatedly patting her head. a look of worry instantly appears on your husband’s face, “d/n, are you alright? what’s the matter?”

your daughter frowns lightly when she taps the top of her head with her two hands once more. she grabs a bit of her hair, but, apparently, she doesn’t find what she is looking for.

her lips jut out as she points at your husband’s horns, “pa?”

he hums in confusion then looks at you, hoping that with motherly super powers, you can understand her.

a few beats pass by before it clicks in your head, and you start smothering her face in kisses, “oh you absolute cutie!” she squeals as she drowns in your affection, “don’t worry! you will get horns and look just like your pretty papa in no time!”

neuvillette is a little puzzled, looking back and forth at your daughter then you. you smile before tapping his horns then tapping her head. he reaches out to hold her, and your girl practically throws herself at him.

he rests his cheek on the top of her head then he closes his eyes and presses a kiss to the top of her head, making her giggle. you sneak away to get a headband that’s been bought for this very moment.

you come back, said headband hidden behind your back, and you usher both your husband and your little girl in front of the mirror. neuvillette quietly sits with your little girl comfortably on his lap.

she stares at the mirror, until your husband starts to lightly bounce her on his legs. she squeals, putting her hands in her mouth then looking up at him, “pa!”

“okay, d/n, look at the mirror for a moment,” you say as you situate the headband on her head, “and voila!,” you kneel beside her, “see? you look just like papa!”

you don’t know who is more in awe, your daughter or your husband. the little girl is basically speechless, and your husband’s eyes have an endless stream of stars swimming in them.

“she does look like me,” he mutters, hold tightening just a tiny bit.

he lets out a breath, before bending slightly to gently rest his forehead on top of your daughter’s little head. he smiles softly, “I am…happy.”

he turns to you, eyes full fondness and love, “thank you.”

you think the bright clear weather that day was no coincidence.

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copyright © tender-rosiey

do not copy or plagiarize or you will be reported

[inkdrinkerworld]

hi babe! would you be interested in writing something for remus where his gf is totally badass and kind of like a spitfire but the second she's home from work, she's kinda melting into remus and he eats it up?

"No, I am not coming back in! Are you kidding me?" You blow a kiss to Remus as you shoulder the door shut, dropping your keys into the plate near your door.

"No. I'm not leaving my house again, driving two hours in this traffic to come back to sign some papers. Leave it there or come by my place to drop it."

Remus shakes his head, a hidden smile on his face as he pulls dinner from the oven. He knows exactly what is going to happen after this

“Are you kidding me? I gave specific instructions on what to do, how could they possibly mess that up?” You’re seething as you step into your front door. 

You’d had a day at the office and even on the drive home you’d been on the phone giving directives and discussing strategies for a project you’re working on. 

You’re exhausted and you just want a hot bath with your boyfriend and a slice of that apple cake you’d made over the weekend for dessert. 

“No, I’m not coming back to have a meeting. We can meet tonight if it’s necessary, but I’ll be in office tomorrow.” 

Remus is sitting in the living room, reading one of his novels as you make your way over to him. 

He quirks a brow at your tone and you point to your phone rolling your eyes to get him to smile. 

He does and beckons you over, pressing a kiss to your forehead as you set your bag down and pull a pen and book from it, already scribbling some notes for the meeting- whenever it happens. 

“Okay goodbye, enjoy the rest of your day.” You’re abrupt as you end the phone call, head pounding as you sigh. 

“Hi baby,” he coos, eyes crinkling as you flop into his arms, burying your face in his chest. “Long day?” 

You nod, mewling as you say, “So long Remmy.” Remus always wants to laugh at the way you sort of melt like ice cream on a hot day when you’re home from work. 

He’s well aware of your bright, no-nonsense attitude at work and in general, but when it’s you and him you’re his baby and he loves it. 

Remus eats it up, loves every second of you needing him like you do. 

“I’ve made beef stir-fry for tea. And I ordered the saucy shrimp you like.” 

He feels you smile against his chest, then you lift your chin and kiss the underside of his jaw. 

“Thanks Rem.” Your phone rings again and you groan. Remus beats you to checking the caller ID and sucks at his teeth. 

“Would ignoring Devin be a bad thing to do?” He asks, nose running along your hairline as you deliberate. 

“No,” Remus doesn’t hesitate. He clicks your phone locked and helps you further into his lap. 

“Don’t take the meeting tonight. You need an early night, you didn’t sleep till three this morning.” You look a bit bashful with your legs hooked to each of his hips and Remus laughs. You’d thought you were doing a good job at being quiet even though you’d been awake long after Remus and you had gone to bed. 

“But it’ll be so much faster because then we’ll have to decide meeting times and where’s the most ideal place.” 

Remus raises an eyebrow, “Let them do it then. You need your rest and I don’t particularly care if they struggle to fit the meeting in their schedule.” You sigh, reaching for your phone. “Just let me text them then, otherwise it’ll keep ringing.” 

He shakes his head, taking your phone from you and unlocking it. 

“Go have a shower, I’ll plate up dinner and send the text to them. Tomorrow at ten is fine for the meeting?” He asks and you nod, pressing another kiss to his lips. 

“Thanks, Remmy.” Remus pats your bum as you go, watching you with a little smile as he thinks of how he’s going to get you to bed by nine.

[venus-haze]

Under My Skin (Black Noir x Reader)

Summary: Just when you think you don’t have a chance with Black Noir, an investor gala gives you a new opportunity to get under his skin.

Note: Gender neutral reader and no descriptors are used. This is based on an anonymous request and also the song I’ve Got You Under My Skin. I’m so glad I’ve finally gotten a chance to write for Black Noir! Pre-season 1 where you’re in The Seven. Do not interact if you’re under 18 or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 1.5k

Warnings: None. Do not interact if you’re under 18.

The piece of paper on the table in front of you was mocking you. Black Noir had already won three out of the four tic-tac-toe matches you were silently engaged in during The Seven’s daily briefing, and with the way things were going, he was poised to win a fifth. With a huff, you drew a hopeless circle and silently slid it back to Noir.

“Nightowl,” Homelander said.

You looked up, bringing your attention to him. 

“Great work on the team-up with Noir the other night.”

Noir slid the paper back to you, his tic-tac-toe win marked with a clean line, but he’d also drawn a smiley face.

You smiled. “Anytime.”

Homelander continued on, and you only half paid attention, your focus increasingly on the man sitting beside you. Even before you joined The Seven, you admired Noir for his stealth and prowess, something you aspired to. Upon your first team-up, it was clear your powers, most effective at night, complimented his incredibly well. Plus, he seemed to like you from the start, which put you in Homelander’s good graces most of the time. 

Absentmindedly, you drew a little heart on the paper, feeling your face heat up when you saw Noir’s head turned toward you. He didn’t acknowledge the drawing, instead beginning a new game of tic-tac-toe. Embarrassment flooded your chest, blood rushing in your ears. You hoped he didn’t think you were being weird.

“Last thing…” Homelander said, reading off the agenda. “Oh yeah, investor gala this weekend.”

“Great, another ass-kissing convention,” Maeve mumbled.

“Can we make sure shrimp cocktail isn’t served this time?” The Deep asked. “I just feel like—“

Homelander’s jaw clenched. “Jesus Christ, do I look like a caterer, Deep? Am I carrying around a silver platter–”

After a few more moments of bickering, Homelander ended the meeting, not without everyone still grumbling under their breath about the gala. No one particularly liked schmoozing over rich assholes, but they made your lucrative paychecks possible, so it was a necessary evil. 

You and Noir hadn’t finished the last round of your game, but when he left, he took the paper with him. 

You sighed. You knew you had it bad for him, but it was tough to gauge his feelings for you when his face was constantly covered by his mask. Even when you blatantly flirted, he seemed unaffected by your advances toward him. Of course you’d fall for this mystery of a man, the epitome of cool, calm, and collected. Your endeavor was starting to feel hopeless.

“So, when are you gonna make a move on Noir?” Homelander asked, walking out of the meeting room with you. “And don’t give me that ‘we just work together’ bullshit. The tension’s so thick I could laser through it.”

“You can laser through anything.”

He rolled his eyes, a slight smile on his face. “Look, there’s only so long I can take the two of you making heart-eyes at each other. I mean, get a room.”

“He makes heart-eyes at me?” you asked softly.

“Yes, so do something about it already.”

“Maybe at the gala. Everyone’s there to see you, anyway.”

“That’s true. No one would really notice if you and Noir weren’t there,” he said, before giving you a slightly painful pat on the shoulder. “Well, except me if you’re loud enough.”

You gave him a pointed look. “Thanks, Homelander.”

You never took his comments like that to heart. You knew you weren’t one of the more interesting members of The Seven, especially compared to the likes of Homelander and Maeve. It was a blessing in disguise, as you ended up stuck doing far less schmoozing than they did. Homelander could hide his disdain for whoever Vought wanted him to entertain for the evening, but on more than one occasion, you’d been on the receiving end of his rant about “pandering to the mud people.”

Noir always showed up to these events, despite not interacting with anyone unless it was to get food. Once in a while, you’d watch as someone tried to start a conversation with him, only to be ignored before awkwardly making an excuse to leave. At least he’d give you the time of day, silently letting you people watch with him, acknowledging your observations about the various guests with a nod, or on rare occasions, his shoulders shaking ever so slightly when you’d said something funny. You always felt especially accomplished then.

The night of the gala was only nerve-wracking because you were finally going to be forward with Noir and see where that got you, rather than your tentative approach in the past. 

