#top movie production companies
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atelieradfilms · 10 months ago
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Elevating Brands: Unveiling Ad Film Production Houses in Bangalore
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Bangalore, known as the Silicon Valley of India, isn't just a hub for technology; it's also a thriving center for creativity and innovation in the advertising industry. In this bustling cityscape, ad film production houses play a pivotal role in shaping the narrative for brands. Let's explore the top players and the best advertising agencies in Bangalore that are making waves in the world of visual storytelling.
Ad Film Production Houses in Bangalore: A Creative Tapestry :
In the dynamic landscape of advertising, the demand for high-quality ad films is ever-growing. Bangalore stands as a hotbed for creativity, housing numerous ad film production houses that excel in crafting compelling visual narratives. These production houses leverage cutting-edge technology and a pool of creative talent to bring brands to life on screen.
Top Advertising Agencies in Bangalore: Setting the Standard :
Bangalore's advertising industry is brimming with agencies that set the standard for creativity, innovation, and effectiveness. These agencies go beyond traditional approaches, employing strategic thinking and creative flair to deliver impactful ad campaigns. As a result, they stand out as the top advertising agencies in Bangalore, gaining recognition for their ability to capture the essence of brands and resonate with target audiences.
Best Advertising Companies in Bangalore: A Diverse Spectrum :
The realm of advertising in Bangalore is not one-size-fits-all. The city hosts a diverse spectrum of advertising companies, each with its unique strengths and specializations. From digital marketing to traditional media, these companies offer comprehensive services to cater to the evolving needs of businesses in an ever-changing market.
Best Advertising Agencies in Bangalore: Pinnacle of Creativity :
Certain advertising agencies in Bangalore have carved a niche for themselves as the best in the business. These agencies bring a wealth of experience and a proven track record of success to the table. Their creative prowess, coupled with a deep understanding of market dynamics, positions them as go-to partners for brands aiming to make a lasting impact through their advertising efforts.
Video Production House in Bangalore: Capturing Moments, Creating Stories :
In the age of digital dominance, video content reigns supreme. Recognizing this trend, many advertising agencies have evolved into full-fledged video production houses in Bangalore. These entities specialize in bringing ideas to life through visually stunning and emotionally resonant videos, be it commercials, brand films, or social media content.
Unleashing Creativity: Bridging the Gap :
The synergy between advertising agencies and video production houses in Bangalore is where magic happens. Seamless collaboration ensures that creative concepts seamlessly translate into visually striking narratives. This collaboration enhances the overall effectiveness of ad campaigns, enabling brands to connect with their audiences on a deeper level.
In conclusion, the vibrant city of Bangalore stands as a testament to the thriving creativity within the advertising industry. From ad film production houses to the best advertising agencies, the city's landscape is rich with entities that are reshaping the way brands tell their stories. For businesses seeking to elevate their brand presence, partnering with the top advertising agencies and video production houses in Bangalore is the key to unlocking the full potential of visual storytelling. Embrace the creativity that Bangalore has to offer and witness your brand soar to new heights.
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princesssarcastia · 8 months ago
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reading top gun fanfic like he would not say that even on pain of death. he wouldn't even know what those words mean. they wouldn't be self-aware enough to know that. that's not what that policy meant. that happened like ten years earlier or later that you're saying. That's Not How The Force U.S. Military Works.
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landofgay · 1 year ago
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excited for another day of my one supervisor telling me I'm doing an amazing job and gushing over me vs my other supervisor and my "boss" who's not supposed to still be my boss persay or not in the way she was anyways, they fucking act like I'm scum for trying to get ahead by *glances at notes* helping my supervisors
#like im not trying to take anything from anyone!!! im just trying to help them out!!!#if my supervisor who has a stack of paperwork to fix infront of her now has another folder for an order that#she wasnt in the room for. the other person my 'boss' is exlusively training on paperwork also wasnt in the room for. and the supervisor who#WAS in the room is the one who just fucked up this paperwork for the order#then yeah im gonna offer to help her with this folder since i actually WAS in the room#in fact i got left in charge for the first 2.5 hours cause no supervisors were in the room at all!!!!! UGH#at that point i was the most experienced person in the room by far!!! and i know so much about this company#cause its like. a passion of mine. so i know a lot about the products we sell!!! like a LOT#more than my bosses cause i actually buy a shit ton of our product. so i know how many per product or what colour label or whatever tf#just off the top of my head!!!!#i also am very passionate about NOT SENDING OUT DAMAGED PRODUCT#meanwhile 'boss' says im being too picky#AM I??? CAUSE IVE BOUGHT TWO PRODUCTS NOW WITH MY OWN PAYCHEQUE THAT WERE DAMAGED#ugh christ. im just very tired from this week between all that and the intense drama from earlier this week#im ready to sleep in all weekend#except idiot me made plans for every day this weekend#tonight i hang out with my dad and my bf#tomorrow me and bf go to my coworkers for drinks and viddy games#and sunday we go out of town with bf's sister for drag brunch and thrifting#so itll all be fun i just KNOW im gonna wind up exhausted 😭😭😭 plus truthfully i just wanna show my bf more movies
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vgenmedia255 · 11 months ago
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This blog provides a comprehensive overview of how VFX has become an integral part of the cinematic experience, with case studies illustrating its impact on recent blockbuster movies. From technological innovations to behind-the-scenes revelations, readers gain a newfound appreciation for the magic that unfolds on the silver screen.
In a world where storytelling meets cutting-edge technology, VFX stands as the bridge between imagination and reality. As we continue to witness the evolution of this transformative art form, one thing remains clear — the enduring magic of VFX will continue to captivate audiences and shape the landscape of blockbuster cinema for years to come.
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vgenmedia1 · 11 months ago
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This blog provides a comprehensive overview of how VFX has become an integral part of the cinematic experience, with case studies illustrating its impact on recent blockbuster movies. From technological innovations to behind-the-scenes revelations, readers gain a newfound appreciation for the magic that unfolds on the silver screen.
In a world where storytelling meets cutting-edge technology, VFX stands as the bridge between imagination and reality. As we continue to witness the evolution of this transformative art form, one thing remains clear — the enduring magic of VFX will continue to captivate audiences and shape the landscape of blockbuster cinema for years to come.
Read More : https://shorturl.at/lmrBV
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familyabolisher · 1 year ago
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I've walked past the Barbie branded selfie booth, sat through the reel of old commercials that precede the previews, and watched Margot Robbie learn to cry, and I’m still not sure what “doing the thing and subverting the thing,” which Greta Gerwig claimed as the achievement of Barbie in a recent New York Times Magazine profile, could possibly mean. This was the second Gerwig profile the magazine has run. I wrote the first one, in 2017, which in hindsight appears like a warning shot in a publicity campaign that has cemented Gerwig’s reputation as so charming and pure of heart that any choice (we used to call them compromises) she makes is justified, a priori, by her innocence. This is a strange position for an adult to occupy, especially when the two-hour piece of branded content she is currently promoting hinges on a character who discovers that her own innocence is the false product of a fallen world. But—spoiler alert!—the point of Barbie’s “hero’s journey” is less to reconcile Barbie to death than to reconcile the viewer to culture in the age of IP.
“Doing the thing and subverting the thing”: I haven’t finished working out the details, but I think the rough translation would be Getting rich and not feeling feel bad about it. (Or, for the viewer: Having a good time and not feeling bad about it.) One must labor under a rather reduced sense of the word “subvert” to be impressed with poking loving fun at product misfires such as Midge (the pregnant Barbie), Tanner (the dog who poops), and the Ken with the earring, especially given that the value of all these collectors’ items has, presumably, not decreased since the film opened. Barbie may feature a sassy tween sternly informing Robbie’s Stereotypical Barbie that the tiny-waisted top-heavy billion-dollar business she represents has made girls “feel bad” about themselves, but if anyone uttered the word “anorexia,” I missed it. (There was a reason Todd Haynes told the story of Karen Carpenter’s life and death with Barbies, and it wasn’t because an uncanny piece of molded plastic has the magical power to resolve the contradictions of girlhood and global capitalism.) There’s a bit about Robbie going back into a box in the Mattel boardroom, but Barbies aren’t made in an executive suite; they come from factories in China. On the one hand, it’s weird for a film about a real-world commodity to unfold wholly in the realm of ideas and feelings, but then again, that’s pretty much the definition of branding. Mattel doesn’t care if we buy Barbie dolls—they’re happy to put the word “Barbie” on sunglasses and T-shirts, or license clips from the movie for an ad for Google. OK, here’s my review: When Gerwig first visited Mattel HQ in October 2019, the company’s stock was trading at less than twelve dollars a share. Today the price is $21.40. 
Christine Smallwood, Who Was Barbie?
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hi-techanimationstudio · 2 years ago
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Animation's Present and Future: Where It's Going
Get in touch with the Hi-Tech animation studio right now if you're looking to use animation to strengthen your marketing approach. As a premier provider of animated videos, we have worked with many clients from a variety of industries. Our team is big and diverse, with directors of animation, motion graphic designers, visual effects artists, sound designers, copywriters, and other professionals.
You can visit: https://www.hitechanimationstudio.com/animation-present-and-future
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husbandhoshi · 1 year ago
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title: eat. play. love.
pairing: seungcheol x f!reader
wc: 19.4k
summary: being one of new york's top food critics comes with a lot of perks: free dinners, nice awards, and a linkedin profile your parents could be proud of. that doesn't stop you from wanting a lofty promotion to editor, and the only person standing in your way is choi seungcheol. just one problem: his romance column has half of new york under his grimy little thumb. that, and you hate him.
in which your love language is food. seungcheol doesn't have one.
notes: romcom with mild angst, coworkers!au, slow burn enemies to lovers, playboy!cheol, suggestive (one moment in particular) + mentions of sex (otherwise sfw), swearing, lots of alcohol, also you will probably get hungry reading this. extra special thanks a million times over to my fav person @wuahae for bearing with me through literally all 20k words of this. i love you:')
It's underneath a layer of paper-thin egg yolk pasta where you think you see god.
Spoon meets whipped ricotta, white truffle, sage oil. A sip of 1979 cabernet, punishing and oaky. Rinse and repeat.
None of these words are in the Bible, yet you are having nothing short of a religious experience.
"Well, this seems like good news for the place," Jeonghan says. "Wine's tasty. Three stars?"
At this point, you're fairly sure Jeonghan has tuned the explanation of your elaborate rating process out (he's there for the wine, anyway), so instead you top him up and help yourself to a generous portion of his pappardelle.
"Four, then?" He leans forward on his elbows. "Or critic's choice?"
Candied lemon, pecorino, garlic. Derivative, but it's a good bite.
"You're distracting me." You point your fork at him. "You're like 80% alcohol, anyway. Bad opinions."
"Sue me," he laughs. "I would take a client here, is all I'm saying."
You pass on the opportunity to bring up that Jeonghan once brought a client to a Bubba Gump because he was craving coconut shrimp. But Jeonghan isn't a food critic—he's a business analyst and your best friend from college, back when all you cared about was Friday's house party and writing pizza joint reviews for the university paper.
It's a good arrangement. You appreciate his company, and he's never one to turn down a free meal. The both of you keep a small circle—such is the price of discernment.
There aren't many things that can come between you and a delicious meal. But, you have notifications turned on for just three things (all work-related) and you both watch the linen tablecloth light up under your face-down phone in true horror-movie fashion.
Jeonghan raises an eyebrow. "Popular on a Saturday night," he jokes. "Copy on your ass again?"
"Nothing's in production," you reply, letting the evil claws of your terrible work-life balance encircle you once again as you open your email.
URGENT: LIFESTYLE EDITOR TRANSITIONAL PLANS, it reads. It's from Wonwoo, your editor in chief, who has sent it with priority, as if the caps lock wasn't scary enough.
"So Joshua decided to quit. Just like you said," Jeonghan says, but it's like he's speaking to you through a wet paper bag because it takes every working brain cell of yours to read the email.
As you may know, Joshua has decided to step down from his position as our current Lifestyle editor.
Not a surprise, given his wife is having a kid. You had called it six months ago over the paper's Christmas dinner at Eleven Madison Park, when Joshua spent half of it outside on a phone call and the other half browsing the Baby Gap website.
I have decided to hire internally to fill his position. I and upper management believe you would be a good fit for the position. Please plan for a meeting 9 AM Monday to discuss transitional plans.
It's that part that you have to read over three times. And then you read it over a fourth, just for good measure.
"You're starting to scare me." Jeonghan puts down his glass, which is something akin to a baby separating from their bottle.
Sometimes you need a dictionary to understand Wonwoo, but the email seems clear as day to you. Good fit. Transitional plans. Suddenly you wish Jeonghan hadn't had so much of the wine because you're in desperate need of a drink.
"I-I think…I think I'm getting promoted."
How funny to think your lifelong dream would be realized over a 40 dollar plate of pasta. You want to cry and hug the maître d' and eat the entire complimentary bread basket.
"It's about time." The glass finds his relieved hand again. "You breathe journalism. I'm afraid one day you'll text me in AP style."
You read over all of it again, trying to memorialize the words that undoubtedly will launch your wonderful and long career in the upper echelons of media.
Looking forward to talking with the two of you.
Wait—two?
Then the proverbial cherry on top, the laughably convenient other thing your eyes had glazed over before.
CC: Choi Seungcheol.
"Choi Seungcheol?!"
Nothing is ever that easy and it then dawns on you that this is a competition type thing because never in the history of the printing press has there been two editors for a section.
Jeonghan stares at you blankly. It would be funny if you didn't feel like you were being double deep-fried like terrible fair food, all the thrill and elation of the moment boiled down to lead in your chest.
"I—he," you stammer.
Jeonghan mouths check to the poor waiter assigned to watch your table. God bless him.
"Words," he tells you. "You went to journalism school."
You take a syrupy breath that sits in your lungs unhappily. Your food is cold. This is a disaster.
"Well, actually, I'm not getting promoted."
Jeonghan's eyes soften, just enough without making you pity yourself more.
