#what is google docs and google sheets

[nanowatzophina]

Some characters from @doriana-gray-games’s Sherlock IF

I’m still holdin’ out for Irene Adler for my main Sherlock, Amelia… but… that isn’t stopping me from making alternate Sherlock’s for all these fine options I’ve been given. Especially considering the different flavors of autism gremlins I can make to compliment each option so differently.

Hate to say I have a preference for Lestrade and H as guys but— I do. 😔 idk. Maybe it’s just the way my biromantic brain is wired. But both these gentlemen are SO FINE.

So I will probably only ever draw them as dudes…

Sadly the only reason I may not be able to actually romance Adler with my main is… I’m playing her as more of a persona and I am incredibly ace… but— like— Irene tho— idk. Things to consider.

[ardently-verdandi]

the past few days have consisted of me trying to collect and make lists of my favorite fanfics and authors i want to share here but then suddenly getting an intense overwhelming feeling mid typing i had to stop and stare at my laptop screen until it feels like the lists i’ve made so far look unorganised so i delete everything and start over

[roomwithanopenfire]

Stats Monday

I can't believe that Sunday was perfectly on the first and then I forgot to post my stats yesterday😔. Thanks for the tags yesterday @monbons @thewholelemon and @rimeswithpurple!!

Below the cut is my writing stats for the month of May. Expect graphs and musing and stuff :)

Total words written for May: 13353 (this is the lowest monthly word count yet but I can geninuely say that I had a great time writing all of these words)

Days I met my writing goal (200 words): I've given up on this writing goal thing because it's not working for me anymore. It was working very well for a while, but it was time to switch it up.

Days where I wrote or edited something: 12

Day I wrote the most: May 17th with 4933 words (this is a very high number for me!!)

Number of Fics worked on: 4

Daily Average: 430 words out of all 31 days, out of the the 12 days I wrote the average is 1112. check out my graphs

I don't really have consistency anymore, but I've literally had so much fun writing this month! I think part of the reason is I'm not forcing myself to work on any WIPS that I don't feel like working.

Does that mean I'm less likely to finish things? Perhaps. Will I have to revisit this later if I want to ever finish things? Probably. But for right now it is very freeing.

Here's all the fics I have been working on:

New obsession goes hard. All of these are buddie/9-1-1 except for the tiny sliver of COBB. Yet even though my word count for COBB is really small, that represents me editing the entire first chapter, which means I am pretty much ready for posting!! hopefully i'll have some of the other chapters finished before posting, but i'm just going with the flow here for now.

(also that fic titled GET OUT OF MY HEAD will NOT get out of my head. it's a 9-1-1 long-fic idea that rapidly spiralled into basically a canon rewrite... but omegaverse. Idk man. i don't control what my brain does anymore. omega!buck fic coming.... eventually.)

Now for some Life Updates.

I have a girlfriend now!!!!!

I was worried about getting enough hours at my summer job, but I have NOT been having that problem. I've been working so much, which I am very very thankful for, but also kinda worried that it's not going to continue (since I've been filling in for other people's shifts a lot of the time, i can't control when other people are calling out and that makes me anxious).

In less than 12 hours from now I will be in an MRI machine for the umpteeth time. If you think of me at about 8am CT, just know that I am in the Machine, thinking about my omega!buck fic probably.

Summer has been so good to me, I am having a great time so far. except for the fact that i am NEVER ALONE.

In like 2 weeks my parents and my little sister are going out of the country for a week and i'll be pretty much home alone (my brother will be there but he'll stay in the basement mostly loll), which i am very excited for, because I'll finally be alone for once.

tags and hellos

@alexalexinii @aristocratic-otter @artsyunderstudy @arthurkko @blackberrysummerblog

@best--dress @bookishbroadwayandblind @bookish-bogwitch @confused-bi-queer @cutestkilla

@drowninginships @facewithoutheart @emeryhall @fiend-for-culture @hushed-chorus

@iamamythologicalcreature @ileadacharmedlife @theimpossibledemon @jyae23 @larkral

@lovelettersto-mars @meanjeansjeans @m1ndwinder @nausikaaa @noblecorgi

@orange-peony @mooncello @prettygoododds @raenestee @run-for-chamo-miles

@rbkzz @shrekgogurt @simonscones @nausikaaa @skeedelvee @supercutedinosaurs

@sweetronancer @talentpiper11 @valeffelees @youarenevertooold @you-remind-me-of-the-babe

and I know I say this every time, but please don't feel bad about telling me if you'd rather not be tagged in these stats things or other times when I have no snips to share :)

also i feel kinda bad because i haven't been interacting with this fandom as much, but just know that i really appreciate you guys and def feel free to reach out to me if you ever want to <333

[abernathyvalois]

Born to be the village blacksmith forced to use excel

[fundielicious-simblr]

(Lana's POV)

This pregnancy has been totally different from the last one as this one is a singleton but we've been basking in the Lord's goodness nonetheless. I've been soaking up enjoying my growing bump and taking in all the changes slowly happening in my body again, my hair has been falling out from the last pregnancy but Casandra suggested this pre-natal vitamin to take so I'm hoping it can work.

Parker and I have enjoyed slow mornings and evenings just basking in the Lord's goodness in being blessed with another pregnancy. Honestly speaking, there are times when I can start to feel anxious but Parker is always there to remind me that prayer is the best answer when my mind starts pulling me in different directions.

Morning sickness (or really all day sickness) has really been a challenge this time round, I'm hoping it calms down after the first trimester because it's so hard not being able to keep my strength up to be able to do the things I need to get done. Due to me being so sick as well as other last minute work things, Parker and I had to miss Zach and Kelsey's wedding but we'll take them out to dinner when they're back from their honeymoon.