When you arrived on the floor where the investor gala was being held, you went through all of the necessary introductions as quickly as you could. Across the room, Black Noir was playing the piano, as he tended to do during crowded events. You’d asked him before where he learned to play, and he wrote simply on a cocktail napkin ‘My grandma.’ As much as he trusted you, there were still parts of himself that were guarded, carefully revealing pieces of his past to you, though you could never fully put the whole picture together. In all the years you were a member of The Seven, you weren’t sure you ever would. 

His past didn’t matter to you. You were fond of the man he was, even if he didn’t reveal his whole self to you. Still, you wished you knew more. He didn’t seem to have any family, at least that he was in contact with. Then again, most of your teammates had complicated relationships with your families, yourself included. That one talent of his, however, showed that at one point there was someone he was close to, that he had a life outside of being a member of The Seven. You hoped the two of you could have that together.

Finally able to slip away from the people whose names you couldn’t be bothered to remember, you made your way over to Noir. He looked up from the piano, tilting his head a bit in acknowledgement of you.

“This party’s so boring.” You made a point to lean against the piano, letting the spandex of your suit highlight your body. “I mean, I can think of much better things you and me could be doing with our time.”

You weren’t sure if he was nodding along with your sentiment or the music. Ever so frustratingly difficult to read. Taking his response in stride, you sat down next to him on the piano bench. He didn’t stop playing, but he didn’t move away from you either. 

“Will you show me how to play?” you asked.

He paused, the soft music stopping momentarily. With a nod, he shifted closer to you, placing his gloved hands over yours. You let him guide you, though your gaze was on him rather than the keys. 

“You’re great with your hands, Noir,” you said. “I mean, playing piano, fighting criminals, I’m sure there’s more you can do, if you ever wanna show me sometime.”

No reaction. Maybe it was useless. Maybe Homelander was just messing with you. Maybe—

He rubbed the top of your hand with his thumb, and you couldn’t help the smile that spread across your lips. It was something, finally some indication that he returned your affection. 

“You wanna get out of here?” you asked softly. “I only came for you, anyway.”

He took your hand in his, the music from the piano ceasing abruptly again. He brought his pointer finger to his mouth, and you giggled despite his silent instruction to be quiet. 

Glancing around, you noticed everyone else was preoccupied, mainly with competing for Homelander’s attention, as usual. The perfect opportunity for the two of you to slip away from the party with ease. Stealth was his speciality after all. 

You let him lead you away from the gala and to an empty balcony on another floor of the tower. The city seemed to sparkle especially bright that night. Feeling bold, you rested your head on his shoulder, your hand still intertwined with his.

“I wish we could be like this more often,” you whispered. “You’re the only person I like spending so much time with. I think of you, and I—it’s okay if you don’t feel the same way. I just wanted you to know.”

After a few minutes of silence, Noir moved away from you, reaching for something in his pocket. A folded piece of paper, the same one the two of you had been playing tic-tac-toe on just a few days earlier. He handed it to you, and you scanned the page before landing on the heart you’d drawn, finding he’d drawn another one around it.

“This is so high school,” you laughed, nevertheless taking his covered face in your hands and kissing him. “So, what do we do now, loverboy?”

He wrapped his arms around you, and you could’ve sworn you heard him sigh contentedly.

[flemingsfreckles]

Better Boyfriend than Him (18+) pt. 6

Jessie Fleming x Reader

Read the previous parts here

Warnings: SMUT (18+), fingering (r giving), oral (r giving), tit sucking, cursing, non-sexual nudity

WC: 5.6k

A/N: this is the end folks :) thank you to all of you who interacted with any part of this series or sent me suggestions I really appreciate it 🫶

It had been 5 weeks since you and Jessie officially became girlfriends and 5 weeks from the day Jessie had asked to join you in the shower.

“Can I join you?” You looked back and Jessie was still sitting on the bed that the two of you had just messed up. Despite fucking you Jessie was still completely clothed as well. Her eyes met yours for a moment before she looked down to the floor.

“Only if that’s what you want. You don’t have to just because I asked when I’d be able to touch you.” You didn’t want her putting herself in vulnerable positions just trying to please you.

“I want to.” She pulled the blanket off from her waist and moved out of the bed toward you.

You started the water and got out a second towel for Jessie. You could feel your heart racing. A new feeling of nerves and excitement racing through your body.

“I can get in first, if you want to just come in when you’re ready, or I can wait. Up to you.” Maybe she was comfortable with the idea of showering but not the idea of stripping off her clothes in front of you yet. You looked at her and she leaned against the counter, hands crossed against her chest.

“Yeah go ahead, I might be a minute.” You could tell by her voice she was uncertain in what was happening. You stick your hand into the shower, turning the heat up a little more before walking across the cold bathroom tile to place a kiss to Jessie’s lips.

You grab her hands as you pull away, holding them firmly in your own. “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.” Looking into her eyes as you talk to her. “I want you to be comfortable, whatever that means to you is okay with me Jessie.”

She just nods and when you squeeze her hands she returns the gesture. You let go and walk back, opening the shower door and stepping in. The shower door was glass but fogged. You could make out the shape of Jessie against the counter through it but not actually see what she was doing.

You moved under the water letting it run down your face, your hands coming up to wipe your eyes before you get your hair under the water. You shampoo your hair, rinse it and put in conditioner. You grab the body soap and give a glance back through the fogged door. Jessie hadn’t moved.

“You okay out there?” Having to slightly yell over the sound of the loud shower head.

You hear her clear her throat. “Yeah I’m good.” Her voice sounds shaky. Deciding not to press, you try and change the subject.

“What do you want for lunch? I’m not sure what I have in the fridge so we might need to run to the store to make a real meal but I’m thinking maybe burgers or we could do chicken, we could do pasta,” you start throwing out any meal ideas to her. “Maybe we could just have salads that one with the shrimp you like,”

“Please stop.” Her voice comes from over the shower. “I know what you’re trying to do.”

“I’m just trying to figure out what we’re going to eat.” Acting innocent, you try to sound normal.

“No you’re trying to distract me. I appreciate it but if you always just distract me, I’ll never get any further than where I am.”

“Sorry.” You really had meant well, trying to get her mind off the stress and anxiety you could feel she was having. You finished rinsing your body and started to rinse out the conditioner. You turn for a minute, facing away from the door. That’s when you hear it open, and you can sense Jessie now standing behind you in the shower.

“Hi.” Her voice is still shaky, quieter now that she doesn’t have to yell through the shower door.

“Hi babe.” You stay facing away from her, you weren’t sure if she wanted you to turn around or if just she wanted to be in your presence without your gaze for the first time. It’s quiet for a minute, you don’t move, having already rinsed your conditioner out you’re just standing under the water, facing the wall.

“Um, I’m done in the shower, do you want me to leave so you can shower? I can stay or go, whatever you want.”

“Stay. Please.”

“Can I turn around?” You had to turn around at some point, even if it was to just leave the shower. You hear her take a deep breath behind you.

“Yeah, you can.”

You move slowly, giving her enough time to stop you or change her mind or even run out of the shower. But she doesn’t and when you turn you’re met face to face with your red cheeked girlfriend. You don’t dare let your eyes drop, you’re practically staring at her eyebrows instead of her eyes, not wanting to look at her and make her uncomfortable. You can tell she’s got her arms across her chest, holding her breasts tight against herself.

“Hi Jess.” She doesn’t respond just giving you a weak smile.

“Stop staring at my forehead, it's weird.”

“Sorry.” You make an effort to look down at her eyes.

“Here let me move.” You start to shuffle to one side of the shower. “You can get in the water.” She passes by you, her skin gently grazing against you and it leaves you with goosebumps.

Your turn facing her again, she’s facing you. Her eyes move all over, yours stay glued to her face.

“Want me to wash your hair?” You offer, it was something simple but you thought it might help given that she had yet to take her arms away from her chest, making it hard for her to wash her own hair.

“Yeah that would be nice.” She finishes getting her hair soaking wet. She then turns her back to you. You each a hand over her shoulder putting out your palm.

“Shampoo please.” Jessie removed one hand from her chest, grabbing the bottle and squeezing a dollop into your hand. “Thank you. I’m gonna touch your hair.” You don’t know if she wanted the warning but you figured it was the polite thing to do.

“Okay.”

You lather some of the shampoo in your hands, the smell of it filling the shower. You place your hands gently on her head. Starting with gently working your hands through her hair. She tilts her head back letting you reach the front of her scalp. As you work your hands down toward the base of her neck you feel Jessie’s neck and head relax, putting its weight into your hands. She lets out a soft groan as you work your nails harder into the base of her scalp.

“Good?” You say to her.

“Yeah, this is really nice.” You keep scratching at her skull, mixing between soft and harsh movements. You’re looking at the back of her head, barely touching her but you can’t help but think this is the most intimate experience of your life. Here you were, both naked, but with no sexual intentions in mind, you were providing her a simple task and yet it made you feel so close to her.

“Conditioner?” You remove a hand from where it was tangled within her hair and you place it again over her shoulder palm out. Jessie repeats her actions grabbing the bottle and squeezing the conditioner into your hand. You spread it and run your fingers through her hair.

You remove your hands from her, placing them back at your side. Unsure of what to do while she let the conditioner sit. You both just stood, only the sound of the running water filling the bathroom.

“Do you mind stepping out so I can wash my body? I’m sorry, I’m just not,”

“Of course babe. Don’t apologize.” You don’t even let her finish apologizing. You open the shower door, stepping out onto the bath rug. “A clean towel for you is on the hook.”

