#smashing this into my head over and over and over and over

[maruflix]

r/AmITheAsshole u/THEsajaboy • 17 hours ago

My manager said I’m “unprofessional” and all I can think about is how I want her all for myself. AITA?

feat. saja boys (jinu-centric)　　⎯⎯　wc. 1.5k

content: female reader, manager!reader, fluff, slight crack, gets kinda dark at the end, possessive jinu, no beta we die like me after finding out that lee byung-hun is the voice of gwi-ma

note. goofy ass...

I (400, M) have a really cute manager and I kinda like her. Sometimes I tease her to get her attention (you know, like all men do) but yesterday, she tells me that I’m unprofessional and I piss her off :(

“Jinu! What did I say about posting Instagram stories without going through me first?!”

Abby is quick to scramble away from the scene of the crime, taking his phone with him. Baby, who’s looking for something to drink, quietly closes the fridge and speed-walks to the living room.

No one wants to be in your line of sight when you’re angry, demon or not.

Meanwhile, the source of all your headache is slumped over the kitchen table lazily, scrolling his phone with one hand. His other hand is deep in a bowl of popcorn as he munches away without a care in the world.

“Jinu!” Slamming your hand on the table, Jinu finally angles his head to look at you.

“Oh, hey, manager.” He smiles dazzlingly. “What did I do now?”

You exhale in frustration, knowing that Jinu loves to press your buttons. “Who’s on your Close Friends list?”

Jinu tilts his head. “There’s only one person. Guess.”

“I’m really not in the mood to play games.”

“Aww, come on~”

Instead of trying to talk with a man with the personality of a seven year old, you opt to do this the easy way: you snatch Jinu’s phone and checks his Instagram settings, sighing in relief when you see only one person in his Close Friends list:

You.

“Very funny. As if you don’t annoy me enough in the real world already, you just had to insert yourself into my online life too.” Grumbling in annoyance, you deleted his dumb story as an extra measure before handing it back to him. “Why would you post a photo of me and caption it with ‘smash’?!”

“Because...” Jinu slings an arm around your waist, pulling you closer to him with one swift motion, “I would...?”

That answer must’ve not been good enough because Jinu earns himself a hard smack on the arm.

“You’re the most unprofessional idol I’ve ever had the misfortune of working with! If you piss me off one more time, I swear—!”

She’s indeed very competent at her job and she takes things very seriously. That’s part of why I like her... and also why I like to tease her. I just want her to be able to let loose and take it easy instead of always worrying about numbers and charts and promos. For the record, we actually have a pretty good relationship.

“Damn it!”

The Saja Boys didn’t even look up from their telenovela, already used to your outbursts by now.

“What now?” Jinu deadpans, “Did they cancel the feature?”

“No, worse.” You sigh, “Golden is so damn catchy.”

The boys’ head slowly turns to your direction.

“You saved it on your Spotify playlist, didn’t you?!” Jinu points, gasping in horror.

“I-” Hiding your phone behind your back, you stand up under the critical eyes of the Saja Boys, “What I do in my free time is none of your concern!”

“Have you saved Soda Pop on your playlist, have you or have you not?” Jinu narrows his eyes, crawling from the sofa to the chair where you’re sitting.

You quickly turn your attention back to your phone and clicked the plus button.

“There! I have! Of course I have!”

“Traitor!”

“It’s not what it looks like!”

.

.

.

But it is, because the next time Jinu discovers your traitorous ways is when he catches you humming a ‘We're goin' up, up, up..’ in the living room sofa as you scroll that week’s stats.

“Traitor, stop humming that song now!”

Jinu’s tickling your sides mercilessly, making you scream.

“I can’t believe we have a traitor amongst our midst!” Your laughter is infectious because he’s also smiling now. However, what you did still annoyed him and so he will punish you for that.

You try to roll away and shove him but he quickly moves on top of you, holding you in a vice-like grip as he continues his assault on your sides. You and your little arms are no match for him.

“Jinu! Ahahaha! Sto-hahaha! Ji-ahahaha!”

Upon seeing tears running down your cheeks, Jinu finally decides to take pity on you and stop his tickling. The two of you are huffing now, trying to catch your breath. None of you are moving from your position.

“Asshole,” you huff, but your eyes are smiling. “You’re so annoying.”

Jinu leans down, “But you like me annoying.” he grins, savoring the way your cheeks glow scarlet and your eyebrows furrow at your inability to make a comeback.

When you’re no longer able to fight, you choose flight.

You break away from Jinu’s grasp to stand up but your leg gets tangled with his. “Crap!”

Jinu pulls you before your back hits the edge of the table and you crash, instead, on his sturdy chest. When you look up, Jinu is smirking down at you. He doesn’t say anything, yet he doesn’t let you go. It’s like there’s a magnetic pull between the two of you. The way Jinu looks at you intently has your breath hitching.

‘Is he going to..’

You know this is not right, but you can’t move when his grip on your body keeps tightening. You can practically smell his cologne now, his eyes never leaving you even when he angles his head and your lips part—

Abby and Baby burst through the door with pizza boxes and a big bag of energy drinks, unaware of what just went down in the living room sofa.

“What are you two doing?” Abby questions, eyeing the two of you in suspicion.

“It’s not what it looks like!”

Jinu narrows his eyes when you scramble away from his lap. Damn it. And he was so close.

Lately I feel like I get jealous a lot. I even scare myself during those moments because I get so inexplicably angry when I see her with other men. I feel like I want to monopolize her.

“Abby, the shirt stays on!”

Jinu sighs quietly when the music comes to a screeching stop. Next to him, Mystery slumps to the ground. He doesn’t blame him; they’ve been trying to shoot a ‘dance practice’ video for over an hour now.

“Sorry, sorry. It’s a passive skill.” Abby grins sheepishly, walking over to you, who’s sitting crosslegged on the floor. “Are you sure, though? Surely the fans appreciate some.. service.” Abby squats down to your height and flexes proudly, the layer of sweat on his muscles glistening.

You look away, suddenly feeling flustered. “I swear..”

Jinu raises an eyebrow at this.

“Ha! I knew our manager also appreciates some of... this!”

His flexing only causes you to blush even more. Sure, you’ve also managed other boy groups before, but all of them are the cute, respectful type who calls you ‘noona’ and looks up to you with puppy-dog eyes.

The Saja Boys, though? They’re in a league of their own.

The ice cold water bottle to your burning cheek is a lifesaver. You turn to see Romance, looking at you unblinkingly.

His goofy face makes you laugh. “Thanks. Sure is hot in here.”

Before you can finish drinking, Jinu is already by your side, seizing your arm and dragging you with him.

“Whoa- wait!”

When the two of you is outside, Jinu stops. Truth be told, he also doesn’t know why he reacted like that.

“Jinu? What’s gotten into you?”

What has gotten into him, indeed? All he knows is when you look at someone else, his heart churns. When you get flustered and it’s not because of him, something dark writhes inside him.

The Saja Boys are his comrades, but if they get in his way, he’ll—

“Jinu! It hurts!”

Your yelp breaks his train of thoughts. He quickly lets go of your arm. “S-sorry.”

“What’s wrong? You’re scaring me!”

Jinu just stares at you, his jealousy growing even deeper when he remembers you smiling and laughing with the other members.

Someday, when you see his true colors, are you going to leave him?

“Jinu!”

Your grip on his shoulders is secure, anchoring him back down to reality. Jinu looks at you and smile. “I guess I feel left out when I see you getting along with everybody..”

“What? Jinu...”

“I know I’m a handful. You probably hate working with me, and—”

You pull him into a hug. Although you scold him a lot, you don’t want him to misunderstand your feelings: he’s a great guy and you like him. Sure, you think he’s an all-around cocky guy and that ego of his can be knocked down a notch, but... to think that someone like Jinu can also feel self-conscious...

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Jinu. I can never hate you.”

Jinu smiles, slipping his arms around your waist to hug you back. Has he been approaching this with the wrong tactic? The gears in his brain are turning, thinking of ways to bind you to him.

All the while, his demon mark gleams silently.

I think she likes me but she wants to take things slow because she’s still unsure of her feelings. The problem is, I’m not a patient man and I want to have her all to myself ASAP. I can’t risk her having second thoughts. What can I say? I love her so much, so it should be normal, right? So what do you think?

[snippybaby]

There's a certain breed of British person that likes to pretend that we've never heard of tipping or that we only tip for exceptional service and that's why they don't tip when they go to the US. Not true. We tip less (10% is standard) but it is still the case that unless your server smashed a plate over your head and called you stinky, you'll tip. If you're not a dickhead. Also I've never been on holiday and not had a discussion with my companions about what the tipping culture is where we're going, so yeah, do not believe any Brit who says they're confused about US tipping or tries to defend not tipping in the US based on what we do lol.

im gonna say something controversial, but the same way we expect americans to learn about cultures of the places they're visiting you need to be aware of american culture when you visit usa too.

and ofc im talking about tipping culture. idgaf if it's fucked up that we have to tip bc their employers don't pay them enough, YOU KNOW this is expected of you, you KNOW this is part of their culture, and YOU KNOW that not tipping will affect them negatively.

it's is disrespectful to walk into someone's house in japan without taking your shoes off and it is disrespectful to not tip in america.

[jinxificada]

i've been having wholesome fluff thoughts about jinx lately.

something along the lines of a high school romance, puppy lovesick girls discovering the tender touch of a lover. longing gazes, shy smiles, quiet giggles.

she's mischievous, she likes to make you nervous. she'd wrap her hand on your waist, making sure to grab you tight enough. she leans into your ear and whisper sweet nothings.

"you're so pretty i could eat ya' up."

the way her breath hits your skin sends pleasant shivers down your spine. before you realize, your cheeks get warm and a smile spreads on your lips.

she likes to relieve the first time over and over. you would both get in a train, pretending not to know each other.

she sits next to you, a few seconds later she's asking for a bite of your snack. you feign surprise, hesitant hand inching towards her as she confidently takes a bunch of chips.

the small talk is effortless, the chemistry undeniable. there's a few curious eyes on you both, the lady sitting right in front of you smiles a little every time jinx makes you laugh.

she's flirty, nudging your knee with hers every once in a while. unwavering gaze fixed on you, taking in your reactions, your gestures. she doesn't fail to make you shy away from her scrutiny, and for everyone else, jinx is just mesmerized by you.

the ride comes to an end, when she decides she can't go another second without smooching you.

"this is my stop," she shrugged with a small frown. "i'll catch you around." it sounded like a promise, punctuated by a sudden kiss.

there's a couple of gasps. her lips smash against yours in a meaningful caress. before you can think of cupping her cheeks to keep her in place, she pulls back and hops out of the train.

your eyes meet the lady's in front of you, they're wide and almost dreamy. she tilts her head, points towards the door in a silent encouragement. in a jump, you follow jinx. and the crowd believes they just witnessed the beginning of a blossoming love story.

[rainrot4me]

Can we get some platonic proxy reader dynamics with the other slender proxies?

Long one! I really enjoyed this ask!!!

๑ Warning: Blood, violence, panic

── .✦

✦ . ticci toby

๑ “You ever just, like, th-think about smashing your head into a tree to see what it feels l-like?” Toby laughs, twirling his hatchet while you trudge through the woods. You blink at him, unsure if he’s serious.

“Toby, that’s brain damage.”

“So? Who nee-needs a brain out here anyway?” You both burst into a cackling fit, because after a night of chasing targets, absurd jokes are the only way to stay sane.

๑ You’re shaking after a mission goes south, hands covered in blood that isn’t yours. Toby is weirdly gentle, handing you a rag, leaning close enough you can smell the woodsmoke on his hoodie.

“H-Hey, you didn’t freeze up,” he says softly, almost proud. “That’s more than I did my fi-first time.” You manage a tiny smile, grateful he’s here to see you through it.

✦ . masky (tim wright)

๑ Masky watches your stance with a deep scowl, arms folded. “You’re leaving your side open,” he barks.

“I just started.”

“And you’ll just get stabbed,” he fires back, then sighs and steps behind you, adjusting your grip on the knife. His hands are surprisingly steady, grounding, even as his voice stays sharp.

“Better,” he mutters when you repeat the move correctly. You see the faintest hint of approval behind the mask.

๑ Stuck in the car together, you pass a stale bag of chips back and forth. “If you snore, I’m pushing you out the window,” he warns you flatly.

“If you smoke in here, I’m throwing up on your shoes,” you counter. Neither of you means it. There’s a grudging affection in every word.

✦ . hoodie (brian thomas)

๑ You’re picking the locks of an abandoned warehouse. Hoodie wordlessly hands you a better tool, eyebrow raised in silent commentary about your clumsy methods.

“Thanks, Dad,” you joke.

He just rolls his eyes, a ghost of a grin under his hood. You both work smoother than you ever would alone. He’d never admit it, but he likes having you around.

๑ You stumble back to the mansion, bones aching, clothes torn. Hoodie is waiting, silent, holding out a medkit.

“You alright?” he rasps.

“Peachy,” you say, sarcasm dripping.

He snorts, nudging you to sit. His hands are gentle while he bandages you, and the quiet feels safe in a way you never expected.

✦ . kate the chaser

๑ Kate is stretched across the couch, half asleep, boots still on. You flop next to her, sighing. “You know, sometimes I think this job is killing me,” you blurt out.

Kate cracks one eye open. “Good,” she says dryly. “Means you’re doing it right.”

Then she pats your shoulder, comforting despite her deadpan tone. You grin, and it makes everything feel a bit lighter.

๑ Kate disarms you again, sending your blade skittering across the floor. “Don’t telegraph your moves,” she scolds, offering a hand to help you up.

“I hate you.”

“You love me,” she teases, grinning wide. You do, in a way—she’s sharp, loyal, and always has your back.

✦ . proxies

๑ The mission got canceled. Slender’s occupied. You’ve all been technically given a free night, and nobody wants to waste it. Somehow, you wind up jammed together on the threadbare couch in the mansion’s “living room,” with a ratty TV that still kind of works.

Toby immediately claims the best seat, legs sprawled over half the couch, stuffing a huge bowl of popcorn in his mouth like he’s been starved for a week. “I’m picking the m-movie.”

“No,” Masky cuts in, “last time you picked Teletubbies edits for two hours.”

“It was ART,” Toby protests.

Kate is half-lounging on the armrest, boots still on, scrolling on her phone while ignoring them bickering. She’s pretending not to care but is absolutely side-eyeing the screen to make sure you don’t pick something too sappy. “If this turns into a rom-com,” she warns, “I’m setting fire to the DVD player.”

Hoodie is in his usual quiet mode, curled in the corner with a beer bottle, occasionally giving you a dry thumbs-up to let you know he’s alive. When you lean against him to get comfortable, he shifts just enough to support you better, solid and warm. “…Don’t drool on me,” he grumbles.

“Can’t promise that,” you grin.

Masky is the one with the remote (of course). He’s determined to put on something halfway normal, like a psychological thriller, rolling his eyes as Toby whines about wanting a slasher instead. “You kill people for a living,” Masky deadpans. “Why watch a bad movie about it?”

“It’s research,” Toby insists, mouth full of popcorn.

You’re in the middle, being the emotional buffer as they snipe back and forth. You wind up picking a compromise—a found-footage horror flick that’s scary enough for Toby, gritty enough for Masky, and boring enough that Kate can tune out on her phone.

As the movie starts, they settle in: Kate half-asleep, occasionally cursing at the screen. Hoodie doing that silent-laugh thing whenever Toby jumps at the jump scares. Masky throwing popcorn at Toby when he starts talking over the dialogue. You squished between them all, warm and protected

It’s a weird, cozy feeling, one you never thought you’d get in a place like this. All of you—killers, broken, haunted—still finding a way to feel almost normal, if only for one night.

๑ You’re all ankle-deep in mud and blood after a brutal hit.

Masky is dead silent, methodically wiping down a blade while his eyes are still wild with adrenaline, too tightly wound to speak.

Hoodie carefully checks you for injuries, gloved hands impersonal and efficient, but his breathing is ragged—he’s shaken in a way you rarely see.

Toby laughs, high and thin, still jacked on violence, and bounces around like a kid who had too much candy. He slaps you on the back hard enough to almost knock you over. “See that guy’s head pop? L-Like a melon!”

Kate doesn’t say anything, just grabs your arm to guide you away from a corpse you might recognize, forcing you to step over it. “Don’t look. Just move.”

When you get home, the group peels off soaked clothes, washes up in numbing silence, no jokes this time—only grim, shared understanding of what they are.

๑ It’s been storming nonstop, so you’re stuck in the Mansion with no power (like there was much to begin with). Someone digs out a deck of battered cards, and you all gather around a cracked coffee table in the dark.

Toby is terrible at any game requiring bluffing—his face is way too expressive, and he keeps slamming his cards down like an overexcited child. “Go f-fish!”

“This is literally blackjack, Toby.”

Kate is a ruthless shark, memorizing what everyone’s played and making cold-blooded moves to win every time. She’s the person who will absolutely gloat. “Too slow, mask boy.”

Masky tries to run the game fairly, scolding Toby for cheating and Kate for trash-talking, while you and Hoodie try not to laugh.

Hoodie barely engages except to quietly sweep the pot when nobody is paying attention, smirking behind his mask while you catch him at it.

“He’s stealing from the pot again!” Hoodie shrugs.

You end up just laughing as they bicker, making dumb jokes, the storm pounding against the window while you stay warm inside.

๑ After a mission goes wrong, you’re stuck in an abandoned shack with them during a howling, freezing thunderstorm, cop car sirens howling for miles.

Masky is half-delirious from a head wound, repeating little clipped phrases over and over like a broken toy. You and Kate take turns keeping him upright.

Hoodie watches the window, knife ready, eyes sharp enough to cut glass—he won’t let anyone sleep.

Toby, agitated by the sensory overload, rocks back and forth, digging his nails into his palms until they bleed.

The only heat in the place comes from all of you huddled close, breathing each other’s ragged air, waiting for a sign it’s safe to move.

Every crash of thunder makes Kate’s hand clench around yours. She hates the dark, and for a moment she doesn’t act so tough.

Nobody talks about what happens if they’re found—you all know it’s death, and there’s a cold comfort in surviving together.

๑ The team sets up a small campfire outside after a mission, deep in the woods.

Kate is the one who lights the fire (show-off) while Toby tries to toast marshmallows and immediately sets them on fire. “I l-like them charred,” Toby defends, chewing blackened sugar lumps.

Masky broods with a flask, giving off old-man energy while pretending he doesn’t like the smell of the woodsmoke—but you catch him actually relaxing a bit.

Hoodie carves little symbols into sticks, letting you lean against him, occasionally nudging you to hand him another stick.

Kate ends up telling half-scary, half-hilarious stories about past missions. “Remember when Toby ran into a tree trying to tackle that cop?”

Toby, mouth full of marshmallow, “That was a tactical move.”

There’s a strange calm about sitting together, letting the firelight dance over your faces, feeling like a family in the worst possible, best possible way.

๑ You end up badly hurt—too badly to walk—and they have to triage you in a filthy abandoned basement.

Hoodie is steady but you see his jaw trembling as he stitches you up. You keep grabbing onto his sleeves, begging him to stop, and it’s tearing him apart.

Masky paces, chain-smoking, unable to watch, muttering that he should’ve been the one protecting you. He could vomit at the smell of your blood.

Kate snaps orders like a field medic, but her voice cracks once, just once, when she thinks you’ll pass out. “Don’t you dare die on us.”

Toby tries to joke about it, but his grin is warped and panicked, his fingers fumbling with bandages.

The blood on their hands is yours for once, and you see it break them—because you are, in their twisted way, family.

๑ Slender orders a practice day, but it goes off the rails immediately.

Toby challenges you to a wrestling match, ends up in a headlock from Kate who is not playing fair, laughing at how easy he is to pin.

Masky tries to actually train you in hand-to-hand but gets frustrated when Toby keeps jumping in and tackling you mid-practice.

“I swear if you jump in one more time—”

“C’mere—” Toby yells, lunging for you again.

Hoodie helps you correct your stance patiently, gentle but firm, adjusting your shoulders and steadying you every time you fall over.

Eventually it turns into a dogpile, with Masky yelling, Kate cackling, Toby howling, and Hoodie halfheartedly trying to pull everyone off the floor.

Even Slender peeks in, sighs dramatically, and leaves you to the chaos.

๑ Slender doesn’t tolerate mistakes.

When you mess up, you all mess up—and he punishes you together. It’s all mental, but you feel every inch of it, every ache and jab and twist of your skin.

Masky goes deathly still, shoulders squared, resigned. He always takes the brunt if he can.

Hoodie endures silently, keeping his face blank even through pain, the only hint of suffering in how hard he grips your sleeve.