My mum and sister came into town for a visit and I was able to announce the pregnancy to them, I wanted to wait for my dad to be there but I'm happy I told them when I did so I was able to because they'd have caught on immediately with how sick I've been. My mum was so excited that she immediately started thinking about what to shop for.

We went out to lunch while they were here and it was great getting to catch up on all the things happening back home. Parker and I decided to join Maggie, Reece, and their families on winter vacation before we head to see my family for Christmas, so we were comparing schedules to see when we'll be coming into town to see them. Priscilla & Felix are doing a gender reveal for their baby that'll be arriving next year so we're aiming to be in Oasis Springs for that. It's so great that Parker has family in Oasis Springs that he'll be able to see around Christmas time as we'll be there until the new year.

[il3x]

the interaction of my current Character Rotation with my actual life has resulted in the take: "shadow stalker would accept lower efficiency on a semi-collaborative project if it meant everyone could just split up and handle their own parts earlier. glory girl would wrangle the group into collaboration if it killed her"

[theokusgallery]

Oh btw 3 days ago After making you Discover Oleander I had a stupid non-canon concept in my mind

Nick & Sunny Except that their eyepatches Are Oleander shaped Or Under The eyepatch theres an Oleander Replacing the Missing Eye

My Autism Going Brrr with how i could use The Oleander's Symbolism with these two

I'm literally listening to Orelander right now. This is really good timing

[nyxire]

the compulsive urge to open google docs and spend the rest of your day writing on a half finished story that you haven't touched in 2 years when you have a million other things to be doing

[akechis-special-case]

Swooping in to showcase an updated versions of Lukanja's profile and finally having done one for Annika!

Both of these should give enough of an idea who they are without reading the long stories also the P4 fic isn't even close to done yet.

Lukanja's will feature a plot summary section yet that might still take a while. I did not know that I would need this long to summarize everything but it does apperantly. Then again, what did I expect from a 194 chapter fic?

As for Annika, I will focus on the character references for now. The fic isn't done so no summary yet the profile summarizes their entire deal already. Full body references will be added once I've finished them!

[riveredmoon]

quiet tipper

connection: k. nanami x fem!reader

synopsis: he watches your live streams, always quietly tipping — and tipping bigger than anyone else ever did. when you finally notice, you offer him something in return.

content warnings: nsfw, smut (mdni), modern au, non curse au, camming (might have gotten some things wrong), mutual masturbation, sub kento (we all cheered), oral (m receiving), p in v, riding, no protection, crude language, spitting, creampie, very little plot.

(1) notification: this just randomly popped into my head months ago and has been collecting dust in my google docs. sorry to my fbi agent for all the sites i had to research. enjoy (please)!

wc: 4.7K (i say very little plot but can’t stfu)

other forums

The lights are off in his apartment — the only source of light being the red hue coming from his laptop. Heavy moans and the sounds of fingers slipping in and out of something wet clashes with the pristine quiet of his apartment. 

His tie, still half knotted, is lazily thrown over his shoulder. Button up shirt half away undone. His slacks tighter around his tense thighs. He feels hot. He still feels too restricted. He wonders if his clothes were dried for too long during their last run through the dryer. Or if his air conditioner is working. 

Especially as you’re completely bare on the screen in front of him. Plush thighs pushed open. The pixels of the laptop not capturing just how perfectly their glistening, your slick dripping from your own fingers. 

A hand is already curled tight around his cock. Wet with his own spit and precum, he strokes slowly — trying to match the movements of your finger slowly dipping into your folds. 

He’s studying everything you could possibly show him through this little screen.

But, that’s the thing — Kento Nanami has memorized every way you cum. He knows how you like your fingers curled up and the heel of your palm pressed to your clit. Or how you prefer vibrators for clitoral stimulus over a dildo for penetration — depending on how big the tip is, you’ll throw one into your routine. Or the way you spend just a little bit more time pulling at your right perky nipple, sometimes ignoring the left one all together. 

He knows what you like and how you show that you like something. Like how your left eyebrows twitches when your fingers curl up, or how you bite your lip when you do use a dildo. Your moans muffled while you breath heavily out your nose, like you want to make sure your equipment picks up on the sound of your wet pussy plunging down on it. And all of this, because of this little website he stumbled upon a year ago. 

jerkmates.net

“Are you making yourself feel good, baby?” 

Your voice rings through his laptop speaker and his hand tightens around his cock. He almost wants to nod his head yes, as if you’ll get the answer and relish in the fact that he’s hunched over his laptop watching you finger yourself. 

You’re leaning back on your elbows, one hand bracing yourself to the bed, the other one has your index finger pumping into yourself, slow and teasingly.

You glance up at the camera, blinking slow and wide-eyed like you’re innocent, like you’re looking directly at him. His hand on the desk turns into a fist. The hand pumping his cock, pumps a little faster. 

The sound of his rugged breathing, the slick of precum and the sweat from his own hand mingles with the sound of your middle finger dipping into your wetness. Your hips buck, rustling the sheets below you. 

Nanami has to pause his own movements, to watch how you curl your fingers up, just enough for effect. You let out a quiet, shaky breath — soft, just barely picked up by the mic — and spread your legs a little wider. The inside of your thighs wetter. Nanami’s stomach feels tighter.

He licks his lips, narrowing his eyes at the screen. If he could bring it closer, get bifocals, to see the definition of your wet sloshing pussy, he’ll do whatever it takes. 

All he could continue to do is fuck into his own hand. 

He watches you squirm. Watch your thighs tighten and shake, the perfect glisten on the inside of them. He wonders how they’ll feel wrapped around his head. He watches the way your stomach jumps, the moment your fingers press in deeper, rub harder. And obviously (and naturally), he wonders how his cock would look when he presses in deeper, if he ever had the chance to fuck you. 

“I hope you know, I’m about to cum… just for you.”