"There's this guy," you start. "He's the love and relationships columnist, the one I complain about all the time." Jeonghan makes a small ahh sound, your predicament finally dawning on him. "I guess we're both under consideration for the position. I didn't-I didn't even think of him. I—"
You slump into your seat, the arancini your only solace despite your complaint that the breading was too salty earlier.
"So? I bet you're a way better fit than him. It'll be a shoe-in. Easy decision."
Jeonghan's confidence in you makes you want to cry.
The problem is that Seungcheol is the human equivalent of Cosmopolitan Magazine. You can't recall the last time he walked into the office with a fully buttoned up shirt. You also can't recall the last time one of his advice columns wasn't in the end of quarter recap for popularity.
It's not in you to explain this debacle to Jeonghan. This whole situation is so cosmically awful that all you can do is ask for dessert in a takeout box and watch Jeonghan calculate tip without a calculator because that's all you learn in business school.
"Are you sure you're okay?" Jeonghan asks when you're both in the Uber.
"Yeah." You have a headache. You also can't decide whether or not to give the restaurant three or four stars, and you always know by the time you're out the door. "It's fine."
The tiramisu is cold in your lap. Jeonghan squeezes your shoulder. You refresh your email.
Choi Seungcheol's name stares back at you.
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The meeting goes exactly how you would expect.
Wonwoo, in his lanky taupe sweater vest, says that Joshua is leaving and you and Seungcheol are standing toe-to-toe in the space left behind.
"I'm sure you two are well-acquainted," he begins.
You stifle a laugh, but Seungcheol's cat-like grimace says more than enough. Neither of you have the heart to tell Wonwoo that your very first impression of Seungcheol was that he tried to hit on you at the new recruit party, or that Joshua probably deserves reparations for how often he mediated fights between the two of you during weekly meetings. (Maybe not reparations, but at least an Edible Arrangements.)
For better or for worse, Wonwoo's genius does not extend to social cues, and he follows with a blithe, "Therefore, I hope you two will treat this as a friendly competition between equals."
You almost laugh again, but this time it's because you need the promotion more than you need air, and you cannot allow some Buzzfeed reject with the face of a model take that from you. And you don't doubt Seungcheol wants it as bad as you do, considering how often you've seen him try to schmooze his way up the ranks.
He may have become a columnist by rubbing elbows with the right people, but you'll never forget the late nights you spent sifting through hours of interview transcripts, on the grueling climb up the totem pole to earn your position.
"We'll evaluate an article of your own submission at the end of the month before we decide. Best of luck."
At least Wonwoo knows to quit while he's ahead—he closes the meeting with a succinct nod before returning to his seemingly infinite unread emails.
"Exciting," Seungcheol says. He claps his hands together, Rolex gaudy under the office lights, and sends a nauseating smile your way. "May the best writer win."
He offers you a handshake. You think he has real life cooties, so instead you close your planner and shoot him a very pointed look.
"There's only one writer here. Thrilled to read your next thinkpiece on how men should spend more time on Tinder and not therapy."
That earns you a chuckle from Wonwoo, but Seungcheol is not easily fazed.
Instead he rushes to hold the door open for you on your way out, likely his favorite piece of advice to give his poor, indolent readers.
"I'll book a table for us at Avra next month," Seungcheol gloats. "Consider it a gift from your future boss."
"They don't have a kids menu, you know."
"No problem. I'll have my darling food critic order for me." He places a wicked hand over his polyester covered heart. "Ending misogyny in one fell swoop, huh?"
You wait for the door to Wonwoo's office to close before looking at him right in his wet, cow eyes with the most malice you can possibly muster. You feel it collect in your bones, enough to feel like you can physically hack it up and hurl it at him.
"You have no clue what you're talking about, huh? Do you actually attract women with that attitude? Or are you just a really good liar?"
You are so close to him, you could kiss him if you wanted—luckily for the both of you, you would rather die a thousand fiery, terrible deaths, and then die all over again. Instead, you watch his pout unravel into a grin from hell, and he leans in closer, the scent of Old Spice and break room coffee heavy on him. This morning's matcha latte churns in your stomach, and you wonder if you should have gotten oatmilk instead of dairy.
Up close, he's worse. His hair reminds you of the sad, tired swoop of the washed-up lead of a daytime soap opera. And he has no pores, which is deeply upsetting because he looks like the type to wash his face with Palmolive and a prayer.
"You know what?"
His breath hits your lips and your skin prickles like you have an allergy.
"What?"
"You just gave me the winning idea for my next column." No way, you think. Mind games. Classy. "See you at dinner, sweetheart. Looking forward to it."
The pet name makes you seethe. There are a million things you want to say, all colorful and none workplace appropriate.
"I'd rather starve."
"Better not let Wonwoo hear you with that bad attitude. I'm sure management loves a team player." His cheshire grin somehow gets bigger, all white teeth and pink lip. "Try to smile a little, huh? Have fun writing about snails and black garlic and cwa-ssants, or whatever it is that you do."
you watch all the laminated syllables of croissant go through his paper shredder smile and you think you black out.
He spins on his heel triumphantly, almost bowling over Minghao from Arts & Entertainment, who is undoubtedly wondering if you did, in fact, kiss.
Seungcheol laughs as he walks away, linebacker shoulders rippling under his one size too small shirt.
The metal-red knot of anger swells in your gut as you watch his perfect silhouette and his tiny little waist disappear into the staff room. Then you realize what you've been looking at and let yourself get mad all over again.
He does have a nice ass, though. You'll give him that.
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"You'll never guess what I have."
"Is it better than this lox bagel?" You answer, mouth unattractively full.
Seungkwan's answer is the sound of a straw hitting the bottom of an empty cup and the grating jostle of ice. Phone calls with him are like ASMR because he's always doing a million things at once, but you wouldn't have it any other way.
"Infinitely," he finally says, after procuring the last milliliter of what's likely his second coffee of the day. "Besides, we all know pesto is way better."
"Wrong, but okay," you reply. "What is it?"
"You're not gonna thank me for being the best friend in the world? Me, an editor, keeping nepotism alive for you? A mere columnist?"
"Senior columnist," you laugh between bites. "You need me. Who else would you text during content meetings?"
"Whatever." His eye roll is audible. "I guess I won't tell you."
He shakes his cup again, all ice and no patience.
"Fine! I owe you. My career and my life."
"And a seat at Momofuku."
"And that."
You take another greedy bite, letting the everything on an everything bagel get all over your chin. You love dressing up and going to restaurants that cost more than both of your kidneys, but there's something sacred about eating a $10 bagel behind the shield of your computer screen at a cafe where no one knows you.
There's someone laughing really loudly somewhere, and if you weren't otherwise preoccupied, you would look for the offender and give them a hard glare. You don't know what could possibly be that funny at 9 AM, but, then again, you never were a morning person.
"So, I have intel. About Seungcheol." You can picture the glint in Seungkwan's eyes, glittery and caramel. Unfortunately, the news that it's related to your worst enemy makes you sit up a little straighter. "At today's content meeting, Joshua said that he's working on some kind of challenge to go on as many dates as possible. He might make it a series."
"How tacky," you say, but the information clanks around in your brain like shoes in a washing machine. The indulgent, clickbaity headline just falls together perfectly—I Went On 50 First Dates So You Don't Have To. Exactly the kind of article your mom sees on Facebook and sends to you.
"You have to admit it's a decent idea. Not as good as yours, but it'll get engagement," is Seungkwan's reply, but you can barely hear it over the swell of another sitcom-esque laugh, this time, from a woman. "The other editors are very invested in this whole thing, by the way. Of course, I'm betting on you."
You're about to very openly stress about people gambling on your success when your eyes wander to the backside of the Sports Illustrated model getting napkins at the counter. Not bad at all, you think. It may be too early for the comedy club, but appreciating the male figure has no schedule.
And then he turns around, and you're able to see past the curly hair, muscle tee, beauty pageant smile—it's none other than Choi Seungcheol, fully outfitted with the audacity to trespass on your bagel place. You have never been more disgusted by your heterosexuality.
You hide behind your computer screen.
"Helloooo?" comes Seungkwan on the line. "Are you making out with your breakfast or something?"
"Seungkwan, I gotta go," you hiss. Your eyes follow Seungcheol as he makes his way back to his table. "There's a…situation."
You watch him sit across from a beautiful girl in a sundress and Prada sunglasses, and her lips tumble into a brilliant red smile.
It would be really fucking funny if he was on a date, you think, but then you see him make the kind of eyes you last saw in the deepest, stickiest recesses of a frat house on thirsty Thursday. Then you realize he is on a date, that he's been on a date, and it's his laugh that is equally annoying as it is loud.
Seungkwan works hard, but the devil always works harder.
"Ok, talk to you later. Bye!" You can hear the beginning of one of Seungkwan's protests, but you hang up before he's able to properly complain. Maybe you'll have to do a little better than Momofuku—that's a problem for later.
Over the rim of your laptop, you catch glimpses of their conversation. You notice Seungcheol talks a lot with his hands, and you wonder if that's another one of his tips or if that's just him. Him and those big clown hands, illustrating a story that you're unfortunately too far away to hear.
But you can hear her laugh again, and you try to guess what he's talking about. His childhood dog. The insurmountable burden of being prom king and captain of the football team. This little not-competition and this little not-rivalry between the two of you. How the PB&J bagel is the best thing on the menu (it's not, but you see the berry compote all over his fingers and you know that's the hill he's dying on).
No matter how you spin it, it's a hard pill to swallow. Choi Seungcheol is good at what he does, and there's nothing you can do to stop it.
You hear the careening lilt of what seems to be Seungcheol whining, and there's a brief flash of something like endearment in your stomach before the repulsion sets in.
Nothing you can do to stop him, huh?
The question, sinister and burning, writhes in your brain as you chew on the ice from your coffee and stare at a blank Word document, the cursor blinking like a heartbeat.
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Beware the wrath of a woman scorned.
It's number 3 on Seungcheol's article titled Revenge and Other Stories. Unsurprisingly, he must not practice what he preaches, because you currently have all nine circles of Dante's Inferno inside you right now.
Play nice, Jeonghan had told you. Looks better to upper management.
And you did, until one of your photo requests mysteriously got deleted. Then Joshua told you to cut 500 words from this week's column because Seungcheol's just "happened" to be a little longer this time.
The knockout punch was yesterday when Seungcheol told you he was using your January critic's choice pick to take Wonwoo out for a friendly dinner, his treat. If you had known, you would've called ahead and told them to poison the hamachi. (No matter. Any foodie worth their salt knows Thursday is the worst day for sushi).
Now you sit on the C train, dressed to the nines, because you have a date with destiny at Nai. Sometimes destiny is a big pan of paella for one, but this time, it's Seungcheol and his next victim on date night.
Getting him there was so easy, it was almost criminal. An obnoxiously loud elevator phone call in which you name dropped the executive chef, a friend of yours, at least four times. Seungkwan very strategically asking you if a press pass can bypass reservations for a booked-out restaurant. Gossip in the break room with the intentional use of "intimate," "sangria drunk," and "affordable."
Affordable was a lie, but you're learning quickly that a hungry fish will take any bait. And seeing Seungcheol's face is never a joy, but you're not opposed to watching him open the menu for the first time.
"I have a killer Spanish accent," Seungcheol told you on the way out today.
Hook, line, and sinker.
The subway car rumbles under you. You're almost in East Village. You don't normally spend your Friday nights crashing dates—you actually don't really spend them outside your apartment at all, but Seungcheol is the exception to the rule and you're making a lot of them for him. A small price to pay for the glory of dethroning Casanova.
The plan is to "accidentally" run into Seungcheol and his Friday night exploit, and then to casually, non-bitterly mention a, that she is about to become a statistic, b, that his idea of chivalry was birthed in the basement of the Alpha Omega house, and c, that you're surprised he's still single because you always happen to catch him on dates. Something like that.
This is admittedly the best you could come up with. Like you said, you don't really crash dates. You don't really sabotage people either, but Seungcheol declared war the minute his Folgers breath hit your face outside Wonwoo's office.
Then you think of all the ways things can absolutely backfire. Seungcheol's warm, carefree whirl of laughter when he explains you're office rivals, or worse, lies and says you're nothing but a jilted, jealous ex. Or this whole thing could simply be immortalized in his winning article as a jaunty sentence about making the most out of a bad situation, yada yada yada.
You picture watching another girl, spellbound, as you dig into your table-for-one paella.
In your mind's eye, she laughs, floaty like his date at the bagel place, and for a moment you understand what it might feel like to want Choi Seungcheol.
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Friday night at Nai is red and glittering and heady with saffron.
You remember when you first ate here, two weekends after the soft open, early in your career at the paper. After a three hour conversation over wine and octopus with the owner, you wrote the restaurant a glowing review that, to your surprise, helped land it several ritzy awards. Now the dining room is never empty, but they always find space for you.
That was the first time you learned that all of this work meant something. Yeah, you loved an excuse to stuff your face and get paid for it, but what was even better was the chance to tell the stories of a working father's hand-pulled noodles, the drunk, midnight origins of a tasting menu, the caramel-greedy fingers of a well-loved childhood.
This is the long way of explaining how you bypass the two hour standby wait time, and how you walk in on a first name basis with the manager.
You're fully prepared to see Seungcheol mid-churro, perhaps four pick-up lines deep and wondering if he still has a condom in his wallet.
That's why you almost miss him on your way to your table. His is empty, other than a lonely, watered down martini on the rocks and two menus.
"Seungcheol?"
He looks up at you, and something like genuine surprise melts into relief, then intrigue.
"Look at who crawled out of her dungeon," he chuckles. "You clean up good."
Whatever pity you may have felt for him vaporizes instantly. Although, when he beckons for you to sit in the empty seat across from him, you do take the bait—you're not about to pass up a good opportunity to humble your least formidable foe.
"Refreshing to see that our love guru isn't above dining solo," you reply. "I have to admit, your acting is impressive. What an elaborate ruse to get another poor, single diner to pity you enough to sit with you."
"It worked, didn't it?" He takes a sip of his cocktail, which is almost a brand new drink because it's 90% water, 10% martini by now.
"I'm no expert, but pretending to get stood up is not a tip I would give the general public."
"Who said I was pretending?"