Kate struggles, biting down curses, glaring at Slender even when it makes it worse.

Toby goes completely nonverbal, shaking, trying to hide behind you if he can.

When it’s over, you patch each other up in the dark, no one daring to talk, no one daring to cry, because you know tomorrow you’ll be sent out again.

That night, you all sleep close together in someone’s bed, an unspoken pack, because in this world there is no one else who will ever understand you.

๑ You manage to drag them into the mansion kitchen for a “family meal” (more like a potluck mess).

Toby tries to cook something and nearly burns the place down.

“This is raw, Toby.”

“It’s medium-rare!”

Kate brings some half-decent pasta, acts unimpressed when everyone actually likes it.

Masky makes something very basic, like grilled cheese, but you can tell he cares because he makes yours perfectly golden-brown.

Hoodie, to everyone’s shock, is a genuinely good cook. He quietly whips up a full meal and pretends it’s no big deal.

“Who made this?” Hoodie just raises an eyebrow.

You all sit around the table, bickering, passing plates, Toby telling the worst jokes ever, and you think, yeah, this is family.

꩜ .ᐟ

[starrbishops]

⟡Perfect Situation⟡

(John Walker x f!Reader)

Summary: You and John have a penchant for getting into stupid situations together. When you kiss him to get out of one such situation, it leads to something more in your friendship.

Word Count: 4.6k

Notes: Set after the events of Thunderbolts*, the 'ol Natasha Romanoff fake kiss on a mission trope, SMUT, shower sex, male masturbation, voyeurism if you squint, blowjob, p in v, unprotected sex (wrap it up), brief fingering, John Walker's praise kink (ofc), Walker is down BAD, Walker has a big dick (sorry not sorry), reader is a New Avenger/Thunderbolt, Yelena appearance!

a/n: This one has been in the works for a while. My magnum opus of idiots to lovers truly. Idk why I wrote the smut half from John's POV but uh. It's there. Have fun :)

You knew it was a stupid idea from the start.

Unfortunately, if you and John had one thing in common, it was committing hard to stupid ideas.

You were supposed to be doing simple recon, hanging out at a bar which known organized crime members frequented, hoping to pick up some kind of information. The thing was, you’d forgotten the fact that the two of you were now plastered on every billboard and Wheaties box in the country. 

You now found yourselves being chased out by several gangsters with guns and other assorted weapons, trying to get out of sight without being shot.

“Told you this was a dumb fuckin’ idea.” you panted out as you ran, close behind Walker.

“Yeah, well you’re the one who said we didn’t need backup.” he retorted, ducking into an alleyway. You followed, the sound of the gangsters still close.

You found yourselves in a crowded plaza, people bustling all over the place. You scanned the area, looking for soemwhere to hide. You had learned the hard way that you and Walker were now recognizable, and he was a big guy who was hard to hide in a crowd.

A lightbulb went off in your head.

“Follow me.” you grabbed his arm, dragging him off to one of the brick walls encicling the plaza. You leaned your back against it and pulled John towards you.

“What the hell is your plan-”

“Kiss me.”

“What?” he stared down at you, confusion written clearly on his face. 

You could hear the shouts of the gangsters getting closer. “Just, fucking do it, okay? I’ll explain later.”

He just took a breath before leaning in and smashing his lips to yours, pressing you against the wall. His arms caged you in as he kissed you, covering you from view of the mobsters.

John was a surprisingly good kisser, you thought to yourself. He was married for years, of course he was. Still, even faking it he was doing a damn good job. He kissed with a fervor, like it was the last thing he was ever going to do.

He was the kind of guy to commit to a dumb idea.

You kissed back, wrapping your arms around his neck and trying to make a passionate show of it. You heard the mobsters walk by, one of them making an ‘eugh’ sound. After a moment, you pulled back, opening your eyes and peering over John’s shoulder.

“We’re good.” you turned to him, finding his face red and nervous. You’ve never seen John flustered before. “Hey, you okay?”

He nods feverishly, straighetning up in front of you. “Yeah, yeah yeah yeah, it’s just, uh, been a while.”

Oh. Right. The divorce. It’s been a while since he and Olivia officially divorced, even longer since they’d separated. As far as you knew, John wasn’t interested in dating after her.

“Shit, sorry.” 

He just shrugged. “Not like you’re stealing my innocence, I mean, I was married.”

You both laugh it off awkwardly, moving to the alley to make your way back to the Watchtower.

You walk in silence after that, both trying to move on from what’s just happened. Usually you’d be quick to argue with or tease John after a shitty mission like this, but today all that runs through your head is the kiss, the memory of his lips on yours, his massive figure pressing you against the wall as if he was trying to meld himself with you. 

Next to you, John was quiet too. You assumed he was either planning out how to come back from this shitshow of a night, or thinking about Olivia. It made something in your stomach twist, a kind of…jealousy? Whatever it was, you felt it burning inside you as you clenched your fists, walking on without meeting his eyes.

“Oh, you two survived. Wonderful.” Yelena called from her spot on the couch as you entered, shoulders sagged and tired from running. “I see it went well.”

“Shut up.” John grumbled as he made straight for his room, not even saying a goodnight, leaving you alone in the entryway with the Russian spy. You can hear his door creak and slam from down the hall.

“What’s got him all grumpy?”

“Getting chased down by gangsters who keep calling you knock-off Cap will do that to you.” you slid your jacket off and plopped down next to Yelena, staring aimlessly at whatever reality TV show she was playing. “Mission was bad, he’ll get over it.”

Yelena just shrugs, turning her attention back to the TV. Part of you wants to tell her about the kiss, but you know she’ll tease you relentlessly for it, even moreso if you admitted that you liked it. 

“You know, Walker usually comes home happy when he’s with you.” Yelena comments, drawing your attention from your spiraling thoughts to her, “Even when things go bad. You make him more…optimistic.”

You just stare down into your lap, knowing she’s right. You get along with Walker more than anyone else on the team. An unlikely pair, but the two of you work well together. It’s why you agree to his stupid missions and why he supports your dumb choices. You’re two idiot peas in a pod, always in it together.

You worry you’ve ruined what you had. Things have been different with John for a while now. Where silence used to be comfortable it becomes more intense, like there’s words going unsaid in the way he looks at you. 

You’ve thought about kissing him before. Hell, you’ve thought about doing plenty of things to him before, and you weren’t thinking about smacking him when he did something wrong. Maybe your dumb kiss idea was an extension of that, your brain resorting to primal instincts instead of your training. And now here you sit, John having barely spoken to you after the kiss.

God, you fucked up.

You make some excuse about getting some rest to Yelena, making for John’s room immediately. How could you be so stupid? Letting your dumb feelings get in the way of the mission, of your friendship, of the whole team dynamic. You knock on his door, silently praying he’ll forgive you your stupidity. 

You receive no answer. You think for a moment, trying the door and finding it unlocked. You step in, hoping he’s just tired and avoiding you for the moment.

You find an empty room, hearing the shower from his en-suite running. Shit. You’ll try again tomorrow.

As you turn to leave, you hear some kind of grunting noise. You whip around on instinct peering around for the source of it. Something coming from the bathroom. It sounds like the grunts John makes when he’s focused in battle, the ones you always tease him about. 

You hear it again. It’s less angry sounding than it is when he’s fighting, but still as intense. Is he having a batte with the shampoo bottle or something?

You tiptoe closer to the door, your brain trying to come up with potential reasons. Maybe he’s hurt and didn’t tell you. He does historically have a tendency to not mention his wounds, deal with them himself so as not to worry others. You’ve insisted time and time again it’s no burden, and you thought he’d gotten over it.

You’re about to knock on the door, ask if he’s alright, when you hear it.

Your name.

Your brain screeches to a halt, wondering how he knew you were there. Then you hear it again, not an acknowledgement or a greeting, but a groan.

Oh. That’s what he’s doing.

Oh.

You clamp your hand over your mouth to avoid gasping, praying he didn’t hear you. Your mind is rushing at a million miles an hour.

So that’s why he was being weird after the kiss. It’s why he always stares at you in silence, looking like he has something to say. It’s why he shivers every time you touch him, clean up his wounds or even just nudge him in a meeting.

You’re frozen to your spot, wondering what you do now. The groaning sounds continue, and it certainly sounds like he’s enjoying himself. While thinking about you. Just imagining him, hair soaked and skin drenched in water, touching himself to the thought of you sparks a fire inside you.

The sounds stop. You snap out of your fantasies and immediately enter a state of panic, wondering what to do. This is not a scenario you’ve ever planned for. Do you wait for him to come out and confront him? Terrible idea, you look like a pervert. Do you run away and bring it up later? Again, pervert. There’s no winning. Best idea is to pretend it never happened.

But you don’t want to do that. You want to stomp in there and help him finish the job.

The water shuts off, and you decide on running. You tiptoe as fast as you can to the door, quietly turning the knob.

You think you’re home free till you hear the loud screech coming from the hinges of the door.

Damn John and his propensity for dramatically slamming doors.

The sounds of activity in the bathroom cease. You freeze, hoping and praying he didn’t hear it.

“Hello?” Shit, he heard it. Now what? “...Hi?” you call out nervously, immediately slamming your head against the wall.

You refuse to look back as John walks in, instead closing the godforsaken creaky door as you contemplate your fate. You’ve made things so, so much worse somehow.

“Hey.” he says, a tinge of nerves in his voice.

You clear your throat, trying to disguise your own fear and embarassment. “Hey.”

“How long were you, uh, out here for?”

You squeeze your eyes shut, still gripping the doorbknob like a lifeline. “Um, not too long. I was just, uh, coming to check on you because you seemed mad and I, I didn’t know you were in there. I was just leaving!” Great lying. You wonder sometimes how you became an Avenger.

“Oh.” His voice is gravelly, tired from a long day and after his shower activities. “So you, um…” 

You don’t even let him finish his sentence. “I didn’t hear anything!” Shit.

“I didn’t…” he trails off with a sigh. You can hear his wet foot squelch against the floor as he takes a step towards you. “Look, I’m so sorry, you shouldn’t have had to hear that, it was…inappropriate, to say the least.”

“Oh, yeah.” you mumble, your brain basically running on fumes and reverting back to your base state of sarcasm. Walker just sighs in embarrassment behind you.

“Look, I… I don’t want things to be uncomfortable. If you don’t want to be around me after that, I understand, but I-I do enjoy being your friend. Even if I may want something more and you don’t.”

You finally open your eyes, leaning agaisnt the now shut door as you turn to face John. He’s clad in nothing for a towel, hair messy and sticking to his forehead. You can see everything; his strong biceps, the vein in his forearm that drives you crazy when he flexes it, his v-line running down beneath the cotton towel. You do your best not to ogle, focusing on his face, which has gone beet-red from the heat of the shower and the embarrassment of being caught.

You take a breath, trying to calm yourself before you speak. “Who said I didn’t want something more?”

His eyes light up, his face somehow becoming even more red. “You do?” he practically whispers, hope growing. 

“I was going to say sorry, for kissing you earlier, because I thought you were angry with me.” you chuckle, reeling at the insanity of your current situation. “I thought I ruined our friendship, and I was gonna beg for your forgiveness because I let my feelings get in the way of things and I made you hate me-”

“Hey.” he interrupts your rambling, crossing to room to stand in front of you, a mirror of your earlier kiss, with you backed against the wall and him hovering above you. “I could never hate you.”

You just nod, gazing up at him. “I do. Want something more.” you breathe in as you realize you’ve been holding your breath. “I want you.”

He’s giving you that look again, the one you now recognize as longing, although he looks strained, like he’s still holding himself back.

“Can I…” he steps closer, almost flush against you. “Can I kiss you? Again?”

“God, please do.” you grab the nape of his neck and pull him down, smashing your lips to his like it’s the end of the world and this is the only chance you’ll get. His hands move to cup your face, kissing back with all the intensity and feeling he’s held back. All the words left unsaid, the yearning looks, the late nights lying awake, he pours it into this, clutching onto you like you’re his salvation.

“You’re wet.” you mumble against his lips, feeling the rumble of laughter in his chest as you kiss him again, pulling him against you. Your clothes are wet now too, but you couldn’t care less. You just keep kissing him like his lips are the air you need to breathe.

His hands move from your face, trailing down to your waist, just above the curve of your ass.

“Can I have you?” he asks, breathless, his mouth resting on your forehead. “Please?”

“John.” you pant, and you can see his face fall, just a little, as you look up. “I am so gross from all that running.”

He just laughs, taking your hand in his. “That’s what showers are for.” he grins as he tugs you towards the door, holding it open for you to walk through. He wolf whistles as you do so, checking you out from behind. You elbow his stomach gently on the way in before you move to start undressing.

John’s still only got his towel, so he simply turns the water on and stands back to enjoy the show, watching you tug your shirt over your head, start to unbutton your pants. Every piece of skin you show somehow makes him harder, and the towel is doing a poor job of covering him up. Still, he waits to drop it, biding his time.

“What, are you enjoying the show?” you pause as you notice John’s eyes on you.

“Very much.” he grins cheekily.

“Alright, get in the shower, loverboy, I’ll see you in there.” you wave him off as you move to unclip your bra.

He does as he’s told, although he can’t help but mouth off. “That’s a new nickname.” he comments as he slides the glass door open once more.

“Would you rather I call you ‘creep?’”

“See you in there!” he ignores the last comment as he drops his towel, tossing it on the counter as he steps back into the shower. This time you whistle at the sight of his ass, eliciting a chuckle from him before he shuts the door again.

The water borders on scalding, the way he likes it. The serum made him run warm, and it takes just that much more heat for him to really feel it. He lets his pour over his face, run through his hair as he tries to ignore his aching erection.

It wasn’t the first time he’d masturbated to the thought of you. It’d been an accident the first time, honestly. He’d already been in the process, near finishing when all of a sudden your face had popped into his head, clear as day. Not even anything sexual about you, just your presence, your smile. He came harder than he ever had with just his hand before.

He felt guilty about it after. And every other time he’d done it. He couldn’t look at you for days afterwards. He liked you, a lot. You were on his mind all the time, not just when he was jerking off. And it was more than just your body. It was you, the way you believe in him, backed up even the stupidest ideas, laughed at his terrible jokes. The fact that you were unbelievably attractive was also a plus.

Just thinking about you right now, undressing outside for him made him have to steady himself against the wall, hand pressing into the tile just to avoid touching himself. He’s about to ask what’s taking so long when the door slides open, revealing your naked form as you step in to join him.

Any snarky remark he was going to make leaves his brain immediately. His eyes rake over you, taking it all in. The swell of your breasts, the curve of your hips, the sharp edges of your collarbone. He’s honestly speechless, even more so when you turn to shut the door and he can see your bare ass. He doesn’t even hear what you say as he struggles to put into words the sheer beauty before him.

“Huh?” he manages to snap out of it, standing up straight.

“I said, are you okay?” you laugh, joinigng him under the stream of water. The droplets soak your skin. Leaving shining traces where they drizzle down. 

“You’re so beautiful.” he finally manages.

You just smile, running your hands through your now wet hair. John feels like his heart is going to explode. And his dick, too.

Instead, he blinks hard, trying to ignore how goddamn horny he is. “Um, you need some help?” he waves a bar of soap in front of you, and with a nod from you, begins lathering your shoulders with it.

Neither of you talks as he explores your body with his hands, tracing the curve of your spine down to your ass as he cleans you. It feels intimate, safe here with you, like the rest of the world disappears. In here, there is no failed mission, no New Avengers, no pressure to save the world. It’s just you and him, baring yourselves to one another.

Once you’ve rinsed all the soap off, you finally turn to him, a mischievous grin on your face. “Need some help?” you echo his earlier words, one hand moving to wrap around the base of his cock. He hisses at the contact, his aching erection finally reivieng some attention.

“God, yes, please…” he can barely string a sentence together while you sink down to your knees, beginning to stroke him up and down. His hand returns to the tile, trying to hold himself together as you touch him.

“Jesus, so good.” it’s intoxicaintg, the sight of you on your knees before him. He’s imagined it before, but nothing compares to the real thing. Your eyes, blown out with lust as you look up at him, one hand around his length and hte other between your thighs. He memorizes the sight, wanting to preserve it forever in his memory.

Then you’re licking the dripping precum from his tip, and he groans outright. “You’re a loud one, huh?” you comment, before taking the head of him in your mouth, earning another broken moan from his lips. 

You take him deeper into your mouth, and it feels impossibly good. He can feel a moan vibrate around his cock as you suck him. One hand moves to grab your hair, not pulling, just grounding him as you continue bobbing your head on his dick, your hand stroking the base of him. “Fuck, John,” you moan as you take a momentary break, “‘s big.” 

He was already close before, having been unable to finish during his earlier shower, but he feels about to go off the deep end already now, the way you caress him, the feel of your mouth on him yoru dirty compliments.

“God, baby, I’m gonna…Christ, you feel so good.” He starts weighing his options, cum in your mouth, or cum in your cunt. He picks the second one. “Honey, wait, please.”

You release him with a wet pop, a lewd sound that makes up for his removal from your mouth. You give him a confused look, as he tries to catch his breath. He can feel his brain short circuitng at the sight of you, water streaming down your naked form, on your knees with your hands wrapped around his cock. You look like a work of art. “First time I cum with you is gonna be inside you.” You grin, giving one last lick up the underside of his length, his grip on your hair tightening. 

“Alright, get up here.” he releases your hair, instead pulling you back to standing. He stumbles back a bit as he removes his hand from the wall, still dizzy from his near orgasm. He pulls you in close, kissing you once more as he backs you against the wall.

“Fuck, John…” you moan as he kisses down your neck, sucking a bruise into your collarbone. He couldn’t care less if anyone sees it later. Let them, he thinks. Let them know you’re mine.

He wraps his hands under your thighs, pulling you up. He silences your yelp with another burning kiss, desperate to be inside of you already. Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer as his cock brushes agaisnt your soaked core.

Holding you up with one hand, his other moves to your cunt, feeling your wetness mixed with the water of the shower. He delves one finger into you, eliciting a gasp. He can feel you squeeze around him, arousal practically dripping from you. “This all for me?” he asks between kisses on your neck. 

You nod fervently, wiggling your hips as you try to pull him in deeper. “Yes, God, John, all for you.”

He smiles, removing his finger, much to your displeasure. You’re distracted from it as he brings it to his mouth, sucking your juices off slowly, savoring the taste of you on his tongue. He’ll have to eat you out after this, he thinks, moving it to the top of the list of things he wants to do to you. The look of awe and pure lust on your face will have to do for now. First, he needs to fuck you like his life depends on it. 

He grips his cock, dragging it agaisnt your cunt, lining himself up. “You ready?” he checks in, blue eyes meeting yours. “It’s a lot.”

He doesn’t even mean to brag, just pointing out a fact. He’s always been on the longer side, but the serum somehow added more girth, something he had to adjust to. You’re the first person he’s had sex with since the divorce, so he’s extra careful.

You just chuckle, your hand threading into his blond locks. “I’m ready.” you tell him, the same confident tone you go into a mission with, the voice you use when you’re about to dive headfirst into danger, or another stupid situation.

He is quite the stupid situation, he thinks. This whole thing is a terrible choice. Putting yourself on the line with him, of all people? He’d never think poorly of you, never think of you as stupid. You just tended to make dumb choices, and he was the dumbest choice of all. Maybe that’s what made you perfect for each other.

Still, he furrows his brows, eyes trained on yours as he begins to push in. You’re so hot around him, your walls squeezing him like a vice, and he’s only put the tip in. He goes as slowly as he can, not wanting to hurt you. Inch by inch, he keeps his eyes on your face, watching every moan, the way your face contorts with pleasure. He groans as he finally bottoms out, his hands gripping your thighs with the effort it takes to keep from fucking into you.

Your own hands dig into his shoulder blades, hard enough to break skin. He’s sure he’ll be left with a few crescent scars from where your nails scratch his skin, and he couldn’t be happier. He tries to breathe, to hold himself together and not fall apart instantly with you clenching around his cock.

“Holy shit, John.” you groan, trying to catch your breath. “Y-you can move.”

John is a man who follows orders, and with your permission, he slowly pulls out of you, quickly thrusting back in. He sets a pace, pulling lamost all the way out before he slams back into you.

“Harder, John.” you moan into the crook of his neck. He groans at your request.

“Jesus, baby, you’re gonna kill me.”

He does as you tell him, picks up his pace, his thrusts becoming harder and faster. His balls slap against your ass, the sound of wet skin on skin echoing through the shower. “So good, John, so full…” one of your hands runs along his jaw, caressing his cheek. You use it to pull him into another kiss, this one all teeth and tongue clashing against each other, reckless passion as he pounds into you. “So fucking handsome, John.”