Your free hand trails up your stomach, circling your right nipple with a slick thumb before giving it a sharp tug. Your back arches — palm meeting your clit. You gasp, shaky and soft. Your hooded eyes never leave the camera.  

The corner of the screen, he sees the chat light up in a frenzy. Usernames drop corny one liners, some respond with one word answers. And some are just so crude, even for the site that they’re on. He ignores it. He never found the need to type something out for others to see.

His eyes avert back to you. Your chest is rising heavily, your tits perched up perfectly. And as if he could read your mind or the fact he’s watched you at least three times a week, he knows you’re close. 

He bites the inside of his cheek, pulling himself closer to the screen. He strokes are tighter now, like he’s holding on to his own cock to ground him. 

Fist closed, twisting slightly at the base the way he knows makes his thighs twitch. He wants you to know that little trick too. His stomach contracts with every upward pump. He can feel it building, tight and low.

Your fingers are moving faster. His pumps are faster. You’re curling two fingers into your pussy. He’s pumping from base to top, running his thumb over his leaking tip whenever he makes it back. His balls feel tighter, heavier. The muscles in his back feel tight, strained. 

He wants to speak out, make a noise. His jaw slacked. All he could do is let out these pathetic gasps, your breathy moans speaking for the both of you. 

And then it happens — you cry out, soft and needy, and your body jerks in that way that makes his mind go blank. Your head falls back, and he wishes he was there to take you by your chin and watch how your eyes roll back. Your fingers still pumping into your cunt, your other hand fisting the sheets below your flushed body. 

He almost swears he’s in the little filming room with you. Breathing in your sounds, helping you cross that line the way you have helped him. 

He finishes with a grunt that sounds like it’s stuck right in the middle of his throat — the first sound he made since he logged on. Hot ropes of his cum spill across his knuckles, leaking over his hand. His shoulders curl in and he jerks a final time into the fist still wrapped around his twitching cock.

Without much thought, it’s almost second nature at this point. Like conditioning, you cum, he cums, and then he goes to the sidebar to tip you. Never leaving a comment, never asking for anything in return. 

Your breathy moans acts as background music as he inputs a number, one he can’t even fully flush out since he’s still coming down from his high. 

He’ll go over his credit card statement next month and come back to this moment. 

Tipped: ¥78,000

You: Hi! I’ve seen you tip before but that amount last night was way too much. Do you want a private video or something? 

Nanami: I didn’t think you’d notice my amount. 

You: You tipped double what anyone else ever sent. 

You: Please, how can I repay you? 

You: Where are you located? 

You: Are you a creep in your mom’s basement? 

Nanami: Tokyo 

Nanami: I could lie to you but no I’m not a creep. And I live alone — in my own place. 

You: If you go through the proper avenues (FaceTime, calls, pictures) would you like to meet? You: You know, so that I could repay you. 

Nanami: Just tell me when and what I have to do. 

Is he a real person? Check. 

FaceTime to check? Double check. 

Does he seem respectful enough? Triple check.

Are you staring at him right now, wondering just how badly you want to fuck him? Quadruple check. 

“Why don’t you show me what it is that you do when you watch me?” Your voice is soft and a little teasing. 

You’re sitting on the edge of the hotel bed. You’re in nothing but a lacy pair of panties and a matching bra to match. The blonde, quiet tipper is standing a few feet away from you. An aura of.. hesitancy wafted between you two. His hands are balled into fists in front of him. His shoulders tense. 

You would’ve thought he would be nervous, a little awkward. But it is almost obvious he’s almost excited to be here but he’s afraid of messing something up. The way his eyes flick on every crevice of your body whenever you make the slightest move. Or the way he leans in whenever you say a word. 

Maybe your allure would be gone after having you jump out of his laptop screen and be placed in front of him. 

He looks down at you, his hazel eyes trailing along your body so slowly you almost feel like he’s touching you. You clench your thighs at the invasion of his eyes lulling at your chest. His left eyebrow twitches in response to your movement. 

“We could cosplay as if you’re watching,” you whisper as you shuffle up the bed, inching up slowly. You’ll be lying if you said you weren’t excited to get this going.  

Leaning back on your elbows, as you do when you’re streaming — your fingers start to tap along your shoulder blade to push down your bra strap. The tipper’s eyes running along every movement. 

You’re used to people watching you, but under his stare you felt seen. He starts to lean forward, his hands finally unballing and softly brushing your shin. 

“No,” you huff out, pulling your leg close to your body. “Just like how we ended up here… no touching.” You shrug. His eyes are trained on the very obvious wet spot starting to pool in your panties. “From you, that is.” 

“What a way to repay your best tipper,” he hums, amusement evident in his voice. His eyes darkening and the sound of his hands fumbling with his belt buckle. His movements are fast, but a little clumsy. Like he’s trying to keep this moment going on as slow as he could. 

“You should remember,” you fully pushed one of your bra straps down. The air sweeps over your perked nipple, making you shift a bit. “I only stream for thirty minutes.” 

“Trust me,” he has moved closer to the bed, his thighs pressed into the mattress as he stands at the head of it. His hands pushing his pants down. “I remember.” 

Your eyes train along his body. Suit jacket has since been thrown to the side. The tie loosely and lazily hanging around his neck. That blue button up shirt, pressed tightly around his biceps. Rolled up just perfectly. You could confidently and shamelessly stare at the veins on his forearms. His glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. His blonde hair falling forward, brushing his eyebrow. 

You wonder, is this how he looks before he tips you? You have to hold in a breath, as your eyes finally trail down. 

He’s big. Long, yeah, but it’s the weight of him — heavy, veined, curving up slightly. He wraps his hand around the base and it barely covers it. His thumb swipes over the slit, slow, deliberate, and your mouth actually waters.