No fucking way. Your jaw drops. It's too unreal to believe. Even if the slutty cut of Seungcheol's shirt wasn't persuasive enough, surely the prospect of enjoying a free Michelin star dinner would warrant an appearance, even for you. Breaking News: New York's Hottest Bachelor Ghosted at Top Restaurant. If only that were as wonderful to the average reader as it is to you.
Because waiters are trained to enter conversations at the best possible time, you're forced to pause and order a wine for the table and some tapas. (No paella for one? Seungcheol asks, and you try to reconcile your annoyance with the fact that one, he's read your review of this place, and two, that he looks mildly turned on that you can pronounce all the menu items. You tell the waiter to add a paella.)
"You got stood up?" You cross your arms over your chest. "You may think I'm dumb, but I'm not that dumb."
"You have no idea how flattering your reaction is." He laughs, and the air shifts around him, drawing you further into his eyes, inky under the lowlight. "I understand you think I'm irresistible, but, alas, not everyone shares your opinion."
"I never said that."
You hate how easy it is for him to push your buttons. You hate how in control he is, and you hate how he's looking at you like you're on the menu.
The waiter returns with the wine, and you decide you're feeling equally as terrible.
"Truly, you can't be that irresistible. After all this time writing about relationships, you would think you'd actually be in one."
Touché, you think. Normally, it would be too low a blow, even for you, except that his column-related debauchery is one of the four thrilling conversation topics he subjects you to at the office. And who are you to bury the lede?
"Coaches don't play," Seungcheol says, leaning back and popping the martini olive in his mouth offensively, as if he's not at a restaurant that takes months to get a good table at.
"Bullshit." You lean forward and chase his gaze. He doesn't shy away; rather, he meets you with an appraising raise of an eyebrow. "Coaches should at least know how to throw the ball."
"What do you think we're doing right now?"
"Oh, please." Your wrist twitches as you fight the urge to down your entire glass of merlot in a single gulp. You picture the title of his next article: Top 10 Ways To Get A Woman Drunk. And then the oh so charming punchline: 1. Be so insufferable she cannot last a conversation without her real life partner, wine.
"See? I've already got you laughing." He notices the generous sip missing from your glass and tops you up.
"No, you do not get to make this about me."
Somehow, you are laughing, but you chalk it up to the spiteful little man in your brain writing headlines for Seungcheol's column.
How To Antagonize Your Date In 5 Easy Steps.
"Need I remind you I'm only here because your actual date stood you up? Too soon?"
"I prefer you anyway," he answers, his expression half-challenge, half-something else that you don't really want to think about.
"Crazy, because I'd rather be literally anywhere else."
Signs You Are In A Hostage Situation, Not A Date.
"You should stick to food. You're a bad liar." He cocks his head to the empty table next to him. "It's still open if you want it."
"I'm no quitter."
Maybe The Male Gaze Isn't So Bad: A Thinkpiece.
Definitely not that one.
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"So, before I try anything," Seungcheol says, leaning across the table. "Teach me how to be a food critic."
"Why, so you can steal my job?"
"You can keep it," he laughs. "I'm gonna be your boss, not your replacement."
You notice he'll linger on the tail end of his sentences, betting on the response you haven't even come up with yet. He's picking apart the furrow of your brow, the marrow of your brain. It's like one drawn out interview, but you suppose that's all dating really is. Maybe your journalism degree wasn't a waste of money after all.
You won't give him the satisfaction of a fight (plus, you don't want the food to get cold), so you change the subject.
"Well, I take pictures first," you say, waving away his overeager fork.
"Genius. They really scammed you out of your Pulitzer, huh?"
You ignore him in lieu of repositioning the chorizo. Unfortunately, Seungcheol is unrelenting. You hear the snap of his phone camera, clearly taking a photo of you and not the meal—clever, but you won't bite.
"Wanna be in my story? I can tag you."
In your periphery hovers his wry, wanting smile.
"Sure. So the world can know I'm a charity worker too."
He whistles, clutching his heart. If he weren't so annoying, you would find him a little cute. Just a little. You blame the kitchen for whatever aphrodisiac is in the food today.
"Live update: date with food critic going about as well as an episode of Hell's Kitchen."
He says this leaning forward, elbows on the table, so close to you that your knees might touch. You tense at the thought.
"Any date of mine would be on better behavior."
"So you're admitting this is a date?"
"This," you wave your hand over the table. "This is not a date. This is me regretting ever pitying you."
"Well, pity looks good on you."
And there it is again, that accursed, perfect smile. This time, it works, and you fight the losing battle of the wine flush undoubtedly all over your face. It bothers you that there's a little part of you that enjoys this, but that's a confession you plan on taking to the grave.
"Enjoy it while it lasts, because you're not getting any again."
"Fine. I'm still waiting for your grand secret," he says, now biting the tines of his fork like an untrained dog. No rest for the weary, you suppose. "Food is food. Prove me wrong."
Despite the betrayal of your basal human instincts, you're determined to make this a bad encounter. Maybe you hadn't anticipated the full force of Seungcheol's overgrown fratboy persona, but you came here for a reason and you do plan to see it through.
"There is no secret." You split apart an empanada, the guts steaming and fragrant. "You eat."
"Like this?" He crams an entire piece in his mouth, and you watch him recoil and huff the heat out. "Mmm, 's pretty good, though."
Your eyes almost roll back far enough to see the wrinkles of your brain. Of course he wouldn't get it, but you don't know what you were expecting from a guy who thinks Hot Pockets are fine dining.
You put on your most pretentious food critic face. "Eating is about respect. Storytelling. He's retelling the first time someone made him this dish. The ingredients—they're words on a page. An autobiography." Your hand finds your chest and you sigh, a final touch to your Oscar winning melodrama that would certainly annoy anyone with even half a brain.
"Huh. Poetic," he says. He's still fanning his (very full) mouth, but he chews a little more slowly. "I'm respecting. I'm taking it in."
You don't know if he's actually doing any of that, but, when he takes his next bite he asks about what's in it (tomato, raisin, egg) and if someone really made the chef an empanada when he was younger (yes, on the flour-printed counter, every Sunday morning).
You press on. It shouldn't take much to bore him, but with every question, food-related factoid, and snide comment you have, he matches you with genuine curiosity. Either he's an excellent actor or he's secretly culinary school-bound, because you can't actually imagine anyone putting up with any of that, nonetheless I like dick jokes and football Choi Seungcheol.
You spend the rest of the evening like this, spoon to heart to cherry mouth. The wine is abundant, and Seungcheol spends more time listening than talking, which he admits is a first for him.
"You really know a lot about food," he says, likely fighting the urge to use his finger to get the last of the chocolate sauce off the churro plate. "I like that."
It's a cheap compliment in a game of low blows, but it sits warm and content in your chest. You have to force yourself back to the night you met him, when he was all cognac and one-liners and he gave you his spare hotel room key. A good reminder of his true nature, you think, despite the fact that he just listened to you talk about all the different grains of rice, ad nauseum.
"It's my job," is your reply, adequately distant for your liking.
"Fair. You gonna ask me about mine?"
"What more is there to know?" You hold up the check. "You're paying, right? Chivalry and all that?"
You're waiting for him to mention the company card, the only one allocated to your section that Seungcheol couldn't possibly have because it's sitting snug in your purse. The one you'll say you conveniently forgot so you get to see a grown man squirm at paying the bill.
"Already did. Gave the host my card when I got here. You're holding the customer copy." His chuckle disappears under the lip of his wine glass. "Bet you were excited to use the company card, huh?"
If shame were a physical object, you feel like your own personal Atlas. Your only option is to stare at the wasteland of empty plates before you and wonder how deep Seungcheol's pockets really are.
"Hardly. More excited that I burned a hole in your wallet." You click your tongue, out of options on how to ruin Seungcheol's night. You would spill wine on him but there's none left. "Anyway, I'm heading out."
"Running away?"
"Bored," you lie.
He calls you a taxi, and you walk out together, night heavy with the rhinestone glare of Friday night traffic.
"I actually had a nice time tonight," Seungcheol says, emphasis on the actually.
"Unfortunate."
"How do you think I feel?"
The taxi pulls to the curb, and he sighs, weighty with exaggerated relief. You can't even take it seriously because he's looking right at you and badly failing to push down the smile at the corners of his mouth.
It's only now that you notice his eyes are really brown, like he's from a cartoon or something. Worse, you'd daresay they're nice, less menacing, when they're tempered by a good meal and semi-public humiliation.
"Text me when you get back to your villain lair."
"If I were a real villain, you would have a lot more to worry about."
Seungcheol opens the cab door for you, and you catch a whiff of the cologne he undoubtedly smeared on in the toothpaste-streaked mirror of his five by five studio bathroom. Pine, leather, and citrus, which is the most pedestrian combination of smells to exist and yet you doubt it hasn't done him any favors.
"I'm terrified. Shaking." You clamber into the backseat, and he smiles at you again, as if you've forgotten what all his other ones looked like. "By the way—"
You have half a mind to shut the door in his face, but you can't find it within you—maybe it's the wine, or perhaps pure defeat. Probably the former.
"This job. It's—" He clicks his tongue and looks at the tops of his leather shoes. He's actually thinking, and you don't like it. "Never mind. See you Monday."
And then the words are gone. He shuts the cab door, and they're left in a plume of exhaust and Seungcheol's tiny waving figure in the rearview mirror.
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"So you're telling me you went on a date with your worst enemy."
It's 8 AM, and Jeonghan isn't pulling punches. Even through the phone, you can see his lazy grin, the pen he's flipping in his hand, the green ribbon of the Dow Jones on his desktop.
The newsroom is refreshingly near empty, except for Joshua, who hovers around the water cooler like a fly on the wall, if flies wore Armani ties and cigarette jeans.
"It wasn't a date, and I wanted to ruin it so he would have nothing to write about."
"No one goes on a date to ruin it. You could have just left."
"Clearly you haven't seen How To Lose A Guy In 10 Days."
"Are you serious." Jeonghan laughs, crackly and bright. "Care to tell me how that movie ends?"
"Except he isn't Matthew Mcconaughey. He says spaghetti like pah-scetti and doesn't use Oxford commas."
Mid-laugh, you endure another beat of extended eye contact with your editor until he beckons you over. He'd likely been waiting for the perfect time to interrupt the conversation he was so subtly eavesdropping on—oh, how you love a newsroom with an "open floor plan" to "facilitate communication." Sometimes you think the reason Joshua's stuck around this long is because reporters can't stay away from drama, especially if they're not the ones reporting it.
"I gotta go," you tell Jeonghan, whose version of a goodbye is a triumphant cackle.
You find Joshua putzing around, plastic water cup incriminatingly full.
"I take it you had an enjoyable weekend?" he asks, eyes sequined with all the secrets they hold.
"Yup. Just working on that Dining Through The Years article." Not entirely a lie—you are hedging your bets on this story, one where you revisit the restaurants you wrote about when you first got your start at the paper (Nai included, although admittedly yesterday's food was the least of your concerns). "You needed me?"
"Glad to see New York's finest chefs are well-versed in Kate Hudson's filmography," he says, grinning something beastly. If he weren't your boss, you'd knock that little water cup clean out of his hand. "Anyway, if your interview is over, I need you to go on a field trip."
"Field trip?"
Surely you're better than a task for the interns. You wonder if they're off fighting their own demons, seeing as you missed the circus in the elevator this morning, the usual juggle of hazelnut lattes and lemon poppyseed muffins for the higher-ups.
"Wonwoo needs you to help pick out catering for the corporate event later next week." Joshua tips his head back at Wonwoo's glass-plated office, where you see him redoing his tie in the reflection of his computer monitor. "My guess is that Yerim is going to be there, and he wants to make a good impression. Like an 'I consulted a food expert' impression."
Classic gossip queen Hong Joshua, always with the unnecessary but incredibly cogent commentary on office politics. You think you're actually going to miss the bastard.
"Flattered," you remark dryly. "Catering from where?"
"That's the thing. It's from this Thai place like two hours out from the city."
Two hours: code for an all day endeavor. He wasn't kidding when he said field trip.
You graciously resist the urge to groan out loud. No one told you taking the high road is one big slog through the mud, but here you are. You tell yourself this will help your campaign to be editor—the stinky, dirt-smeared silver lining.
"Before you ask—yes, I know you cannot take the subway there." You blink at him, wondering why this all feels like the set-up to a terrible joke. "Luckily, as you probably know, Seungcheol drives here every day and has offered to help."
Ah. There it is. You look for the blinking applause sign hanging above your head and the chorus of riotous Seungcheols making up your own personal laugh track.
"Only back to the office, though—" Joshua adds, as if that provides you any solace. "There's a one-way bus going up there at noon."
"N-not both ways?" you croak.
"Something about funds," he replies, shrugging. "Hey, don't shoot the messenger."
"You're not the one I'm thinking of shooting."
"Who knows? Maybe he is Matthew McConaughey." And when your glare turns sharp as the edge of a santoku knife, he holds his hands up like he's getting arrested. "I'm just saying. As your friend, not your editor."
Whatever.
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You have to admit, Wonwoo does have impeccable taste in Thai food.
Three noodle dishes, two curries, and the best mango sticky rice you've ever had: that's what it took for you to finally say "not all men." Certainly not Wonwoo, who's in deep enough to send his goons cross-state for a girl he's tried to woo for almost a whole year now.
A tamarind sunset blankets the countryside in milk and honey. You're sitting on a bench, ridiculously full with leftovers to spare, waiting for your chauffeur from hell.
Two years and you still don't know what car Seungcheol drives. Your last memory of it is it being flashy, impractical, and loud, much like him.
You know this, and yet you are still surprised when a gnat of a BMW rips into the curb in front of you. The passenger window crawls down, and Seungcheol has the gall to whistle at you.
For someone so predictable, he sure does manage to find new ways to piss you off. Unfortunately, on brand— according to him, Consistency Is Key (number 2 on Keeping the Spark Alive, August 2022 issue). You've done your reading.
"You're welcome," is the first thing Seungcheol says to you after cranking down the volume of the radio and watching you fumble with the seatbelt.