Your praise only drives him crazier, his hips bucking into yours as he fucks you with all his might. It feels like heaven, being inside you. Better than any dream he’s had of it. Your tight, wet cunt practically choking him as he thrusts his cock in and out of you. He’s grateful for the stamina the serum gave him, because he thinks he’d die if he stops now. His brain has turned off fully, barely able to string together words anymore. All he knows is that he has to keep going, has to feel you cum on his cock, and has to fill you up with his cum.

He doesn’t even realize he’s talking aloud till he feels you grip him tighter, nodding agaisnt his shoulder. “God, yes, John, fill me up, please.” you moan. The sound is music to his ears. 

“Gotta cum for me first, honey.” he pants, thrusts becoming shallower and more erratic as he feels himself getting closer. He moves one hand to your clit, his thumb rubbing circles into your sensitive bud. “Please, cum on my cock, baby.”

If he thought you were tight before, it’s nothing compared to how you spasm around him as you cum. You scream out his name, nails cutting into his skin. He doesn’t stop, just keeps fucking you like his life depends on it, chasing his own release desperately.

“John.” you murmur out as you come down. “Cum inside me, please, need you too.”

John Walker is a man who follows orders.

He lets himself go, with one last thrust pushing himself as deep into you as possible. His cock releases hot ropes of cum into you as he finally fnishses. He moans out your name, biting your shoulder in an attempt to stifle himself. His hands clutch yoru thighs hard enough to bruise as he instinctively thrusts once, twice more, as if he’s trying to fuck his spend as deep into you as possible.

“You’re perfect.” he catches his breath as he comes down from his high. He knows better than to say ‘i love you,’ even if it’s what he’s thinking right now. Later, he tells himself. It’s exhilarating, the thought of it. That there will be a later, that you want to be with him. “God, you’re incredible.” he kisses you, the promise of more to come, the promise to be here for later. Even as he doesn’t say it aloud, the kiss is as much an ‘i love you’ as the words themselves. For now, that’s all you need. 

a/n: i'm really proud of this one and i hope y'all liked it as well! thank you all for reading and sticking with me as my writing has improved, i love sharing my love for these characters with y'all! ain't much, but it's honest work.

[studioeisa]

the way the cookie crumbles 🍪 chan x reader.

you need one good story to get your career off the ground. lee chan is on a mission to try every chocolate chip cookie in seoul. better start somewhere, right?

🍪 pairing.  interviewee!lee chan x food journalist!reader.  🍪 word count.  14.4k.  🍪 genre/warnings.  alternate universe: non-idol. slice of life, romance, angst, hurt/comfort. mentions of food, disease (which neither mcs have); profanity. themes of food/memory/grief, svt ensemble as journalists. 🍪 footnotes.  this is part of the milestone: 100 collab. it’s been a while since i’ve written something that i feel like actually means something, and this is that fic for me. it’s my soul on a baking sheet, and i’m grateful that i got the chance to bring it to life. the two halves of my heart, a @chugging-antiseptic-dye & tara @diamonddaze01, proofread the outline for this months ago. thank you, @eclipsaria, @nerdycheol, @gyubakeries, and @shinysobi for the trust!!! 🎵 recommended listening ⸻ the way the cookie crumbles.

It’s taunting—the way the Google Docs cursor is blinking up at you. 

You swear you’re going mad. How long have you been staring at this empty document? An hour? Three? 

You heave out a sigh, slouching at your work desk until your forehead has landed on your mechanical keyboard. A couple of keys are smashed in the process, and you find an intelligible smatter of letters on your screen when you look up. 

That’s the most progress The Story has had in a couple of days, unfortunately. 

“You know,” a bemused voice calls from behind you, “maybe you’re trying too hard.” 

The thought draws a snort of laughter from you. Trying too hard. It’s more like you’re not trying hard enough. How else to explain the sheer lack of progress in what was supposed to be your magnum opus? 

You don’t wheel around to face your workmate. You already know who it is, anyway. 

“Easy for you to say,” you grumble. “Aren’t you accepting a Hinzpeter Award next week, Mr. Humans-Write-Recipes-Better-Than-A.I.?”

Joshua lets out a low chuckle at the light jab about his capital-s Story. You poked your fun at your senior, but you had to give credit where credit was due; the article had been a riveting read, and Joshua deserves all his flowers for tackling it with such finesse. 

“It’ll be your award next year,” he says with a certainty that should be comforting. 

Instead, it reminds you of looming deadlines, of your prickly Editor-in-Chief, of your empty fucking Google Doc. Another sigh. This time, heavier. 

“Or Seungkwan’s,” you say. “His ‘swicy’ story is doing crazy rounds on SNS right now.” 

That was Seungkwan’s Story: A bold declaration of sweet and spicy— aptly called ‘swicy’— being the flavor of the 2025 food scene. Even the new guy, Vernon, had already managed to write something worth reading. Some feature about how foreign candy puts American candy to shame. 

And you? Dozens of listicles and a couple of How-To’s later, you’ve yet to make your dent in The Korea Post’s Food beat. 

You can’t see Joshua’s face, but you can imagine his expression when he sympathetically chides, “What did I say about comparing yourself to other people?” 

You swivel around in your computer chair. Sure enough, Joshua is sporting a disapproving look.

“I’m not comparing myself to Seungkwan,” you say defensively. “I’m just factually saying that his article has over twenty thousand hits already.” 

“Stop.” 

“Okay, okay.” 

Joshua’s demeanor softens a bit when he notices the palpable frustration on your face. “You’ll get there,” he reassures. “I’m sure you’re closer to it than you think.”

You’re tempted to call Joshua out for the platitude, to wax poetics about the Google Doc collecting cobwebs on your screen. Instead, you flash him a tight smile and go to change the topic—bringing up instead his most recent baking endeavor. 

By the time Joshua has flounced away to go bother someone else, you’re ready to call it a day. Head home with your tail between your legs and watch Culinary Class Wars until you crash. It sounds as good of a plan as any, you gingerly think as you click on to Reddit one last time. 

Crawling the web was typically a good source for inspiration. You’d been coming up empty-handed for the past couple weeks, but it never hurt to try. As you click through r/foodkr, your mind wanders to mala cream shrimp dim sum and—

A post catches your eye. You have to backtrack a bit to check it out, having scrolled too fast the first time around. 

r/foodkr • 2hrs ago pichanlin

I want to try EVERY CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIE in Seoul 😃

Now that I have your attention: Please name a cafe/bakeshop that sells chocolate chip cookies. Criteria: MUST be in Seoul, should be PURELY chocolate chip (no raisins, nuts, et cetera). Price is NOT an issue. Even if you personally think it is the worst cookie known to man, please please please name it. I am on A MISSION.

↑  12  ↓     🗨  8     ↷  Share

It’s a lot to unpack. The abysmal use of all caps. The ambitious declaration. Who the hell is this ‘pichanlin’, and what sort of death wish does he have? You tongue the inside of your cheek. 

Closer than you think, Joshua had said. 

The words ring in the back of your head as you go to send an invite message to start chatting.

--

For all intents and purposes, user ‘pichanlin’ isn’t the type who looks insane.

He’s bright-eyed and boyish in his attractiveness. He looks like he’s around your age, too, though that’s an assumption you make solely based on his megawatt smile.

Lee Chan, he had introduced himself prior to your meetup at Taegeukdang Bakery. 

He sits across from you now, one leg crossed over the other. When the waiter comes to give him the warmed cookie he had ordered, he flashes the stranger a charming grin. It occurs to you that he’s not trying to be particularly winsome; it seems to be a natural quality. 

You notice that his order doesn’t come with a drink. 

“Just service water for me,” he explains when he catches your scrutinizing eye. “I’m already going to be blowing so much money on cookies, so I have to cheap out somewhere.” 

You respond with a fake laugh. Such was the life of working in a corporate-adjacent setting. Mastering the art of the fake laugh was a must, and you’re convinced you’ve somewhat perfected yours. 

You’re not on the same budget as Chan, so you can at least enjoy an iced latte. You absentmindedly stir the drink as you ask the million won question. “So, what’s up with this insane cookie run?” 

The query is posed to be one that’s almost casual. When Chan responds just as coolly, you figure that you’re partly to blame. 

“I like cookies,” he says simply. 

You offer him a tight grin. “I like coffee,” you say, “but you don’t see me running around the city chugging Americanos.” 

Chan’s responding laugh is far from fake. He sounds genuinely tickled. “Are you making fun of me?” he jokes, feigning hurt as he places a hand over his chest. “And here I thought you were a serious, no-nonsense journalist.” 

A part of you bristles at this virtual stranger trying to poke and prod at you. You know he’s kidding, but the topic of being serious at work is a sore spot you’ve yet to find a balm for. You sip at your drink to try and forget the fact. The coffee is scaldingly hot, which makes you wince. 

“I need to know what I’m getting into.” Your tone is surprisingly sage for your internal conflict. That gut feeling is beginning to tug again—that fear you’re pursuing a dead end, interviewing someone who’s not about to make sense.

It doesn’t help that Chan’s smile only breaks at your words. You want to snap that this isn’t a joke to you, but you’re trying to reign in that temper that’s given your editors so much grief in the past. 

Fuck it. You should cut your losses. Head home and consider this yet another freak hoping to find his five minutes of fame with a viral TikTok series that won’t get more than a couple hundred views. 

You open your mouth to excuse yourself to the bathroom from where you have no intentions of returning when Chan, seeming self-aware of how insane he sounds, motions for you to wait. He fishes through his backpack and—

It’s a map of the city. Not one of those folded, English maps you can pick up at the airport, promoting tourist traps like N Seoul Tower and Nami Island. No, it’s meticulously scribbled, with splotches of ink and hasty scribbles. Chan lays it out in the table between you with excruciating care, as if the map isn’t already battered with its torn edges and faint coffee stains. 

There are dozens of hand drawn, red pins, indicating what you can only presume are the destinations that Chan wants to hit. Pain d’echo. Aoitori Bakery. Samarkand. It’s extensive, obsessive, and the work of either a genius or a lunatic. 

Said genius-slash-lunatic smiles up at you, unashamed of what he’s presenting. “This,” huffs Chan, “is what you’re getting into.” 

Touché, you decide, as you settle back into your chair. 

--

Your editor, Minghao, doesn’t look impressed. 

To be fair, it’s hard to impress a man like Xu Minghao. A part of you feels silly, proposing this cross-country cookie run to him. Minghao is a serious journalist. He brings to the table—no pun intended—narratives that are unheard of in the field of food writing. 

His Story was a thrilling investigative on Chinese fleets and their impact on the seafood industry. It landed him in this gorgeous corner office, where he edits drafts with a 0.3mm Muji Gel Ink Ballpoint Pen. In red, of course. 

He’s holding that very pen now as he surveys your pitch, printed on an immaculately crisp piece of A4 paper. Minghao is old school like that. He doesn’t believe in Microsoft Word; he wants you to get blood on your hands, in the form of his editorial genius. 

He clicks his tongue. You wince, bracing for impact. 

Instead, you get grace. “This has potential,” he says. 

To hell with I love you. Those are the three words you want to hear most in the world. This has potential, from the world’s most anal proofreader. 

You exhale. Let your guard down. “But,” he starts, and you have to scramble to bring your wits back together. “You haven’t filled out this part.” 

You knew it’d be called out. Before Minghao can even tap his pen at the empty portion of your pitch, you’re already prepared. 

Rationale. That’s what you’re missing. The reason why Chan is trying to speedrun himself into diabetes. 

“Yeah, well.” You shift from one foot to another as Minghao peers at you from over his glasses. “I was hoping I could fill that out later on.” 

“You’ve got balls,” says Minghao dryly, “for making a pitch when you haven’t got a reason for it.” 

“It’s interesting.” 

“So is the fact that cheese is the most stolen food in the world, but you don’t see us writing 7,500CWS for that, do you?” 

You bite back a laugh. A corner of Minghao’s lip twitches upward despite himself. He’s not as formidable as people make him out to be. He just has the tendency to make interns want to cry, and writers question their entire existence. 

You were already full of doubt the moment you stepped into his office, so—it cancels out, you suppose. Minghao sees right through you nonetheless. 

“Is this guy a frustrated baker? Is he someone planning to start a bakery?” Minghao poses, handing you back your pitch. The carnage isn’t bad today. A couple of struck-out adverbs, some dangling sentences with eight question marks next to them.  “You’ll have to figure that out, or else your story will have no gravitas. It will float.” 

“Float,” you repeat, clutching your pitch closer to you. 

“Float,” he confirms. “Like an astronaut jettisoned out into space.” 

You’re not sure you get the analogy, but you suppose a man who gets paid an annual salary of ₩100,000,000 deserves to be a little cuckoo. He rattles off your deadlines. You mumble gratitude and get ready to chase leads for a short-form listicle. 

You’re only halfway out Minghao’s office door before you’re pulling out your phone from your pocket. It’s your latest saved contact, which makes things infinitely easier. 

To: [INTERVIEWEE] Lee Chan 🍪 I’m in. 

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Lee Chan has a plan: To try every single chocolate chip cookie in Seoul.

Not every cookie, you realize a little later on. Just around a hundred. Which is still certifiably insane. 

A bakery and dessert café off Itaewon is where you two start your mission. Passion5 is gorgeous in that probably-overpriced way, set in an art-gallery like space. They boast of everything being made in house—cakes, ice cream, sandwiches. 

You and Chan don’t look too out of place. If anything, the two of you look like a couple on a date. It’s a horrifying realization, but it’s also a good cover. You like to think of your stories like that, sometimes. Like they’re something Actually Important instead of a lead followed from Reddit. 

Chan orders his chocolate chip cookie. You get an iced matcha that you put on your company card. 

“So,” Chan says loftily, setting the cookie down between you two. 

“So,” you respond, voice carefully measured. 

You wait. You weaponize the silence. It’s the first good tip you got about interviewing: letting the quiet stretch, so your subject might divulge more than necessary. But Chan doesn’t look like he’s about to spill his entire life story. He just stares at you for a moment too long. 

“Are we gonna half or what?” he asks instead of—I don’t know, giving you a quote you could use for your story. 

You force on a tight-lipped smile. “No,” you say. “Go ahead.” 

Chan doesn’t have to be asked twice. 

Being a writer has made you more attuned to the little things. Mannerisms that might make or break a sentence. Tics that could point to something just below the surface. Most of these habits are the kind you have to dig for, the one you need 20/20 vision to be able to clock. 

Lee Chan is as subtle as a foghorn. His fingers are stiff when he picks up the cookie. His bite is deliberately slow. When he chews and drawls out a comical, exaggerated ‘mmm’, you resist the urge to face palm. He’s putting on a show. 

You couldn’t care less, though. Chan can perform all he wants. You give him a beat, and he cracks. “Very chewy,” he says through his mouthful of pastry. “Uses chocolate chips. Mmm. Nice.” 

You jot it down in your notepad, even though it makes you feel like a student highlighting things that won’t be on a test. “Anything else?” you prompt. 

“It’s… sweet,” he says lamely as he swallows. “A bang for your buck.” 

At least that makes you laugh. Bang for the buck. “I didn’t know value for money was part of your criteria,” you jab. 

“It’s not,” says Chan, and you feel that slight thrill that comes with having an opening. 

You spring the question on him. “What’s your criteria, then?” 

It’s meant to be the first question to a dozen more. What’s your end goal? Do you come from a family of bakers? What’s the worst cookie you’ve ever had? 

But Chan doesn’t give, doesn’t bite. He only gives a noncommittal hum, finishes off his cookie, and wipes the crumbs off his fingers. He pulls out his city map from his bag and crosses out Passion5. No ceremony, no fanfare. 

You stare at him incredulously as he chirps, “Next stop?” 

--

You build your days around Chan. 

On days when you’re not expected to report to the office, you follow him on his mission. He agrees to not try anything while you’re gone lest he find himself finding whatever he’s looking for while you’re in Google Docs hell.

He always gets the same thing: a chocolate chip cookie, and a glass of service water. You get mostly drinks. Every now and then, you give in to something novelty—a cheesecake-cookie hybrid at Songpa’s Au de Cookie, a s’mores-flavored cookie at Cafe Chunk. You’re convinced you’re going to both be very broke and a couple pounds heavier by the end of this story. 

If you can even call it a story. The visits go like this: he orders. The two of you sit across from each other for seven minutes, tops. He eats his cookie, gives a half-hearted commentary on it, then crosses it off his map.

You’re not stupid. Chan obviously has no fucking idea what he’s talking about when it comes to the cookies. He doesn’t make any particular comments about the ingredients, about the consistency. He isn’t consuming them with the criticality of a pastry chef. By the fifteenth café, you realize maybe you’re just asking the wrong questions. 

You’re at Breadypost—another recommendation that looks like it’s about to be struck out—when you try a new approach. 

“What do you do?” you ask, the end of your pen tapping the table. “When you’re not on a cookie rampage, that is.” 

Chan chews at his cookie thoughtfully. You’re bracing for another evasion, some lackadaisical comment about his personal life, so you nearly jump when he answers, “I’m a dancer.” 

Your pen skids across your notebook. Dancer, you write down without ever looking away from Chan. “Oh?” You fail to sound casual. At least you sound interested, which, to be fair—you are. “A professional one?” 

“You could say that.” Chan brushes some crumbs off the front of his shirt. “My parents own a dance studio. I help run it.” 

Dance studio, you jot down. “Like… ballet? Hip-hop?” 

A boyish sort of smile tugs at his mouth. “All sorts of things,” he says vaguely. “I’ve been training since I was a kid, so it was pretty natural for me to start teaching once I got old enough.” 

You feel dizzy. A dance instructor. No, dance prodigy. Has a better ring to it. You have a feeling you’ve struck gold, but there’s still that hint of suspicion. Whether the gold is real. Whether it’s just the truth wrapped in gold. 

“Being a dance teacher,” you start, brain already working on overdrive, “is that something you’ve always wanted to do? Or is this one of those, like, tiger parent situations?” 

Chan seems to catch on to the underlying question. Really, you have to start giving him some more credit. His smile breaks into a laugh, one that’s still rattling through his chest as he pulls out his map. “I want it on record,” he teases, “that whatever you’re thinking is wrong.” 

You hiss in some air through your teeth. He knows you’re still trying to find that rationale, still trying to land on a reason for all this. “What is it, then?” you ask, frustration leaking into your tone.

It’s highly unprofessional; Minghao would probably flay you alive for speaking to a source like this. But going on just enough cookie runs have made you kind of crazy, and perhaps a little too comfortable around Chan. 

He doesn’t clock you on it. He just gives the same, infuriating answer. “I like cookies.” 

Your pen jabs into your notebook. A period to the same sentence spoken time and time again. Chan pretends not to notice. 

You do notice, however, the slightest quiver in his fingers as he crosses Breadypost off his map.

--

“What should I do if my interviewee is lying to me?” 

Seungkwan levels you with the most vicious side eye mid-salad bite. Vernon pulls off one of his earphones, pausing his transcription of his Ahn Sung-jae interview. 

You’re caught somewhere between the two of them. A working lunch. Greasy fingers flying over your keyboard, chasing a deadline, as you try out KyoChon’s new dakgalbi.  

“Is this the cookie monster?” Vernon asks. 

“Ha. Cookie monster.” You snort out a laugh. “Nice one. I should have that somewhere in my title.” 

“Only if you want Minghao to murder you,” Seungkwan deadpans, and Vernon gives a jerky nod of agreement. 

You take a quick bite of your lunch. The gochujang is a little on the sweet side, but the perilla leaves are a nice touch. You briefly contemplate paying extra to have it with cheese next time. 

“I’m just saying,” you say after swallowing. “He’s hiding something.” 

“Everybody’s hiding something,” Seungkwan says loftily, brandishing his plastic fork at you. “That’s why you have to build trust with your interviewee.” 

“This is a story,” you shoot back. “Not a relationship.” 

Vernon, who has gone back to transcribing, grunts. “Most stories are just situationships,” he says absentmindedly, already half-tuned out of the conversation. 

A muscle in your face twitches. “What does that even mean?” 

“He means,” Seungkwan interjects, “that you’re building something with every story. Like one does with a relationship or—fuck it—a situationship. Conversation. Rapport. All that shebang.” 

You’re sure the three of you sound crazy. Such was the life of the newsroom, anyway. Long-winded metaphors, thinly-veiled critique. You’ve all mastered the art of saying things the way each of you can understand, and Seungkwan’s explanation—no matter how insane—makes sense. 

You rub the heel of your palm into your temple. “Okay,” you sigh. “Build trust. Got it.” 

Seungkwan and Vernon share a look. Quick enough that it could be missed, but you catch it. Before the scowl can fully form on your face, Vernon is jumping in to explain. “What if he’s just… dunno.” He gives a half-hearted shrug. “A guy who likes cookies?”