“Show me what I do to you,” you murmur, your eyes not leaving his hand slowly pumping his cock. 

“Should I tip you after?” 

“I’m sure we could find other reimbursement methods,” you stare up at him. His cheeks already have the faintest tint of red, from the slow twist he’s been doing to his dick. 

Without breaking eye contact, you slowly unhook your bra — throwing it somewhere across the room. Your hands immediately cupping your tits. Your index and thumb roll over your right nipple and you arch your back, lifting your hips in the process. 

You catch how his jaw twitches and he leans forward a bit. His hand pumping his cock picks up some speed. 

You stay there for a while, watching him as he so often watches you. Your hands are still cupping your breast. Legs bent at the knees, you feel his stare at the very wet print on your panties. You spread your legs a little wider, giving him a better view. 

You don’t move. Don’t say a word. Only smiling slightly at his reactions and movements. The way his eyes jump from your left nipple back to the lace sticking to your clit. 

His strokes are long, languid. Like he’s savoring it. His eyes drag over your body while his fist moves in rhythm — from the thick base of his cock to the flushed head, slick with precum that glistens under the harsh hotel lights.

The noises he’s making are low, and controlled. You’re thinking of a way to get more out of him. You want to hear how he sounds when he’s watching you in his dark bedroom, his credit card statement hanging over his head. 

“You’re just watching me.” He huffs through his nose. He squeezes just a bit at the base of his cock, his head lowering. 

“Roles are reversed, I guess.” 

You push yourself up, standing up on your knees. He watches, not slowing down the pumps on his cock. His chest rising rapidly. His hazel eyes are dark and watching you with an interest that makes it feel like you’re buzzing. 

You crawl towards him and he pushes his lower body deeper into the side of mattress. 

“Remember,” you lean down, laying flat on your stomach. Your tits squishing into the plush bed below you. “You’re not allowed to touch me.” 

Nanami’s pumps have slowed down, like he’s still trying to savor the little bit of normalcy that he has when he watches you. His cock twitches ever so slightly when you tilt your chin up to look at him. You make sure you send him your widest, doe eye look. The one you know gets you the most tips. 

He swallows a groan, and you swallow a laugh. Your thighs clenching below you, pressing your knees into the bed. 

You don’t wait for permission, or even for his fist to completely come off his throbbing dick. You’re already leaning forward, your lips brushing against the head of his cock — featherlight, not even a kiss, just a breath. You close your eyes and take in the sounds. You hear the very sensitive shift of air in the room. Nanami’s stifled groan, his hips pushing forward — his thighs practically imprinted to the side of this mattress. 

You scoot forward a bit more, moving one of your hands from under you. With a drop of his hand, your hand is now able to grip him as you bring your mouth closer to him. 

He lets out a strangled moan, it almost surprises you. You expected him to be rough. 

With a slowness that you’re sure is killing him as much as it is killing you — your mouth is on him. Wet and hot. Your tongue flattens against the underside of his hard dick. Slow and aching. Dragging from base to tip in a single, wet stroke. His stomach jumps, so does yours. 

“Fuck,” from the corner of your eye, you see his hand twitching. As if he’s fighting every single power in the world to not put his hand on you. 

Looking up at him, your tongue sticking out just a bit, licking your bottom lip. His cock now wet from his precum and your spit. “You’re being so good. With no touching and stuff.” 

He groans and you almost laugh at the weak restraint that is so obvious. 

Your lips are brushing the leaking tip before wrapping fully around him. The saltiness of his own juices dancing on the tip of your tongue. 

He exhales like he’s been punched in the gut. His hands balling into a fist on the side of his thighs. 

You go slow, hollowing your cheeks and taking him in inch by inch. Closing your eyes as you take as much as you can of him. Your nose pressed into the blonde hair at the base of his cock whenever you make it that far. 

You use your hand at the base where your mouth can’t reach, twisting ever so slightly and squeezing whenever you see his hands try to grip on to something other than themselves. Like a little warning for this game that you’re playing. Your free hand trails up his thigh, feeling the muscles twitch beneath your fingers.

Your mouth moves in a steady rhythm. Wet and warm, the soft slurp of each pass louder than Nanami’s huffing, in the quiet room. You moan around him on purpose, just to feel the way he jumps at the sound. His thighs tense, like he’s trying not to buck. You want him too, you want to feel him at the back of your throat. 

“Do you reward all your big tippers this way?” His voice is forced, the control that he’s losing breaking through. You hum around him, feeling him twitch in your mouth. 

You pull back with a pop, a string of saliva keeping you connected. Lips wet and swollen. You flutter your eyes up at him, licking a drop of his precum from the corner of your lip. 

“Only the ones who don’t live in their mother’s basement,” you joke. You lean forward again, keeping your eyes on him. Your lashes flutter whenever you take him too deep. 

You wrap both hands around the base, twisting slowly with your mouth at his swollen tip. You give kisses, open-mouthed licks. Your tongue flicking the underside, running slowly along his protruding vein whenever your tongue reached it. 

You want to drive him crazy. You want him to remember exactly what you feel like when he thinks about tipping you again. Maybe you’ll reward him again. 

When you take him deep again, you make sure to moan around him, watching as his left hand reaches towards the bed. He’s wrecked — red in the cheeks, sweat at his temple, teeth sinking into his lip so he doesn’t groan too loudly. You pull back 

“What’s the rule mister tipper?” You whisper. Pushing yourself back up to your knees, you’re almost eye to eye. 

“No touching.” 

“Such a good boy,” you mewl as you lean forward, your hard nipples pressing into his chest. Your nose barely touches his. Each of you could move less than a centimeter and you’ll be lip to lip. He huffs through his nose, his eyes not leaving yours. 