“Thank you.” You can see her silhouette moving around in the shower. You give her one last look before you move into the bedroom, closing the bathroom door behind you not wanting to be waiting in the bathroom when she gets out. You stood in your bedroom, pulling out two pairs of sweatpants, two sleep shirts, and two hoodies. The water stops running in the bathroom. Jessie opens the door, peering around it.

“Hi!” You were in love, nope not in love you hadn’t even been dating a whole 24 hours, you were smitten, with the way she always gave you a sweet “hi” when she was shy.

“I got you clothes.” You point at the obvious pile of clothing you had gotten out.

“Thank you for giving me privacy earlier.”

“Thank you for asking for it. I’m proud of you for taking that step today, I’m sure it was scary. I’m really proud of you Jessie.” You kiss her temple.

You drop your towel, grabbing from the clothes laid out on the bed. You slip on panties followed by sweatpants and a shirt. You then turn around, facing away from Jessie giving her the privacy to get dressed. You hear her move behind you, when she’s dressed you feel her arms wrap tightly around your waist.

“Thank you.”

You had progressively seen more and more of Jessie’s body over the 5 weeks. First it was in the shower, she then started joining you more and more frequently especially after the two of you would have sex. She progressively started to remove her hands from her body, you kept your eyes up, but you could tell she was getting more comfortable. She would wash her body in front of you, though you still kept your eyes nearly to the ceiling . You no longer left to let her finish in private, she didn’t ask you to leave.

Next she had started changing in the room with you, not giving you warning. The first time she did it you nearly panicked, but then realized making it a deal would be worse so you acted as if nothing happened as she changed into her pajamas.

When you had sex she still kept on her bra and underwear but she let your hands roam over her more and more. Quick touches to her waist, then to her thighs, eventually she allowed you to have your hands on her ass squeezing and grabbing while you made out. You could tell she was trying and that was all you needed. With every milestone you felt so proud of her.

And then she flashed you, and you nearly fell over. This was 3 days ago and you couldn’t get the image out of your head. Jessie had called you into her bedroom from where you were sitting in the living room. When you entered the room you saw the look on her face, a smirk as she stared at you across the room. It was a look that told you she was up to something.

“What did you do?” You questioned Jessie

“Nothing but I have to show you something.”

“Okay?”

She just smiled at you before shouting “Look!”, and she grabbed the hem of her shirt, pulling it up, exposing her chest to you.

Your eyes fell to her chest and your jaw dropped, before you could register that you were staring at her boobs, her shirt was back down, covering them up.

“I’m going to make popcorn.” She says as she walks past you back to the kitchen. You were absolutely shocked at what had just happened. An overwhelming feeling came over you, a mixture of happiness, pride, and being incredibly turned on all washed over you. You weren’t super proud of being turned on, knowing you should be more happy about her milestone but it was your girlfriend's boobs that you had just seen fully for the first time. You take a deep breath before following her to where she was standing in the kitchen.

“What just happened in there?”

She just shrugs as she looks at the microwave. “Just felt like it.”

You walk up behind her giving her a tight hug around her waist and placing your chin on her shoulder. You place quick kisses to her neck. “I’m proud of you, as always.”

“Did you like them?” She turns a big smile on her face as she asks.

“They were,” your mind goes blank as you think about the image of your grinning girlfriend holding up her shirt, “so good, really Jess, like those,” you tilt your head in the direction of her chest. “Those are perfect.”

“Thanks, grew them myself.”

“What the fuck babe.” You laugh at her comment.

Now it was 3 days later, the two of you were sitting on Jessie’s couch, sharing a bag of chips as you worked on chemistry homework.

“Can I tell you something?” Jessie said tapping her pen rapidly against the table, feeling anxious.

“Always.” You stop the problem you’re working on to give her your attention.

“I think I’m ready.” She waits looking at you.

“For?” When she leaves you hanging you have to nag.

She lifts an eyebrow suggestively at you, when you don’t get the hint she fills in the blank. “Sex.”

“Oh!” You realize what she’s implying. “Okay, are you sure?”

She nods. “Maybe tonight?” She has a small red flush to her cheeks.

You lean over to give her a kiss “Whenever you’re ready.”

It was later that night, you had gone home for a few hours and returned to Jessie’s for the evening. Upon walking through the door the Canadian had her lips on yours hard, indicating she was still up for what she had suggested earlier that day.

You kiss Jessie’s soft, plump lips for a minute before you pull back from her, pushing her off with your hands on her chest.

“If you want to stop just say something, stop, wait, no, anything I’ll stop what I’m doing. If you don’t want to say something but need me to stop just tap me three times in a row.” You grab her arm to show her what you mean, tapping her gently. It wasn’t something the two of you had used before but you had done some research on how to make this experience comfortable and read that verbal no’s can be sometimes difficult and it’s good to have another option. The article had recommended the three taps and you figured you could offer it.

“Okay.”

“Promise you’ll stop me if I make you uncomfortable or you change your mind or if you just don’t want to?” You hold out your pinky to her, she links hers with yours.

“I promise.” With that you grabbed her hand, pulling her gently down the hallway toward her bedroom.

You kissed her, holding her tightly to you as you stood in her bedroom.

“Can I take your shirt off?”

“Yeah babe.” You had taken her shirt off numerous times, but you always asked anyway. Your hands found the hem of her shirt and Jessie lifted her arms above her head. You slowly lifted her shirt, letting it fall to the floor.

“Are you okay if I move us to the bed?”

“Yes.”

You bend down, picking her up and moving to the bed. You set her down so she is sitting on the side of it and you’re standing between her thighs on the ground. Still taking it slow you just make out for a couple of minutes. You let your tongue softly meet hers. Your hands are on her waist, gripping her tightly, your fingernails probably leaving small indents in her skin. Her hands are on your face, one on each cheek, pulling you into her.

You kiss her until she pulls back. “As much as I enjoy making out with you, can we pick up the pace here?”

You nod rapidly at her and release your hands from her waist. She moves herself up the bed, resting her head back on the pillows. You follow her, crawling to place yourself above her, your legs between hers. She wraps her thighs around your waist. Leaning in, you start kissing her again, Jessie’s fingers start to play with your waistband under your shirt, she knew you loved the soft traces of your waist she would tease you with.

“Shirt off?” She pulls back from your lips and asks.

“Please.” Helping her, you both take your shirt off. When you move back her hands come to your covered chest, squeezing your tits through your bra. You move your head toward the crevice of her neck, kissing down the side. When your lips meet her collarbone she lets out a breathy moan.

“That feels good.” Her hand comes up to grab the back of your head, keeping you in the spot she liked. You listened, kissing, licking, and gently sucking at that spot before giving the same treatment to the other side of her neck. You move down further, kissing what skin of Jessie’s tits was above her bra. Your hands come up, finding the elastic at the bottom of her bra.

“You can take it off.” She tells you before you even have the chance to ask. As Jessie sits up you gently place the tips of your fingers under the band, giving Jessie another look, she nods and you pull her bra over her head and arms. Before you look at or even touch her chest you smile at her and place a kiss on her cheeks.

“Can I touch them?”

“Yes baby, use your mouth too.” You’re a little shocked by her forwardness. You follow her instructions. Sitting back you take in the sight, your beautiful girlfriend laying under you, shirtless for the very first time. Your eyes move from one breast to the other, taking in her skin. Moving you gently cup your hands around her chest, giving both a soft squeeze before leaning down to connect your lips to her collarbone again.

You leave a path of kisses all the way down until you lips find her nipple. You pause before putting your lips on it and glance up to see her watching you intensely.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m good. You can put your lips there.” She looks down to the nipple you had avoided kissing. You once again happily follow Jessie’s request, placing your lips around her nipple. You let your tongue swirl around it, softly sucking it into your mouth. Another moan falls from Jessie’s lips. “Fuck babe, that’s good.”

You continue giving her right nipple the same attention until you hear Jessie again.

“Babe?” You release her chest from your lips with a pop.

“What? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, it was getting a little sensitive. Can you move to the other one?”

“Of course, thank you for telling me.” You smile and drop your head back to focus on her left breast. Giving it the same treatment only this time for less time. Jessie is gripping the back of your head, pushing you into her chest harder. Your hands start to wander down, finding the waistband of her pants, letting your fingers just barely dip under them.

You let your lips move off her nipple.

“Pants?”

“Off please.” She answers. Your hands come to the tie on her pants and undo them.

“Are you still okay? We can stop anytime you want.”

“I know babe, I’m good, really good. I promise. I’ll tell you.” Your hands dip into Jessie’s waistband and pull her sweats down and off her legs, you crawl back up letting Jessie’s legs wrap around you once again. One of your hands finds her thigh, gently scratching up and down, the other holding your body above hers.

Kissing her again, still soft but with more intention than you had before. It was setting in that you were finally having this moment with Jessie. Making out with her gave you a second to clear your mind, you relaxed a bit, feeling that you were previously on edge, so caught up in making this a bad experience for Jessie. But the more you two moved together, those nerves faded.

Jessie’s hips gently thrusting upward has you pulling away from her lips. You raise your eyebrows at her, glancing at where her hips had been moving and then back up to her face.

“Can you touch me please?” It’s really a simple request but it had so much meaning behind it.

“Yes baby. Do you want your boxers off or?”

“Yeah, take them off.” Leaning in for one sweet kiss, your lips find hers. You move down, kneeling between Jessie’s legs, your hands resting on her waist where the top of her boxers were.

“Good?” You feel the need to give her another check in.

“Good.”

You slowly move her boxers down her legs, she tuck her legs slightly to bring her feet together so you could slip them all the way up. She doesn’t spread her legs back on the sides of you once you have her underwear off. You don’t throw the boxers, just placing them on the bed so that if she wanted them back she could have them almost immediately.