"You really didn't have to." You look at the array of gas station snacks bubbling out of the cupholders—Sour Patch Kids, a Big Gulp, and Flamin’ Hot Fritos. You didn't even know they sold Sour Patch Kids to full grown adults.
Still, you do feel a little bad. You can count on one hand the amount of people you would do this for and still have one or two cheese-dusted fingers left.
"But, thank you."
"Joshua made me," he says, and what happened this morning starts to make a lot more sense. "Plus, I was a little jealous. I would kill for a day frolicking in the sun, eating delicious food, far, far away from the big city. Not trapped like me in the newsroom, exhausted, toiling away on my magnum opus."
The sigh that crawls from his chapped lips practically shakes the car.
"I'm retracting my thank you."
"I'm devastated. Really."
You choose to watch the strip of shitty New York highway unravel through the greasy passenger window. No point in picking a fight when you're in a leather quilted jail cell for the foreseeable future.
It's at the thirty minute mark where Seungcheol casts the first stone of terrible, stilted small talk.
"Why'd you get sent all the way out here anyway?"
The red taillight flush of rush hour floods the car, an unpleasant reminder of the real sunset left far behind you.
"Thought you knew it was Wonwoo."
"Yeah, but why?"
Why does it matter? Is your first thought, but you realize he's attempting to actually have a genuine conversation with you, which you suppose is better than him flinging around another rude remark. Either that, or he's falling asleep, and you'd rather not have the last moments of your life be in Seungcheol's chick magnet car.
"Joshua thinks it's because he wants to impress Yerim at the corporate meeting this week. I guess she likes Thai."
Traffic is slow enough for him to turn to look at you, really look at you.
"Come on, he can't like her that much."
"Yes, he can." you try to read his expression, neon-glossy. "This isn't even that much effort."
"Nah," he shrugs. "There's gotta be some kind of ulterior motive. Maybe he wants to move into corporate."
"Hot take for a romantic." You frown. "Not everything people do is a career move, you know."
You omit the unlike you that sits heavy in the back of your throat, although, his cavalier approach to relationships is starting to make a little more sense. You wonder if this whole thing—the dates, the watch, the Invisalign smiles—is just a long, drawn-out joke to him.
"Seems like a lot of effort to go through for an office crush." His gaze drifts back to the road. "The extravagant birthday present. Always having her favorite flowers in the office. That one cringe voicemail we all heard him re-record ten times. No one likes anyone that much. Come on. Her dad is the CEO of the company."
Suddenly his winning smile doesn't seem so triumphant. It almost feels like a betrayal, but you don't know why.
"Maybe he just likes her," you reply. "I dunno. I choose to believe that. I think it's sweet."
"Maybe you're the romantic." The words come out like an accusation; Seungcheol laughs, but all the joy's been sucked out of it.
"Who hurt you?"
"No one did. I'm just being honest."
You would laugh at the irony if it didn't feel like there was a vine wrapped round your throat. Life is funny, but never so funny as to curse New York's favorite romance writer with cynicism and a lying streak.
"Controversial, but I actually want to do nice things for the person I like."
"And when was the last time that happened?" He's deflecting, which is predictably on brand for him. His grin, now playful, is propped up by a pair of frustratingly well-formed dimples.
You can't even find it within you to protest because he's right—you haven't dated in a long time. Joshua stopped asking if you were bringing a plus one to office parties ages ago.
But it's not that you can't—in fact, the last time you did, you think it broke you a little inside. It's certainly not a story Seungcheol's privy to, though. You already feel strange, cut-open, trying to convince him that people are capable of meaningful relationships.
Childishly, there's also a part of you chasing the truth about him because it takes him further and further away from you. So you do what you do best and deflect again. Two can play at that game.
"Not taking criticism from a guy who's dated half of the city and has nothing to show for it."
"I wouldn't say nothing."
He opens his mouth then closes it again, as if he's revising the words on his tongue. Journalist behavior, which you didn't even know he could still exhibit.
Now you're really thinking. Who hurt him, and how? The development that Seungcheol is more than the playboy slime haunting page 3 intrigues you more than you'd care to admit.
Before you can pry, Seungcheol's stomach growls, almost offensively loud.
"Sorry," he says. "Who would've thunk that corn chips aren't a balanced meal?"
You stare at the takeout boxes snug in your lap. There is a cosmic message being sent right now.
Seungcheol's sad, Frito-filled belly. Fresh noodle that won't keep well in the fridge. Tax and tip for a four hour car ride back to the city. Expanding your repertoire of blackmail so that you can claim your rightful helm at the paper.
These are all the reasons you give yourself for what you ask next.
"You in a rush?"
"How could I be—do you see the blinding speed we're driving at?" He laughs at his own incredibly unfunny attempt at a joke. "No, I'm not."
"I may or may not have an actual balanced meal for you."
That’s how you end up in the parking lot of a random 7/11 off the freeway. In any other circumstances, it would be a cruel and unusual punishment, but you've already been whittled down enough to actually care about Seungcheol, even if just a little.
That's what you tell yourself, anyway, as you watch him finish the last of the takeout.
"So I'm bad at food, and you're bad at love. Why the fuck did Wonwoo even think of promoting either of us?" Seungcheol kicks his shoes off and props his feet up on the dashboard. You notice his socks have dogs on them, little linty brown ones, and you feel a little worse about openly bullying him about his fashion taste in front of the entirety of copy staff.
"I may be bad at love, but you're worse. Especially for someone who does it for a living," you retort. "Don't think I forgot our earlier conversation."
You try to read the tiny text on a receipt he's got stashed in the center console, among his graveyard of snack wrappers. (2) CHEESY GORDITA CRUNCH…8.78. (1) M MT DEW BAJA BLAST…1.00.
Definitely bad at food, you muse to yourself.
"You think I'm not kicking myself right now? That I have a beautiful girl in my car right now, and all we do is argue?"
Now that—nothing could have prepared you for that.
It gets awfully quiet. The noise of the freeway seems to screech to a fever pitch, all horns and the thrum of the asphalt. You wish anything but John Mayer was playing on the radio.
You will the headlines man in your head to make you laugh. Instead, your brain presses the word beautiful into your neurons and you feel all the heat in your body float to your face, traitorously, dizzyingly. John Mayer croons, your body is a wonderland and your stomach knots into itself over and over again.
"Stop that."
"What?" Seungcheol's head lolls to his shoulder so he can look at you from the corner of his eye. " 's not a big deal. Never been called beautiful?"
A grin plays on his lips, expression dancing on something grim, like he's spoken his final words.
"I'm serious! Stop trying to get me to like you." You huff and cross your arms over your chest, like it'll somehow make you feel more normal. "I'm not some experiment for your column."
"Is it working?"
You don't answer. How can you? There's a yes resting on the roof of your mouth, surely the product of the handful of real, actual moments you've now had with him—far too many for your liking. This whole charade has been a balancing act on the razor edge between rivals and something else, and now you're feeling the sting.
"For the record, I have been called beautiful before."
"And for the record, you're not an experiment for my column. You never were."
There's a relief that pulses through your chest, a breathless, wonderful kind of dizziness. You grab hold of it as soon as it's reared its ugly head. You're flying way too close to the sun, chasing cheap validation from the same guy who ate your lunch out of the fridge last week.
He's no better—he looks like the vulnerability cracked him open a little, and you're the one holding the hammer. It makes for a grubby, unflattering portrait of two emotionally inept people trying to play feelings.
However, much like all other things Seungcheol, any glimpse of something real is gone before you know it. He takes a loud, noisy pull of Diet Coke, and the spell is broken.
"Want any?" And when you shake your head, grateful to swallow the words pressed to your tongue, he says, "Should we wait out traffic here?"
This is an easier yes. You tell yourself you're getting sick of brake lights and reading the license plates on the back of other people's cars. Certainly that makes Seungcheol's gaze, lingering and moonlight-warmed, a little more tolerable.
For once, you don't talk about Wonwoo or your job. You don't talk about love, either.
Maybe this is the reason the next few hours slip through your fingers. Three folded takeout pagodas and a secret—somehow this is all it takes for you to hate Seungcheol just a little less.
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Usually, a good eggs benedict can solve the majority of your problems. Today seems to be the exception. The hollandaise is broken, Jeonghan is already laughing at you, and nothing will ever erase the fact that Seungcheol drove you home last night and now he knows where you live. If you wake up one morning and see a sniper laser pointed at your forehead, you have no one to blame but yourself.
"You look exhausted." An eighth of a buckwheat pancake disappears into Jeonghan's mouth. "You literally eat for a living. There is no reason for them to keep you late."
Jeonghan has a funny way of caring about you, but he's right. You did get home at 2 AM yesterday, but that was on you, not Wonwoo.
"I'm not going to let a corporate slug tell me what is and isn't a real job," you sigh, taking a swig of your half-flat mimosa and reminding yourself to figure out which staff writer gave this place 4 stars in last week's paper.
"Says the girl who needs the company card to afford bottomless brunch," Jeonghan replies.
"At least I'm not a slave to my career."
"What do you call this whole thing with your coworker then, huh? It's all you text me about." The smirk on Jeonghan's face is miserably, tragically righteous, and you can't even be mad about it.
"Seungcheol is my enemy, remember?"
"You sent me a five minute voice memo the other day ranting about how he went on a date with another girl." And just like the little shit he is, he even pulls up your mile-long text history, just to rub it in your face a little harder.
"Am I not allowed to wish for his demise? Since when were you the mature one?"
"I wouldn't call keeping track of his whereabouts wishing for his demise." Jeonghan takes a well-timed bite of your hashbrowns. "Something tells me you're wishing for something a little different."
You almost choke on a blueberry.
"Absolutely not."
You watch Jeonghan power down another mimosa, half-fascinated, half-appalled he would even dream of suggesting something so vile.
The memory of Seungcheol, leant back in the driver’s seat, lowering greasy spools of rice noodles into his mouth, crosses your mind. He had laughed until he cried when he asked you if a pineapple had really fried this rice. That was the kind of man you were dealing with. You can't believe you laughed with him.
"I think it'll be good for you to get back into dating again. Mingyu was, what, three years ago?"
And that's the chocolate chip studded, syrup-covered nail in your coffin. Of course all roads had to lead back to you and your relationship trauma Jeonghan considered unresolved.
You had dated Mingyu when you were younger, softer. It was a love of firsts, of sun-washed mornings and farmer's market Sundays, of raw, black currant midnights and whatever long-winded conversation you had spent all day on.
Mingyu was a chef. His hands, his lips, his eyes—that's how you fell in love with food. Strawberry kisses into fresh pasta into the first time someone had ever cooked for you. What a wonderful, terrible thing to see all your history on a plate, the I could never eat peas, the once I ate mangos till I was sick, the guilty spoon in the vanilla ice cream after a bad day and the dark chocolate you keep in your purse. He remembered that you like your noodles just a little bit overcooked, and you don't even think you told him that.
Food, like some shitty piece of home decor would say in that swirling, curly font, really is some window to the soul. It didn't fully hit you until, one day, you were at the grocery store alone, and somehow you knew exactly what brand of everything Mingyu liked.
You opened a restaurant together after you graduated from college. Then it closed, and you lost Mingyu to Naples or New Orleans or Seoul—somewhere, anywhere to escape the corner of 5th and 40th, the December-pleated memory of his hands in yours and a promise you could never keep.
You're sure you're over it by now, but you'd be lying if you said you didn't look for him in a bowl of his favorite ramyun, the one you could never replicate even though he insisted he just added hot water (Food tastes best when it's a gift, he'd say. You never understood until now.).
Jeonghan doesn't believe you because every time you try explaining this to him, you end up sounding like the most chronically lonely person on planet Earth.
"That is the wrong guy to suggest then," you instead reply, feeling all the food dry up in your mouth.
"I'm running out of options."
"Don't you have a hot coworker or something?"
You shut your eyes, pushing Mingyu back to recall literally any face from one of the many swanky corporate parties Jeonghan bullied you into attending. The only person coming to mind is Lee Chan, and even more than his face, you remember the fat platinum band around his ring finger (Better luck next time, Jeonghan had said, mid-cheese cube).
Worse, amidst all the fuzz, a grainy recollection of Seungcheol's wet cow eyes washes up against your eyelids, and it's not going away this time.
"I thought we were all corporate slugs," Jeonghan replies, enjoying the way you glower at him over your fork. "I was kidding, anyway. Relax."
Your entire body heaves with the sigh that escapes you.
You thank god that Jeonghan is never serious, because otherwise you'd have to consider the fact that he really thought you should date Seungcheol. Jeonghan, who knows the pizza column you, the Mingyu you, and now the you that works late because there's nothing else left to do, really might have thought you should date grifter by day, con artist by night Seungcheol.
The fluorescent glaze of the gas station lights. Seungcheol's hand on the gear stick. His voice, warm and gauzy. It's like there's a flash drive of last night plugged into your head, and you can't take it out.
The stem of the champagne glass finds your hand, and you down the whole thing.
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Monday is uneventful. So is Tuesday, and you wonder what good deed you'd done to deserve such a blessing.
Wednesday, you realize you're just three interviews away from what could possibly be the best article of your life. Unfortunately, two of those won't pick up the phone and the third keeps rescheduling on you.
That's fine—Rome wasn't built in a day, and the same hopefully applies to your future noodle empire.
You're using your lunch break to write an email to number two when you notice Seungcheol hovering around your desk, a plastic straw in his mouth and evil in his eyes.
He's taken to publicly annoying you at work more than usual—Progress, Joshua had told you in the elevator this morning. Towards what? you had asked. He shrugged, letting his crafty, knowing look do all the talking.
"Me, you, and date number two?" is today's opening line. Before you can peel yourself away from your computer and give him a good lashing for whatever the fuck he just said to you, he continues with, "How's that for a follow-up text to my speakeasy date?"
"Lame," you reply, hackles still raised but now re-reading your email for typos.
"Wrong. You were supposed to say incredibly romantic, extremely witty, and unfairly charming." He perches his baseball player ass on the corner of your desk, waiting to be humbled. This is the usual order of things, which has shockingly become more of a familiarity than anything else.