“Sit down for me.” With balled fists, his pants hang loosely around his thick thighs — Nanami shuffles around you. The slightest brush of his body on yours as you switch spots. Shuffling off the bed to stand in front of him. 

The wetness between your legs is almost unbearable. You ignore his eyes as you quickly shimmy out of the now ruined lace. You’ll use his tip to buy another pair. 

Your knees are brushing his as you walk in between his legs. His eyes haven’t left you since he’s possibly walked in here — you almost want to ask if he’ll like to record this next part so he could keep it forever. 

“Still can’t touch you?” He mumbles as you brace your hands on his shoulder, lifting your body onto his lap. 

“You don’t get to touch me when you’re watching,” you shrug, scooting up a bit. Your knees settle on either side of his thick thighs, and his breath hitches audibly as your heat hovers just over his cock — still hard, still twitching. His eyes narrow between your face and your bodies just barely touching below. 

With your hands still gripping onto his shoulders, you lean forward, noses almost touching again. One of your hands reaches over, gripping the back of his head slightly pulling his head back. He hums surprisingly. You could feel him holding back, his fist slightly hitting the bed below you. His breathing is coming out slow and broken. His eyes finally closing — as if he’s sending out a prayer for some restraint. 

“A good boy deserves a good reward,” you murmur, running your fingers along his undercut. Your pussy is so close from his throbbing cock, and you’re fighting every restraint to not roll down on him. Not just yet. 

Before he could even open his eyes or even respond, you tap his chin with your free hand. He opens slightly and your mouth parts. A string of spit drops from your lips and lands on his tongue, right as he opens it for you — no hesitation. His eyes flutter tighter, and a low groan escapes his throat. His tongue runs over his bottom lip as he swallows, like he’s trying to commit the taste to memory. 

“Such a good boy.” 

Your hand gripping onto the back of his head moves down to between your bodies, your warm fingers wrapping around this thick cock softly. His eyes are still shut, his tongue still running over his bottom lip. You guide him to your entrance, running his swollen tip between your slick, coating him in everything he’s made you feel. 

You're slowly dragging him between your folds and his fists beat into the bed. You smile to yourself. 

“You don’t move,” you lean forward again, his eyes open just the tiniest bit. “Just sit here, and let me reward you.” 

“I think we passed what I deserve.” His voice is shaken and his eyes so dark, they look completely different than they did a second go. 

“Mhm, that’s for me to decide.” With all the control you could muster, you sink down on him — inch by inch. The stretch pulls a gasp from your throat, your nails digging into his shoulders as you finally bottom out. He’s thick, the curve of him hitting exactly where it needs to, and your thighs tremble slightly as you adjust to the weight of him inside you. You don’t even wait for him to collect himself or find a response for you. 

His head falls back, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows down the groan that still somehow made it through. You feel how tense his whole body is. His thighs below you are holding you up, his fists slightly pounding into the bed. His jaw clenched as he watches through watery lashes as you start to get comfortable with the stretch. 

You start to move — slow at first, dragging yourself up until only the tip is left, then sliding back down, savoring every inch. You roll your hips as slow as you can, watching his face for every little twitch, every broken breath.

“Fuck,” his tongue is sticking out and his eyes are squeezed shut. You lean forward again, nose brushing his. Your hands on his shoulders meet at the base of his neck, squeezing slightly. He opens his left eye, eyebrow rising with the movement.

“Look at me.” 

You sharply roll your hips, earning a hiss from his swollen lips. His breath kissing your cheeks since you’re so close to his face. His eyes hooded, staring at your pussy meeting his cock.

You start to build a rhythm, up, down, roll. The drag of him along your walls has your mouth parting, letting out the same breath sequence Nanami is.

The wet sounds of your wet cunt meeting his cock fills the hot room — the soft slap of skin, the breathless noises slipping from both your lips. You move with purpose, hips rising and falling in a steady pace that keeps him fighting his restraint. 

You’re having so much fun, you wonder why you haven’t done this before. 

His cock fills you just right — thick, curved, stretching you as much as your body could take. Your thighs begin to tremble from the effort of keeping up with fucking him. But it’s worth it. 

Every time you sink down, his jaw tightens. Every time your walls clench around him, he lets out the most pathetic moan. Almost a whimper and you hide the way you want to giggle. 

You reach for one of his balled up hands. He looks like he might pull away out of instinct, but you place it on your left tit. 

“I could break my own rule,” you whisper. 

His fingers twitch, then his palm settles over your breast, thumb brushing your nipple just lightly. His lips part, a groan half-escaping before he sucks in a shaky breath. And because you’re far too gone, you ignore his other hand reaching up to grab your other tit. His fingers tugging and rolling your perky nipples. 

His self-control is withering, if he even still has some— you could almost taste it. You’re obviously not that far behind him. 

You don’t know who is louder. Nanami’s barely restrained whimpers or your loud moans as you feel him buck his hips to meet yours. His fingers tugging a little more roughly. Your hands back on his neck, squeezing just enough to make his eyes shoot open and stare back into yours. 

“Do you want to cum?” 

“Y-yes.” 

“Then be good and wait.” 

You pick up your pace. Your hips snapping as they meet him with every thrust. Your thighs are burning, but you can’t skimp out in his reward. You refuse too — especially with how good he’s making you feel. 

You almost forget about his grip on your tits. His thick digits rolling your nipples — tugging a little harder on the left one. You arch your back and he smiles, an easy one as if he was so sure that would happen. 

Sweat is dripping from not only Nanami’s forehead but yours as well. And you feel your walls tightening around him, you’re so close. And with the way he’s panting and rutting into you, he is too. 

“I would’ve tipped you this much a long time ago if it means I could be here,” his voice is gruff and low. And that’s all you needed to send you over the edge. His hands still holding on to you, his breath tickling your cheeks. 