“It’s pretty interesting in itself,” Seungkwan offers as he pops a cherry tomato into his mouth. His next couple of words are muffled. “A dancer with a sweet tooth.” 

“Right.” You hit your Enter button a little too hard. The key gets stuck, and so you jam on it a second time until it clicks back into place. “Interesting.” 

It could be, really. Chan’s attractive enough for the article to fly as one of those cutesy photo essays, and the mission is amusing in that semi-viral TikTok sort of way. 

But you don’t want fifteen seconds of fame. You don’t want fluff about a ‘cookie monster’ dance instructor. You want a capital-S Story. The Story. 

Seungkwan demolishes his salad and makes unsolicited comments about the croutons that came with it. Vernon complains under his breath about Ahn Sung-jae’s lack of decent audio recording despite being filthy rich. 

You nod along as you think about what it means to trust and be trusted. 

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There’s a secret to the perfect chocolate chip cookie, and only Lee Chan knows it.

The days start to blend together. Cookies. Iced coffees. Cafés and patisseries, places you’d never have thought to visit if it weren’t for Chan. 

He keeps crossing out places on his map. You keep prying, slow but sure, snatching up every little piece of information he drops. Born in February. Came from Iksan. Graduated from Seoul Broadcasting High School. A breadcrumb trail. 

After a productive day (five cafés!) that was ultimately futile (all crossed out!), you find yourself on the same path with Chan. Something about the nearest bus route being the same one you two could take. 

You’re making small talk about the day’s weather when Chan’s ears perk up at a commotion. “Oh?” He cranes his neck in the direction of the crowd. “Let’s check it out.” 

You really, really don’t want to. You want to go home, order takeout, and start your fourth rewatch of Inventing Anna. But Chan is already moving before you can politely deny him, and so you drag your feet towards the loose circle of people gathered in Seoul Plaza. 

The noise hits you first. A The Boyz song on full blast. THRILL RIDE, you think it might be. People squeal, rush to the center. 

Chan smiles. A kind of smile you haven’t seen yet. This isn’t cookie-induced, isn’t a grin given after you’ve made a dry joke. This one is bright and wide with realization. “It’s a Random Play Dance,” he says in explanation. 

You give a small ‘ah’ in response. It’s not really something you care much for. You’ve seen it on your For You Page, sure, but this wasn’t the sort of thing you sought out. Chan, on the other hand, starts to shoulder through the crowd. You follow a couple of steps behind, mumbling apologies to the people you squeeze past.

“Have you ever?” Chan asks once you’ve come up to his side. 

“Me?” A high-pitched laugh escapes you. “God, no.” 

Chan’s grin is lopsided, a little crooked. You really wish he wasn’t so pretty; when he’s smiling like this, it’s so easy to get distracted. “Why not? Shy?” he prods. 

Your nose scrunches on instinct. “Let’s go with that,” you say, and Chan drops it. For now, at least. 

He has his arms crossed over his chest as he surveys the dancers in the middle. You realize he’s leaning down a bit, stepping into your space so he can whisper into your ear. “The girl in red has good form,” he says, his voice taking on the type of quality you personally reserve for discussing the merits of one-pot meals. “And see the guy over there—the one wearing Converse? His footing’s a bit off. Watch.” 

You watch. Chan is right. Budget Juyeon is one step behind for the t-thrill ride, t-thrill ride, how ya feeling. “I wouldn’t have noticed that,” you say, eyes still fixed on the people have Chan pointed out. 

He shrugs, feigning nonchalance. The smugness rolls off him in waves anyway. “‘S my job,” he says. 

A new song strikes up. You’re startled when, only a beat in, Chan is already laughing to himself. Instant recognition. He shoots you a sideways glance before breathing out, “Give me a minute, yeah?” 

And then he’s gone, again, but not somewhere you can’t see. You watch, both awed and mortified, as he skids to the center of the circle with practiced ease. A couple more people follow suit. The new song bleeds into the crowd. Hey girl, take you home tonight. Get that give me, get that give me, give me. 

Lee Chan transforms before your eyes. 

Gone is the boy who said ‘you too’ when a barista told him to have a good day. (Twice.) In his place, somebody else. Someone entirely new. A Lee Chan who moves like water, who hits all the marks. A dancer. 

People make room for him, as if sensing just how much of a force he is to reckon with. Chan doesn’t notice. Doesn’t care, maybe. He just dances—perfect steps, controlled movements, one well-placed wink that isn’t cringe at all.

He’s so happy about it, too. You see it in the looseness of his limbs, the spark in his eye. He laughs with the people at his side, sharing that secret language that only dancers can speak, as he hums along to 2PM’s it’s alright, alright, it’s alright. 

When the song transitions to something by aespa, you expect him to keep going. Maybe you even want him to keep going. He doesn’t, though. Just half-jogs back to you with beads of sweat clinging to strands of his bangs. 

“Ready to go?” he asks offhandedly, and you can only nod. You don’t trust yourself to speak yet. 

The two of you go back on your merry way to the bus station. “That was nice,” he huffs out; you have some vague sense that he’s fishing. 

You bite. He deserves that much. “You were good,” you say. “Like, really good.” 

His grin is very what, me?, but you cut him some slack. “I told you,” he shoots back. “Dance studio.”

Even the way he says it. The word ‘dance’. You notice, now, how his voice lilts a bit. Reverence for the craft. There is no doubt: Lee Chan loves to dance. He lives to dance. Which means—

You let out a groan. “I really thought you were a frustrated baker,” you admit, drawing a breathless laugh from your interviewee. 

“I told you it wouldn’t be something like that,” he sing-songs. 

Your shoulders briefly bump into each other. You put a half-step of distance between the two of you. After he’s caught his breath, Chan catches you off-guard: “What about you?” 

“Hm?” 

“You know. Is journalism just a pit stop before you become Seoul’s genderbent Gordon Ramsey?” 

A laugh bubbles out of you before you can stop it. “No,” you answer without missing a beat. “Journalism is… it.” 

“How long have you known you’d get into the field?” 

You feel it, then. The bricks of the wall, sliding into place. Your next words feel like mortar sealing the cracks. “I’m supposed to be the one asking the questions,” you tease, your fingers unconsciously flexing at your side. 

Chan does that thing again where one shoulder rises and falls with attempted nonchalance. Having spent enough time with him, you’ve started to keep a mental repository of his quirks. How he is when he’s faking it until he can make it. How he is when he actually thinks something is good. 

He doesn’t say anything more. You wonder, briefly, if this is a page right out of your book. Waiting for the silence to stretch unbearably so the other person might be forced to fill it. 

You clear your throat. You think of Seungkwan, of Vernon. Build trust. Conversation. Rapport. 

You will have to give as much as you want to get. 

“I’m a bit jealous,” you admit, your voice low like you’re sharing a secret. Maybe you are. It feels like it. “I don’t think there’s anything I’m passionate about outside of writing. And even that, I’m a slave to, you know?” 

It’s supposed to be light. Supposed to be a joke. But Chan is looking at you like he understands, like he sympathizes. It’s in the wry way he smiles, the way he shoves his hands into his coat pockets as if to keep them from clenching and unclenching. He does that, you realized. When he’s excited about something. 

“I hear you,” he says, and it strikes you that he means it. 

So you keep going. It might not be the most ideal situation—could this qualify as trauma-dumping?—but Chan listens well. He nods in all the right places. Throws in a joke or two himself. The two of you are still discussing the whole turning-what-you-love-into-your-job debacle by the time you get to the bus stop, and the conversation is good enough for you two to linger by the benches and let at least two buses pass. 

“Yeah,” you say as the conversation comes to its natural end. “It’s just—I guess I want to write something that matters.” 

You don’t expect Chan to meet you halfway on that sentiment. You don’t doubt his dancing has its own legacy-making end goal, but story-telling is in an entirely different league of its own. Chan understands that much. 

He looks at you, his smile softer at the corners. “Let’s hope I can give you that, then,” he says, the teasing dulled by the sincerity he can’t tamp down. 

A story that matters. 

--

The cookie list is halfway conquered now, sugar and flour and cocoa powder a familiar terrain you navigate with something bordering on affection. Each crossed-off name feels like a mission completed. Almond crinkle from a hole-in-the-wall near Hapjeong that melted on your tongue, a New York-style chocolate chip so thick it could double as a doorstop, a miso caramel that you and Chan argued about for a full subway ride.

You’re walking side by side, crumbs on your sleeves, when Chan, entirely unprompted, drops the bomb like he’s been carrying it in his pocket all day.

“Buttery. Chewy. Thick.” He ticks each word off with a finger, eyes trained straight. “Semi-sweet chocolate chips, probably. Definitely not milk chocolate.”

You stop mid-chew, blinking. “Wait. Are you—are you just now telling me your cookie criteria?”

He nods with all the gravity of someone revealing state secrets. “Yes. I’ve decided you’re ready.”

Your phone is in your hand within seconds. Notes app open. “Say that again,” you prompt. You’ll transfer it to your notebook later. “Slower.”

Chan repeats himself, voice low and deliberate. You transcribe dutifully, thumbs flying over the screen, but your brow pinches at the word thick.

“Thick?” you echo, narrowing your eyes.

“You can’t trust a cookie that flattens like a pancake.”

You honest-to-goodness gasp. “That’s slander. Thin cookies are elite,” you argue. “They’ve got edge crisp. They shatter when you bite in. That’s half the joy.”

He looks at you like you just confessed to liking soggy cereal. “And no raisins,” he throws in for good measure. 

The indignation rises in you like steam. “That’s a hate crime. Raisins have their place!”

Chan grimaces theatrically. “In oatmeal, sure. But not in cookies.”

“But oatmeal is a cookie. It’s nostalgic! Textured! Wholesome!”

“It’s betrayal disguised as dessert.”

You snort. A full, undignified laugh escapes you, loud enough that a couple of people passing by glance over. You duck your head, pretending to examine a croissant in the bakery window. Chan, of course, is utterly unbothered. He’s basking in the win. In riling you up after days of indifference. 

And then—

“See?” he half-joked. “You’re passionate about other things, too.”

You’re not ready for it. The words land like a thud in your chest. You blink, trying to play it off.

Because it’s such a throwaway thing for him to say. A casual observation. Still, it knocks something loose.

You’ve been clawing at meaning lately. 

Tired drafts. Half-finished essays. Interview transcripts that go nowhere. You thought writing about food would save you, would make it matter. That if you turned love into narrative, maybe it would give you something to hold onto.

But here’s Chan, not even trying, reminding you of something you forgot: it’s okay to love something without needing to spin it into something useful. To just love.

You let the thought settle. The warmth of butter. The snap of a crisped edge. The comfort of chewing something that tastes like your childhood.

Maybe you’re allowed to love food for food’s sake. Maybe you’re allowed to love writing separately, too. And maybe—maybe it’s okay not to love them both at the same time.

You glance sideways. Chan’s attention is on a chalkboard menu now. He has no idea that he’s just pulled the rug out from under your existential crisis. No idea that you’re reordering your worldview between bites of cookie.

“I’m gonna grab a coffee,” he says, already stepping toward the register. “If we’re about to argue for another hour, I want to be awake for it.”

He grins at you before he leaves, a flash of teeth and a crinkle of eye. Easy. Unbothered.

You nod mutely, still holding your phone like a lifeline. The cursor blinks at the end of your note.

Buttery. Chewy. Thick. Semi-sweet.

You tuck your phone back into your pocket. Some conversations should be off the record. 

--

You’re supposed to be writing about Seoul’s independent café renaissance. Instead, you’re staring at a blinking cursor and a blinking Chan.

Well. A photo of Chan.

He’s mid-bite in this one, cheeks puffed out slightly, eyes wide with theatrical delight. The cookie in question is half gone. There’s a second photo, blurry, of him doing a little wiggle in place, what you’ve now internally dubbed The Happy Dance. You remember the exact sound he made, too. Something like a muffled mmmph! that might’ve been embarrassing if it weren’t so endearing.

You exhale through your nose, set your phone down screen-first. Focus.

You pull up a different document and try to switch gears. An interview transcription. A listicle about croffles. A half-finished pitch about post-pandemic dessert trends. You give each one a valiant 30 seconds of attention before your mind veers off course.

Back to Chan.

Your fingers sift through the pages of your notebook. It started structured. Professional. Clean. Now?

hates raisins in cookies

buttery chewy thick semi-sweet ONLY

says thank you to bus drivers. every time.

does the happy dance when cookie is a 9.9/10, but will still cross it out on the map wtf

crinkles by the eyes when he laughs (every time??)

once said “i think choreography is just storytelling with muscles”??? what does that MEAN???

You stare at the last one for a second too long. You shake your head, as if that will rattle the thoughts loose.

You have a Google Doc named [Writer’s Close] Lee Chan Cookie Tour. You open it. Read the first sentence. It’s fine. Serviceable. You could probably write four more paragraphs after it, waxing poetics on Chan’s criteria and the fifty cookies you’ve seen him try so far. 

It wouldn’t matter. It doesn’t say anything. 

It doesn’t say that Chan cares deeply and easily. That he notices things like foot placement and poor form in a crowd of strangers, not to nitpick but because he believes people should move like they mean it. That he lights up when he talks about his students. That he grins with his whole body. That he likes cookies the way some people like vinyl. Specific, devotional, particular.

It doesn’t say that he’s surprised you.

You chew your bottom lip, flipping through your camera roll again.

Chan, reaching for a cookie with both hands. Chan, trying to stuff half of it into his mouth at once. Chan, dramatically pretending to faint after a good bite. You catch yourself smiling. Oh no.

You sit back in your chair, stretch your arms above your head like it might pull you back to objectivity. Like the physical act of recentering your spine might recenter your heart, too.

The blinking cursor waits. So does the draft. And you, God help you, are still thinking about the boy who hates raisins.

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How many cookies can a man have before he starts to go insane?

Coconutbox Cafe & Gallery smells like burnt sugar and acrylic paint. It’s the seventy-something café on Chan’s map—an exact number he could recite in his sleep but one you stopped trying to keep track of after number forty-three. 

Today’s pick is sun-drenched and quiet, tucked between a pilates studio and a bookstore with faded signage. The playlist is indie enough to make you feel cultured but familiar enough not to distract you. Mismatched furniture fills the space in organized chaos: chipped wooden stools, velvet armchairs in colors that were probably fashionable once, and a swing bench that no one actually sits on. 

Chan seems to like it immediately. He always does. There’s something about the newness of a place that makes his face go soft at the edges.

You’re halfway through your drink—something frothy and complicated that you didn’t mean to order but didn’t correct the barista on—when he leans across the table. Chin in hand, eyes curious. “Can I read it?” he asks.

You don’t look up from your laptop. “No.”

“Aww.” He drags the syllable out, mock-wounded. “Why not?”

“Because I want it to be honest,” you say. “No preconceived biases. No shifts in behavior. You might start… posing more.”

He glares at you, dramatically offended. “You think I’m that self-conscious?”

“You wore a beanie for three days straight because you didn’t like how your ears looked in that one photo.”

“Wow,” he mutters, sitting back like you’ve physically wounded him. “Low blow. Personal foul. Yellow card.”

You glance up. He’s pouting, full-lipped and cartoonish. You don’t feel bad about it.

“Just give me a little spoiler,” he pleads. “One sentence.”

You don’t tell him that one sentence is all you have. That you’ve written and rewritten that first sentence countless times in the past couple of months. To be fair, it’s the golden rule of journalism. 

An article is only as good as its hook. With all the time you’ve spent with Chan, you want that hook to be foolproof. The kind they give a Pulitzer to. 

Met with silence, Chan amps up his act. He gasps, clutching his chest like you’ve just told him he’s being cut from the final edit. “Am I that boring?” he bemoans. 

You roll your eyes. “I’m still trying to find the right angle. The perfect execution. I’m biding my time.”

He narrows his eyes. “Uh-huh.”

Then he leans back, and you can see it happen. The spark. The tiny gleam of mischief in his expression. You’ve come to fear it. “Oh,” he says ominously. “Well, if I’m not interesting enough as is, maybe I just need to give you material.”

“Chan—”

Too late. He’s already on his feet. He grabs the empty coffee cup from your tray and balances it on his head like a crown. Then, he plucks a single dried flower from the centerpiece and tucks it behind his ear, like he’s a painter’s muse from a pretentious student film.

“This,” he announces in a deep, solemn voice, “is my artistic era.”

You stifle a laugh. It doesn’t work. “I’m a tortured soul,” he goes on, arms wide, spinning slowly in place. “Fueled only by caffeine and existential dread.”

“Please sit down.”

“Would a boring subject do this?” He strikes a pose in front of the gallery wall, back arched as if he’s modeling for an extremely niche fragrance ad. The dried flower falls out of his ear and lands in his sleeve.

You cover your face with your hands. When you peek through your fingers, he’s still going. Shuffling dramatically across the floor like he’s in a modern dance interpretation of heartbreak, occasionally glancing over his shoulder to make sure you’re watching.

You are.

You’re even laughing now, full and real and impossible to suppress. Your stomach starts to ache in the way it does when you laugh too hard and too long. The barista looks vaguely concerned. Chan doesn’t notice, or maybe he does and just doesn’t care.

Eventually, he returns to the table. Smug and satisfied, like this was all part of a well-rehearsed plan. He sips the last of your drink without asking.

“I take it the writer’s block is gone?” he says, not looking at you as he adjusts the empty cup back onto his head.

You shake your head, trying to steady your grin. “You’re insufferable.”

“Mm,” he hums. “But useful.”

You glance down at your laptop. The sentence still blinks, alone, on the screen. But your fingers twitch. The weight that’s been pressing into your ribcage for days now loosens, just a little. 

You think, maybe, you’ve got your second sentence now. Maybe even a third.

--

You meet Minghao at a tiny place near the newsroom, the kind of café with two outlets per table, quiet lo-fi playing through ceiling speakers, and a chalkboard menu written in both English and a half-hearted attempt at French. It’s clean, minimalist, and exactly the sort of place he’d approve of. Muted palette, simple typography, no nonsense. Even the pastries are geometrically intimidating.

Your coffee arrives first. His, second. Then, without thinking, you add a chocolate chip cookie to your order. It’s not until the cashier bags it that you realize what you’ve done.

Minghao raises a perfectly groomed eyebrow. “That for you?”

You stir your drink like it’s suddenly the most fascinating thing in the room. “No.”

He watches you for a beat, then nods. Like he already knows, but he’ll let you say it anyway. He’s good at that. Letting you inch your way to honesty instead of forcing it out of you. It’s what makes him editor material; you both adore and despise him for it. 

“It’s for Chan,” you finally admit, not meeting Minghao’s gaze.

The corner of his mouth twitches. Just barely. “You’ve grown to care for him.”

“No, no,” you say quickly, too quickly. “This is just—part of the mission. A gesture. Fuel for the fieldwork.”

“Sure.”

You glance at Minghao. He sips his coffee like it’s nothing, like he hasn’t just called your bluff in six syllables or less. “It’s okay,” he says after a moment, voice neutral but not unkind. “It’s not a sin to care about your story and the people who comprise it.”

You nod slowly, but wait. There’s always a but with Minghao. You know it’s coming. He’s not the type to leave things at kindness. You sip. You brace.

“But,” he says, as expected, “remember why you’re here.”

There it is. The bucket of cold water. No dramatics, just clarity. The kind that slices right through the comfort you’ve been pretending isn’t there.

You look out the window, where a new wave of commuters spills onto the street. People moving with direction, with purpose. Everyone headed somewhere. No one wondering if they’re already too close to what they’re supposed to be observing.

You came into this story ready to dig. To get close enough to see the seams and the flaws, to understand what drives a person to visit dozens of cafés in search of the perfect cookie. You thought it would be clinical. Interesting, maybe even charming. But not this.

You didn’t account for how Chan would worm his way in—through humor, through dance, through the moments between café visits. You didn’t expect to memorize the sound of his laugh or learn the difference between his fake pout and the real one.

And now, you’re too close. Not just to the story, but to the boy at its center.

“This is work,” you say as firmly as you can manage.

“It is,” Minghao agrees. He doesn’t press. He doesn’t need to. “So do the work.” 

You nod, even if part of you bristles. Not because he’s wrong, but because he’s too right. You hate how much sense he makes.

The conversation mellows from there. You finish your coffees. You talk about deadlines, the new layout for the online features page. You trade stories. He tells you about the intern who once spelled sablé as sable and defended it with a passionate monologue about endangered animals. You laugh, and the sound is not forced. Minghao smiles, rare and real, like a crack in glass that somehow makes it prettier.

When you stand, he reaches for the cookie bag, peeking inside with an appraising eye. “Thick. Buttery. Semi-sweet,” he observes. He’s seen your notes. He has the memory of a goddamn elephant. “You remembered.”