You could tell she was nervous now. Her bottom lip being chewed on by her teeth, her hands picking as her skin, her eyes not meeting yours like they had up until now.

“Tell me what you need.”

“Just a minute, I think.” She says quietly.

You watch her continue to stare at the wall behind you. You keep your eyes watching her face. She takes a few deep breaths, then straightens out her legs, one coming on to either side of where you sat. The hormones in you tell you to look, but the girlfriend in you instead leans over to her, placing yet another reassuring kiss to her lips.

“What do you want me to do?” You didn’t want to make the call on using your hands or your mouth without asking.

“Uh.” You watch as Jessie just looks at you, “your fingers, maybe, just on my clit.” She blushes a bit when she says it, her eyes darting away for a second.

You nod and start to move your hand down until you feel her slit. You gently push her legs open, glancing down to see what you were doing. Finally seeing your girlfriend fully naked in front of you. It takes your breath away for a second, maybe it was silly to other people the thought of seeing someone naked being such a big deal but seeing Jessie in such a private way caused a wave of affection and lust to flow through your body.

Once you’ve taken in her body, you look back up to Jessie’s face. Her expression is hard to read.

“Okay still?”

“Yeah, it’s just, weird, in a good way but still weird, I feel like I’ve never done this, even though I have.”

“Okay babe, just talk to me, whatever you need.” She nods and you let your fingers slide between her folds. Her legs tense for a second before relaxing as you place your other hand out to hold hers, your fingers interlocking.

It only sets in when you feel the pool of wetness under your fingertips, that you’ve never done this before. Now your nerves were back, only for a completely different reason. You didn’t know what you were doing. You weren’t going to be any good, she wouldn’t like it.

“Hey,” Jessie snaps you out of your spiral. She had felt your hand stop moving and looked up to see you staring off into space.

You pull your hand back away from her instinctively thinking she wanted you to stop. “I’m sorry did I hurt you?”

“No, but I can tell that now you’re freaking out.”

“I’m not freaking out.” You hold up your hands, not liking her accusation. “I’ve just, never done this to someone.” You mutter the second part under your breath as if Jessie wasn’t already aware that you had never fucked a girl.

“I know.” She says, it’s a simple reply, it puts some of your anxiety at ease. The rest of your nerves leave when she keeps talking to you. “Remember when we started dating, and I was worried because I haven’t dated in so long? I was scared of being a bad girlfriend. And you said you didn’t expect me to be perfect and that it’s all really trial and error? Think of it like that.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t expect you to be perfect, honestly, and don’t take this the wrong way, this has been perfect so far, but I still have nerves, so I’m not sure you’ll even be able to get me to finish. It might take a few tries and that’s okay. I’m not expecting earth shattering orgasms. I was expecting you to be caring, and gentle, and sweet and you have exceeded my expectations already in regard to that, if I cum great, if not, this has still been great babe.”

As you look at her, those words coming from her mouth you can’t help but think of those three words. They sat in the back of your mind for the past few days, you felt it, you wanted to tell her, it was bubbling out of your chest.

“Can I tell you something?”

“Always.”

“I love you.” There’s a long pause before you continue. “You don’t have to say it back.” And she doesn’t. Jessie doesn’t say anything, she just lays, motionless starting back at you.

“Oh my god I just fucked this up didn’t I?” You want to backpedal, go back to when she was comfortable. Your chest feels tight as you put your hands over your face.

“Um,” she starts, you look notice her eyes looking glossy.

“I’m so sorry Jessie, I just couldn’t hold it in anymore. I can leave if-”

“NO!” Her hand comes to grab at your shoulders.

“Oh” her touch on your shoulders relaxes you slightly.

“I” she lets out a huge sigh, “I love you.” You feel your heart racing. You can barely hear her continue to talk over the sound of blood rushing in your ears. “I actually said it to you the other day, when we fell asleep on the couch together. You were sleeping obviously but, that’s when I realized it, I had felt it before but I couldn’t place it. Seeing you peacefully sleeping, I felt like my heart was going to fall out of my chest, I was so overwhelmed with you, everything about you. I love you.”

You now have tears in your own eyes, feeling so overwhelmed with emotions. You kiss Jessie hard, pouring your feelings for her into the kiss as best you can and she does the same.

When you pull away she smirks at you. “So are we going to finish this, or did we just kill the mood?”

“Definitely didn’t kill the mood, plus now I think this is considered ‘making love’” you hold up air quotes around the words.

“Ew! No.” She gives you a gentle shove on the shoulder. “Please don’t ever call it that, you make us sound like old people.” She laughs but you can also tell she’s serious about not calling it that.

“Fine, now where were we?” You put your lips back on her and let your hand fall back between her legs. You find the same wetness that had started your anxiety before. This time to take a deep breath and remind yourself it’s just Jessie, it’ll be okay.

You use your fingers to drag some of her wetness up to her clit, making your fingers slide better. Drawing circles around it for a bit, you feel Jessie flexing and moving her hips slightly to meet your fingers.

“Can you press a little harder?” Jessie’s voice comes out a little raspy, how it sometimes would sound after she fucked you, it was hot.

You listen, pressing your fingers more firm against her body. “Just like that.” A tingle runs down your spine at her praise. You continue circling her clit, occasionally dipping back near her entrance to collect more of her arousal. One of the times when your fingers drift down Jessie speaks up.

“You can put them inside, if you’re comfortable, and then your other hand or maybe your tongue, on my clit.” You smile at the was she looks away saying the last word, she was so mouthy in bed when she was fucking you and yet so bashful right now.

Eager to taste her finally you move to your stomach keeping your fingers against her. Having your face this close to her you can smell her arousal, it’s similar and yet completely different than your own, having tasted and smelled yourself off Jessie’s lips and fingers on numerous occasions. You adjust your position again so that your mouth is just above where she wants you, your middle finger sitting at her opening.

Unsure of what to start first you’re frozen for a minute.

“Are you okay?” It’s now Jessie asking you instead of you asking her.

“Yeah, I’m just new to this.”

“Put your fingers in first.” You loved how she could tell what the dilemma was you were having without having to tell her or explain.

You do as she says and slowly slide your middle finger into her, the sensation is warm, smooth, and definitely wet. You let a moan fall from your lips when your finger is fully inside, finally feeling her around you. You pump it in and out slowly a few times before picking up the pace.

“Add another.” Jessie requests and you uncurl your ring finger, putting it next to your middle and slowing down your thrusts when you push both fingers in.

“Oh fuck.” You hear Jessie whisper. You look up and her mouth is open, eyes locked on where your hand was entering her. Keeping eye contact with her, you drop your tongue out and let it find her clit. With a single swipe you earn a loud moan from Jessie. “Keep doing that.”

You’d be lying if you said your ego wasn’t being inflated by this moment, your girlfriend moaning under you, because of your fingers and your mouth, you can see why Jessie loves being the one giving.

You find a workable rhythm between your fingers and tongue movement. Jessie is still moving her hips, her hands now both on your head, also applying pressure to move you where she needed you. It was helpful to have her guiding, and also hot the way she tugged harder on your hair when she would moan.

“That’s so good babe, keep doing that, I’m going to cum.” Her words made your eyes that you didn’t even realize you had closed snap open, finding her face. You wanted to watch as she fell apart from your touch. A couple seconds later, you get to see exactly that. Jessie’s fingers twist themselves hard in your hair, nearly painful, her mouth falls open, moans and a whine of your name comes out. Her legs close around your head and her pussy clenched tightly on your fingers making it hard for you to keep them thrusting.

“Okay, babe, fuck.” She shoves your forehead, taking the hint she was sensitive you pull back, carefully removing your fingers from inside of her.

You move up toward her head, leaving kissing sporadically across her body, one to each thigh, one above her hip, one next to her belly button, one under her rigt breast, one between her chest, two to her shoulders, one on her neck and then a kiss to each cheek before her nose and forehead and finally placing your lips on hers.

“Hi.” You say as you hold your face above hers, she looks sleepy, dazed, but happy.

“Hi.”

“Are you okay?” It’s maybe the 15th time you’ve asked her tonight, but you want to check.

“Yeah, are you?”

“Yes, I love you.” You say before leaning down to kiss her again.

When you pull back she says “I love you.”

“Can I lay?” Jessie nods her arms wrapping around your back to hold you tightly to her.

You both lay in silence, catching your breath, your head rests on her chest and you can hear her heart still racing.

“Thank you.” The quiet voice comes from above your head, you tilt against her chest to see Jessie looking at you.

“I’m proud of you.”

She just hums back at you. As you lay you hear her heartbeat slow, returning to its resting rate. You can tell she’s falling asleep, her leg twitching a few times before it stops and her breathing becomes slow and relaxed.

You close your own eyes, falling asleep to the sound of Jessie’s heartbeat, feeling safe in her arms, safe with her. You loved her, she loved you, everything was perfect.