You roll your hips, his own hips still bucking up. You want to stop and tell him he’s breaking the no moving rule. But he feels too good. He fits too well to try to stop it now. 

“Well tip again and we’ll be back,” you moan. Your eyes are clenching. You’re biting into your bottom lip as you feel your walls clench around him. The drag of his cock, the twisting of his fingers. It’s too much. 

Your mouth parts, no sound coming out. Your body shudders, falling forward. One of his hands that were on your tits is on your thigh as you shudder against his broad shoulder. 

You cling on to him, your nails digging into his skin through his shirt. You’re still hastily grinding, ignoring the fire in your thighs for the way he’s huffing through his nose and his fingers gripping into your plush thigh. 

Your slick and his own precum is coating everything between you. A wet spot on his shirt. You grind down harder, ignoring just how far over you are your own limit. 

You feel him. The way his cock is twitching inside of you. How frantic his hips are bucking into you, begging for more friction. The hand on your thigh holding on so tightly, it almost hurts. 

“C-can I cum?” His eyes are already rolled halfway back, his head lulling to the side. 

You don’t respond, not verbally. You let out a moan as you grind down on him a little harder, giving him all that you have left. 

He lets out a broken moan as he spills everything he has in you. His back arching, his eyes closed shut. He’s cumming hard — deep and hot. You feel it as you slow down your grinds. 

He doesn’t stop shaking. 

“How was this as a reward?” You hum, your breathing still heavy. You watch as Nanami’s chest rises slowly — as he collects his bearings. 

He has not opened his eyes yet. His hands dropped to the bed below, with the faintest dud. The aftershock of orgasm still makes you feel the throbbing of his still hard cock. 

You lean back. A whimper leaving his lips as you shift on top of him. 

“I could give you my credit card number if you’d like.”

next forum

© riveredmoon. all rights reserved. do not copy, translate, repost, or plagiarise my work.

[em1989ts]

𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐞𝐟

robert "bob" reynolds x reader smut

word count: 1.9k - masterlist

summary: bob had been helping you out by occasionally doing your laundry, but when you come back early from a mission, you find out he might've had some selfish motives

contents: panty thief bob, kinda perv! bob, m! masturbation, caught in the act, handjob

author's note: i'm so glad i have time to write again, i have so many wips just sitting in my google docs (dw one is survival of the fittest p3), and hopefully i will get them finished soon. i've been completely captivated by bob/lewis pullman for the last month but five hargreeves still has my heart dw

proofread, enjoy!

Years ago, you’d always imagined what it would be like for the Avengers to return to their glorious tower in the middle of Manhattan after a mission. Landing on the side of the sparkling skyscraper in a quinjet seemed like such an inaccessible fantasy when you were just starting out as a lowlife vigilante. 

You never would’ve imagined that years later, you would live that very life you’d dreamed of. 

The mission had gone rather smoothly, so smoothly in fact that instead of returning to the tower by late afternoon, you, Walker, and Ava made your way off the jet about twelve hours earlier than expected. 

Since the task had been completed without casualties and was rather inconsequential, Walker decided that the three of you should wait until breakfast for a mission report with the other avengers. 

“Now you can get back to your boyfriend that much faster, you’re welcome,” he had said smugly to you on the way to your quarters. 

You knew exactly who he was talking about. 

While you were still warming up to living with your new somewhat reclusive and impolite roommates, Bob was different. Yes, he was shy, but he did seem to be the most respectful of the bunch. He had his flaws but that didn’t stop him from trying to be a good person, for his new teammates and for himself. 

Out of everyone, he was the one you turned to the most, the one you felt most comfortable with. You could tell he had grown accustomed to you as well, often finding him spending time reading or napping in your room. Of course, you didn’t mind. 

Knowing how tempted he was to rot in his room, you were glad he could find comfort in your space. Occasionally, he gained the motivation to do the dishes or a couple loads of laundry, anything that would give him a sense of accomplishment, and possibly some praise from you. 

“He’s not my boyfriend, Walker,” you said, exhaustedly rolling your eyes before bidding Ava goodnight as she disappeared into her room. 

“Right, he just does chores for you and follows you around like a lost puppy because he’s just a loyal teammate,” Walker sarcastically retorted as he opened his bedroom door, giving you a smirk before he disappeared for the night. 

You ignored his comment as you made your way to your bedroom, stationed farther down the hallway. Passing by Bob’s room, you noticed the door was slightly ajar, the darkness from the room seeping into the dimly lit hallway.

You stopped in your tracks as you tried to peek in the small opening to the room before walking closer, slowly creaking the door wider to see inside. With a quick flick of the lightswitch on the wall next to the door frame, the room illuminated before you to reveal Bob’s empty bed, sheets messy and pillows scattered.

If he wasn’t here, there was only one place he could be. 

You flicked the lightswitch, darkening the room once again before gently pulling the door closed and continuing your way towards your room. 

Bob had slept in your room many times before, but he had never stayed the night. He would nap during the day while you were downstairs training in the gym or in a conference with the team, since he wasn’t quite ready yet to participate.

Occasionally, you would lie next to him as he flipped through a novel, sometimes asleep from the exhaustion of your work as an avenger, other times awake and admiring his concentrated face as he consumed each page with a deep enthusiasm. 

You approached your bedroom door with caution. The door was completely shut, the darkness and utter silence seeped under the door. An image of Bob flashed across your mind — him laying in your bed, his book still open in his hand, his thumb holding his place between the pages, mouth slightly open as his head lay peacefully on your cotton pillowcase.

Half of you wanted to just let him be and just sleep on one of the many couches in the living room, where several pillows and blankets had accumulated from the team’s movie nights.

The other half of you however was so exhausted from your mission and ached to retreat to your own bed that you didn’t mind sharing it, especially with Bob. 