"Do you even have a romantic bone in your body?"
Seungcheol raises an eyebrow. "Just one, but it's the only one that matters."
"Ew. Gross." You wrinkle your nose and attempt to soothe your temper with a sip of the terrible protein shake you got for lunch. "No wonder your column sucks."
"If mine sucks, I'd hate to see what people are saying about yours." And when your reply is a tired, hungry swig of your sad drink, he says, "No lunch today? Even I had something better."
"Lucky you."
The bigger truth is that that the deadline for your article, looming before you, is getting to you more than you'd care to admit. Seungcheol isn't helping, not with his bottomless magic hat of date stories that seems to only grow deeper by the day. Now you're forgetting to pack a lunch, and the highlight of your day has been reduced to punching numbers into a vending machine.
Things are bad, but you'll never say that aloud, especially not to the guy who'll spend the next five years dunking on you if you keep this up.
You stare down the lip of your bottle at the faux-chocolate dregs streaking the bottom.
The month before Mingyu opened his restaurant, you were so preoccupied with making sure everything was just right that you also forgot to eat. One day, leftovers from his work started magically appearing in your fridge. Chow fun (miss you!), salt and pepper shrimp (don't forget to drink water!), a gargantuan vat of hot and sour soup (love you most!).
It was a perfect coincidence until you realized there was no way Chinese takeout was coming out of a very French restaurant, and it was then you learned that love is never really a coincidence.
Now you have no coincidences, mapo tofu, or romance. Just muscle milk and a front row view of the struggling inseam of a man who must shrink his pants in the dryer.
He's peeling a tangerine. Your worst confession to date is that it's easy on the eyes. For once, his hands, always made busy with some scheme, now still over the rind, steady, practiced. Plus, it looks like a marble in his huge hands, which is unfortunately both funny and a little hot.
"Stare any longer, and I'm gonna forget how to peel this."
"Don’t flatter yourself. Just hungry," you half-lie.
Hungry, Stressed, And Delusional—The New Holy Trinity.
It's a catchy headline, but not a great look for you. Never in your life did you think you'd be ogling a man peeling an orange. He even takes all the pith off, and you don't have the heart to tell him that's where all the nutrients are.
"Exactly," he replies. Then he plops the naked, shiny fruit right on your bare desk. "Here. Eat."
You’re so taken aback, all you can do is stare. First at the orange, then at Seungcheol, who suddenly cannot make eye contact with you. Instead, he stacks the peel in his hands, dimpled piece over piece.
"Payback for the, uh, Thai," he says, and although you wouldn't equate a tangerine to James Beard awarded pad kee mao, all you can think of is an lime green sticky note in your fridge and a smile.
A gift. A pithless, wrinkly one.
The idea that Seungcheol was capable of being genuinely nice to anyone, nonetheless, you—probably the most undeserving person of it in the world—makes you feel something close to guilt.
You push through the feeling, instead taking the fruit in your hand and splitting it between your thumbs. The flesh caves so easily, and it's then you remember that food, unlike people, doesn't have to be complicated.
You can feel a better person somewhere inside you, someone easier to care for and with less of a bad attitude. You're not there yet, but there's a dark, satisfying comfort in not being good enough for the indulgence of that kind of intimacy. An arm's length was never too far away for you, except now there's someone sitting on your desk and they gave you lunch. Worst of all, you don't think you mind.
You hold out the half—sticky, guilty fingers and all.
Seungcheol wordlessly accepts it. There's no surprise or confusion—he smiles, you say cheers, and you both take a bite.
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On weekends, the Korean place down the street from your college apartment sold corn dogs until 3 AM. That was when words came easy and love came easier.
It was with sugar all over your nose, eyes pressed to the once forgiving half-moon, where you told Mingyu you would become a writer.
The thing about youth is that it can float anything, no matter how holey, desperate it was. So you sailed through college, that gasping hope wound tight in your fist. Then you started freelancing, just in time for Mingyu’s soft open. You wanted to write, but more importantly, you wanted some way, any way to be useful to the person who had given you so much.
In retrospect, there was no way your crude attempts at actual journalism could ever generate real publicity for him. Not in the heart of New York, where a new restaurant opened every two days and someone wanted to get published every three.
So you eventually sank, and so did Mingyu, leaving you with all this creased, no good love in your chest to shrivel up with nowhere to go.
All of that landed you here. A degree, a dream job, and a laundry list of accolades, but the fruit of that love still hangs heavy and joy-rot on the vine, as you wait for it to be good enough for the taking.
Ironically, it reminded you of cooking. No one ever teaches you when to stop, and now every other joint has dry-aged steak and some version of a three-day demi glacé. But at least demi glacé tastes good—you don't even know what the fuck you're doing some days, and the feeling's never been worse than now, waiting on a call you were supposed to get two days ago.
The phone rings, just in time to distract you from the top button of Seungcheol's fitted shirt, which looks like it's holding on for dear life. He's currently deep in conversation with Mina from design, but every so often, he'll glance your way to see if you're just free enough to be bothered.
The unspoken perils of working late—less people around to pester on Wonwoo's dime.
Mina stuffs her laptop in her bag and checks her watch. Strike three for Seungcheol.
Working Hard Or Hardly Working: A Guide To Office Romances. You're surprised he hasn't written that one yet. Maybe Joshua shot it down.
"Hello?" The dial tone breaks into the warm, risen-bread voice of the woman you know to be the owner of one of your favorite hole-in-the-wall noodle spots. The Friday night after your review was published, there was a line out the door. It honestly felt like a no-brainer to you, and you had no hesitation telling the owner that you were sure her place would become a local mainstay. You watched her crow-footed eyes go moony and you couldn't help but picture the day your yellowed newspaper would be posted up on the wall, framed and prophetic.
You're ready to profusely apologize for not stopping by—truthfully, no bone broth has come close to hers. Instead, she apologizes to you, which you aren't sure is flattering or a sign something terrible has happened.
You hope it's the former, but you should have known that hoping has never been enough.
She tells you that she closed the doors to her restaurant yesterday. It all comes spilling out, one gut punch after the other, the bills and the empty tables and how things just weren't the same the year after your review was published. She thanks you for your time, your writing, and your belief, and then she hangs up.
Not a thing in your body feels capable of moving. All the phone static passes right through you until the week's canned up dread balls up in your throat and some darker-than-black feeling swallows you whole.
The fluorescent ceiling lights sear into you. You think you're going to cry, and that's the last thing you want.
To anyone else, it wouldn't be that serious. Restaurants close all the time, and you know an entry in your silly little column is a far cry from a Hail Mary. But all you can think of is Mingyu’s neon sign on 5th and 40th and the two pairs of hands that had to take it down. You think your fingerprints are still on it, right over the blue shock of the I and the N.
One more dream taking on water, and once again, you're at the sad, cruel center of it.
You try to imagine the gumpaste walls, bumpy and water-stained. Maybe a pale square where your review used to hang.
No, you're definitely going to cry.
Fuck this, fuck work, fuck the article. And fuck Seungcheol, who's packing up his annoying, jingly messenger bag and is the only thing standing between you and an empty office to lose your shit in.
You squeeze your eyes shut and try to remember if you're wearing waterproof mascara today. Unfortunately, the cowbell of Seungcheol's bag sounds like it's catching up to you, and, like it or not, you are two shaky breaths away from breaking down in front of the last person in the world you want to see.
"Final touches on another titillating piece about pineapple on pizza?"
You have no stomach for yelling at him. You can't even look at him. Instead, you bury your head in your hands and tell him to never use the word titillating again.
"A little too soon to play editor, in my humble opinion."
You don't reply. You're trying to scare him off without really scaring him off because god knows you've done that with enough people. Either way, he's calling you a crazy bitch at the next holiday party. You can just hear it.
But you should've known Seungcheol, of all people, doesn't flinch at a little silence. You still feel him hovering behind you, probably wondering if it's the half-full vanilla protein shake on your desk that's turned you sour. Or if you'll really make good on your threat to shank him with the plastic knife you keep in your top drawer.
Just walk away, you think. Go the fuck home.
Seungcheol, who gets paid to play cupid like it's fantasy football, would never understand that bite of the dial tone. Not like that. Half an orange is a hell of a toll to pay for your unfortunate work-related trauma.
You count the seconds till he walks away.
One. Two. Three.
Four is cut short because instead of doing what he should have done and left, he places a hesitant hand at the base of your neck, between your shoulder blades.
"Hey, you ok?"
Easy, noncommittal words, but something in you cracks. You don't know what it is—maybe it's because it's late and you're running on nothing, maybe it's because you can't remember the last time a hand was so warm.
And so, against your better judgment, you lift your streaky, raccoon-eyed face (definitely didn't use waterproof today) from your hands to look at the same eyes you looked at not more than a month ago and swore at.
You're glad you have no idea what you look like, because it's bad enough that all the corners of Seungcheol's face fall.
"Whoa," he breathes.
Now he'll know when to leave me alone, you think, but then that hand slides to your shoulder and his expression becomes impossibly soft and what you thought was confusion, pity even, dips into affection, stinging and raw.
"Listen, I—," he clears his throat nervously. Perhaps he's running through his repertoire of Wikihow phrases to say to a sad person, but you, inexplicably, don't believe that. "I don't know what's going on, but if you, you know, ever needed to talk…" Then he points to himself because that's probably the longest he's gone without attempting to tell a joke.
You're two and a half shaky breaths into this conversation, and the likelihood you will start crying has not changed. If anything, the odds have gotten much worse because the stubbornness of Seungcheol's expression is fooling you into thinking he actually cares. The illusion is comforting—after all the fighting and sabotage and inconveniences, he's still made space for you. That, or he's keeping his enemies close.
Then his thumb rubs over the plane of your collarbone, and all the little walls and hurdles and dams and shields in you drop.
Close friends, closer enemies, and the infinitesimal space between you and Seungcheol.
You'll blame your sorry state of mind for what you're about to do because you can't really cope with any other explanation. That's a tomorrow problem.
Today, you trust Seungcheol. Today, you tell him not everything, but enough.
"Forgive yourself," he says. And before you protest and tell him, through the waves of tears and snot and lightheadedness, that your heart has yet to catch up to the rest of you, he interrupts you before you even start. "I get it. Just try."
You’re all too familiar with his sugar-floss, candy-coated platitudes that make everything seem so simple, but he looks you in the eye, or somewhere even deeper than that, with so much belief, it's contagious.
The words are ripped out from under you. All you can do is what you wanted to do in the first place. So you cry, and when Seungcheol takes you into his arms, at first tentatively and then all at once, you cry even harder.
"Is this ok?" he asks, so quietly, you almost don't hear him.
"Yeah, I-I think so."
You let him hold you, and all the noise and the heat and the static fades into a hum. His chin finds the top of your head and you let him do that too.
Neither of you say anything more. You don't need to.
All that matters is the welcome sound of someone else's heartbeat, a kind hand in your hair, and Seungcheol, with none of the charms and boasts and failed, half-baked insults he hides behind.
Just him, and you decide you like this version best.
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The emotional hangover you wake up with rivals that of every vodka-flavored morning you had when you were in college, plus another two shots.
There is nothing worse than the aftermath of a particularly bad episode of oversharing. There's a reason you don't talk about your personal life at all, but something about Seungcheol makes every single thing claw its way back up your throat.
A need to prove yourself. A tiny, whispering hope that if you give a little, you'll get a little in return. Or your pride, the familiar knife you keep wedged into your side. A million excuses rattle around in your head, but nothing will ever take away the fact that it felt good.
Shields down, heart bleeding—never did you think that's how you would find yourself in a state where you actually liked Seungcheol. It felt good to be taken seriously, to say that all the talk about foie gras and peppercorns and microgreens was just tableside service for a great love and an even greater apology. And you'd like to think somewhere between the tears and the linen of his shirt, you were finally understood.
Just try. The words, sun-warmed stones, float in the hollow of your chest. It felt a little more possible, coming out of Seungcheol's mouth, with that dumb, resolute expression of his.
You don't even know if you would do the same for him. If he came to you, rosy-eyed and breakdown-adjacent, would you drop everything and listen to him? Clearly his problems ran deeper than a pretty girl not calling him back, but you had never really cared to listen.
And that's something you'll give Seungcheol credit for—he puts up with you, with everything, really, albeit with clumsy hands and the mask of reluctance.
You roll onto your side to reach for your phone. There's a text from Jeonghan asking if you're still up for grabbing drinks this evening. (Always). You have your final interview at 2. (Thank god).
And no text from Seungcheol. (Damn.)
Somehow this is disappointing, which makes your day that much worse. Maybe the runny mascara wasn't as flattering as you thought.
8 Totally Normal Texts To Send When You're Overthinking.
Not a good headline for a worse situation. Honestly, you shouldn't care, but now you're here, staring at your phone and undecided on if you even want Monday to come or not.
You'll order one (or three) margaritas tonight. You'll ask Jeonghan about his upcoming trip to Seoul. You'll make your favorite overnight oats and you'll go to sleep and Sunday will pass just the same.
You won't think about Seungcheol's arms around you or his head on top of yours or the way he insisted he would drive you to the subway so you didn't have to walk. You almost brushed against his hand on the gear stick and the nearness made you want to throw up.
But you're not thinking about it. You can't. Not without falling in love just a little.
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"Here. Drink."
You set two cups on the table before sitting face-to-face with Seungcheol, who decided to roll up to a coffee date in a somehow flattering polo and slacks.
But it's not a date—you're just talking. It's a meet-up. Not a hangout, which sounds too familiar, and definitely not a date.
Yesterday did not go as planned. Margarita-buzzed and under Jeonghan's terrible influence, you texted Seungcheol. Just to clear up some stuff, you told yourself. Friday night's like a scab, and you just can't help coming back to it.
"So, you're a coffee connoisseur too, huh?" Seungcheol says, tipping his head to the side.
"Not nearly," you reply. "Just wanted to pay for something for once. I'm pretty sure I owe you at least fifty of these."
"I'll hold you to it." He's doing that thing where it's like he stares past you. It's the most impressive eye contact on the planet, and it's making you nervous.