[icyg4l]

Should You Shoot Your Shot?

hello beautiful people! i have been so busy with school & honestly, i haven’t been feeling up to par. i have some ideas drafted up but i would like to hear some suggestions from you guys. i am gonna turn my ask box on again! i would like to hear more than just fs readings though. also, i will continue with my halloween themed tarot series! look out for two drops in one day, my lovelies. if you would like to book a reading with me, go to my very first pinned post. thank you! :) without further ado, please select the pile that you are drawn to!

top left-to-bottom right: (1-4)

pile one: you are a strong soldier, my love. i feel like the person you're interested in has a lot of suitors and because of that, it will be hard to fully capture their attention. i feel like you need to soften your approach. if you're the type to post thirst traps or to post obvious subliminal, this person will overlook you. i honestly think that your best bet is to act unbothered. in your case, being laidback will work great in your case. also, I keep hearing "come harder just because". what I am getting from this is that you need to be more creative with the way that you shoot your shot. you may be surprised at who you may attract.

cards used: ace of flags, the high priestess, five of flags, elder of pentacles.

extras: butterfly shrimp. princess fiona. it's my d*ck in a box! christmas carols. new video game record. papa's pizzeria. shuffle the deck. gardener. fast-paced. fish hooks (2010).

pile two: i can tell that you have a type, pile two. you're the loving, nurturing type. you probably spoil your lovers with gifts and affection. however, you need to know when to pull back when you aren't receiving what you want. in your situation, you should go for it. shoot your shot! however, there is nothing wrong with wanting to take some initiative. however, based on your past experiences, you should try not to go all out this time. take your time. in the past, you could have been ghosted frequently or taken advantage of. you need to assert your boundaries. you are the prize, babe. go in with the attitude that this is not someone you need, but rather someone that you'd like to keep you company. if they want you, then they'd show you that through reciprocated action. remember that.

cards used: ace of lanterns, three of chalices, nine of flags, child of chalices, queen of lanterns, four of flags, child of flags, the house mother.

extras: wasted liquor. "spectacular". popular by demi lovato. hair in the wind. focusing on myself. self-worth. "sweetpea". diamonds dancing. parental issues. abandonment wounds.

pile three: baby, you don't have no business being romantically involved with anyone at this time. i heard the phrase "emotional turmoil". you recently could have gone through a drastic change in your life, specifically more to do with a loss (breakup, loss of a family member, job loss, etc). right now, there is a focus on your time of healing. you need to build up your spiritual endurance. if you are ready to give up on yourself, how can you give to others properly? if you decide to go and deal with this person, you won't be satisfied. this reminds me of a child getting attached to a toy and then ends up getting attached to another because it's newer. that's not healthy. people's emotions are not to be toyed with, pile three. it's possible that your gut issues will intensify if you decide to go against the grain and deal with this person. it's not worth it, babe. just wait your turn.

cards used: death, the star, the castle, queen of chalices, four of chalices, child of lanterns, the moon, eight of lanterns.

extras: sweet potato fries. count your blessings. paint the perfect picture. saweetie. 2000s photos. overly-emotional. comfort foods. sock-it-to-me cake. foreplay. rush. high rise.

pile four: pile four, it looks really good for you. not only should you shoot your shot, but there is a high chance of you connecting with this person on a spiritual level. therefore, this will actually result in something serious. i feel that this is a divinely orchestrated union. it's possible that you two could have mutual connections. it's possible that you could have been in the same place at the same time as them (red string theory hahaaa). i feel like your spirit guides are waiting for you to initiate the conversation. it's time to make shit happen. send the dm/message. it'll all be worth it. this is your time to shine, lovely.

cards used: eight of plants, the brujx, three of chalices, the grande dame.

extras: rose. sade listener. hijab. sweat. forty five degrees. kisses down low. i love the color pink. long legs. picky eater. choosey lover. secure attachment style. papa grande.

[frudoo]

Random König Headcanons

Hey y'all! This is my first post on here so I hope it's alright <3

These are all pretty SFW (for now >:)), so I don't think there's really any content warnings??? Idk let me know if I'm wrong.

Likes going to Build-a-Bear. Will definitely make your bear and his bear kiss.

This man can COOK. Oh, you want takeout? Nah. He's already pulling out the ingredients for your favorite dish. Buys the two of you matching aprons.

Talks to animals like they're babies. I also feel like the man just... attracts wild animals like birds and squirrels. Undercover Disney princess??? Perhaps.

Speaking of babies... the man is so good with kids. Laughs all giddily when toddlers climb him like a tree. Wants you to have his babies so bad

Actually has a decent singing voice. Get him drunk enough and he's doing karaoke like a pro. Oh, and if you agree to sing a duet with him??? He's GONE. Goes all out.

Likes to hold pinkies when walking around in public. He likes holding hands, too, but when he's feeling a little more anxious he'll intertwine your pinkies. PDA isn't his strong suit but he HAS to be touching you at all times, and it's like a pinky promise that he'll always be there with you :,)

Draws patterns/words on your back with his fingertips when y'all are laying in bed. Mainly a bunch of pet names, "I love you"s, and hearts. And cartoon penises

This big burly BEAST of a man loves being the little spoon, no matter how impractical it is. Honestly loves any cuddling position though.

Pouts when you're not giving him enough attention. His lips get SO puffy when he's jealous. Talking to one of his friends? He's grumbling German insults to them under his breath. Eventually he'll just scoot closer to you on the couch and rest his legs on top of your lap. BAM, now he's got your attention, even if it's just you telling him that he's crushing you. Big ol' lap dog.

Likes to do your hair!! He'll take pictures of what he's done and show them to you like a hairdresser :,) It could be the worst hairstyle you've ever seen but you're wearing it PROUDLY.

On the rare occasion that you two go out to a restaurant, he REFUSES to tell the waiter if his meal is wrong. Oh, it's shrimp and he's allergic to shellfish? He's telling the waiter he loves it and will just stare at the untouched plate sadly. Also will not let you trade plates with him because what if the waiter sees??? Tries to sink under the table when you finally cave and tell the waiter that the order is wrong. Glares at you the entire time he eats his new correct meal but is secretly so thankful. <3

Is absolute trash at video games. One of the best combat soldiers on the planet, but put a controller in his hands??? He's lucky if he gets three shots in.

Bought an engagement ring two weeks after you two started dating. I mean, he literally fell in love with you immediately upon seeing you for the first time, so are you really surprised??

Is a really good gift wrapper. His hands always start cramping around the holidays because he does most of the wrapping. His love language is 100% physical touch/gift giving btw.

Adding onto the singing thing... I just think he would be a really good musician, specifically a drummer.

NOSE NUZZLES. Like the Brendan Fraser type of kiss where you just rub noses after. He just gives off those romantic vibes <3

Unconventional kisses. Eyelids, the tip of your ear, everywhere you have moles, your calves, ankles... the man is obsessed with you, and he's kissing you wherever he can reach.

ADORES taking baths with you. Candles, rose petals, bath bombs: he does it all. Washes your hair for you. Lots of forehead and temple kisses.

I am unwell. I need him so bad.

Please feel free to reblog if you'd like!! I hope y'all enjoyed my little (very self-indulgent) rambles. :)))

[yuri-is-online]

Jade narrating the stuff Yuu is doing sounds funny/cute.

Dear annon, objectively you are correct. Jade narrating things sounds funny and cute in general. Unfortunately I have a cold and just took some nyquil ヽ(・∀・)ﾉ Whoops.

notes:they/them used for Yuu, this is a joke tm inspired by this meme. Please do not take this seriously and look at my masterlist for something not written on drugs.

"The humble shrimp, according to all known laws of hydrodynamics should not be able to swim. Their little legs are much too small to propel them through the ocean." Jade does not say this out loud, instead he continues to prop his head up on his hand and observe the Lounge's newest employee slaving away over the stove, signature reserved smile on his face. "The shrimp of course, swims anyway, because the shrimp does not care about what mages think is impossible."

Not that you are cooking for the lounge (yet) Jade had just invited you over for a little... he had said it was to study. What you had no idea, your patience maybe? He certainly hasn't moved since inviting you to help yourself to the Octavinelle kitchen saying something about how "humans have such interesting uses for leftovers."

"Bullshit." You think, punctuating the curse with a particularly harsh scrape to the pan. "He just didn't want to cook his dinner tonight."

"Imagine if you will, a pan of rice." Jade is idly toying with a spoon, swapping between waving it like a conductor or holding it still to speak into it like an announcer. "Truly a blessing to the hungry masses, a staple food if you will."

"Oh please no." You are tempted to spit in his plate but he would just put an unnecessary type of emphasis on thanking you for the food.

"It is presented to you fried," Jade continues, clearly deeply amused with himself "but this time, it has not been fried by a trustworthy fellow human-"

"You are an eel." You decide to settle your need to be petty by giving him the smaller fork, which does get you a regretful sigh but does not stop Jade's recapping the last episode of Twisted Wonderland.

"But by a shrimp." Jade loves it when you cook for him, not that he really wants to admit to that out loud lest you stop. Or huff and puff in embarrassment, he wants to save that for much later. Sometime when you are back in the Coral Sea and tucked neatly against his chest, safe and very much completely his and not able to run away. "The humble shrimp is proud of it's cooking."

"I am not an it, I am your partner." You are not exactly mad, you are proud of your cooking. And proud that, just like he does for his brother, he will eat all of it and then find something to complain about with a big smile on his face. Jade once again twirls his conductor's spoon, with a hum that sounds sort of like an agreement.

"The shrimp is very proud of their cooking," he amends "and the eel is very happy they want to share with him." You push your food around your plate in embarrassment much to his delight. He can't resist pushing you just a bit further, getting up as if to make for a cup but pausing to kiss your cheek before setting his kettle on the stove so it's ready to repay your favor once dinner is done. "Do be gentle with me," says the eel, heart beating horrifically hard against his chest "I am much more fragile than I look." He very much does not expect to see you darting up to kiss his lips when he turns back from the stove, the shrimp darts away with a smug giggle as the eel stands stunned, savoring the warmth of their affection before he returns to his seat.

Yes, the eel thinks he is keeping this one. Forever, ideally.