As quiet and gentle as you could be, you twisted the silver door knob and pushed your bedroom room open. The dim hallway light created a small path of sight in front of you, before it was outmatched by the darkness. You quickly tip-toed into the room and closed the door behind you, the faint click barely audible as the door shut completely. 

The rooms in the compound were quite large – with their own personal bathrooms and a good amount of floor space. 

It took you a while to get used to the new layout, but after some time you memorized it enough to navigate your way to your bed in the darkness. There was a small hallway when you first walked in, and as you calmly walked through, you expected to turn and faintly see Bob, illuminated by the faint moonlight shining through your window, completely oblivious to the world as he lay asleep.

But what you actually found when you turned the corner, well, you definitely could not have expected it. 

Splayed across your bed, wearing a black shirt that lay high on his abdomen, exposing his toned abs, and a pair of grey sweatpants that were tugged down almost to his knees. His eyes were shut tight. Not with sleep, but with devoted concentration. 

You froze in place for a moment, before quietly moving to hide behind the corner of the wall, peeking out of the darkness to witness the scene before you. 

His lip was bitten between his teeth, head thrown back as he worked his hand, stroking himself. You noticed something in his hand as you stared, a familiar pair of underwear you hadn’t realized had been missing till now. 

Now that you thought about it, you had been missing quite a few pairs since Bob had started helping you out with your laundry. 

The soft cotton of your white panties wrapped around Bob’s cock was a sight unexpected, but not unwelcome. 

As he lay in your bed, whines slipping through his teeth, bucking into his fist, you stood quietly across the room.

Your thighs squeezed slightly as you watched him, so needy in your own bed, completely unaware you had come back early to catch him so vulnerable. 

His curls had fallen over the beads of sweat on his forehead, and his pace was growing more reckless. He brought his hand that had been grabbing at your comforter to his face, covering his mouth as his moans became harder to stifle. 

You would’ve loved to watch as he made himself come undone in your bed, but where would that leave you? 

Leaving your hiding spot, you stealthily made your way over to your bed. His eyes were still closed tightly, so he didn’t notice your presence until you spoke. 

“So, that’s where those went.” 

His eyes flew open, looking up to see you looking down at him, and he froze. One hand stayed put around his cock, and the other moved to cover as much of his face as possible, hiding his utter embarrassment. 

“Oh– I’m sorry – I-” 

Bob had no idea how to explain himself. 

Yes, he had been sleeping in your room while you were away on missions. His room was just too lonely and your bed smelt like you. He just felt so much more comfortable surrounded by everything that reminded him of your presence even when you weren’t there. 

Yes, he had taken a few pairs of your underwear from your laundry. He didn’t want to seem weird, he was so afraid of scaring you off. He just wanted . . . some material, and surely you wouldn’t notice just a couple items going missing, right? 

And yes, he had been . . . relieving himself in your room. Again, it smelt so much like you. He had already spent a majority of his time there. He was just too nervous to tell you how he really felt about you, how much he really needed you, craved you even.  He made sure his visits were completely undetectable afterwards, and he always locked the door. Almost always, anyway.  

He was mortified. The one time he realized he forgot to lock the door, there you were, staring down at him in his most vulnerable moment. 

Your hand threaded through his brown locks as you looked down at him. He peeked between his fingers to watch your face – you didn’t seem that upset. 

Your pupils were dilated as your eyes scanned over him, stopping to watch his still hand around himself, before looking back up to meet his eyes. 

“Can I help with that?” 

His eyes grew wide as he groaned, his shoulders dropping their tense stance as his hand dragged down his face, “Please.” 

You motioned for him to scoot over, as he quickly scrambled to give you room. He watched with wide, anticipating eyes as you climbed onto the bed with him, laying directly to the side of him.

With one hand, you turned his chin towards yours, and encapsulated him in a kiss. 

The kiss was smooth, soft, yet he almost embarrassingly whined into your mouth. He finally had a taste of you, and it would be impossible for him to let go. 

His free hand pulled you closer from the back of your neck, as you reached down blindly and replaced his other hand with yours. 

As your thumb carefully brushed over his tip, he moaned through your lips. You kept moving your thumb in slow circles, and he had completely fallen apart. His head dropped into the crook of your neck, attempting to hide his flushed face and you kept working your hand so perfectly around him, especially with your own panties now in your grasp. 

You felt his breathy moans against the skin of your neck as he tried to bury himself into you, tugging you as close as possible as he moved his arm around your waist, bucking into your hand. 

His moans turned into whines as he grew more sensitive by the second, and it wasn’t long before he gently bit into your neck, and spilled all over your fist. He could’ve melted into you as he came, having never felt so blissful in his life. His hips kept shaking until he stilled, no longer able to handle the overstimulation. 

Reaching over to your bedside table, you pulled a couple tissues from their box and gently cleaned him up, as well as your hands, before tossing your panties across the room into your laundry basket.

You admired his face for a moment, eyes closed and mouth left slightly open, as his head lay back against your pillow, before carefully tugging up his boxers as his sweats. 