Then the silence, once welcome, becomes awkward—the air turns stiff, clinging to all the things you haven't said yet.
You play chicken with the idea of being an emotionally intelligent person and just talking about what most certainly is on everyone's mind right now. The cup between your hands is burning your palms. Seungcheol smiles.
"I'm—" The exact moment you start, the words crinkle up on your tongue and all the walls come back up again. It's a terrible, inevitable instinct. "I'm sorry. For Friday."
"For…what?" Seungcheol pauses mid-sip to say this. "Also, this coffee is really good."
Arabica, orange, and honey, you want to say. But you can't deflect this time. Somehow Seungcheol has cornered you into this tiny cafe chair with that disarming grin and an overabundance of patience.
"Everything, I guess. You were just trying to leave."
"No, I wasn't." And he laughs, which makes your stomach fold over trying to figure out what there possibly is to laugh at. "I actually liked getting to know you. You…care a lot. And I didn't expect that."
Seungcheol's sincerity staggers you. You could ask what the hell he just meant by all of that, but you decide to take him for his word. You think you've experienced the most honesty from him in the past three days than you have in the entire span of time you've known him, and it almost feels like a privilege.
"Thanks…?"
"Don’t let it go to your head, though," he adds, as if to erase what he just said. "Can't have you walking around the office with a bigger stick in your ass."
"Poetic." You sigh. Once again, the illusion is shattered. You wonder if his kindness has a time limit. "How's your article coming along?"
"Nice try," he replies. "I'm not that easy."
"You're literally the definition of easy."
"Is that a compliment?" There's that challenge in his eyes again, that same look that he gave you outside Wonwoo's office. "You did ask me out on a date, despite saying that you'd rather eat glass. So I guess either there's a half-eaten plate in your trash or you've finally come to your senses."
"This is not a date. Dream on."
"You're right. This isn't a date." He leans forward on his elbows. "Just like our dinner date wasn't a date."
"It wasn't."
"Of course. If it was, I'd be asking stuff like…Where you're from. But I already know—h, e, double hockey—"
"Chicago."
"Same difference."
Your conversation continues as such.
Not a date, but where'd you go to college? Not a date, but do you have a pet? Not a date, but can I walk you home?
You realize your talk in his car two weeks ago involved everything but your pasts, but you suppose neither of you are the type to unwrap old wounds. Sometimes the bandaid is better on, but, in your case, there's really nothing left to tell.
You divulge that you went to Northwestern for journalism. You have a family tabby, and no, you wouldn't mind being walked home.
You also realize before today, you knew less about Seungcheol than you thought, but there's some give to his secrecy. He went to USC because his parents wanted him to. Played football for half of it until he tore his ACL and got adopted by the sports section of the school paper. He even captained the advice column for three semesters—something he wants to return to, but you're happy to tell him you wouldn't trust his advice as far as you could throw him. (What was your alias? Samuel. Sounds kinda like Seungcheol, huh? You say no. He laughs.)
After circling the same park three times, you reach the doorstep of your apartment building. You cycle through some one-liners to end on a high note, but none of them seem quite right.
It's not a date, but you've noticed Seungcheol keeps glancing at your lips, and it almost seems like one.
It's not a date, but Seungcheol asks some stupid question about if coffee could be considered tea, which you start to answer before you are rudely interrupted.
First, the bump of his nose against yours, then his lips, slow, insistent, dizzying. Your heart jumps all the way to your throat and you think there's so much heat in your cheeks that he can feel it.
It's not a date, but Seungcheol just kissed you and you liked it.
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The next time you see Seungcheol is in the elevator to the newsroom on Monday.
He sticks his dumb, big arm out of the cabin to hold the door open for you, and his smile bruises your overripe heart.
"Hi," he says, sneaking a glance like a guilty child.
"Hi."
The floor indicators flicker like fireflies, one by one. He sidesteps toward you so that your shoulders touch. You watch the 4 crawl to 5. The air in the cabin is sticky, electric.
And as if taking a great big dive, you kiss him, a fleeting, tender thing that you rolled around in your head for a good thirty minutes earlier this morning—and you never thought the fruit of overthinking could be so sweet.
The elevator dings.
Before the doors open to your floor, Seungcheol slams the close button, takes your face in his hands, and kisses you again.
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You have three reasons to get drunk.
1. It's Friday.
2. You finished your article.
3. You and Seungcheol are no longer mortal enemies, but now you don't know what you are.
(The other day, you both worked late, and he ordered takeout to the office. You sat crosslegged on his desk as he tried to explain what a touchdown was and why he was obsessed with the Steelers. Normally a two hour long conversation about football would be a punishable offense, but that night he made you laugh so hard your stomach hurt the next day.)
After Wonwoo's dinner with corporate, he went to the market across the street and picked up a few handles of soju and the fattest bottle of cheap vodka you've ever seen.
You're all getting a raise—you guess the Thai must have worked out well, although Wonwoo must have struck out with Yerim since he's spending his Friday night drinking with you guys instead.
So you get drunk.
Drunk enough to tune out of Jihyo from Sports giving Wonwoo dating advice—riveting, if not for your near double vision—and follow Seungcheol to the staff bathroom.
"Anyone—," you manage. His lips are hot on your neck, and every dizzy neuron in your body seems to be reaching, grasping for him. "Anyone ever tell you that your forearms look really good when you roll up your sleeves?"
"All the time," he replies, and he swallows the laugh right off of your tongue.
"You are so annoying." Your palm finds his heartbeat, and you revel in how it leaps towards your skin every hurried beat. You don't want to think about how many girls came before you, leant back against the bathroom counter just like this, but having a body against yours never felt so good. You guess that's what a three year hiatus will do to you. "Bet you hear that one a lot too, huh?"
"You got that right."
Another kiss, just a nudge of his nose and you're leaning up to him; your lips feel swollen and warm and somehow they still crave the feeling.
"How is it that we still bump noses," you ask, half words, half air. Seungcheol's hands, skin-greedy, skim over the back of your thighs like they're water and find the swell of your ass.
"You make me impatient." Cheshire grin across heart lips and you're toast. "Anyone tell you that you have a great ass?"
"All the time," you squeak out. It's a lie and a half but who cares. His fingers drag under the seam of your underwear and you've never been so thankful you forgot to wear shorts under your dress.
"Need you," he says, lips flush to the skin behind your ear, and your lower half would give out if you weren't propped against the sink.
The idea of Seungcheol on his knees, your thigh hiked over his shoulder, crosses your mind. He'd probably be really good at head, and that makes you dizzier than any ungodly combination of alcohol would. Or would he press you against the mirror, want your skirt pushed to your waist so he could fuck you from behind?
Anticipation tumbles into anxiety into some primordial, horrible shyness because you haven't had sex in years. You feel hot and damp and sweaty and you can't remember if you shaved or not. Plus, you're already seizing in his arms and he hasn't even touched you for real yet.
"H-home," you breathe. "Let's go home."
"Hm?" His hand slows in the dip between your thighs. "You wanna stop? We can stop."
"No, I just…I just thought it would be better if we went home. To…you know."
"Yours or mine?"
"Mine’s closer," you answer after a considerable amount of mental gymnastics trying to figure out if you're both drunk enough to not mind the mess.
You know your apartment and you know your bed and you know where the bathroom is in case you have to pee. There's a box of condoms under the sink. You have an extra toothbrush for him. Less variables to worry about because nothing else has really gone to plan. You watch Seungcheol misbutton the top two buttons on his shirt and all the fondness in your heart feels like a welcome stranger in your body.
How To Ruin The Moment In One Easy Step!
You feel incredibly horny and guilty all at once, but Seungcheol kisses your cheek on the way out and it's like you're able to breathe again.
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It seems that the car ride to your place sucks all the sobriety back into the both of you.
You're lying stomach-down on your bed, Seungcheol against the headboard with his shirt undone. You're in your bra and your still sticky underwear, and somehow, despite being ready to break your three-year spell, you like this much better.
"Imagine if someone needed to piss," Seungcheol groans. "I think we would have gotten fired. Lifestyle would have no editor."
"I honestly think that's why Seungkwan was standing outside for so long."
Upon hearing this, Seungcheol's eyes shoot open. If your phone wasn't charging, you would take a picture. He fell asleep on your shoulder in the car, and now, even with all the affection you can muster, you can only describe his hair as broom-adjacent. Einstein-core. How far you've fallen from grace.
"Don't worry, he won't say anything." And as you watch the color return to his face, you add, "Also, it's not that I didn't want to have sex, I just…" you trail off, hoping he'll get it even though you're making no sense.
"No, it was the right call. I wanna do it when we're both sober."
It smooths your frayed-out nerves knowing that none of this was a performance or a test, just two shy, touch-starved people stumbling in the dark.
"Lemme guess—this is just a typical Friday night for you."
"Flattering but no," Seungcheol replies, grinning something stupid. "Do you always spend this much time wondering what I'm doing?"
"No!" His hands, once busy with scrunching up the fabric of your bedsheets, now find yours, and he runs a careful thumb over your knuckles. You notice he has the care-worn hands of a line chef, or maybe even a baker, which is funny because you don't even think the man knows how to turn on an oven. "I dunno. You just seem so experienced. What about all of those other girls?"
He flips your hand over, tracing the creases of your palm.
"Just dates. Nothing serious."
You want to ask—What about us? Are we serious? But you swallow it all down. You watch Seungcheol's eyes, midnight-weary, fall back upon you, and it feels like he's trusted you with something important.
"Don’t get it twisted, though," he adds, before yawning big and wide without covering his mouth. "I'm a loser, not a virgin. Definitely not."
You bite back a laugh. Killer journalist bio, but that's something to pitch next content meeting.
"Definitely a loser. I think you make me a loser by association."
"Good. So we're both losers. I like that." He smiles at you with so much warmth, it makes your heart physically hurt. Then he clamps down another yawn. "God, I'm exhausted. I think if we fucked in the bathroom, I'd have passed out. Or pulled my back."
"Then sleep," you chide, shucking a pillow at him. "Also take your shirt off. I don't like outside clothes on the bed."
"Say less," Seungcheol says. "I’ll blow your back out another day. Save the date." Between your almost audible gulp and his unfortunately attractive physique, you almost forget the place you're in-between.
Did everyone fit into his arms? Did he lift a hand for just anyone? Two silhouettes in the lamplight—was that how every day with him ended? Or just you, the only other person competing with him for his dream job? The convenient reality scares you.
The thought never seems to cross Seungcheol's mind. His head hits the pillow, and he's out like a light. But not without a not-so-subtle scoot to your side of the bed, near enough that the heat of his skin plays off yours.
You lean into it, liking how your skin buzzes with the closeness.
You're lulled by the sway of Seungcheol's breathing behind you—probably the most quiet he'll ever be. The moonlight oozes into the room; sleep comes over you like water, a slow, gentle wash.
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You can't remember the last time you cooked for two.
You open your fridge, and the hollow insides stare back at you. Rows of condiments and two water bottles. You have finally reached K-drama CEO status.
"Is this the part where I get kicked out?" Seungcheol says, shrugging his shirt back on as he walks out of the bedroom.
"This is the part where I cook breakfast for you."
"Really? You don't have to." He sounds genuinely surprised, which tips your heart a little off-axis.
"I want to," you reply, double checking the fridge as if opening it a second time would repopulate it. "That's what people do when they care about each other."
"Or if they're trying to poison you."
"Will you just let me do something nice for you?" You yank your head out to glare at him, and he looks stung.
"Thanks." He says it after so much pause that you wonder if this is the first time someone has done this for him. You wish you had a better offering, but surely the man with the worst palate in the world could spare his judgment for one meal. "No really, 'cause I am starving."
You let him bask in the rare glory of the unobstructed refrigerator light while you rummage through the pantry for a plan B.
"Holy shit. You live like this?"
"Not always. It's been…a week." All you have is the ramyun Mingyu likes, which feels like a weird, culinary betrayal. But you're hungry, and Seungcheol is eyeing a strange bag in the freezer that you don't even remember putting there. "You good with ramyun?"
"Honestly, I'll eat anything," he whines, gnawing on the ice straight from the freezer drawer.
At least he's self-aware. But he makes all the spaces Mingyu left behind seem a little less empty, and you can't find it in you to be mad at that.
You wait for the water to boil and Seungcheol finds a seat at your tiny dinner table, a misaligned, wobbly product of Mingyu’s inability to read an Ikea manual.
"I'm hoping your week got better?" Seungcheol asks, referring to your capital W week.
You tentatively nod before dropping the noodles in.
"Of course it did—you woke up to me in your bed. Can't get better than that."
"Actually, it's because I finished my article yesterday."
Seungcheol pauses before laughing to himself. "Congrats," he replies, now wiggling the table on its bad leg. "Can't say the same for myself."
you watch the starch-foam wash over the mouth of the pot, precariously close to the edge. You overfilled it, which mildly surprises you until you consider that you're cooking double the food.
There's a stretchy, anxious tumble in your stomach. It's not like you were expecting him to cheer or anything, but it just reminds you that you are, still in fact, competitors. When all of this is said and done, one of you is losing, and from every angle, it seems like quite the death knell for whatever you've got going on now.
It's a pity because you actually kind of like this arrangement. If Seungcheol was in your banged-up flea market chair next Saturday morning, you wouldn't be mad. Maybe you would even make him waffles. From scratch, even.
"What, too many dates to cover?"
He laughs again, somehow to no one in particular. "Something like that."
Past the bruising swell of his smile is the much sharper, more unforgiving edge of an unspoken hurt that you're neither trusted with nor owed, and yet you refuse to drop it. What about me? It feels like you're almost there, wrapped around something bigger, a scoop you can't pull your stubborn teeth out of.
"Is there a reason none of those were serious? Come on."
"What's so wrong with that?" And when you don't say anything, he says, "Trust me, it is never that serious."
His voice ticks up at the end like a teenager trying to play cool and the noodle water boils up around your chopsticks as you try to get your portion cooked through.
You won't—can't—turn to face him. You committed to the line, and now you must see it through, no matter how bad an idea it may be.
"That's not true," you finally squeeze out, finding the right footing for your voice. "It was serious for me. I'm sorry it wasn’t for you."