You snatch it back with a roll of your eyes. “It was a coincidence.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” he says, tone dry.

He lets you go with a knowing look. Doesn’t say anything more. He doesn’t have to. That’s the thing with Minghao. You always leave with more questions than answers, and a better draft because of it.

Late afternoon has dipped into early evening, and you pull your coat a little tighter around you. The cookie bag swings lightly at your side. You walk toward the train station, footsteps steady.

When you pause at the corner, waiting for the light to change, you glance at the nearest trash bin. The thought creeps in: maybe it would be simpler to toss the cookie. Make it a clean break. Cut the thread before it knots.

You hover. One step closer, maybe two.

But you don’t throw it out.

You grip the bag a little tighter instead.

The light changes. Green. You cross the street, the lines, until your feet are taking you where you have to be. 

--

The park is quiet, brushed in soft gold. Everything is painted in warm tones. Leaves, benches, kids on scooters, the worn path beneath your shoes. A dog runs off-leash in the distance. There’s a couple on a blanket sharing earphones. The air is warm, but not oppressive, touched by the early edge of evening.

You spot Chan before he sees you, and for a second, you don’t move. He’s crossing the field, steps light, head tilted slightly like he’s listening to music only he can hear. That same bounce in his gait. Hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair caught in the breeze. The sight of him tightens something in your chest.

You hate that it does.

You’re supposed to be the one in control. The observer. You even practiced the speech in your head on the train ride over. Professional boundaries, clarity, distance. Reminders of what this is and what it isn’t. You swore it wouldn’t get messy.

But then he gets closer, his joy unrepentant in the face of your internal conflict. “I got you something,” he says, lifting a small paper bag like it’s a peace offering.

Your hands tighten around your own little gift. “What?”

“Oatmeal. Thin as cardboard,” he sings. “Thought of you when I saw it.”

Your fingers close around the bag when he offers it, but you don’t look inside. You look at him. You were just about to tell him. Just about to say all the things you rehearsed. How this needs to stay professional. How you can’t afford to blur the lines any further. But now you’re holding this ridiculous cookie, and he’s looking at you with the kind of warmth that comes with preheated ovens.

The bag smells like raisins. He remembered, too. 

You don’t think. Your body moves before your mind can catch up.

You kiss him.

The bag falls, forgotten between you. The cookie, you suspect, is probably flattened beyond salvation.

He freezes for half a second. Just half. Then one hand finds your waist, tentative but sure, while the other slides up to cup the back of your neck. He kisses you like he’s catching up. Like he’s been holding back and didn’t realize until now. There’s the briefest hitch in his breath, then something else takes over.

He kisses you like he means it—and for a second, you let yourself mean it, too.

But it doesn’t last.

Reality crashes in all at once. Too sharp, too loud, too late. You pull away fast, like the kiss burned you. Like the world has snapped back into focus and left you gasping for air. “This isn’t—” You inhale sharply, taking a step back. “God, it’s not right. Fuck!”

Chan looks stunned. “Wait, what?”

“I shouldn’t have done that,” you say, still backing up, swiping your hand over your mouth like it might erase the taste of his Chapstick. “It’s not appropriate. I shouldn’t have—”

“But you kissed me.”

“It was a moment of weakness,” you say, harsher than you mean. “It didn’t mean anything.”

His face falls, just a little. “Didn’t mean anything,” he repeats.

You can’t look at him. You start to turn, hoping maybe the wind or the silence will carry you away from this. “Don’t do that,” Chan says. His voice cuts through the stillness. More steady than you expect. “Don’t walk away like that didn’t just happen.”

You whirl back around, jaw tight. “You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it to me.” 

He’s not screaming. Not really. But his voice rises just enough for a couple of heads to turn, and your stomach churns at the thought of this being some teenager’s tweet of the day. saw a couple breaking up at seoul park lol omg frfr. 

You’re not supposed to be part of that. Part of anything, really. 

“I can’t care about you,” you say. Your voice isn’t steady anymore. “I’m not supposed to. This is a job. You’re—”

You stutter. He waits. You wish he wouldn’t.

“You’re just a guy who likes cookies,” you finish, flat and hollow. “You’re nothing but a story to me.”

Silence follows, thick and immediate. 

You can practically hear the rush of your heartbeat in your ears. The pain doesn’t register on his face all at once. It unfurls, slow and soft, like paper tearing. Chan nods once. He swallows. His mouth curves, barely, into something that might look like a smile if you didn’t know better.

“Okay.” He swallows hard. His shoulders are tight, drawn inward. As if he’s keeping himself from unraveling. 

You want to claim you’re not being cruel. This was just the way of the world, the unsigned contract you two had drafted up. You were the journalist; he was the interviewee. You’re not cruel. You’re not cruel. You’re doing your fucking job. 

Right? Right? 

“Well,” Chan says, his voice quieter than you’ve ever heard it, “if a story is all I am, then I’ll make sure it’s one that matters.”

Your own words, thrown back at you. You dare say you deserve it. There are some lines you can’t uncross, and this feels like one of them. 

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You’re back on the trail. Kind of. Not really.

Chan’s walking beside you, but the lightness in his step is gone. You feel it before you see it. Something dulled at the edges, like music with the treble turned down. The city hums around you, oblivious. There’s a café on every corner, but none of them look promising. They all look like endings.

You try to make conversation. About the weather. About the new seasonal menu. About how one of the cafés you visited last week now sells espresso in waffle cones. Chan nods, polite but absent.

The cookie tasting continues. Technically. The first café’s cookie is overbaked. Dry. Crumbles like disappointment.

The second one has promise—a good smell, a nice shape—but too sweet. He barely chews before passing you a napkin to spit it out. The third café? He doesn’t even bother tasting. One glance at the chalkboard menu and he’s out the door.

You finally say, “I’m sorry.”

Chan cocks his head to one side. “What?”

“For earlier. The park. The kiss. The... everything.”

He doesn’t stop walking, but he slows. Just enough to let the moment catch up. “Let’s just finish,” he says. Not cruelly, but measured in a way that indicates he is truly done with all this. He’s just… going through the motions. “One more left.”

The final café is small and tucked between a laundromat and a nail salon. It’s got a handwritten sign and a cinnamon-heavy smell. There’s a single cookie on display.

You both get one. You eat in silence. It’s chewy, at least. You observe Chan carefully, wondering if this is it. It would be a nice climax. The one hundredth store being the one.

Chan pulls the map from his back pocket. 

You watch as he crosses off the last location. 

He stares at it for a second too long. The whole thing is covered in tiny red x’s, like battle scars. You swallow your bite of cookie, tasting the weight of the world in the chocolate chip that’s not what either of you needed. “So,” you say delicately, “what now?”

He folds the map neatly, tucks it away. “You write your story.”

“And you?”

Chan exhales through his nose. A humorless little breath. “I never eat another cookie again.”

It’s supposed to be a joke, but the punchline never lands. You laugh anyway, the sound unconvincing and weak, because it’s better than silence. It’s better than the look on his face, the one a man gets when he’s lost something. When he hadn’t gotten what he wanted. 

It’s beginning to feel like neither of you are about to get what you want. 

“I’m sorry,” you say again, this time softer. Not for the kiss. For this. For the empty hands and crossed-out boxes.

Chan doesn’t speak right away. His jaw flexes. Then he turns to you, eyes catching yours—and this time he doesn’t look away.

There’s a beat. Two.

His gaze lingers, and it does something to you. “Yeah,” he says at last. “I’m sorry, too.”

And that’s it. That’s all there is.

You stand there beside him in the dying light, two people who went searching for something sweet and ended up with something else entirely. You don’t ask what that something is. You’re not sure you want to know.

--

The cherry on top is that you get tonsillitis.

Not metaphorically. Not poetically. Not the kind of ache that curls under your ribs or hides behind your ribs or flares to life when you pass a bakery that reminds you of a certain boy who used to smile like he’d invented happiness.

No. This time, it’s literal.

Your throat is on fire. Your glands feel like someone slipped rocks into the hollow of your neck. Your voice is gone, your sleep disrupted, and you can’t even swallow without it feeling like glass.

And of course, of course it had to come after all of that. After the story. The kiss. The silence that followed. The slow disintegration of something that was never meant to be more than an assignment.

You sit slouched in a hospital hallway, head tipped against the cold wall, wondering if you’ve somehow earned this. Tonsillitis as divine retribution. An inflamed throat to match an aching heart. An article that hasn’t even gotten past the first sentence.

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead. Someone down the corridor is watching a mukbang on full volume. You are seconds away from shoving a tongue depressor in your own ear just to make it stop when a familiar voice cuts through the din.

You freeze.

It can’t be.

You look up—slowly, cautiously—and there he is.

Chan.

He’s standing not far from you, wearing a navy baseball cap and an oversized hoodie like he’s trying not to be noticed. He’s not alone. There’s an older woman beside him. Elegant. Unsmiling. Her features are drawn in that unmistakable way of someone with experience in the art of shutting people out.

You don’t catch everything they say, but you see it. The subtle tension. The way Chan follows half a step behind, reaching out like he might steady her. She brushes him off. Keeps walking.

Something twists in your stomach.

You don’t know what she is to him. A relative, maybe. His mother? An aunt? The resemblance isn’t glaring, but there’s something in the posture, the deflection, that feels practiced.

Chan calls after her softly. Not loud enough for anyone else to hear. You watch as he jogs after her, gentle hand at her elbow. She doesn’t stop. He falters. He looks around, helpless, and that’s when he sees you.

It’s a split-second flicker of recognition. His eyes widen, just a little. The barest twitch of his mouth. You can’t tell if it’s surprise or guilt or something else entirely.

But you look away.

Because it’s none of your business. Because whatever this is, whoever she is—you’re not a part of it. 

For once, the Universe is on your side. The receptionist calls your name. You scramble towards the doctor’s office, the feeling of Chan’s gaze burning into your back. Dr. Jeon asks everything you expect him to, but all you can really manage are a few choice words that feel like barbed wire being dragged through your throat. 

“It hurts,” you tell your doctor, voice broken and raspy. “It really, really hurts.” 

--

Joshua pokes his head into your cubicle with a grin that immediately puts you on edge. “You have a visitorrr,” he croons. 

You glare at him, throat still raw from last week’s tonsillitis-adjacent hell. “What kind of visitor?”

“The attractive kind.”

You already know who it is.

Still, you don’t expect to see Chan standing in the lobby of your workplace, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, eyes trailing absently across the ceiling like he’s rehearsing something in his head. When he notices you, he straightens. Offers a small, careful smile. Not his usual one. This one’s dimmed, as if someone turned the dial down on him.

You don’t say anything as you lead him to the cafeteria. The air between you carries the ghost of too many almosts.

The coffee here is terrible. The cookies are worse. Neither of you bother.

Chan settles across from you at a small table scratched with initials and hearts carved by interns who fell in love with the wrong people. His hands are clasped together on the table, thumbs twitching in search for rhythm. You realize you haven’t seen him this still in a long time.

“After everything,” he begins, voice forcibly steady, “I think I deserve to ask you one question.”

You suck in a breath through your teeth and ready for impact. For something heavy. Something that might break the room in half.

Do you love me? Why did you kiss me?

Instead—

“What’s your story with food?”

You’re not sure you heard him right. You stare for a minute too long, and he stares right back, as if saying yeah, that’s what I want to know. When you laugh, you’re surprised by how much it aches.

“Do you have the time?” you start, your heart rattling in your chest.

He nods. 

You tell him about your childhood kitchen. The yellowing linoleum, the faded recipe cards, the way your mother used to hum while slicing scallions. You tell him about the little step-stool you stood on to watch her stir soups, how you’d sneak pinches of dough and get scolded half-heartedly.

You tell him about the messes you made trying to bake from memory. About the apple crumble that turned into applesauce. The birthday cake you forgot the sugar in. The ramen experiments that ended in smoke alarms.

You tell him that food was love before you ever had a word for it. That it stitched you and your mother together in ways language never quite could.

Then you tell him about your first story. The one that got you published. A noodle shop three blocks down from where you grew up, run by a ninety-two-year-old widow who spoke in proverbs and gave out extra toppings when no one was looking. You wrote about her hands. Her children. The lineage of flavor passed from one generation to none, and how storytelling, like cooking, could preserve things.

People. Taste. Time.

You tell him about the guilt, too. The constant, low hum of it. How ridiculous it sometimes feels to write about something so soft in a world that feels like it’s made of broken glass. How food writing isn’t just about what’s delicious. It’s about what’s been lost. What you’re desperate to hold on to.

Chan listens. He buys you a bottle of water when you start to stutter. He never looks away. 

When you run out of breath, out of steam, he exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his own this whole time. His turn. 

“I guess,” he says, “if I had to pick one story to explain me, it’s her.”

You don’t need to ask who. You already know.

“She always had this chocolate chip cookie in her purse. Same brand. Same crinkle on the packaging,” he says, and the look on his face shows he’s already half-lost to memory. “I don’t even think she liked them, but she made sure I always had one. She’d hand it to me at the end of every visit. Channie, for you.”

His eyes are glassy, but not wet. Not yet. “I know it was store-bought. She wasn’t a baker,” he goes on. “She burned toast. But that cookie—it stuck. It was her. A kind of love language, I guess.”

“And that’s what this was all about?” you ask. Gently. So gently. “Finding it again?”

He nods. “I thought if I could find that exact one, maybe it would… I don’t know. Bring her back. Even for a second. Maybe time might crack open a little and let her through.”

The implication hits like a truck. Your voice lowers. “She’s sick?”

“Alzheimer’s.”

He doesn’t say it for sympathy. He says it like he’s still talking about the weather. Inevitable. Slow and cruel and impossible to predict.

“She started forgetting where she put her keys,” he narrates. “Then names. Then faces. I thought it was just age catching up to her. I didn’t… I didn’t think it was this.”

He glances away for the first time, and you don’t demand he keep his eyes on you. You don’t ask if you can pull out your recorder so you can get all this verbatim. This isn’t that kind of moment. 

“And now, she barely knows who she is,” Chan goes on. “I visit. I talk. Sometimes I sing old songs she used to like. Mostly, I just sit. I just sit there and hope. I sit with my hope, you could say.”

There’s no drama in the way he says it. Just grief. Lived-in. Paper-thin. There is no teeth in your silence. Not this time. There is only space for Chan to be, and that’s exactly what he does. What he gives you. 

“I thought maybe if she tasted it again—just once—it’d click,” he finishes. “She’d remember me. She’d call me Channie again. I thought that would be enough.”

You want to say something. Anything. But there are places that words don’t reach, where no degree in journalism can help. Where you can hear the quiet, It was not enough. 

You do what is second best. 

Your hand rests over Chan’s. He doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t reciprocate either. He just lets the warmth of your palm stay there. In fact, he stares at it as if the answer might exist in the spaces between your fingers. You have taken what he’s come to give. You’ve given what he’s asked. 

He stands after a long while. The chair scrapes back with a reluctant sigh. “I should go,” he says, tight-lipped and dry-eyed despite the waver in his voice.

You rise with him. “Chan—”

“Thanks for listening.” It’s plain and simple. No frills. An echo of affection, maybe, but not the kind that demands. 

You draw back. You give him grace. “Thanks for trusting me with it,” you respond.  

This is where the sentence should end, where the line should break. But Chan offers you a rueful smile, hands stuffed in his pockets, head tilted just slightly. “You’re missing the point,” he says.

He walks away before you can ask what the point is. What’s the point of anything, really. 

You’re left there at the table with its long-forgotten initials and hearts, feeling like something else is carving within you. 

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Food is magic, because food is memory. A man named Lee Chan has tried to chase that magic for over half a year.

Minghao reads your first draft in silence.

You hate that you’re watching him instead of looking over your own work. Every flick of his red pen feels like a personal attack, even when it doesn’t land on anything at all. He’s halfway through page three when you realize you’ve been holding your breath.

You pick at your thumbnail. Regret it instantly. It throbs under the pressure, but the pain feels easier to manage than the tension building in your chest. When Minghao finally sets the pages down, you sit up straighter and prepare for carnage.

“It’s good,” he says simply.

You blanch. “Good?”

He nods. Crosses his arms over his chest. “Solid structure. Strong voice. A little long, but it’s got bones.”

You know you should be relieved. Instead, there’s this twisting in your gut. It’s like you ate something bad, and you try not to let it show on your face. 

Minghao narrows his eyes, immediately catching on. “But?”

You try to deflect. “No but.”

“Liar.”

You deflate. “I’ve been so scared of screwing this up,” you blurt out. “Of letting you down. When you said ‘remember why you’re here,’ I thought... I don’t know. That maybe I wasn’t doing enough. That I was getting too close. That I was crossing a line.”

Minghao tilts his head. The sharpness of him softens, just a little. “You misunderstood me.” 

He leans forward. Taps a finger on the table between you. “What’s the most important thing about a cookie?” he asks. 

Your eyes twitch. “The... flour?”

He stares. “Okay. No,” he rephrases. “Let me rephrase. What’s the most important thing about food?”

“Salt?”

“God.” He presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “People. It’s people.”

You stare. He continues, more gently now. “Vernon’s story about candy shone because it was about tradition. Culture. Community. The way a single sweet tied together generations. Seungkwan’s was about food tech, but really, it was about ingenuity. Human innovation in the face of resource scarcity. Even Joshua’s piece about AI ramen wasn’t just about automation. It was about how technology still tries to mimic human intuition.”

His voice is measured, but there’s something in it. A belief. The kind that only comes from loving something deeply, and for a long time. You’re silent, letting it wash over you. Letting it settle in the hollows of your chest.

“At the root of food,” Minghao continues, “behind every recipe that’s unwritten or winged, every craving, every comfort—there’s people. Someone made that dish for someone else. Or remembered it. Or passed it down.” 

“The food we love is only as good as the people who make it,” he says. “The stories we tell are only as good as the people behind them.”

You don’t realize you’ve stayed quiet until Minghao looks at you with that familiar editor’s patience. The kind he uses when he knows you’re on the edge of a revelation, only needing a push.

You think of Chan. Not the cookie-searching version. Not the boy who tried and failed to track down a taste from his past. Just Lee Chan. His grin. His terrible jokes. His self-assured rhythm. 

The corners of his eyes, the crumbs underneath his nails. The way his voice wavered when he talked about his grandmother. The weight he’s carried all alone. The hope, still flickering.

“I made him a punchline,” you murmur, the horror settling low in your gut. “I made him a mission.”

Minghao shrugs. “You made him a start,” he says, forgiving in a way you’re not sure you deserve. “Now you get to decide where you finish.”

You exhale. A long, unsteady breath. There’s a beat of silence. The air feels different now. Lighter, but charged. Like the moment before a storm breaks, or the second before a leap.

“I need an extension,” you declare. 

Nobody asks Minghao for extensions. He runs the newsroom with military precision, and you can’t blame him. Journalism relies on clockwork—press cycles, deadlines in red pen. But you’ve come to understand that some things are bigger than that. More important. Worth going against everything you believe. 

“Yeah.” You meet Minghao’s gaze, steady and unwavering. “I want to tell the story right.”

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Then he taps the table once. When he smiles, it’s slow and small. Real. 

“Okay,” he concedes. “Go write something that matters.”

This time, you know what that means.

You just have one thing to do before that. 

--

You show up to Chan’s studio and immediately wonder if this was a mistake.

He answers the door in a hoodie too big for him, sleeves pushed to the elbows, hair damp like he’s just showered or maybe it’s sweat-slick from rehearsal. There’s a beat of surprise in his expression before it hardens, folding in on itself like wet origami.

“Hey,” you try, voice quiet but even.

“Hey,” he echoes, flat.

It stings more than it should. A hollow ache opens up in your chest, sharp and cold. You shift on your feet, offering a small, uncertain smile. “I have something for you.”

He raises a brow. “Unless it’s the cookie I’ve been looking for, I’m not sure I’m interested.”

You breathe through your nose. “Give me one chance,” you say, wincing at the sound of your own begging. “That’s all I’m asking.”

Chan looks at you, unreadable. For a second, you think he might actually shut the door in your face. You’d deserve it. 

But then he sighs, grabs a jacket hanging from a hook behind the door, and mutters, “Lead the way.”

You’re not sure why he agreed, but you’re not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Maybe he took pity. Maybe there’s still some residual respect from the moment shared in your company cafeteria. Whatever it is, you know it’s temporary. Fleeting. One shot to get things right. 

You take Chan to a co-baking studio tucked into a homely alley in Mapo-gu. 