[chaniceroses]

Bad Boys Ride or Die (Armando x Reader): Part TWO

“May I get three shrimp tacos with lemon water, please.”, you stated in front of the waitress. You watched as she wrote down your order. Short, middle-age white woman with light brown eyes and brown hair. She had a scar across her lip, probably from when she was a little kid. 

“That’s an interesting scar. If you don’t mind me asking, what happened?”, you asked, examining it, allowing curiosity to win.

“Oh this  scar was from when I was a kid. Fell off a bike and landed in a ditch filled with branches full speed. Thank God I didn’t die.”, she laughed looking at you and then turning her attention to Marcus and Mike.

“You two are here all the time. Same orders?”

“Yes ma’am.”, they replied in unison

“Okay, I'll bring your drinks shortly.”, she replied, leaving and heading to the back.

You watched as she left, examining the restaurant and families that were enjoying themselves. You must’ve been staring too long because when you shifted your eyes back at Marcus and Mike, they were already staring at you.

“What is your problem?”, Marcus laughed, staring at you as if he had just seen something suspicious.

“What do you mean?”, you replied, straightening your posture.

“I mean, you’re always staring at people. People who always stare at others tend to be some crazy motherfuckers, I read that in the newspaper.”

“Now where the hell did you read that at Marcus, because it sounds like you’re just pulling that out of your ass.”, Mike scoffed looking at him with pure disgust.

“Look, I'm just saying.”

“Well..you don’t think it's odd that you invited a “crazy motherfucker” out to have lunch with you and Mike.”, you mocked leaning into the table. 

“I like to observe people, so sorry if that’s a problem.”, you continued

“It’s fine, but anyways…you should tell us a little about yourself.”Mike suggested grabbing the drinks from the waitress and passing them out. “We’ve been around each other for a while now and you haven’t told us much about yourself.”, he continued.

“Pay.”, you pointed while holding up a drink. They’re already getting on your nerves so they might as well pay for your lunch.

“Of course..he will.”, Marcus answered while side-eyeing Mike. 

                 “Really…”

“What, you’re the one that was born rich, might as well take advantage of it.”, he laughed, shrugging his shoulders and then turning his attention to you.

You looked down at your drink and then back at them. You weren’t comfortable with sharing things when it comes to yourself. You never genuinely know people nowadays, no matter how long you’ve known them.

“What do you want to know?” you asked, looking at Mike.

“Where are you from? Are with anyone-”

“How many people have you killed?”

“How am I supposed to know that?”, you asked confusingly. You sometimes wondered about them. Were they special? Maybe sexually frustrated? You wanted to figure out a way to flip the conversation onto both of them.

“We asked because we’ve had several huge moments where we had to kill A LOT of people. Two of them being drug lords and their crews, and one of them being a part of the cartel.”, Marcus continued, turning his attention to Mike.

“Yeah, I had several head shots…bodies were thrown everywhere. We even nearly died.”, Mike added as if he was reliving through the whole operation again.

“What about your son?”, you asked, turning your attention to Mike. “I’m sorry if this is too personal but remembering how he had shot you that night and being the reason Captain isn’t here anymore. How are you taking that?”, you continued taking a quick glance at the waitress that was heading towards your table.

“I think about him everyday. Knowing that I missed out on watching him grow up and the kind of relationship that I had with his mother. Even though she didn’t know that I was an undercover cop and me not knowing that she was pregnant. It’s hard to think about.”, Mike explained, grabbing his plate while smiling at the waitress as a “thank you” gesture.

“He had a baby with a cartel witch bitch. Can you believe that!”Marcus yelled excitedly. “Gotta be the freakiest shit you’ve ever done.”, he continued laughing while patting Mike on his back. 

Mike was in his head, you could tell. Although he was rubbing the back of his neck and had a slight grin on his face, you could see that the whole situation between him and his son bothered him. Especially knowing that he may spend life in prison or be on death row because of him.

“Yeah, I heard about it a little after the operation ended. Everyone was talking about it.”, you replied, taking a bite into your taco. It was creamy and very good. You could taste the shrimp, onions and lemons that were in it.

“Yeah, Armando is one strong son of a bitch.”

“Hell, he’s just like you. Ignorant and have one big ass ego. I could tell when he had helped you lift me up when I almost fell into that fire.”, Marcus laughed, shoving his food into his face. You could see crumbs fall onto his t-shirt.

“So that’s his name…Arman-”, before you could finish your sentence, you were interrupted by Marcus' phone going off.

“It’s the wife calling, hold on.”, he said, picking up his phone and answering.

You and Mike continued eating until you noticed a shift in Marcus’s voice, causing the both of you to look up at him. You didn’t know what was going on but you knew that something wasn’t right.

“Marcus…”, Mike whispered looking at you and then back at him. You didn’t want to say anything because you knew that at some point the conversation would end. You looked around to see if anything was odd with the place, however everything seemed to be normal. You watched as Marcus hung up the phone and looked at you and Mike with a worried and concerned look on his face.

“What is it?”you asked, throwing your hands up in a, “hurry-up-and-answer” manner. 

“Captain. The news.”, Marcus answered, looking at both you and Mike for a response.

“Captain, huh?”

“Yeah, what’s going on?”, you asked moving your food to the side to lean towards Marcus in confusion. 

What the hell does “Captain” mean? And what does he have to do with the news?

“We have to figure out a way to turn on the tv up there.”, he replied pointing at the television that was hanging on the wall.

All three of you guys moved your head and scanned around the restaurant to see if you could catch a worker’s attention. Eventually a worker saw one of you guys and was asked if he could put the news on. Although the waiter was only gone for a couple seconds. The silence made it feel like forever. A word wasn’t said, but the conversation that was happening through our eyes was saying everything underneath the sun.

Mike took a deep sigh and you all turned around to face the TV to see what was going on. It was about Captain Howard. He was being framed for smuggling millions of dollars and for working with the Cartel. You watched and you  listened. Your breaths felt hitched and the tension in the air became thick as the reporter showed a picture of Captain Howard. Even though the picture of him was nice, the words that were being said about him weren't. It felt like betrayal and you could tell through Mike’s body language that was what he felt.

“Howard wouldn’t have done that ... .not smuggle money  nor be a part of any connections with the Cartel.”, Mike whispered, turning back around to face you and Marcus. You were silent until you remembered the meeting that was happening this morning.

“The meeting…this morning. That is what the meeting was about!”

“Meeting?”Mike questioned confusingly.

“Remember when we first walked into the station this morning. The cop told us about the meeting that was happening, remember…!”, you explained getting up.

You watched as Marcus and Mike face lit up, confirming that they remembered the conversation between you and the cop. After having to leave lunch early due to finding out the situation with Captain Howard, you rushed back to the station to find everyone standing around talking about the news. Marcus and Mike never said a word but through their energy, you could feel it. Each step that you three took felt heavy and the hallway felt like it was getting longer every stride. Once you reached the door, you opened it and allowed Marcus and Mike to walk in first.

“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!”Mike angrily yelled making his way through the room.

You could tell that everyone that was sitting was timid, except one guy. The table looked way clearer than earlier and the tension that was in the room this morning, left. 

“I’m sure you’ve heard about the news, Mike.”, the guy at the head of the table said.

“Hell…The whole damn world did.”, Marcus scoffed looking at you. You looked back at him in pure confusion. You felt that what Marcus said was true but was wondering why no one was answering Mike’s question.

“No seriously, what is going on? Why is Howard on the news?”, you asked walking  towards the guy at the head of the table.

“We’ve found evidence of your former Captain Conrad Howard smuggling millions of dollars while working with the cartel.”, the guy explained, holding up a folder and pointing at a drive filled with “evidence”.

“WE ALL KNOW THAT’S BULLSHIT! I MEAN C'MON, THE MAN IS DEAD!”Mike yelled looking back at you, then Marcus and then the guy.

You stood there in disbelief. What kind of evidence did they have on Howard? What was “going on” behind closed doors? Millions of questions started going through your head, that you felt needed to be answered. You felt the need to say something however you know that this will be more personal for Mike and Marcus rather than you.

“I mean…c’mon Rita…you believe this?”Mike sighed, turning to look at Rita while walking towards her for answers. Rita took Captain Howard's place once he was killed. A Hispanic woman who stands around 5 '6, who can be mean if she has to,and  knows how to take charge without being easily influenced. However the way it looks now, you felt differently. You watched as Rita got up and walked towards Mike.

“Seriously Rita. It’s obvious that our Captain is being framed.”, Marcus added, looking at Rita. You could tell that Mike wanted Rita to side with him, he was searching her face for an answer but hell even from a mile away, you could tell what she was about to say.

“Look, I am your  friend. But I am your boss before I am your friend and I have to still do my job.”, She explained looking at Marcus, then at Mike. She took a quick glance at you, and in return you examined her up and down. 

“And my job is to always do my job regardless of my beliefs. So I will go through with the FBI and the charges, I'm sorry but the evidence is clear.”,  she continued crossing her arms and then turning her back to go sit down.

“What happened to “Innocent until proven guilty "?" Marcus asked, looking around the room, no one answered.

“This is bullshit and you all know it. Captain is being framed and we’re going to prove it.”, Mike replied in disgust while looking at every face in the room.

“And if he is innocent…We will clear his name.”, the guy replied, sitting back down.

“Mike lets go.”, Marcus whispered. 

You knew that Mike was hurting by what had just occurred. Someone that he loved was killed and now being framed for a crime that he didn’t do. You, Marcus and Mike turned around to walk out when you noticed a woman walking in. 

“You have a lot of nerves.”, the woman said with a mug on her face.