The table stops rocking.
"I'm glad. Really." He claps his hands together like a cruel punctuation mark, and it's then you remember that the only person as ill-tempered as you happens to be sitting two feet away.
Like an injured animal, your heart wants to cower back into your chest. You knew this was a mistake—this being everything—but an open wound can't help but bleed and your pride can't do without seeing the knife.
"Look, I don't know what your problem is." The pot hisses, astringent and pleading, beneath your fist. "I don't know what happened with your love life, but don't take it out on me."
"You asked."
"Yeah? Well, what is this?" You turn to face him, feeling the air between you tense, pulled like a rubber band. "You can't sit in my kitchen and tell me you don't care about whatever this is."
After all of the terse meetings, elevator spats, and foul-mouthed encounters in the parking lot, you can now recognize the fresh twist of Seungcheol's mouth and the livewire of a temper you've become so familiar with.
"Who said I didn't care? I'm just tired of you trying to lecture me about my life. I—"
"I'm not lecturing you, I just know you can't really believe what you're saying." Every word stumbles out, trembling and doe-legged, barely audible over his attempts to interrupt you. "There's nothing wrong with admitting you were in love with someone. And if you can't, I just feel really fucking sorry for you."
There’s an incredulous look in Seungcheol's eyes. But it's the worse part of you, ruthless and hungry for acceptance, that makes you say, "Maybe the fact that nothing lasts is your fault."
"Oh, really?" Seungcheol's voice, half-laugh with none of the warmth, rips through you. "You're really gonna act like you're better than me? As if you don't write in your pretentious little column every week, just waiting for your ex to read it and decide he wants you back again?"
There’s a red hot flash behind your eyes and everything inside you feels like it breaks at once.
"You know, at least I had someone who cared about me. Can't say the same about your miserable, sorry ass. Now get the fuck out of my apartment."
"Wh—"
he stands up, table croaking underneath his fists, and you realize you've crossed a bridge that can never be uncrossed.
"Get. Out."
It feels like a stitch in you has come undone. The water has long boiled over the pot and there's no joy to be found in watching Seungcheol stumble over his pant legs on the way to the door.
"I didn't want Mingyu. I wanted you."
it's not an apology, nor is it an indictment. You don't know why you say it, and you guess Seungcheol doesn't either. The door slams behind him, and all you're left with is a bloated pot of ramyun you never really wanted anyway.
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Celery. Red wine. Short rib.
If you had one day left on earth, you think you would go grocery shopping. It was like a prayer to you—you could close your eyes and know exactly what aisle had the beef broth, or feel the stone weight of a can of San Marzano tomato paste.
That's one thing you can thank Mingyu for—it's true that you don't love him like you used to, but you refuse to believe that any love worth having is also worth leaving behind.
Fingerling potatoes, the red ones. A Vidalia onion.
You recite your shopping list, slowly, quietly, a rosary.
Baguette is the next item, with a question mark next to it because sometimes your local bakery sells out after 3.
You pass by, expecting to see the shop window cleared out. Instead you see a familiar crown of cowlicked black hair and a horribly well-worn grin that only looks good because it's on Choi Seungcheol's face.
He's paying for a pretty girl's sourdough, and thyme, rosemary gets washed out by a dizzying riptide of heartache.
It was never personal, you tell yourself. Just another date. That's the angle.
You think it hurts a little less, knowing that it all was a business transaction. A long interview.
The thyme is next to the dill. The rosemary is next to the chives, at the end of the shelf.
You watch Seungcheol lean over the tiny cafe table to take a sip of his date's Americano. Did he always laugh like that? Were you really any different?
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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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fans4wga · 1 year ago
Text
'Why creatives are seeking residuals' - thread by Stefanie Williams
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[Tweet thread by Stefanie Williams @/StefWilliams25
TRANSCRIPT:
Why creatives are seeking residuals vs. "do you pay the mattress maker every time you sleep on a mattress?" A thread. I keep hearing over and over again that writers/actors/creatives don't deserve residuals for the work they create. "If I build a bathroom in a house, I don't get paid every time someone uses the toilet."
TRUE! However, your bathroom build has a set market value. Art does not. No one knows what makes one TV show an overnight success, and another a flop. No one knows what makes one song a hit, and the other a dud. If they did, trust me when I say record companies would be churning out Taylor Swifts over and over again. Studios would be making nothing but Stranger Things.
But that isn't the case. No one could predict Stranger Things would be a massive, billion dollar hit. No one could predict Taylor Swift was going to be a world wide phenomenon who literally could record herself reading Aesop's Fables and make millions of dollars. Which is why residuals are important. The pay structure protects both the creators and the publishers/distributors.
The easiest way to explain it is by referencing an author writing a book. Sure, an author might get a very modest up front fee, but the author is banking on royalties to really make money on the book — for every book sold, the author gets a piece of the pie. This protects both the author and the publisher—because if the book is a flop, the publisher doesn't go broke on a financial promise they made to the author that didn't pan out, and if the book is a mega-hit, the author didn't give away a massive, million-dollar book for 20k.
It's a sliding scale that is required for a product that has no set market value. What makes an actor's work on a hit show more valuable than an actor's work on a show that gets canned after five episodes? The market value for art almost always comes after the fact, so residuals account for that reality. They make sure the creator get compensated at a fair market rate. A person who builds a bathroom knows, upfront, what the market rate for a bathroom is. That bathroom won't suddenly be worth 1000 times more than you built it for in six months. It doesn't have the potential to be built for 20k and generate 20 million.
Residuals are a pay structure that simply account for an unsure market value. Trust me, we all wish we could quantify art in terms of dollars. But art is unpredictable. So studios and streamers -- which literally REQUIRE content to stay viable -- have to account for that unpredictability. And for studios (or record labels, or book publishers) it's always trial and error. The only way to get a hit, is to go through a few flops.
For every Whitney Houston, there was a singer you never heard of. For every Sopranos, there was a show that got scrapped mid season. For every Titanic, there was a movie that bombed. For every Twilight, there was a book about vampires that went nowhere. Residuals are kind of a reverse market valuation. They pay a fair wage for a product than can only have a set value once it's been created and effectively consumed.
And even then, shit changes. Anyone think Kate Bush would spend weeks on the top of the charts in 2022? Residuals account for unpredictable markets. And in order to have accurate residuals, streamers and studios need to be transparent and open about their data, which is one of the MANY things the WGA and SAG are both fighting for.
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jemjams02 · 7 months ago
Note
Could you write Solomon and Diavolo dating headcannons, both nsfw and sfw?
Also, have a good day!
-anon 🪼
I got u anon <3
Diavolo
Dia is a very cliché lover, I'm talking pulling out all the stops from the worst romance movies
The first time you stayed the night at the palace with him as his lover, the room was filled with as many rose petals as he could find, candles too! He had several things prepared for your stay as well! There was a gift basket in the bathroom with shower/bathroom items with your name on them, as well as your favorite products. There was even a brand-new toothbrush on the vanity next to his! Needless to say, he's over the moon about you.
PAMPERS you!!!
he uses his status to get you anything you ask for! You could ask him for the heart of King Tut, and he'd figure out how to get it for you
you're certainly one of the only people in the entire Devildom that will even consider asking the Demon Prince for a piggyback ride, and he will do it no questions asked! He loves using his demonic strength to carry you, even if you really only ask when you're tired
he's very proud to be your partner, he would shout it from the balcony every morning if he could
doesn't let anyone speak ill of you, he has eyes and ears everywhere, and if someone dares use your name negatively, they will often disappear. You usually don't even know you're being talked about.
Unfortunately, his status also gets in the way of many things, he's often very busy with royal demon matters, but once your relationship has become public knowledge, he doesn't mind having you at his side during meetings! He'll also gladly have you seated nicely on his lap while he does his daily paperwork, reveling in your company
Dia's a very lonely demon, so he's quite clingy, asking to spend any and all free time he may have with you! Although, he also asks you to keep him company when he doesn't have free time, which he'll understand if you're not up to it that day
NSFW
Diavolo, surprisingly, has very little experience. Often times, no one dares to flirt with him, and when they do he has to consider their motives. That being said, he is also absolutely shameless about asking for advice from the brothers (probably Asmodeus)
Your first time with him was straight out of a romance novel, he pulled out all the stops from mood lighting to incense; he even made a playlist after searching "best songs to have sex to"
He's a large demon, so he takes his time with you, starting with kisses. Lots of kisses; and the moment you find yourself unable to stifle a giggle, he sinks his teeth into your skin.
Possessive, and will mark you up like no tomorrow, be prepared to walk around with very visible hickeys
Likes lingerie, and has bought a couple of lovely sets, mostly consisting of a deep red color. However he finds himself unable to resist those teeny sleep shorts and tank top you have in your pajama roster; especially if you have nothing on underneath
Has you cum on his fingers several times before even attempting to fuck you. Enough that you're often exhausted by the time he deems you prepared enough
The first time he sank into you, his demon form came out, it felt so good. He also just likes fucking in his demon form, and can certainly tell you do as well.
Sex with Dia lasts hours, usually just short of you passing out, so aftercare is a huge part of the evening! He carries you to the bath, and everything smells like lavender. He's very gentle as he cleans you off with a warm washcloth, and you're often lulled to sleep by the warmth and comfort
Solomon
He likes to annoy you, but in the cute boyfriend way. Like randomly dabbing you up
Casual dates galore! He needs to go grocery shopping? Why don't you come with him! Wanna go to the bookstore? Oh? You're craving Akudonald's? He'll go! He's not one for anything super fancy, although he will take you somewhere nice every once in a while
Very attentive and giving, but like you think he's not paying attention, and he actually is. That book series from the human world you'd been keeping up with? He hands you the newest volume one day! That bracelet you considered at a sop the other day? It's on your wrist the next week. You're struggling with a class? Oh look, a detailed study guide for the whole year.
Not one to really initiate PDA past handholding, but isn't opposed to it! If you wanna make out at this café right now, feel fucking free baby
Bad texter. He often gets so engrossed in his work/experiments that his phone goes ignored for hours
Consistently tries to cook for you (you never let him in the kitchen)
He's not very clingy, and can go at least a day without seeing you, but he likes your company, and wants to make sure you know you're loved! When he's off doing something far away, he'll call you every morning when he wakes up, and every night before he sleeps. If somehow you're unable to answer due to time zones, he'll leave heartfelt voicemails for you to wake up to
Definitely uses your proximity to Lucifer to try and make a pact with him. It's worth a try, but ultimately gets him nowhere.
NSFW
Being a human in a land of demons can make a man feel...insecure to say the least, but what he lacks in demonic traits, he makes up for with magic. It's hard to go a night with him without a little sorcery; perhaps he whispers an incantation that will heighten your sensitivity before he assaults your senses with him. His voice, his hands, his scent; they all envelop you until the only thing running through your head is his name
His stamina isn't like a demon's but it's better than the average human's so he's often tired when you are, and is more than happy to just fall asleep and clean up later, unless you insist upon washing up right away (he may protest a little, but he always relents)
A little more blunt about what he wants than some others. Outright asking to fuck during makeouts is a frequent occurrence.
Enjoys cockwarming, it's relaxing. Plus, he gets to tease you to no end, which he also very much enjoys
Speaking of teasing, it's endless. He particularly likes edging you, feigning pity when you start begging to cum before giving you what you want; over and over again.
Needs a breather after he cums, his heart is pumping in his ears, just give him a second and he'll be fine :)
69
Wants to fuck your throat
Into choking, both getting choked and choking you
Doesn't mind letting you take the lead
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justmebeingme94 · 22 days ago
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Title: Mutual Feelings 🩷
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Synopsis: The reader is an actress who just finished up a romance movie project with the gorgeous and brilliant Aaron Pierre as her co-star. While filming, the production company booked an extravagant Airbnb for everyone's convenience near the movie set, which was in Miami, Florida. Filming wrapped up quicker than expected, which gave the cast and crew a few extra days to kill. Due to working so closely together, the reader and Aaron have built a strong friendship despite her initial crush on him; she grows to respect and admire him as a person and not just eye candy. However, unbeknownst to the reader, Aaron was lovestruck the moment they met. A night at the beautiful house leads to feelings being exposed and the heat rises between them. This is kind of a snippet so please let me know if I should finish it. Enjoy! 🥰
"You mean to tell me that you've never seen 'Don't Be A Menace'?", you asked, choking back a giggle. "No, y/n. I can't say that I have", Aaron replied in his thick deep British accent, playfully rolling his eyes. You and Aaron were chilling in the living room of the Airbnb, looking for movies to watch on the fire stick. Y'all sat on the exceptionally soft cream colored L-shaped couch with distance between you two while the lamp next to it gave the room a cozy feel. Freshly showered, you sported a baby pink crop top with grey sweat pants and baby pink ankle socks. Your knotless boho braids were draped over one shoulder as you clicked on the movie. Filming had wrapped and you and Aaron had a week to relax and enjoy the city as well as the house. The day involved the cast and crew doing their own thing while you and Aaron decided to go to the beach. You internally thanked the Lord for getting braids due to the humidity of Florida and not wanting to fool with it during filming. Had your hair been in any other predicament, any aquatic activity would be a hard no. Besides, there was NO way you'd miss out on the opportunity of seeing Aaron's shirtless chest and abs glistening in the Miami sun... After the beach, the plan was to check out some clubs in the area. However, you both were extremely tired, just wanting to grab a bite to eat and spend the evening indoors. After showering, y'all decided to Door Dash some Chinese food and watch movies. "That means we're gonna have to watch it", you said in a sing-song voice. He laughed and shrugged. You took a bite of your sweet and sour chicken as the opening credits played. You glanced over at Aaron, who was looking at you with a small smile. You couldn't help but notice how his black tank top clung to his chest and abs while the print in his black shorts taunted and teased you. You licked your lips and readjusted on the couch, a look of anticipation on your face. You hate to admit it, but his eyes was something that you could never get used to. They were piercing. Intense. Hell, they were intimidating. And it didn't help that his newly bronzed sun tanned skin made them even more striking. "What?" You asked. "Nothing. Just...I enjoy spending time with you", he said sincerely. Your heart fluttered. "Awww Aaron, me too. I just hope that when we leave, we stay in contact", you replied. You loved the bond that you and Aaron built in the past 6 months. It wasn't just an ordinary cordial relationship between colleagues; it was rare and real. You'd grown to care for and respect the man that Aaron was. For an example, you noticed on set during food breaks that he would make sure the whole cast and crew had eaten before he would fix his plate. Or how he would make each individual feel like the most important person in the room just from engaging and speaking with him. He was all-around perfect. And as amazing as he was, you knew you didn't want that bond between you two to fade away. You looked down bashfully, tearing your gaze away from Aaron's handsome face and continued watching the movie.