The air inside smells like vanilla and ambition. Stainless steel counters stretch out in clean lines. There’s sunlight pouring in through high, smudged windows. Rows of labeled jars—sugar, nutmeg, semisweet chocolate chips—stand like small sentinels. It’s industrial, but cozy. Clean. Bright. Full of possibility.

Chan squints. “What is this?”

“A baking studio.” You gesture around with a tilt of your head. “I booked us a session. You have everything you need to try again. One last time.”

His head snaps to you. “You want me to bake?”

“Yes.”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“You do realize I don’t know how to bake, right?”

“That makes two of us.”

You see it, then. The tiniest crack in his demeanor. The corner of his mouth twitches, the beginnings of a smile surfacing, then retreating like a wave too nervous to reach the shore. He gives you the ultimatum you were already half expecting: “I’m not doing this without you.” 

You sigh, mostly for show. “Fine.”

The instructor gives you two a brief rundown, gesturing toward the pre-measured ingredients and the recipe card in bold type. Then, mercifully, she disappears, leaving you alone. 

The two of you pull on aprons that are slightly too big and immediately begin fumbling like contestants in a reality show neither of you signed up for. The butter isn’t soft enough. The sugar spills. Chan nearly drops an egg on the floor, and you burn your hand lightly on the oven door.

There’s flour on the counter, on your sleeves, in your hair. The vanilla extract sloshes over the measuring spoon. The dough looks more like cement than something edible. 

It’s a disaster, but it’s yours.

You glance at Chan after a particularly clumsy attempt at whisking, and the two of you dissolve into laughter. It bubbles up from your chest, full and warm, like something you’d forgotten you still had in you. Chan looks startled to hear it, like he hadn’t expected joy to make an appearance.

“This is terrible,” he says, grinning despite himself.

“Objectively,” you agree, shaking your head.

His smile stays this time. 

You lean over the counter to scoop a bit more flour, and in doing so, you miss the look he gives you—soft, open, maybe even wanting. He reaches out without thinking. His thumb brushes your cheek, slow and sure, wiping away a smudge of flour you didn’t know was there.

He doesn’t say anything about it. Neither do you. You don’t have to. The moment stretches, unspoken and delicate, like a string pulled tight but unbroken. There’s something in his eyes when you finally meet them. Something fragile and fierce all at once.

You look away first.

The cookies make it to the oven. You’re both perched on metal stools, watching the timer count down. The smell starts to fill the room. Warm, chocolate-laced, a little too sweet.

It’s not quite forgiveness. Not quite love, either.

But it feels like it could be.

--

“You don’t have to do this,” you say, which translates loosely to I don’t have to be here for this. 

Chan shakes his head, as if to say, You should be here. 

The fluorescents of the hospital lights are unforgiving. The only warm thing in the hallway is the tupperware of cookies nestled in Chan’s death grip. Your fingers instinctively brush over his knuckles, and he loosens his hold enough to let the plastic grip. 

You’re standing in front of the hospital room. Once again, you have that striking feeling that you don’t belong. That this isn’t somewhere you should be, not a story you should be a character in. 

But Chan is looking at you with please written all over his face, and who are you to deny him? 

Your throat works around the words. “Ready?” 

He takes a shaky breath. “Give me a minute.” 

You would give him the world, really, if he asked. The two of you stand side by side for a couple more moments, until Chan breaks it with words that are edged with a healthy dose of nervousness. “Do you remember the conversation we had at the cafeteria?” 

You nod wordlessly in response. His eyes dart skyward for a moment. “I said you were missing the point,” he notes. 

Right before he’d left. You’re missing the point. 

You think of Minghao’s claws retracting enough to tell you about the people behind food. You think of the stories you’ve written, the voices that bleed into every single one of them. You think of your own mother. 

You think of kitchens you’ve outgrown, and people you’ve loved, and you understand. You know, now, what the point is. To Chan’s mission. To your article. To everything. 

Your hand rests at his elbow. You give it a gentle squeeze. This story is bigger than the two of you. It’s always been, hasn’t it? 

Chan nods and pushes the door open. 

It’s all a little clearer with context. The silver-haired woman you’d seen way back then is undoubtedly a blood relative of Chan’s. The same nose, same set of lips. She’s still unsmiling, still closed off, and the knowledge of what she’s gone through has the puzzle pieces in your mind falling into place. 

She looks up when you and Chan walk in. She says nothing, though, even as Chan pauses by the door. As if he’s waiting to be yelled at, to be told to leave. It makes your heart clench in your chest. 

Chan’s voice is impossibly soft as he pads further into the sunlit room. “Halmeoni,” he greets. “It’s me. I’ve brought… a friend.” 

She glares at Chan, face devoid of recognition, before glancing at you. You raise your hand in an awkward wave before folding into a clumsy bow. Chan’s grandmother says nothing about your abysmal manners. 

You’re a stranger to her. That adds up. But Chan being a stranger to her—

You feel the sudden urge to cry. You have to glance away from this shell of a woman lest you actually do start sobbing. This moment is not supposed to be about you.  

Chan approaches her as if he were nearing a particularly skittish animal. “I’ve brought you a snack,” he says, already popping the top off the Tupperware. His fingers are shaking as he says, “Do you want to try one?” 

The smell of chocolate and sugar wafts through the room. Something shifts in the old woman’s expression. The slightest twitch. You watch, wretched, as Chan perks up. 

His grandmother reaches into the Tupperware. Her bony fingers bring the cookie to her mouth, and she takes the smallest of bites. 

Despite having already said earlier that the cookie is nothing like the one he used to have as a kid—too sweet, too crumbly, too obviously made by someone without experience—Chan looks devastatingly hopeful. He doesn’t look his age. He looks like a child waiting in the pleats of his grandmother’s skirt, hoping to be handed the love that was his since the moment he was born. 

His grandmother chews, careful and slow. Considering, you want to believe. 

She keeps chewing. She takes another bite. 

Nothing in her face changes.

Chan’s shoulders fall. 

You’re at his side in the next moment. You don’t say anything, don’t do anything drastic. A hand at the small of Chan’s back. That’s all you offer. A reminder of what has been done, who has been loved. Despite, despite, despite. 

Chan looks towards you and breathes. In, out. An inhale that bears the weight of memory. An exhale that lets the grief unravel. 

“Well,” he says, managing a smile, “I guess that’s it.” 

You smile back at him. “It’s okay,” you say, even though it’s not, and Chan nods, even though he doesn’t think so, either. 

Chan lingers for just a couple minutes more, giving his grandmother updates about his day even though she says nothing in response. She just works her way through the cookie, blank eyes fixed on Chan as he talks about his parents and the dance studio. 

Eventually, Chan catches your wrist and gives it a gentle squeeze. “We should head out,” he says. “Visiting hours are over soon.” 

You nod. You look to his grandmother who still has crumbs at the corners of her mouth. 

“It was nice meeting you, halmeoni,” you say, and though you’re not quite sure why, you feel compelled to add, “Thank you.” 

That, at least, makes Chan’s smile a little more genuine. Like he understands the weight of you thanking her. He keeps his hold on your wrist as you two turn away. 

When his grandmother speaks, it’s with the musicality that undoubtedly runs through Chan’s veins. You catch the way her eyes crinkle—a joy that is inherited, passed down. Pressed into a grandchild’s hands at family gatherings. 

“Where did you get this cookie, boy?” she asks Chan. “I think my grandson would like it.” 

--

The cashier offers you a free cookie at the register—some kind of promotional thing—and Chan immediately shakes his head.

You glance at him. He glances back. A shared look. A brief pause. Then, unbidden, a laugh slips from your lips. It startles you in its ease. He chuckles, too. 

You take the cookie, cradling it like something precious. “Old habits die screaming,” you say as the two of you slide into your seats.

Chan grins fondly. "Some things are worth keeping alive."

You sit across from each other, mugs nestled between your palms, steam curling into the space between you. The café hums around you. Low music, clinks of cutlery, snippets of conversation that blur into background noise. It acts like a privacy screen. Cocooning. Comforting. There’s a subtle stiffness to it, like a page that’s been folded one too many times.

It’s been a couple of months.

After the hospital. After your deadline. After you had to text Chan that the story was being banked for a bit, and he responded with a GIF of a cartoon otter sobbing. Romance didn’t click into place like you thought it might; it’s not like you were owed that, either. The two of you didn’t really keep in touch, but the tension nonetheless lingered in every pastry listicle, in every dance video, in every article about being one step closer to a cure for Alzheimer’s. 

You were the one to eventually invite him out for coffee. You made it a point to choose a place that hadn’t been on his map, which had been a near-impossible feat. 

“I’m sorry for disappearing,” he says first, thumb grazing the lip of his mug, his voice pitched low.

“You didn’t,” you say quickly. “Life just shifted.”

Shifted. That’s one way to put it. Chan nods, taking the grace. “My grandmother’s back home now. Out of hospice,” he tells you. 

Your breath hitches a little at that. “That’s good,” you say, and there’s nothing feigned about your enthusiasm.

“It is. I’m with her most days now. She doesn’t always know who I am, but…” He cracks the smallest of grins. “Sometimes, she smiles when I sit beside her.”

Your chest aches in that quiet, bruised kind of way. You reach across the table, let your pinky hook against his. The contact is small. It feels monumental. “I’m glad she has you,” you say.

He gives you a look you can’t quite name. It lands somewhere between gratitude and grief. “And you?” he asks, pinky curling around yours like muscle memory. “What’s the story these days?”

You shrug, take a sip of your coffee. It’s a little too hot, but you welcome the burn. It grounds you. “Got assigned something called The Joy of Food.”

Chan’s face lights up. That same rare brightness you’ve always been drawn to, like a match flaring in the dark. “That’s your Story.”

You tilt your head, smile lopsided. “You’d think so. But I’ve spent more time polishing yours.”

He mimics you. Head tilted to one side, grin crooked in an endearing, confused sort of way. “Mine?”

“It’s not ethically sound to show an interviewee the final article,” you say, trying for professionalism. Failing miserably. You’re nervous. More nervous than when you pitched the sugar conspiracy article to Minghao. 

“But—” you say, “I could show my boyfriend.”

Chan’s brows shoot up so high they disappear behind his bangs. Then, he laughs. Really laughs. Wide and real, the corners of his eyes crinkling in that familiar way you’ve come to adore. It makes something in your chest loosen. “Are you asking—”

You shrug again, casual in that not-so-casual way. “Depends,” you say, too quick to be casual. “Are you saying yes?”

He leans across the table, hand sliding over yours. “Let me have a taste first,” he hums, “and then we’ll figure out the rest.”

You meet him halfway. 

His lips are soft, a little coffee-warmed, a little sugar-slick. There’s a stillness to it, the kind that comes after a storm. You feel the curve of his mouth against yours, and so you let yourself smile, too. Let the kiss be nothing more than a kiss. Not a story to tell, not a metaphor for anything else.

He pulls back just enough to murmur against your mouth, “Sweet.”

“Like cookies?”

“Even sweeter.”

You groan, but it’s affectionate. He kisses you again just to prove a point. You pull back this time, breathless and just the right amount of dizzy. “Don’t you want to see my first sentence?”

“Let me kiss my girlfriend for a little more,” he argues, mouth already chasing yours.

The Google Doc glows faintly on your phone screen beside the mugs, open but unattended. It bears the title you agonized over for weeks. The cursor blinks after the last sentence. 

You don’t care if a thousand people read it, or if only one does. You don’t care if it wins awards or garners likes or clicks. It holds everything that mattered, all in a few thousand words. 

It’s not your story anymore.

100% ▼   |   Normal text ▼   |   Arial   ▼     |   - 12 +   |   B  I   U   A

In a Seoul hospice, there is a grandmother who loves her grandson more than anything in the world—even if she may not remember him.

[rafeslvbug]

CHAPTER 5 - maybank!reader series

“you okay?”

a sincere voice reaching out through the dark. cutting your silent sobs.

and he was there. the picture of concern, blinking confused when you turned your face.

“you’re not okay,” rafe points out, eyes drifting over your tear-stained face. he steps closer. you step back.

“no, shit, sorry i am,” you wipe away your tears, choking back your unsteady voice.

“right, cuz you weren’t just crying your eyes out,” he grumbles, hand rubbing his head. he seems tense while you’re a mess. you’re unsure if he’s uncomfortable being here, you’d assume he is.

“it wasn’t–“ you sigh. wind whips across your face, pulling back tears streaming down your cheeks.

“do you need help?” rafe asks, eyes fixing on the thin line of blood from your wrist.

you can’t stop him when he moves forward.

grabs your wrist.

jaw tightening.

“what happened?”

“nothing.”

lie.

“bullshit.”

of course.

“i fell over. i’m a klutz, i tripped,” you lie again, them rolling out so fast he can’t intervene until it’s hanging in the air between you.

he doesn’t believe it either.

“stop lying,” he ordered, though you never took those much seriously. not from him, anyways.

“i’m not. remember when i fell and spilt your drink over you at the club?”

“y/n…” he warns. low. daring you to try your luck more.

“i tripped rafe,” you reiterate, words firm. it’s evident you’re lying, now. but you don’t care. you just need him to stop prying. stop trying to delve into what he has no business looking into.

his thumb swipes off the blood, before letting your wrist fall back to your side. eyes darting to the car, he looks it over, then back at you. “what’re you doin’ out here?”

“my car broke down..” you murmur, crossing your arms over your chest, chewing on your lip.

you can’t pinpoint the look that flashes over his face. it’s obscure, disfigured in the manner all his looks are– he doesn’t want you to truly see what he thinks, what he feels. silence thrums like a dead heartbeat between you two before rafe finally asks, “i’ll give you a lift, where’re you goin’?” you open your mouth to protest, say you’ll do it yourself. you shouldn’t be around him, not now, or ever. if jj saw you both? rafe’s range rover pulling up infront of the chateau? hell, he’d smash the windows in. “don’t even. don’t say whatever shit you’re gonna say, wasn’t an offer, tell me where you’re going,” rafe grumbles, beginning to his car, stopping briefly to usher you along with him.

“what about my car?” you ask, dragging your feet forwards to him.

turning back to look at the broke down thing, rafe sighs, “i’ll deal with it tomorrow, i know a guy who can take care of it.”

“it just needs gas,” you tell him, stepping back when the passenger door swings open in front of you.

“no, that’s broken. making weird noises.” the car door slams shut. you’re forced to sit quietly until he’s in the car too.

“i can’t afford your guy,” you mumble, staring down at your hands while rafe drives smoothly along the roads. you’ve never been in a car this fancy, automated controls, big screen in the front, sleek and screaming expensive.

“don’t worry ‘bout it,” he answered, fingers drumming against the wheel.

“no– rafe–“

“i said, don’t worry about it.” his tone is firm. the room for argument almost suffocating. so you just accept it. he’ll probably forget in the morning, you hope he does.

taglist: @starkeyjoseph @rafesbabygirlx @slut-4-rafey @lanaslushworld @littlelamy @rain-likes-purple @sunny1616 @csturnioloswifey @silkylovey @supasolaa @octoberbxbyy @rafeobx @jamesbeaufortismylife @vanessa-rafesgirl @bambigirl10 @f4sh10n-m4v3n @amelialovesrafe @letstryagaintomorrow @athenabarnes @sapphichotmess @samwinchesterisawhore @arigoldsblog

[stillhangingonthetelephone]

You keep me safe and I'll keep you wild. - J.J.M

olderbfd!jj maybank x insecure!reader || alternate universe || angsty || hurt/comfort to hurt/no comfort but we will prevail i swear || reader is 18 turning 19 || jj is like 42-47

blurb || getting left high and dry by your friends is pretty standard by you, but by your best friend's dad? no, definitely not standard by any means.

word count || 3,187

content warning || age gap, asshole friends/toxic friends, self-deprecating attitudes, daddy issues galore

so im gonna end it plz i need him so bad holy

masterlist for this au

-ˋˏ [proceed...] ˎˊ

Your hoodie clings unbearably to your back. The rainwater smashing down on it provides at least a kilogram load onto your body. The jeans you're wearing aren't much easier to haul either. You wouldn't be soaked if it weren't for your friend's spur of the moment split decision. She had said she'd pick you up at five-thirty. You look down at your watch. 5:46. and the texts you had responded to, whirled in your head.

Annaliese: heyyy! so sorry but could u walk over? my car's being jammy again lol 5:17

Annaliese: see u soon? 5:19

You: no problem, see you soon! 5:20

You string a few curses when mid-way through your journey, the gods above decide to unleash a tidal fucking wave of rain on you. It doesn't help that the cold was already creeping up on you and you know you'll regret not just catching a taxi over— but you didn't have the money for that. So you just stick it out and try to hold your bag sheltered to your chest.

Finally, a little ways past six (according to your watch again) you surface at her house. Running for shelter, you head for the porch. The light flickers, turns on, then fizzles before cutting out completely. You yelp quietly at the unexpected noise but quickly calm yourself down.

It had been raining but not stormy, god you were just waiting for the storm. Lightning scared the shit out of you. After calming down enough, you attempt to fix your hair before knocking on the front door.

It takes a minute longer than expected and there's an odd amount of raised voices before Anna comes up to the door. She's adorned with an awkward face. Not exactly apologetic. Not exactly happy.

She lets you in, completely ignoring your water-logged state.

"Y/n! Oh my god! Uh— so you see, the plan was that I'd have you do some tutoring for me until seven but to be honest, some friends asked if I'd come out early and I felt bad if I let them down—" She fumbles around with her hands and random items she shoves in her bag. "And so I'm super sorry, but do you think we could do this all another day?"

You're shocked. Frozen. Tired. Cold. Hurt.

But still, "Yeah, of course. Not an issue." you muster up a false guard.

Your voice is quiet. Your mind caught off guard. Hardly processing your own words as they slip from your lips.

Anna's face lights up thankful in fake sincerity. "Knew you'd understand— you're just so easy Y/n." Her hand pats your sleeve lightly, hardly, before she pulls off. "You're fine getting home right?" She asks, but doesn't waste time waiting for your answer.

Anna's hands twist round the doorknob, she exits and pulls away quickly in her 'jammy car'.

And god the silence is horrible.

You're still sopping, water droplets hitting the floor with no noise but it feels like the puddle might swallow you whole. Your school bag is clutched harshly between your arms and the corners of now decrepit books dig into your ribs.

Anna's words replay in your head. 'I'd feel bad if I let them down' But not if she let you down. 'you're so easy' But it’s all fake. 'You're fine getting home right?' But you didn't have a ride here, nor do you have one back. The all-too-familiar notions feel like the crushing reminder of your insignificance, hitting you so hard it almost blocks out everything else.

Until his voice breaks the silence. "Told her not to do that."

You look up, face tired, likely sunken in. Hollow eyes meeting his indecipherable ones.

"M'sorry for her." He mumbles under his breath.

"Fuck..." You whisper, voice trembly and broken, more to yourself than him. 

You shake but don't move.

"I'll leave— I'm- I'm sorry to bother you Mr. Maybank."

You haul your body like it weighs a thousand pounds, towards the door, but he's there. In all his low-slung wrangler blue-jeans glory. His sinewy arm blocking the door frame.

"Y'gots to stop callin' me that, kid." He says lowly, his imposing body rearing over you. And you have no idea what to say. Words that would have usually filtered out, don't. It's like he can tell. "Y'walk over here?" He questions you and you soon feel meagre with the way he interrogates you with a reserved burning rage.

"I— Anna was supposed to pick me up." You want to say more, but you're worried that at this rate your throat might close up.

And he's anything but cheery to hear that, jaw ticking, eyes rolling to the back of his head before he grunts in disapproval.

"It's fine though— really. Not her fault, I should've thought it through first—"

"Bullshit." He states harshly, it almost makes you flinch.

"What?"

"Bull. Shit." You hug your backpack tighter. "You gotta start standin' up f'yourself."

"There's honestly not a problem Mr. Mayb—"

"Sweet jesus— jus’ call me JJ!"

His assertive exasperation shuts your rambling up, head zipping briskly to his. Eyes widened but filled with a feverish intrigue. 

It's like that for what seems to be a long time. The poorly lit living room softly glowing against your skin but his gaze scorching you. And then suddenly, out of nowhere, he withdraws himself, his hand goes limp from the door— instead choosing to fiddle with a brass ring on his opposite hand. He backs up momentarily pushing for a distance you didn't realise wasn't there.

"Y'can't go home like this." He looks back at you, finally. "Go and shower, I'll grab ya some clothes."

"It's— it's okay. I'm alright, really. I don't wanna inconvenience—"

"Nope. Go shower. I'll leave the clothes at the door, you'll leave your wet clothes there as well."

The shower does everything you need it to do. And for once, you're glad you listened to someone else. After using the least amount of shampoo and body wash possible, you dry yourself with the towel and wrap it firmly around your body. Hesitantly, you creak the door open, looking directly downwards, there's an almost-neat pile of clothing. Without paying it much attention— you drag them inside.