“Look Judy, I loved your dad. Marcus and I can prove that he’s innocent…trust me.”Mike pleaded, towering over her.

You watched as pure hatred filled her eyes. She looked at Mike as if he had just spit in her face and slapped her.

“TRUST YOU?! YOU’RE THE REASON THAT HE’S DEAD! YOU AND THAT FUCKING BASTARD SON OF YOURS!”she yelled, straightening her back while pointing at him.

“Look…Judy.”, Mike whispered, trying to calm her down. It was obvious she was on a different planet, she was filled with pain but this gave her no reason to be this cold towards him. Especially after the fact that she was just at his wedding.

“NO! You look.”, she demanded, shaking her head in disapproval. 

“If I see your son…When I see your son. I will kill him. And I mean it, I will make him pay. This is my state and I run it, I will make sure that he’s dead and that’s a promise.”, she whispered, tilting her head to read Mike’s face.

“Mike, c’mon.”, you whispered, grabbing his hand while guiding him out.

“You give us a chance, we will show you that Captain was innocent.”, Marcus demanded before shutting the door.

You were standing outside of the room between Mike and Marcus. Beyond the shockness, there was hurt and betrayal from all ends. The people in that room knew who Captain Howard was.  He was a leader. One minute he would cuss you out but in the same breath give you advice. He was always there. You met him before you met the boys and although it wasn’t very long until he died after you met him; the moments you spent with him made it feel like forever.

You could tell that they were on the verge of tears, which was understandable but you also knew that time was ticking before they tried to frame the Captain that the three of you both knew.

“Look, I know this has to be extremely hard to endure. Knowing that the three of you were close and I can’t change that. I will never be able to and I’m not trying to.”, you explained turning around to face Mike and Marcus.

“But.. If you allow me to help you guys out, I can for sure play a role in proving his innocence.”, you continued pulling out your phone to show them your call logs.

“Connections, already?”Marcus laughed, grabbing it.

“Allow me to help, I’m not as “new” as the both of you guys think.”, you smiled, grabbing your phone back and putting it into your pocket.

It was a short silence before Mike agreed and Marcus followed suit. 

“We will need to go visit the prison first.”, Mike replied looking at Marcus and then back at you.

“For what?”Marcus replied, looking at Mike for answers.

     “Armando. He’ll be able to help.”

You’ve heard of the stories about how they like to run their operations, "Russian Roulette Style”. Pulling the trigger until it bangs, especially now knowing that you have to go see Armando, who you’ve never met before nor know much about with his history of crimes. However, with what’s at stake now, Howard being framed and the kind of support that Marcus and Mike needs, Russian roulette it is.

[foxglovepng]

Hello! Can I request for Soulmate AU of your choice for Leona, Idia, Floyd and Malleus? Thank you in advance!

Characters: Leona, Idia, Floyd, Malleus

CW: Leona & Idia being haters, Floyd is Floyd. Maybe OOC, Not proofread

A/N: Hello Anon! I am not too familiar with writing for soulmate AU so this will definitely be interesting. I decided to go with the red string one because It's the only one I sort of know.

A/N: I am so sorry if these are short I really do not write for soulmates at all.

If you liked Reblogs and Likes are appreciated <3

🌼🥀

Leona

Soulmate?? PSHHHHH Leona doesn't believe in soulmates. Or so he thought.

His brother met his soulmate and well we all know how that went. Leona had given up on soulmates in general since he could never find the said person.

Going to NRC he didn't think he'd meet them.

When he came across Yuu he saw their strings joined during the spelldrive incident. But that wasn't the topic of conversation that was for another day.

When they came across him again Yuu realized they were soulmates and their eyes gleamed. Leona was like Ugh an was constantly trying to fight it, he didn't really care, but Yuu of course kept pushing. He snapped at them one day and was like

"You're annoying I don't care that you're my soulmate." and then walked away.

Eventually Leona secretly began to miss Yuu's prescense but would never admit it out loud. One day he got fed up and went to go look for them. Some students were ganging up on them and he well scared them off.

"Be careful herbivore I'm not cleaning up your messes again." Liar he would.

At first he hated the soulmate thing, but he's not saying he likes it just doesn't mind it.

Floyd

He is a special case. He doesn't care enough, but he also does care. He's neutral to the soulmate thing, but if he ever did find his soulmate he'd be super stoked to meet them.

When Yuu came to Mostro Lounge to make the deal he found out Yuu was his soulmate then. However he was currently busy so he couldn't do anything about it although he's now super interested in Yuu.

After the whole ordeal he attaches himself to Yuu to learn everything about them, and just to get to hang out with them.

(Yuu literally has to force him to practice because he won't leave their side)

Eventually when they do start having a relationship he's even more loving and affectionate knowing he can kiss and cuddle his little shrimp as much as he wants.

Idia

He can barely handle a social interaction what make you think he will find his soulmate.

He's literally a shut in who is mainly on his computer either programming, doing school work, or gaming he'd not one for social situations.

The only way he found out Yuu was his soulmate was because he coincidentally went outside for club and he ran into Yuu and learned Yuu was his soulmate. Yuu figured it out too and he pulled out every excuse in the book to go back to the dorm.

Bro is not ready for the level 100 boss

Ever since then, he has tried to avoid Yuu. Emphasis on try as Yuu would probably be pushing as he is their soulmate.

Ortho at some point tells him he can't keep pushing away. He won't give up, but Ortho literally invites Yuu over forcing them to hang out.

It will take a while and some work before Idia can work up to the idea of a partner and a relationship, but he eventually does get there.

The second Yuu starts talking about marriage or a baby Idia would ramble about how he's not ready and tell Yuu to slow down.

Malleus

Poor boy has been lonely forever a soulmate would make him feel less lonely and he'd be happy that he has someone to be around. He's been excited to meet said soul mate. He'd been dreaming what they'd look like what kind of person they are what gender they are (Not that gender matters to him)

When he was outside ramshackle and Yuu came out he realized their strings connected. He was happy he found his soulmate and would be even happier if they felt the same way about him.

When he came back from Diasmonia that night he told Lilia he found his soulmate. Lilia was happy so was Silver. Sebek was like WHAT? but he will get over it. (Spoiler he ends up liking and tolerating Malleus's s/o)

Peep Malleus planning the wedding with Lilia as the officiant.

[ilwonuu]

meow meow meow…. What if…. So okay. Reader and Lee knaur are like “sworn enemies” but like one day Lee knaur is studying and reader starts annoying him for the fun of it and takes it too fat calling him a shrimp dick loser. Making him heat up as he’s all like “oh yeah I’ll show you how much of a shrimp dick loser I am then” and as he lifts her skirt up she’s wearing hello kitty panties and he gets so hard to the point where he pounds into reader so hard until she’s a mess of tears and smeared lipstick…

RARSBSBD C C

meow meow 😻 anon omg… i need lee knaur (LMFAO OKOK IN ALL SERIOUSNESS THIS IDEA IS AKSJSHSHSHS) thank you so much for your request lmk what you think<3

ੈ✩‧₊˚ shut you up ੈ✩‧₊˚

↬ lee minho

❥ pairing- sworn enemies to ???, dom!minho x sub reader

❥ warnings- smut without plot lol, MDNI, they hate each other (no they don’t), unprotected sex(of course), dirty talk, creampie, fingering, kissing, lmk what else???

❥ a/n- i had too much fun writing this???? lmk what you think!!! more drabbles soon<3 (send in any requests)

of course you would be paired up with lee minho. the annoying attractive boy you go to college with.

you two hated eachother, and he was sitting on your bed in your dorm.

“let’s get this over with.” he doesn’t even look at you once. “you know i don’t want you to be here as much as you don’t want to be here.” he just laughs at you.

“you’re fucking insufferable.” he says with disbelief behind his voice.

“you haven’t met yourself yet.” you scoff at him with a fake smile

“can you shut up so we can study? you’re so annoying.” his eyes are rolling at your voice.

“i’m fucking annoying? you’re voice is making me crazy shrimp dick loser. ” his eyes are on you, you can’t look away from him.

“what did you just call me?” he says with a laugh. “what you can’t handle that i called out you have a shrimp for a dick?” you scoff.

“oh yeah? i’ll show you how much of a shrimp dick loser i am then.” minho is reaching for your skirt lifting it up.

you are beyond shocked at his movements. but you want nothing more but for him to touch you more.

“hello kitty underwear baby?” his dick hardening in his jeans. he smirks rubbing over your thigh gently. the nickname has you losing your mind.

you don’t know what shifted in you. your breath hitching at his touch. “can i fuck you?” his question is in a whisper as he pulls your face closer to his.

“y-yes.” he just pulls your skirt higher onto you waist. “fuck-“ he watches you pull his jeans down as you pull his dick out you stroke it a couple times.

“fuck- what happened to that attitude huh?” he pulls your panties to the side, he asks slowly pushing into you quickly.

“what can’t speak now? i thought i was a shrimp dick loser darling?” he whispers into your ear as he drills into you on you bed.

“mmm- minho!” he shakes his head. “kiss me baby.” he pulls you into a sloppy kiss. him smearing your lipstick across your face.

when he pulled away he had your lipstick on his own lips. his hips speed into yours as he opens your legs wider.

you try to close your legs to run away from the pleasure, minho noticed this quickly.

he pulled you legs back open slowly his thrusts. “minho- i will come too fast.” he puts his forehead to yours.

“make a mess for me. you’re so fucking pretty.” he’s drilling into you again as he pulls you into a sloppy kiss.

you can’t hold your tears anymore your coming on his dick without warning but he doesn’t stop.