****4 Hours Later****
"Okay...never have I ever....went skydiving", you slurred. Y'all decided that after the movie, a game of Never Have I Ever and some liquor would be lit. Aaron decided to put on an early 2000's R&B playlist to keep the atmosphere light and fun. "Shoot, me neither sweetheart", he replied, laughing. You both toasted a shot of Hennessy and chugged it. You immediately chased it with apple juice, hating the way it burned your throat. Aaron, being a man's man after all, hissed as it went down but didn't chase it. Being the lightweight that you are, you had only done 3 shots but they made you tipsy immediately. Aaron, on the other hand, had reached 5 before the alcohol kicked in for him. Aaron poured up another shot for you both while you let the last shot settle in your stomach. "Let's take it up a notch, darling. We've been playing it safe all night", he proclaimed, slamming the shot glass on the coffee table. The alcohol definitely had him feeling himself. You look at him suspiciously, smirking. "How so?" He cleared his throat and said, "Never have I ever....made out in the rain. Soaking wet, bodies glued together, hands all over each other, not giving a damn who sees us", He said slowly, watching your next move. He knew EXACTLY what he was doing to you too. All of a sudden, your face got extremely hot, as well as other parts of you...you were speechless! Your mouth was agape, and you clenched your legs together discretely. You took the shot quickly, not even bothering to chase it this time; your mind was on other things. Aaron, reading your reaction wrong, immediately regretted saying that. "I apologize, Y/N. Did I make you feel uncomfortable?" "Oh no no no HELL no", you replied while shaking your head fast, making him chuckle. "You just caught me off guard. I've never kissed in the rain before, but I'd be up for it...", you replied, the liquor making you more bold and flirtatious. You start inching closer to Aaron while still maintaining some distance (and teasing him in the process). "Never have I ever...got freaky on a ferris wheel. Kissing and touching, 3rd base activities, praying to God that you remain stuck at the top long enough to make them lose control", you purred, sexily sizing him up. He licked his lips and took another shot, eyeing you hungrily. It was his turn to scoot towards you. "Alright. Never have I ever got to kiss you", his voice dangerously low and oozing with sex. No one drank this round. "And never have I ever got a chance to kiss you back", you replied. You scooted so close to him that you were in his face at this point. "Fuck the bullshit", he said in a husky voice. Before you could respond, he kissed you passionately, his big hands grabbing and squeezing your waist and hips. You moaned in his mouth, loving how you tasted the Hennessy on his sweet lips. Your arms wrapped around his neck, mentally preparing for what's about to go down tonight. He then pulled you on his lap, straddling him. (To be continued) More to come 😉
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atelieradfilms · 11 months ago
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not-goldy · 4 months ago
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Do you think Jikook's bond (whatever it is) is a goldmine to HYBE and they are trying to profit off it?
Thanks for such an intelligent question, having had one such mentally stimulating ask in a while.
Is Hybe overtly exploiting the chemistry that BTS has and that each pair has within the band, absolutely. I mean that bit should be so easy to wrap your head around.
Romance, bromance is one of the top selling genres of all time. The idea of BTS having a super strong fated bond between them is so commercially viable literal movies and songs have been written about them. 7 dates, bullet proof, and their recent Kdrama series etc to be exact.
And ships sell. I've said this since day one. The commercial viability of ships is just an offshoot of the commercial viability of bands as discussed above.
So yes, within that context, Hybe definitely would gravitate towards the two members with the most chemistry, who also happen to be two of the most liked members of the group, two of the most popular members and the most influential members of the group.
You don't go to war with your weakest soldiers.
Jikook is a very strong ship. We all know that.
They've had the most running in the group with some of the ships rising and falling over the years in terms of chemistry and popularity.
There's a lot to do with a pair like that. Reality shows, travel shows, documentaries, memoirs, tell all, cooking shows.
I watch a lot of reality TV and it's not hard to see how Jikook would fit right into that realm.
If BTS was love Island 🏝 Jikook would get their own spinoff after the season ended.
Fans love them, they get the most votes, the camera adores them and producers have so much they wanna do with them.
Am I making sense???
Going off with the Love Island analogy, just because Jikook are fan favorite, and the crew likes to follow them every where with a camera, and they are getting a spin off show of just the two of them don't necessarily mean their bond is fake that they are only existing for fan service or that the company is exploiting them.
There's just so much to do with them. They are fun entertaining adorable and a pleasure to work with.
So to answer your question I'll say yes and no.
Yes, they definitely a Goldmine for hybe in as far as content production goes.
No because they get to kill two birds with one stone. They can make money off of them, but also they create a safe space for Jikook to have that longevity to explore and nurture their relationship. They love being together. They love doing what they do. Hybe simply allows them to live their dreams and relationship much longer.
I've always said, if any queer pair in kpop were real you'd find them in a ship because ships would be their perfect cover for it. And we've seen jikook use this card very often to get out of trouble. Everything they do would be chalked down to fan service no matter how egregious they were. It can be invalidating and frustrating but In a way, it's also safe for them that way.
If I got paid to cozy up to my girlfriend, travel the world with her, eat as much as we can, hike, experience all and any culture- yall could call us anything you want I'm taking that offer🤣🤣🤣🤣
But we gotta give credit where credit is due because to me it's Jungkook that lay the foundation for all of this to be possible when he put of his first GCF with Jimin and later Jimin lay on top of him on a couch talking bout how they ought to do it again and how he would even model for him if filming is what he wanted to do.
I think they gave Hybe the idea of what it can do with them.
You can tell these things are things they both naturally want to do and have already done. During Run, they come up with a team name, they work well together, during rehearsals they stay behind and work on their routines tweaking it a bit, they come up with cooking shows to do, stay up all night doing nothing.
They are by themselves very creative and adventurous.
So like I said, I don't think this is hybe mining them but more so amplifying and giving them the production value to do what they already have been doing which they love, fans love and the company loves.
I'm sure if any other pair had this same organic pull towards eachother and wanted to be around eachother all the time too hybe would be just as curious and invested in them but as it turns out there isn't.
We are not stupid, we see them. And we see how some members act like they can't wait to get out of set when others keep it going even after they yell cut.
We see them all.
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partycatty · 6 months ago
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was requested to write interviewer!reader by this lovely post so here we are. @super-ssimp
johnny cage > interview
you, a reporter, have some questions for the hollywood heartbreaker. he just can't seem to focus on your questions.
notes: heheheheeggeheegehehegeh he's so fine in the gif i'm gonna shit everywhere
[ masterlist ]
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• a box-office smash hit dropped after a long quiet period from hit star johnny cage, back stronger than ever with a movie that blew audiences away with its storytelling and casting. you had to squeeze in an interview with the director, cage himself. you were a part of a big company, front lining with interviews and now face to face with probably one of the most attractive men you'd ever worked with.
• johnny sat in his chair across from you, adjusting his hips ever so slightly in his seat as he holds intense eye contact with you. you return the stare, as hard as it is while a makeup specialist tidied up the powder on your brow.
• "you look great, doll," he's quick to charm, pointing a finger with a grin. "don't sweat this. you'll be fine."
• "i know i'll be," you return his affirmations with your own confidence, a beaming grin on your features that makes his breath hitch. "i've been in this job for nine years, mr. cage. we just haven't met."
• "what.. a.. shame," his voice is teasing, somehow his flirtations come off as honey smooth rather than sleazy. you scoff playfully, earning a laugh from the both of you. two assistants clip microphones to your tops, testing them quickly and hearing a full go-ahead to begin the interview.
• "i'm here with johnny cage, director of the new smash hit 'mortal kombat,'" your voice is smooth, experienced. "i suppose my first question is; what inspired such a story? it's unlike anything we've seen in films."
• the question seemingly didn't register at first, his faraway gaze blocking his thoughts. realizing his flaw, johnny snaps into celebrity mode, "oh, hrm — the ideas that came to me were because of a massive arc in my life. uh — without getting too into it, i was at a low point in the last year, running myself into the dirt. something changed and i wanted to be the new, young, and pretty one behind the camera for once rather than in front of it. i spent the entire summer writing and consulting some friends of mine and we were able to pull this film together based on our relationships and experiences. you won't see anything else like it because there isn't anything else like it. i was inspired by my life, and there is no other johnny cage in this timeline than the one you're talkin' to."
• you nod and agree, face hot at the way his expression lights up with passion as he walks you through his process. "right, and this was after a long hiatus, was it not? there were, rumors, so to speak—"
• "my divorce?" he cuts you off with a glint in his eye as he toys with his ring. "no need to dance around it, i suppose. yeah, different life paths, but i'm a changed man. single and ready to mingle as soon as me and my team crank out some projects we've had in the works."
• "so you confirm yourself to be single? confirming the rumors?" you clarify, leaning forward in interest — whether it was for your own or for the public's, you wouldn't disclose.
• "why?" his question catches you off guard. johnny rests a hand on his chin, tilting his head as he squints. a large grin creeps up onto his lips. "you interested?"
• you tense up, nervously giggling as your eyes dart around the small production team who is trying equally as hard to not laugh at your position. you were trained and professional and yet this man turned you into a blushing mess for all cameras to see. "that's not my question, mr. cage—"
• "—johnny," he interrupts you, pose unmoving. "the pretty ones get to call me johnny."
• what was he getting at? your notecards feel unreadable and your brain's fuzzing from the sudden attention. he was a pretty man, that much was sure, but was he really flirting with you or pushing his behavior for attention? it was hard to tell, his affections were dizzying enough.
• he chuckles at your blank, sweaty stare, your lips opening and closing like the dumbest fish in the tank. you'd been hit on before by interviewees but johnny took the cake without a doubt, from his veiny arms to his touchable hair, all the way to his tight, round—
• "earth to interviewer," johnny's teasing fingers wiggled in your face, grounding you back to the rickety wooden chair and blinding lights. "too much, or not enough?"
• "neither," you lazily protest as you come to. "just didn't... expect all of that." the interview proceeds as normal, with johnny's clicks and compliments littered to keep you flustered right when you regained your composure. it must've been a game to him, how long you're heated over a simple compliment. but it wasn't the compliment necessarily, it was the person giving them.
• it wraps up just as quickly as it started, and the production was being wrapped up the moment you delivered your outro. johnny's suspiciously large, dreamy grin was plastered onto his face for a strangely long amount of time.
• "it was nice working with you," you try to be cordial, it's hard when that smug look is looking back at you, like he's planning something. before you could stick around to figure it out, you spin on your heel with a beet-red blush on your cheeks.
• johnny visibly startles at your sudden turn, reaching forward to grab your wrist before you could fully face away. he flinches at himself and his abruptness, too eager to give away his desperation for just a little more time. he pulls away, scratching his neck.
• "sorry, doll," he gestures toward your wrist, a confused frown on your lips burying his ego for a moment. "just... hey, listen."
• "i'm listening," you cock a brow, stomach flipping at the out-of-script interaction.
• "me and you," he starts with a groaning sigh, struggling to find the words you stole from his throat from one look. "just us two. no cameras, no questions, no divorce — wait —" his slip-up makes you giggle. "no, no, really. lets go out sometime. gimme a shot, whatdya say?"
• "out?" your tone is teasing, a smirk of your own forming on your lips. "you flatter a lowly reporter."
• "you're not lowly," his voice drops down, more serious with a heartfelt smile. "you... make it hard to focus." he's silent for a moment before jumping into his playful attitude. "pick a different career, you're distracting me! but seriously, dinner? movie? not one of mine, i swear!"
• "only if you swear," you grin up at him, feeling far more human with johnny than you had in the interview.
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vgenmedia255 · 1 year ago
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In the ever-evolving realm of animated cinema, the years spanning 2000 to the present have witnessed an extraordinary surge in creativity, innovation and storytelling within the animated film industry. From heartwarming tales to mind-bending adventures, these animated masterpieces have not only captivated audiences worldwide but have also set the benchmark for cinematic excellence. Join us as we delve into the enchanting world of the Best Animated Movies from 2000 till Now, an exploration that promises to ignite nostalgia and unveil timeless gems.
The Rise of 3D Animation: A Paradigm Shift in Cinematic Experience
The turn of the century marked a transformative period in animation, particularly with the widespread adoption of 3D animation techniques. Pixar, a trailblazer in this field, emerged as a juggernaut with releases such as Toy Story (1995) and Finding Nemo (2003). However, it was the release of Shrek (2001) that signaled a paradigm shift, blending humor, satire, and exceptional animation to redefine the animated landscape.
Navigating Emotional Depths: Pixar’s Emotional Rollercoaster
No discourse on animated excellence is complete without acknowledging the unparalleled emotional depth that Pixar has consistently delivered. Movies like Up (2009) and Inside Out (2015) transcended the genre, tugging at heartstrings and leaving an indelible mark on the viewer. Pixar’s ability to infuse animated characters with genuine emotions has elevated these films to a level of storytelling that resonates across generations.
Read More : https://rb.gy/urzznv
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vgenmedia1 · 11 months ago
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In the ever-evolving realm of animated cinema, the years spanning 2000 to the present have witnessed an extraordinary surge in creativity, innovation and storytelling within the animated film industry.
From heartwarming tales to mind-bending adventures, these animated masterpieces have not only captivated audiences worldwide but have also set the benchmark for cinematic excellence. Join us as we delve into the enchanting world of the Best Animated Movies from 2000 till Now, an exploration that promises to ignite nostalgia and unveil timeless gems.
Read More : https://shorturl.at/suCIW
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