When you pick up the green t-shirt, you drop it immediately. The intoxicating musk hits you before you really look at it. It makes you shiver, your hands clasp tightly on the material once more. It's old, worn out, something that looks like it's been held onto for too many years— holding onto too many memories. The local Heyward's logo is embellished in a now frayed white, blocky-font.

The sleeves hang low on your arms, easily reaching your elbows. And if you didn't already feel guilty enough, when you stuff the bunched up fabric into your face, the feeling festers in you. Drinking in the scent, a mellow geniality fizzes deep in your body and the anticipation— makes you dull to all other senses

It's a very similar situation when you pull up the sweatpants, they're cargo pocket-lined and you smile, too deeply, at the rolling papers that reside in the ass pocket. His black socks glide over your gentle skin and you do a once over in their large mirror, purposefully hugging into the material and then reprimanding yourself.

"Get a fucking grip."

The first thing you notice is the mouth-watering smell emanating from the kitchen. It wraps you up like a warm embrace, smelling like childhood and it churns your stomach with the home-sick sentiment.

When you silently step into the kitchen, you stop to observe. He's stood there, cap turned backwards on his head, hands working diligently on some onions and cloth draped over his left shoulder. And then you think— the nostalgia isn't the food, it's him.

"Shrimp and grits?" You whisper, words coming out more tenderly than you thought.

He turns, and a daft smile plays on his lips. "Southern comforts, kid."

"I know, my pops used to make it for me."

His smirk drops, but a soft smile stays.

"The trick is— may I?" You move next to him, close enough to watch his hand falter on the spatula. But he nods and lets you take over. "You've gotta add some sugar to caramelise the onion, it breaks down the flavours better and stops the grits from tasting card-boardy."

His grin widens when you stare proudly over your accomplished work, bubbling sugar from the jar now open to your right just a remnant of the action.

"I'll keep it in mind." He breathes huskily as your hands brush with the swap of spatula.

Suddenly your shame returns, being reduced to a blushing mess. Awkwardly, you close the sugar jar and place it back delicately. Your hands linger around the glass though, seemingly unable to look up at him again.

"Thanks for the uh— the clothes."

"No worries kid, I stuck yours in the dryer." Slyly, his eyes rake over you— delighting at the way you look in the far too large clothing, but you don't look back. 

"Dinner's gon’ be ready soon," You frown and turn to him, about to say you don't need it, ate this morning, would be fine, thank you anyways, but he cuts you off before you can start.

 "I know ya haven't eaten yet, leave the apologies til' later huh?" His correct guess has you catching yourself with a simple grin, a brief and silent token of appreciation.

"Go sit yourself down." He motions to the table, beer sloshing in his can as it moves with his hand.

The sudden awareness over your lack of helpfulness makes you instinctually respond. "Anything I can do? Give some help?" You say very fast, sort of jumbled-ly. "I'm happy to clean—"

"Sit down." He says firmer.

And it's not mean.

Not angry.

Not loud.

But certain, hardened.

And it makes you dizzy. You nod, walking over. Not missing the 'Well done.' He slips out on your way to the next room over.

It's nice, you don't eat in silence. JJ is much more entertaining than you originally gave him credit for. You're happy that he retains a part of humour from his youth.

"Y'said your pops used t'make ya this?" He mentions when the conversation starts to simmer, shovelling a mouthful of food into his mouth.

"Yeah when, uh, when things were good." You quieten, tone dropping at the end of the sentence.

Your father was not a good man. Hardly, yet always there in your childhood. Many fond, many terrifying memories of him. All of them, never quite comforting. Even with the conversation at hand, you can remember the solace of his home-cooked meals, but you also have to remember the piles of unwashed dishes, the inability to heat it back up on your own, the eventual mold left in the pot when it got too old too. Memories of him were always tainted and never too simple. 

"Daddy not quite right, huh?" He chuckles. "Yeah I get that, could smell it on ya first time we met."

You smile, allowing yourself a brief moment of respite. "You too?"

And he just raises his eyebrows. Solidarity.

"You're a good dad though." You say softly, sweetly, honestly.

"Yeah?" It sounds more like a question he hopes you have the right answer to, it displays his hesitance— his fear of getting things wrong.

"Yeah." You reassure him.

His eyes darken slightly though, looking properly at you after a while. "Don't like the way she treats you though." He stays still, stoic. "Never raised her t'be like that."

You around swallow nothing. The conversation delving into unpleasant territory. "It's really nothing."

"You're lyin' t'me and ya know that, kid."

You stop, fork no longer aimlessly pushing your uneaten food around your plate.

"It's not all the time." You say, half-soothingly and half-hopeful. "She's a good friend."

But he only grits his teeth. A warning.

"I just—" God surely you weren't about to admit anything like this to your best friend's father. "wish I'd stop being such a— such a wuss about it... maybe if I just said something— anything back."

He sighs and at first you think it's disappointment, sympathy, or another personally resented emotion.

Except his hand drops to your thigh, low down, by your knee. And the contact has you feeling ditzy, light-headed, safe. And you clock it’s understanding. 

"What's stoppin' ya?"

Your eyes flutter between his own, and his hand. "I guess... it's— comforting to know I have something to fall back on. Even if it's not good for me." You relax into his touch. "Took me so long to find them, I can't imagine letting go."

He nods this time, and you appreciate the silent perception. "Still think Anna could do with layin' off a little." He complains half-heartedly.

You wind-up laughing under your breath.

When you grow quiet, he slips his hand off of you. Almost whining at the lost contact, the sense of need grows stronger in you.

He attempts to diffuse the tension, picking up your plates but you're too stubborn. You stand up just as quickly, moving close and even though he doesn't— never stumbles back, you know the persisting infatuation is mutual. You take the plates from him.

"Time for you to relax." Your hand on his shoulder, "Nurse your drink for a while. Let me, please."

He sits down, grumbly and you step into the kitchen. Dish soap and hot water coats your forearms and you hum quietly to yourself, a distant crackly radio playing a soothing country melody that slips off the tongue like butter.

Then you're done, you wipe off your arms and finish humming to the song.

"I'll drop ya back." A voice resonates from behind you. "Y'clothes ain't dry just yet, keep mine f'now, kid, okay?"

You nod, not turning around to him.

The drive is much quieter than dinner. Only the faint radio and your directions every once in a while. Eventually, his truck pulls up on the grass outside your house. He winces. All around him sets off warning alarms in his mind.

Trailers among trailers, dilapidated and paint-chipped. Low light, almost none but the porch lights themselves. He thinks how you come back here alone, wonders what could happen to you. At least he's there tonight. And he doesn't think he's ever going to let you come back here on your own.

"Would you— d'you wanna come in for some water?" You peep from the passenger seat.

And he should say no. Really should.

But he nods curtly to the suggestion, getting out the truck, following suit of you.

He lets slip a brief smile, quickly wiping it from his face though when you enter.

Your trailer is quaint, good. There's pots of flowers and plants just about anywhere you can find a space. Pictures of landscapes, family (he assumes), simple things he wouldn't look twice at. But no pictures of friends. Something in him believes you don't have the self-appreciation for that.

"Just up here." You trail off and suddenly he feels like he should take his shoes off, scared to taint the integrity of your place.

But he'd never been one to shy away from dirtying up other people’s lives.

So why start now?

He inhales deeply and pushes himself to follow you.

You clip the head off of a beer bottle, letting it fall onto your counter with a clink. He's behind you, watching your every move.

And by god does that make you squirm.

You turn, slowly, hand him the beer and cheers your own against it.

He mutters a course thank you and promptly takes a swig. Too large of a swig.

"It's nice." He comments, motioning around you.

"Got some help from my pops, he doesn't know where I am though. Just that I'm safe."

"Safe?"

"Well, you know. Safer than I could be."

"Hm. Well, y'welcome to stay round whenever you need, kid."

You shift from one foot to another. "Thanks, but I'll be okay."

He steps impossibly closer to you. "I mean it now, don't want ya stayin' here all the time."

Something inside you clicks, defensive, with teeth. It’s quick and all consuming, your rage just hurls up and out of you. 

"You don't want me to stay here?" Your tone is harsher than he expects. "What the fuck kind of right do you have to say that to me?" Your drink clashes into the surface top.

But he doesn't react, doesn't give you what you're looking for.

"Think I'll bring you into my house? Give you my beer? Wear your clothes? All for a fucking lecture?" You push him, hands shoving against his chest. "What— fucking— fucking right?"

But your movements are uncoordinated, hasty, erratic. And he knows it's because you feel caged, scared. Someone knowing something about you that evokes your fight response.

And he knows that you need to get it out of your system. So he lets the punches hit, lets you cry out at him, lets the nasty words fall from your lips until he thinks it's enough. 

And all you can focus on is that he won't fight back— won't give you what you're looking for.

Eventually he has to stop you, so his hands grab your wrists, cleanly, swiftly. He pushes you back into the corner of your counter. Towering over you, you let your head drop in defeat. Angry tears stream down your face and the cold of the surface beats down on the back of your back where the shirt rides up. He's pinned you back so your hands meet your waist.

And his do, too.

His thumbs circle over the exposed, silken skin.

"Need t'know I ain't gonna hurt you with this." He utters anchoredly. "M'not gonna do that to ya, kid."

When you look up at him, your gaze isn't empty. It's full, of him.

And against all logic, you slip your wrists gently out of his grip and round his neck.

His body is gruff, older, safe and steady. His thick arms wrap around you perfectly and you swear you could melt into him right here, right now. He draws you nearer, a palliative and tentative hand pressing your head into the crook of his neck. He's surprised you don't cry. And when he thinks about it, he's not sure you did just now.

But it doesn't matter right now.

Right now, he's got you where he wants you— fuck.

He's got you where he wants you.

When he pulls back, it's grating. You're cold almost immediately.

"This ain't— kid we uh, we shouldn't be doin' this."

Shit. The way you're looking at him kills something inside him a little.

And he can't take it, so within seconds he's out the trailer and pulling away in his truck.

And it all floods back to you at once. The abandonment, the fear, the look in your father's eyes when he walked out the door for the last time. The glint of regret— the regret that is never strong enough for someone to stay.

[cctypical]

Omg I so fr agree with u on everything. If they were a girl idek if I would keep shipping them I probably would but not as much excited abt it as I am currently. If they were nb id prolly keep shipping them but it just don’t hit the same as dat HOMO. Like I love bunnydoll and funnybunny as hetero ships but it’s about time we got some more guys and more gay the other gay ship just do not work to me (caine x anyone other than moon = no. kinger x anyone other than queenie = no. just my opinion btw it’s still rlly cute when u make it)

Ik I’ve been yapping too much but anyway I wanted to add something bc I want them to be a guy soo soo bad. There are SO MANY PARALLELS between ribbit, pomni and jax. The most noticeable one is that pomnis beta design was a MALE FROG. And mind you she looked a lil bit like ribbit (tall, slinky frog person). The way I’m connecting them right now is that ribbit had a similar if not the same personality as pomni (and also gender but this goes against my hopes so) they are literally pomni. THATS why she reminds jax of them so much that’s why he wants to get close to her (and if we look at it that way he could be trying to get her in order to get over his late lover AWW SHUCKS)

Ok I forgot where I was going with this AGAIN but basically there’s more of a chance they’re a guy I think bc they HAVE to be based on pomnis original design (AND HER CURRENT DESIGN!!! big eyes + lashes + shiny eyeshadow + blush omg they’re LITERALLY a combination of both pomnis designs) . I don’t think they would make ribbit and pomni relate so much if they weren’t.

please make them a guy please I need more men to smash I MEAN hug and give head pats 🥺🥺🥺

My take on Ribbit.

I already have a few headcanons based on the design. They’ll change if it doesn’t fit Ribbit if they are mentioned or shown.

-Ribbit is older and the role model for Jax

-Worked at bars or clubs

-Female because of the eye lashes but like I said, it’ll change if Ribbit is a them/they or a guy or something else

-Seen like a parent, fun and mischievous but caring and emotional.

[zombiecowboy65]

Send me a number and I’ll write a micro story using the word or phrase:

2 for angst and 13 for fun 😚

So in a turn of events. I literally tried to write angst and then the angst ran away. And then this prompt ran away . And now there is this. There is also smut in 13 LMFAO . Nothing explicit bc tumblr , butttttt . Be warned .

2.) “this was a mistake”

The night the Trojans win the championships, Jean kisses Jeremy on the balcony.

It isn’t planned. Sort of. Technically. For weeks, Jean had been psyching himself up for this. For weeks, Jean has been telling himself that if they won, he would make a move.

And then they do.

And he does.

Just, not when he expects to. First, it’s meant to be in the locker room. Then, at the after party. And after that, Jean isn’t sure he should make a move at all. Cat and Laila are drunk, and already in bed. Jeremy is sober, but something is…off. He takes Jab out to do his business, and when he comes back in, heads out to the balcony.

Jean follows.

Jeremy is…mellower than Jean thought he would be. For a man who wanted this for his entire college career, his excitement is short lived. Dying out now, like the last embers of the Trojans’ bonfires on the beach.

Jean comes to stand at his side, observing the way he’s draped over the railing, arms crossed, foot pressed through two of the bars, and resting on the bottom. It’s not an active threat—not like the night after he left his parents, when Jean had found him out here, poised precariously on the edge and listing off the differences between this floor and the rooftop of the hotel Noah had jumped off.

No, this is different. It is contemplative and quiet. Possibly…sad.

It is a rare treat to see Jeremy happy, Jean thinks, and doesn’t realize he said it aloud, until Jeremy turns to him, and says, “I am happy.”

Jean always wondered if Jeremy had heard the butler that day, but the ease with which he challenges the statement now says that he had.

Jean cocks an eyebrow. Jeremy insists, “I am. I got what I wanted. Signed to a great team. Won a championship. Live with my friends. I just…wish I didn’t have to lose so much to get here.”

Ah, Jean thinks. He turns out to the view again, contemplates the black sky, too dark to find any stars, and then sighs.

“I understand,” he says. “And I will never say it’s fair, because some losses were …” he stops, takes a breath, closes his eyes against his grief, “cruel. But others…there have been a number of times since I landed in California, where I thought to myself, this was a mistake. But if I hadn’t lost some things, I never would have the life I have now.”

When he opens his eyes again, Jeremy is staring up at him.

“Do you still think that?” Jeremy asks. “That coming here was a mistake?”

“No,” Jean says. “I haven’t in a while.”

“Good,” Jeremy returns.

Jean studies him. “Do you think leaving your family was a mistake?”

Jeremy’s quiet for a minute. He studies Jean back, and then says, “My family is here. Laila, and Cat, and Jabberwocky, and you.”

It’s enough to crack Jean’s chest in two. He’s sure Jeremy can see his pounding, bleeding heart through the broken cage of his ribs, but if he does, he doesn’t mention it. He just stares up at Jean, an uncharacteristically shy expression on his face.

“Jeremy,” Jean says, and then can’t get his mouth to say anything else. “Jeremy. Jeremy, can I—?”

“Yeah,” Jeremy breathes, and it is all the permission Jean needs. He surges forward, one hand on Jeremy’s waist, the other on his cheek, and smashes their mouths together.

It is rushed. It is sloppy. It bumps their noses and sets Jeremy giggling, and Jean thinks, that maybe, just maybe, he can live with the embarrassment of not knowing what he’s doing this once.

13.) “too loud”

Jeremy has always been noisy in bed.

Jean loves it. The sounds Jeremy makes, the way it keeps Jean grounded, the way Jeremy’s unashamed to let Jean know what feels good. But right here, right now, while they’re having a…a…quickie in the bathroom of Cat and Laila’s wedding reception, Jean wishes he would find some self control.

“Oh god,” Jeremy pants, moans. Jean watches his lips part in the mirror, watches his hands clench and unclench around the edge of the sink. Watches his brown eyes where they find Jean’s, the flush spreading across his cheeks, and finds a surge of possessiveness flow through him.

He also finds a surge of nerves.

“You are—so loud,” Jean pants back. “Too loud. You’re going to let the entire wedding know where we are.”

“Everyone—ah—has sex at weddings, Jean,” Jeremy assures him, and as Jean changes the angle, moans again.

Jean moves.

Without thinking, he clamps one hand over Jeremy’s mouth. Jeremy moans louder.

Jean’s hips stutter. “Seriously?”

“Sorry,” Jeremy says, muffled now, but Jean can tell it’s an empty apology. In the mirror, his eyes are wide, and bright.

[lyracarvahall]

HeartBeat Sync Part 49

Stress Relief

Still falling into fits of giggles as they sat up on the floor, Mingi and Y/N rested their backs against the sofa and still clung to one another. Mingi looked down at her through his glasses with a look of complete adoration. A comfortable silence came over the pair and gave them the opportunity to just observe each other.

"Hey baby...I know you have a lot going on right now, but would you want to hang out with me for a little while? I think we both need an escape right now. I understand if you are busy with the album..."

Y/N realized as he was talking that Mingi was the one who may have needed this more than her. To make sure she was alright. She saw in that moment how much her welfare truly effected everyone else. She knew roughly, but seeing his boba eyes looking for reassurance, it was confirmed.

"Mingi, honey, I am never too busy for you, okay? We can get out for a few hours." Mingi's face glowed with joy as he stood and grabbed her hand, pulling her into another embrace.

"Your hugs are like home." he muttered against her shoulder. She couldn't help but melt at a statement like that. Standing on her toes to kiss him gently, she took his hand and guided him out of the room.

He swung their arms as they borderline frolicked down the hallway. She giggled as his energy was contagious. Hongjoong stood in the kitchen looking to be making tea. He gently grabbed the wrist that was free.

"Hey baby. I am glad you are getting out for a little while. Did you want me to help on the track at all while you were gone or did you want to handle it all. What works best for you?"

"Thank you Joongie. I wouldn't mind you getting a couple of vocals done. Maybe you can get your rap done. I only have Mingi and Yeosang so far. Just don't don't complete it without me."

"Can do firebird." He gently tugged her wrist again and placed a fast kiss upon her lips and a firm slap to her ass before Mingi guided her out of the door.

Mingi chuckled deeply as they closed her apartment door behind them. "It is crazy how well this dynamic works for us. Most people would be crazy all loving the same woman, but you helped bring us closer together in a way we didn't think was possible."

Y/N squeezed his fingers and they made their way down the elevator to the parking lot where Mingi's car was waiting. He pulled his hat low on his face. After guiding her into the passenger seat, he handed her a spare cap from his backseat.

"Can't be too careful." He smirked as he put the car into gear. Mingi was always attractive but in a tight tank top and that baseball hat it hit different. He had a quiet swagger that wasn't the same as the bold sexiness he presented on-stage but it was like it belonged to only her.

"Where are we going anyway?" Y/N gently combed her fingers over his hand that was resting on the gear shift.

He gently grasped her fingers and rested both their hands on her thigh as he turned the wheel gracefully with the other hand. "It isn't a typical date but figured it may be something you would need right now. We are going to a rage room. Afterwards maybe grabbing some food to have a picnic date?"

"A rage room? Like where you get to smash shit?"

"Exactly. I know this was supposed to be a distraction date and to be honest I came up with this idea just now. If you don't like the idea we can always.."

"No no baby it is a good thought. Maybe confronting my feelings about this head-on are what I am needing. Settling down with a picnic afterwards sounds amazing. You are pretty good at this on-the fly stuff." Y/N giggles and he smiles with pride.

"Thanks baby. Glad you like it because...we...are here." He turns off the car navigation and pulls into the parking lot of an unassuming grey concrete building. The type of building that if she didn't trust the man escorting her, she would have quickly become suspicious.

Taking her hand and guiding her out of the vehicle, his lips grazed a gentle trail across her knuckles before he guided her through the building's side door. The smirk she could see from under his hat made her heart flutter.

Once they entered the facility, it was a totally different vibe. Loud rock music could be heard muffled through doorways down the hall as well as shouting. The front desk seems hilariously in contrast. A quiet and mousy woman sat at the front counter, pushing her glasses up her nose as she greeted them. You could see the flash of recognition in her eyes as she looked upon Mingi, but wisely she didn't mention it.

"We have a reservation under the name Song." Mingi grumbled deeply in Korean like he was trying to remain discreet even though his cover was blown.

The woman nodded quickly and looked at her computer before making a couple of clicks and then she stood from her desk. Y/N attempted to read her name tag but she wasn't too great at reading Hangul yet.

Opening the first hallway door on the right, the receptionist nodded again. Her voice could barely be heard over the activities in the other rooms. Y/N couldn't understand what was being said and Mingi squeezed her hand gently, letting her know he would tell her what was said in a moment.