“you can take it for a little longer right angel?” his hips are stuttering but he slows his thrusts.

“where do you want me to- fuck come where do you want it?” he asks you sweetly.

“inside-“ as soon as he hears those words leave your lips his hips are speeding up again.

“fuck- you take it so well.” his words instantly going to your cunt.

“shit- im coming.” he groans as his hips stutter again. his cum painting your walls. he groans as he watches his cum start to leak out of your aching hole.

you start to calm to as you feel him pull out of you.

“don’t get too comfortable angel- i’m not done with you yet.” minho looks so sexy as he smirks at you, wiping some of your tears from your face.

he kisses your eyes as you feel his fingers rub your cunt gently. you feel two of his fingers start to fuck into you causing you to gasp. “so messy- come here.”

[cosmal]

hozier — send me an au + character and i’ll write you a blurb. i.e rockstar!remus, rugby!james, stoner!peter

rockstar!sirius coming home from a long trip all clingy and whiny about how much he missed you omg

order in

summary sirius is clingy when he gets home from tour.

content sirius black x fem!reader

note um mal i love this idea shut up!!!!!!!!!

"Jesus Christ," Sirius says at the sight of you. A tiny vest, a pair of boxers he's sure are his. He forgets he thought they were lost almost immediately. You've got a laundry basket held to your hip.

"Sirius," you say. Really gently. Soft and sickly sweet. You don't flinch like he'd thought you would. He likes that more than he should. "Baby, when did your flight land? You didn't Uber here did you? Have you been home?"

He doesn't answer a single one of your questions and you shift on your feet, soft socks twisting into the crush of your rug. The anklet on your left leg clinks.

He drops his neck pillow next to his forgotten suitcase and closes the space between the two of you. He almost knocks into your dining table. You drop the basket on your couch like you know what he's about to do.

He hugs you so hard he worries you might bruise. He trusts you'd let him know if it might be too much because he still feels like it's not hard enough. He wants to feel you against him. Your hip pressed to his, your chest against his shoulder, the way your chin falls into the pit between his shoulder and neck.

"Sirius," you say into his skin. Right behind his ear where you know he likes it. "I was supposed to pick you up. You were supposed to ring."

"Don't care," he says and means it. "I didn't want you to drive through the traffic, I know you hate it."

You do. Last time you picked him up at Heathrow you almost had a prang. He was just as upset as you were. He had to drive the two of you home.

"I would've been okay," you sigh. He knows what you mean. "I'm sure you're exhausted."

"I am," he says. He starts to walk backwards until the backs of his legs hit the edge of your sofa. He sits down and takes you with him. You gasp like you weren't expecting it. Silly. "I am, but Christ, baby, I missed you."

You tuck your knees into his sides where he's got your legs parted over his lap. Pressing your palms into his soft hoodie, right over his chest. "Missed you more," you say before kissing his cheek. You pull back and he's frowning.

He reaches his hands up to your neck to tug you back down to his face. "That's really not possible," he mumbles before kissing you. Properly, he thinks, warm and slow into your mouth to show how much he means it.

You pull back, and despite the slow nature of his kiss, you're breathless. A little gaspy as you blink slowly and try to tamp back your shy grin. "Sure," you say.

"Promise."

You tuck your hands into his hair and look as lovesick as he feels. Pushing flat locks of hair behind his ears. Kinked where he's had his headphones on for the past thirteen hours. If he's lucky, he thinks he might get you into the shower later on with him tonight while he washes it. If he's even luckier, he might not have time to wash it at all.

"You gonna let me make you some dinner?" you ask, twisting a strand of hair around your finger.

"No," he says and means it. You're not going anywhere if he can help it. "No, stay here, baby."

"You're not hungry?" you ask. Your hand stills and he doesn't have it in him to ask you to keep twisting his hair. He knows you would but he thinks he's being whiny enough.

"Not really," he lies. He’s starved. Plane food is awful. "Thanks, though, honey."

You smile at the nickname like he'd expected. "You don't want me to make that linguine? The one with the little shrimp? I think the market might still be open."

Sirius wants to kiss you again. He wants to kiss you and hug you. He wants to tuck his arms under your shirt and hide his face in your neck until he gets bored. He doesn't think there are enough days left in existence to achieve it.

"We could order in?" he suggests. "Not that I don't love your cooking, it's just, I can order from my phone and you can stay right here in my lap."

"Sirius," you mumble.

"Yeah, and then while we wait, you can tell me about everything you did while I was away." He's smiling so hard he can't help it. It's an amazing idea.

You pretend to think about it but then reach down to pull his phone from his pocket. You hand it to him, smiling, and say, "Two conditions."

"I'm listening."

"We order from the Indian place around the block. Girl and The Goat?" He knows you only suggest it because it's his favourite. He tosses up arguing with you over it. He knows you'll want Greek. You always do.

He doesn't. "Right."

"And," you add, "You have to tell me everything you haven't already about tour."

Sirius rolls his eyes like that's an inconvenience. He really did want to let you ramble away. He's been gone two months. "Okay."

You smile like you're actually excited. "Yay."

Sirius pulls out his phone and finds the right number in his favourited contacts. He holds the dialling phone to his ear. "Good, I can complain to you then. James is such a fu- Hello, could I please place an order?"

You laugh until he finishes the order.

-

fixing the readmore glitch <3

[guillotinna]

I keep seeing these Gen z is task force 141 and I wanna join

Anytime you use a computer, you do that stupid movie hacker trope of exaggerated typing and say "I'm in"

Saying "POV" in front of sentences

In the group chat saying "1 like and I'll kms", liking your own message and then saying "damn guess I gotta"

I see a lot of these posts were Gaz and Soap would understand y/n....bffr, no those geezers would not

No one knows what the gen z kid is saying they just know it's probably not good

"You're telling me a shrimp fried this rice?"

You have a small photo you keep tucked in your chest pocket and after enough times seeing you looking lovingly at it, one of the guys asks who it is. Is it a s/o from back home? 😏😏

You say no and pull out a photo card of your fave singer and they're like ??? Really

One time during a particularly physical scuffle with the enemy, you get thrown to the ground and huff out "one hop this time" only to promptly tackle tf outta your assailant while saying "take it back now yall"

Reads everyone's zodiac charts except ghost bc he won't tell his birthday let alone the time he was born so you just make one up

Price calls a 6 am meeting to which you say "double it and give to the next person"

*Alexa, play teenagers by MCR*

If you had time describe the base, you'd say it smells like ball sweat, blood and war crimes which everyone took offense to for different reasons

Would absolutely get soaps doodles tattooed

Actually speaking of which, imagine getting caught giving yourself stick and pokes with a pen and being banned from using pens period

You'd be in a meeting with a #2 pencil

Ofc a gen z member would be absolutely feral which very little regard for their own safety much to the dismay of the others

Quoting "Oh these aren't homemade, they were made in a factory....a bomb factory......they're bombs." All the time around soap even though he has no idea what you're talking about

You don't spent too much alone time with ghost bc he likes quiet and you can't be alone with your thoughts which is why you lean more towards spending time with soap or gaz

I just like puns so I'm gonna add this but gen z love borgs (a customized gallon jug of alcohol that is usually given a name) and yours is appropriately named taskforce 1-borg-1

this is mainly for my americans but i know pretty much the whole world got beef with engl*nd: before you met Soap, you thought the entire 141 was en*lish so when you finally did meet him, you said "oh thank god" with a sigh

americans 🤝 scotts

making fun of english "people"

"Pull up in the monster, automobile gangsta With a bad bitch that came fr-" "....sergeant, comms off please"

you show Ghost WAP and he has to take a walk

*price yelling at gaz and soap*: KYLE GARRICK AND JOHN MACTAVISH GET IN HERE- Y/n: oop not the government name

Another for my US baddies: if your'e ever arguing with any of the guys, the nail in the coffin would be "and it's called soccer"

"one more like and i'll-" "enough!"

you call Price "ms. girl" and he could not be more confused

someone asks "do you serve?" and u reply "yah, serve cunt"

when asked why you decided to join the military you said something like: "well i didnt think i'd live past 18 so when I did, i ended up here".....crickets from the rest of the team

"good thing we only have showers on base because i would have already taken a toaster bath by now"

ask Gaz "no bitches?🤨" one more time see what happens

price: the enemies have taken civvies hostage and blocked off all exits and entrances to the town-" y/n: "omg tea"

Also calling price "capt. Save-a-hoe"....I wanna be saaaavvveddd ;)

If you took a shot every time you said "rest in peace to all the soldiers that died in the service, I dive in her cervix", you'd be dead lmao

When asked if they like the military they'd say "it was either this or the psych ward so yah, I'll take it"

Quoting MPGIS constantly and no one even sort of knows what that is ("Crack. Is that what you smoke? You smoke crack?")

Some detainee being interrogated is spilling some nonsense, so you hit them with "oh brother this guy stinks!" And then with the butt of your gun

"Little bad trini bitch but she mixed with China, real thick vagina, smuggle bricks to-" "SARGENT ENOUGH"

Falling asleep on team mates (minus ghost's) shoulders mostly because the most peace they get is when you're unconscious

*when y/n hears any slightly suggestive/dirty phrase*: what are we talking about 😏 (iykyk)

Same energy as: " born next to a nuclear power plant, has an IQ of 2 and was hit in the head with several Rocks as a child"

Vine quotes out the wazoo, it's just awful for the rest of the team lmao

Replying to everything with "on god?"

soap: "what are you 6?" y/n: "yah 6 inches deep in your mom".....you did not walk away from that unscathed to say the least...worth it tho