Once the woman walked away, Mingi pulled them both inside and closed the door so they could hear each other a little better. "She said that the rules are spray-painted on the wall and asked if we wanted any music. I said no because I figured you would want to talk. If I did badly speaking for you and you do want music I am sorry and I..." Mingi began to nervously ramble.

Y/N kissed his lips softly. "Baby that is perfect. Thank you for all of this. I am sorry about you needing to translate for me. I will hopefully be able to read all of this soon.." Mingi guided her to the rules written on the wall and pulled her back against his chest, resting his head on her shoulder as he read the rules out to her. His deep tone in her ear made it hard to focus. He chuckled at sensing her lust and squeezed her hips, spending a little extra time running his hand over their soulmark.

Once the rules were laid out, she grabbed a baseball bat from the corner and surveyed the room. Mingi placed goggles over her eyes and his. There were TVs and cheap bookshelves full of junk and trinkets. There were toys that were obviously donated and well-beaten before they had arrived. Y/N twirled the bat and took a swing at a tube tv that was on a table. It flew and smacked into the wall. While normally not a fan of violence, this was so...cathartic.

Mingi began giggling and tossing toys in the air before swinging a bat at them. After an hour of taking out her anger and stress on the innocent objects, she felt physically and mentally exhausted but also...strangely liberated. Mingi seemed to sense the change and his shoulders sagged in relief. He ran up to her and kissed her deeply as the light flashed in the corner, signaling that their time was up.

"Damn Mingi. You know how to show a girl a good time." He blushed deeply.

"I hope it helped." Y/N nodded and took his hand to guide him out of the room and out of the building. Once they were back in the car, she kissed him fiercely to show his appreciation. He smiled widely as he put the car in gear and made his way down the road.

"Next stop...picnic."

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

I am sorry I have been gone for so long guys. I have been in a funk but hopefully will be back in the swing of things now. Hope you like it and sorry it is so short. Love you <3

Taglist: @vtyb23 @nuggiesnuggetdog04 @yeosangsluthousewife @tyungelic @mygsis @mrsminseochoi

[transformers-spike]

so you know how babies are top heavy cause of their heads and tip over?

well for seekers and praxians its the wing forcing them backward.

for sentinel's baby its her big ass chin making her faceplant 😂😂😂 she has trouble crawling cause she has to lift that giant chin so she just shuffles like a worm with a broom for a chin. then she crawls but keeps having her head dragged down so she can't see well. then shes toddling but it's just constant dives into the ground. primus forbid she has to *climb* if it's up she's gonna go backwards and plummet. if it's down she loses grip and is suddenly a lovely torpedo.

when kids are big enough to be the exact nut head butting height it's instead her going chin first. like a diving wrestler coming in for an elbow slam but it's all chin. awwww she's gonna lay in your lap! NOPE. it's the folding chair chin takedown!

anyways when she's grown up people always go for the chin in fights, without knowing she's been training her chin's strength and pain tolerance since she rolled out of the egg. you are breaking your servos before you dent *her* chin!!

I need you to know this made my fucking day

I'm losing it imagining papa Sentinel crouched down, encouraging his sparkling to toddle up to him, as giddy as he can be, then his baby immediately chin-planting to the floor

She has accidentally assaulted his face with her chin on numerous occasions, but he still loves her because that's his daughter (and his chin)

Can't even smooch her little face without her smashing her chin against his denta

Bro, she can probably crack helms with that thing as an adult. She is filled with rage at being brought down by it since birth, but now she can finally use it as a weapon

(Lmao could she even breastfeed with that chin in the way?)

I'm losing it at "rolled out of the egg". I assume you mean the uterine kind, bc i can't get over the image of her human carrier just popping out a whole ass egg and being like ??????????????

[grinnames]

Possession Collection: @4thwallbreakerdraws2

After running a thorough diagnosis on his body, SMG3 and SMG4 found that there was an anti-virus preventing the purple-clad vessel from leaving. No matter how SMG3 tried to remove his soul from the robot, he would hit a wall every way he went. 

If SMG3 had lungs, he would be hyperventilating right now. But even in a body made of metal and bolts, he felt panic overtake his mind, bubbling up from the depths and rising. He grabbed onto the frame of Mod’s head, struggling to ground himself. But the memories  of that time flashed before his vision, threatening to drown out everything else.

“No… no no no NONONONO! This– this can’t be happening again!”

He felt his knees buckle, and he hunched over. His new holographic wings folded in on themselves, shielding him from the world. “I can’t be trapped again! LET ME OUT, LET ME OUT, LET ME OUT-”

“Hey!”

The voice that broke through his deafening mental cries was concerned but firm and grounding, almost neutral. He felt two gloved hands grasp his shoulders, holding him in place. 

“Focus on my voice.”

He strained to focus, scrabbling for his sense of control. He hated feeling vulnerable.

“You’re not back there. You’re out here. With me. Totally different situation.”

Despite not needing to breathe (he couldn’t anyway in this body), SMG3 forced his shoulders to relax as if he had taken a deep breath.

“You’ve escaped before. You can do it again.”

SMG3 remembers reality. That’s right, he’s just possessing a robot, on the streets in another world. This isn't the first time he's been through something like this. He's a fighter. And... he's not a alone.

“That’s right, you’re the one in control right now. You’re not helpless anymore.”

After what seems like hours, SMG3 can finally properly see. He sees SMG4 in front of him, still holding his shoulders. He isn’t wearing his usual wide, open grin. His mouth is set in a straight line. To anyone that doesn't know SMG4, his face looks almost expressionless, but SMG3 knows a serious SMG4 when he sees it. He can see it in how his brow is slightly furrowed in concern. Concern for his partner in crime.

“...Alright alright. I’m fine. I’m good now.” He looked away, slightly flustered, and quickly pushed himself to his full height.

“Thought so!” And just like that, that annoying smile was back on SMG4’s face, as if nothing had ever happened at all. He knew that both of them preferred it that way.

“Now, as for your sticky situation…” SMG4 said, getting back down to business. "I have come up with the perfect solution!"

With a snap of his fingers, SMG4 summoned his mallet. “I’ll just break you out!”

“...What-”

“Hold still, Three!”

“WAIT WAIT WAIT TIME OUT!” SMG3 backed up and waved his hands in front of his face as SMG4 cocked back his mallet. “What if you kill me too?! We have no idea what happens if this host dies with me in it!”

“Oh you silly, you’ll live! Like always! Only the host dies, remember?”

“BUT THIS ONE HAS A BUILT-IN ANTIVIRUS.”

“And it will be destroyed with the host too! Now c’mere-”

“GET AWAY FROM ME-”

Right before SMG4’s mallet could connect, the eyes on the screen became blue again and the robot’s hand shot out and grabbed the handle. 

“Aw not you again-”

Officer Mod held his wide yellow gaze with her own emotionless stare. “Like I said, I will be alerted of any crimes, and violence against an officer is-”

“-illegal, I KNOW!" SMG4 was starting to get exasperated. It was not a good look for him. "But since you're here, listen up! If you don’t want to get smashed, let my partner go and we’ll consider sparing you!” 

Sorry if this was long, I couldn't help it, and I've been looking forward to writing this one!

Submission Post

26 left.

[littlecandyman]

inspired by this scene in fried green tomatoes

"How does this taste?" Satoru asks, putting a burnt piece of what was supposed to be a cookie in your mouth. "The truth."

"Oh," you say, chewing it for a second. "They're, um... bad." Not nearly sweet enough, flat as his ass and again, burnt.

"Hmm." He walks over to the trash can and dumps the entire plate in. Probably for the best.

An egg is cracked over your head, sliding straight off and into your mixing bowl of correctly prepared cookie dough. You freeze for just a second, turning to face Satoru in disbelief.

"Why did you do that?" You ask, mouth hanging open at the audacity.

"You forgot to add eggs." His back is to you, cleaning the dishes from his apparent failed batch.

You eye the container of sugar next to you on the counter. You don't even remember picking it up before you sling the contents at his back. He stiffens and fills a glass of water.

What happens next is a blur.

The water hits your face and you throw a handful of flour at him in return. Chocolate chips end up down your shirt, cocoa powder in his hair. You're both giggling as you fall onto the floor.

"I can't believe you," you laugh, smearing your hand over his face, coating it in whatever the hell is on the floor with you.

"You started it," he shrugs, sticking his tongue out at you.

"What the hell happened in here?"

Suguru enters the kitchen in horror at the mess. You and Satoru are on the floor covered in baking ingredients, not a single clean surface left.

"They said my cookies were bad," Satoru laughs, using your shoulder as support to stand.

"You know you're going to have to clean this up?" Suguru says, arms crossing over his chest.

You roll your eyes as you stand, grabbing a handful of butter and hiding it behind your back. "Always so serious," you say, a grin stretching your face from ear to ear. You wrap your arms around his neck and then smash the butter into his hair, effectively poking the bear.

His lips flatten into a straight line then he cracks a second egg into your hair, splattering onto the floor. You turn to make your way back to the safety of Satoru but Suguru's arms lock around your waist.

You squeal in delight and slight terror, your hands shooting out to Satoru to pull you back to him but your butter slicked hands keep slipping from his, dooming you to whatever fate Suguru chooses for you.

a/n: sorry for calling satoru flat assed :(

[pink-sparkly-witch]

Sauvage, Part Five (FINALE)

Summary: Jensen finally meets Y/N, the woman Jared and Gen say is perfect for him. Just as they think they have their happily ever after, opportunity knocks taking Jensen halfway across the world. He’s determined to make their relationship work from an ocean apart, but it’s a lot harder than either of them bargained for.

Pairing: Jensen Ackles x Female Reader

Rating: General

Bingo Square: Reunion for @jacklesversebingo

Triggers / Warnings / Tags: fluff, reunion, heart-to-heart, kissing, happily ever after

Word Count: 2.2k

A/N: Please consider leaving feedback, a comment or a keyboard smash. Interaction really fuels a creative’s muse. If you’re too shy or don’t want people to know you read fanfic and don’t want it showing on your blog, you can submit an anonymous ask or drop me a DM 💖

You can catch up here!

My Masterlist     AO3    Ko-Fi

Jensen made sure to arrive twenty minutes early. The last thing he wanted to do was be late—or worse, for Y/N to arrive before him. It also meant he could partake in a little Dutch courage to try and settle his nerves a bit. Not until he arrived at the bar did he realise just how much this meeting meant to him. She said it herself; they lived in the same city again and they couldn’t keep avoiding each other every time the Padalecki’s had a party. It wasn’t fair on either of them, or on Jared, Gen, and the kids.

“Scotch, neat, and can you make it a double?” he requested from the bartender as he sat in a barstool facing the entrance so he could see Y/N come in without looking like a meerkat at every flash of movement that caught his eye. “Thanks,” he nodded, handing twenty dollars over when the crystal tumbler was placed in front of him.

“Do you need change?” he asked.

“No,” Jensen shook his head. “It’s all good, thanks.”

He sipped his whisky slowly trying to practice their conversation in his head, but it didn’t do any good. Everything he thought to say sounded too forced, too desperate, or too nosy.

As he finished his whisky, Y/N walked through the door, and his mind went completely blank, forgetting every topic of conversation and every question he’d thought to ask. She looked stunning in the most understated way. A white V-neck shirt tucked into dark wash jeans, a smart black blazer, and a pair of heels. Her make-up was done in the way he’d always preferred on women: natural and minimal, to the extent she looked like she wasn’t wearing any at all.

She was perfect, and not for the first time, he cursed himself for ever letting her go. For not fighting harder. For breaking her heart and letting her down.

Y/N’s eyes casually scanned the bar and when they reached him, he raised his hand in a wave so she would see him. The way her shoulders relaxed when she saw him made him smile, and he wondered if she’d been just as nervous as he was about being stood up.

As she walked towards him, Jensen stood from the barstool to greet her. It took everything he had not to kiss her cheek when she stopped in front of him, but instead, he settled on a warm smile.

“I’m glad you came,” he chuckled softly.

“You thought I wouldn’t?” Y/N smirked, watching as he nervously ran his hand through his hair.

“Kinda!” he chuckled. “I put you on the spot earlier when I asked you how you’d been. I don’t have the right to ask, and I don’t have the right to know. I’d have understood if you stood me up.”

Y/N frowned at Jensen’s choice of words. This wasn’t a date, no matter how much she wanted it to be, so she tried not to dwell on it or any hidden meaning that might have been behind them. 

“So,” she cleared her throat, “are we getting a table or do you want to sit at the bar?”

“I’d like to get a table, but if you’d be more comfortable at the bar, I’m fine with that,” Jensen answered.

“A table would be great,” she replied, smiling that he was still as chivalrous as she remembered.

“Okay, great!”

Jensen held his arm out for her to take and she quickly linked hers with it. He led them to a quiet, intimate table for two at the back of the bar where they wouldn’t be disturbed by patrons queuing for drinks or people coming and going from the restrooms.

He pulled her chair out for her and once again, she found herself enamoured by his gentlemanly manners. “Thank you, Jensen.”

“You’re welcome, Y/N.” Jensen’s smile was wide and contagious, and the sparkle in his green eyes was brighter than she ever remembered seeing it. She couldn’t help wondering if it was the low, atmospheric lighting, or if their spark was reigniting.

As they settled into their seats, the silence and tension between them grew to an unbearable level. Y/N was about to bite the bullet and tell him that this was a bad idea when a waiter approached to take their drinks order.

Jensen ordered a beer with an ease that instantly diffused some of the tension she was feeling, making her wonder if it was only her that felt the awkward air surrounding and suffocating her.

“Merlot,” she blurted when the waiter asked her what drink she wanted for the second time. “A really large glass of Merlot, please.”

“Of course,” the waiter nodded and left them to their awkwardness once again.

“What?” Y/N frowned at hearing Jensen’s chuckle.

“Nervous?” he smirked and she narrowed her eyes.

“You’re not?”

“I am. But you look like you’re plotting a prison break!” Y/N laughed, breaking the remaining tension between her and Jensen. “There she is!” he chuckled. “You had me worried for a second!”

“I’m sorry. This is…” Y/N gestured wildly with her hands trying to find a word that wouldn’t offend him.

“Awkward?” Jensen offered. “Yeah, it is.” he agreed and took a swig of his beer, watching as she took a long swallow of her wine.

“But it doesn’t have to be,” he added, putting his bottle back on the table and making himself comfortable on the faux leather armchair. “So, since I asked you here, it’s only fair that my interrogation is first.”

“Interrogation?” she chuckled. “Why so serious!” Jensen threw his head back in laughter and she grinned. She’d missed his laugh.

“Maybe that was a little strong!” he smirked.

“You think? I’m about ready to get a cab home!” she laughed.

“Okay, how about reacquainting? Is that better?”

“Much,” Y/N grinned. “So, tell me about Paris.”

Jensen spent over an hour talking about himself, his time in Paris that led to him getting a dream position in a very successful New York restaurant, and his latest venture into owning his own place.

“Sauvage. I like it. It suits you,” Y/N grinned as he finished his story. “I’m so happy everything worked out for you, Jensen. Truly.”

“Thank you. It came at the sacrifice of any kind of personal life, but I’m hoping it pays off,” he chuckled.

“I have no doubt it will. Everything you’ve worked so hard towards will be worth it when you see your restaurant full of happy diners.” Y/N swallowed the last mouthful of her wine and gestured to the waiter for another round of drinks.

“So, I guess it’s your turn,” Jensen said.

“I guess so,” she cleared her throat and thanked the waiter for her second glass of wine. “What do you want to know?”

“How’s work?” Jensen started with the perfect icebreaker. She loved her job when they were dating, and he was pretty sure she’d still love it now.

“Great!” Y/N’s smile lit up her face and made her eyes sparkle. “I have my own family practice and see patients part time. The rest of the time is paperwork and the day-to-day running of things. I have an amazing office manager though, who helps with a lot of the admin.”

“Wow! Your own practice? Looks like I’m not the only one living their dream!” Jensen smiled.

“Yeah, well, you worked hard for yours. Mine kinda just fell into my lap!” she chuckled, and he tilted his head in a silent question.

“I’d been out for drinks with a group of friends and I ran into Eddie Simpson. We both specialised in family medicine at Harvard and shared classes together there. He was working in a practice and told me they were looking for a new pediatrician.

“Long story short, I got the job, and when the original owner, Dr Reynolds retired, Eddie and I bought him out, and I’ve been there ever since,” Y/N explained.

“Is Eddie still your business partner?” Jensen asked.

“Ah, now that brings us to the personal part of my life!” she chuckled sadly.

“I’m listening,” he said softly, and she smiled wearily.

“Not long after I started working at the practice, Eddie and I started dating. He’s a really great guy and he treated me well. We got married,” she sighed and paused, her memories making her smile slightly, making Jensen curious as to why things didn’t work between them.

“But we shouldn’t have,” she continued. “I had my doubts that accepting his proposal was the right thing to do, but I wanted what everyone else had. I wanted a partner and a best friend. Someone who’d always have my back.” Y/N paused again to take a long sip of wine.

“I got all of it from him, but I didn’t love him. I mean, I loved him… I still love him. I’m just not in love with him. I’m not sure that I ever was.

“He met someone else,” she smiled softly at Jensen’s scathing expression. “He never cheated on me. But when he met Laura, he realised the way he felt about her should have been the way he felt about me.”

It hadn’t been as heartbreaking as she imagined the news would’ve been had she been in love with Eddie. In fact, it’d been a relief. It meant they could part ways amicably and without anyone getting hurt. They loved each other, they just weren’t in love, and they’d managed to get through their separation and subsequent divorce and still be friends.

“When we separated, Eddie decided to move to Houston. It’s where Laura is from originally. When we sold our house, I offered to buy Eddie out of the practice and become its sole owner. He agreed and… here we are,” Y/N picked up her wine glass with a shrug, and took another healthy swallow from it.

“What about you?” She cleared her throat and placed her glass back on the table. There was no need to elaborate because they both knew she was referring to his love life.

“Do you want the truth or the polite answer?” Jensen chuckled.

“The polite answer, obviously,” she grinned.

“Alright, but remember you asked for it!” he laughed and took a long drag of his beer.

“I tried to date after… but no one ever came close to you. So, I threw myself into work and dated casually. Even that wasn’t… it didn’t feel right. It always felt like I was cheating.

“I know we weren’t together very long,” Jensen drained the rest of his beer. “But what we had was intense and all consuming. It was the real deal. I have no doubt whatsoever about that.” 

Y/N may have managed to move on and get married, but he never could. It had only ever been her. It still was and it always would be. He knew that now just as much as he’d known it back then. 

But back then, he couldn’t see the wood for the trees, and he thought it’d be easier for both of them — no, him — and his feelings to end it. Part of him held onto the hope that she’d wait for him. That she’d still be there when he came back from Paris, but she wasn’t. And it was only then that he realised just how big of a mistake he’d made because he knew her. And he knew that if they’d separated before he went to Paris, she would have waited for him. But he fucked up in so many ways, the first being his insistence that they stay together.

“I’m so sorry,” Jensen sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. “I just wish I’d tried harder—fought harder for you.”

“No, you don’t, Jensen. You wouldn’t be where you are now if we’d stayed together.” He knew she was right, but the shame and the guilt of what he’d put them both through was still as raw as it was then.

“I don’t care. None of it makes up for the future I could’ve had with you,” he fumed. “One where both of us would’ve been happy.”

“Maybe not. But neither of us would be who we are or where we are now, and everything happens for a reason. If I didn’t believe that, I’d never have survived us breaking up.”

“I still love you,” Jensen bravely admitted. If he didn’t do it now, he knew he’d let her walk out of here without telling her. “I never stopped.”

“Me either,” she replied.

“Can I kiss you?” He didn’t know where it came from, but it was out now and he couldn’t take it back.

“You better!” Y/N giggled, leaning forward to meet Jensen’s plump, perfect lips with hers.

The kiss was everything and more. Y/N felt the butterflies swarming the second their lips touched. Her heart skipped a beat before hammering twofold when Jensen’s tongue traced across her bottom lip.

She opened her mouth, whimpering as their tongues grazed. It was warm and passionate, familiar and comforting all at the same time. It was perfect. He was perfect. And Y/N finally felt like she was home.

“Can we, uhm,” Y/N murmured against his lips having had to pull away for some much needed oxygen. “Can we get out of here?”

Jensen smirked at Y/N’s red and swollen lips, proud that he’d been the one to make them that way.

“Together?” he asked, hoping it was but not wanting to assume.

“Yes,” she answered, her voice raspy with arousal.

“Your place or mine?”

The End

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[doll-pup]

i want u to smash my head into the ground when you rape me, like grab my hair at the base of my skull n use it as a handle to bang my head on the floor over n over n over until im bloody and docile and genuinely brain damaged