You thought he had already fallen asleep, as his chest was steadily falling and rising with every breath, however when you went to rest by his side, his arms wrapped around you and pulled you close, resting his chin on the top of your head as you smiled into his chest, a bit more thankful that he’d been doing your laundry.

~~~

[cressidagrey]

Cricket Whites

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: Oscar plays Cricket. Teenage Felicity is TOTALLY normal about it.

Notes: Don't leave me alone with a Google Doc for an hour, or this is the result.

Y'all can thank @llirawolf and @leodette for both sending me that picture of Oscar in cricket whites.

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

Felicity Leong had always considered herself a composed person.

Even as a teenager, the age where everyone else was all hormones and impulse, she was the calm one. She planned things. She colour-coded her notes. She knew her boundaries. She once told a boy in Year 10 that “flirting is not a substitute for intellectual value” and walked away before he could reply.

So really, there was no excuse for what happened when Oscar walked onto the pitch.

It was a sunny Saturday afternoon, the kind where the Haileybury campus looked like a postcard: golden light spilling across the cricket green, the redbrick buildings glowing warm against a cloudless sky. A soft breeze lifted the edges of the white pavilion flags. It was all very idyllic. Very civilised.

Felicity had come prepared — not for the match, but for productivity. Her physics textbook was open on her lap, highlighters neatly lined up on a blanket, hair twisted into a no-nonsense bun. She had even brought a second set of flashcards to quiz Aarya during breaks.

She was there to “support her boyfriend” in an academically responsible way. Watch the first ten minutes, smile when he glanced over, then get through three chapters on oscillations and waves.

That was the plan.

And then Oscar walked onto the field.

In full cricket whites.

The trousers were unfair. The polo shirt was worse. And the cable-knit jumper with the school crest — God, the jumper — looked like it had been stolen from a Ralph Lauren ad and adapted by angels. He had the sleeves pushed up just past his elbows, exposing his forearms like it was no big deal, and his hair was ruffled from warm-ups in that exact way that made Felicity want to punch a wall.

She blinked once. Then again. Her hand twitched.

Aarya looked over. “You haven’t turned a page in five minutes.”

Felicity didn’t respond. She had just realised she had written the word cricket in the margins of her notes. Four times.

“I’m fine,” she lied, adjusting her glasses. “Just… distracted.”

Aarya leaned in, concerned. “Do you feel sick?”

Felicity let out a low, strangled sound. “He’s got the forearms out.”

Lara glanced up from her phone. “Yeah, that’s cricket for you.”

“He just adjusted his sleeve with his teeth.”

Aarya raised an eyebrow. “Okay. Are you… okay?”

“No,” Felicity hissed. “I’m sixteen and I’ve just discovered I’m shallow.”

To his credit, Oscar was entirely oblivious to the war crimes he was committing against her nervous system. He jogged into position with the easy grace of someone who’d grown up on a pitch, flexed his fingers in his gloves, and took a long drink from his water bottle — all very normal things that, unfortunately, now seemed deeply personal to Felicity.

He wasn’t even trying. That was the worst part.

He wasn’t peacocking. He wasn’t showing off. He wasn’t winking or smiling for the crowd. He was just existing — calmly, sweat on the back of his neck, school crest on his chest — like some private school boy dream sequence designed in a lab.

Felicity dragged a hand down her face and whimpered.

“Do you want me to splash water on you?” Aarya offered helpfully. “You know you’ve been staring at Oscar like he’s a final exam answer sheet for ten straight minutes, right?”

“I have not.”

“You have. It’s okay. Cricket whites do weird things to the female brain.”

“I’m going to die.”

“He’s literally your boyfriend.”

“Exactly! I’ve seen him with morning hair and mismatched socks. And now he’s out there looking like a fictional heartthrob, and I don’t know what to do with myself.”

Later — much later, after overs and innings and Oscar bowling a clean wicket — he jogged over toward her. Sweaty curls. Beaming like he’d just saved the world.

“Hey,” he said, voice warm and a little breathless. “You stayed the whole match?”

Felicity blinked up at him, suddenly aware that her cheeks were still flushed and her voice was definitely not going to come out normal.

“Yes. Obviously,” she said. But it came out more like a squeak.

Oscar grinned. “You were sitting with Aarya, right? I thought I saw you.”

Felicity nodded. “I, um. I was… taking notes.”

Oscar glanced at her closed textbook, still in her lap, the same page open as it had been three hours ago. “Right. Good notes?”

She looked down. Realized she had drawn a doodle of a cricket bat with hearts around it.

“Very good,” she said, stuffing the book into her bag. “Lots of physics.”

He laughed and leaned down, brushing a kiss against her cheek. “Thanks for coming, Fliss.”

And then he was off again, turning back to grab his gear, leaving Felicity to fan herself with a match programme and hiss, “I am in so much trouble,” under her breath.

Aarya just patted her leg. “You’re doomed. But like. In love.”

***

Oscar Piastri prided himself on being unflappable.

On the track, in exams, during surprise oral presentations — he was composed, methodical, ice-water-in-his-veins calm. His tutors loved to say he had “a natural temperament for pressure,” which was a nicer way of saying nothing ever seemed to rattle him.

That composure extended, usually, to his relationship with Felicity.

She was the one person who could throw him off, yes — but never in a bad way. She made him feel steadier. Like being with her made everything else make sense.

Which was why it took him exactly three seconds after sneaking into her room that night to realize something was different.

Fliss was standing by the desk in pyjama shorts and an oversized hoodie, hair scraped up in that messy bun she always claimed was an accident, even though he thought it was the cutest thing he’d ever seen.

“Hey,” he whispered, already grinning. “I had to wait till Mr. Bates turned his WWII documentary on. I think I know more about submarines now than I ever wanted to.”

Felicity didn’t roll her eyes. Didn’t smirk. She just crossed the room and kissed him.

Like, properly.

It wasn’t their usual soft goodnight kiss. This one was all heat and hands and startled noises in the back of his throat, and Oscar had just enough brain cells left to catch her waist and kiss her back before every single logical thought in his head short-circuited.

When she finally pulled away, pink-faced and breathless, Oscar just stared at her.

“Okay,” he said quietly, catching his breath. “Not that I’m complaining, but... what the hell was that?”

Felicity dropped her face into his hoodie-covered chest. “Don’t ask.”

“I’m going to ask.”

“You’re going to regret it.”

Oscar laughed, slipping his arms around her waist. “Was it the flash cards? Did I finally win you over with molecules?”

“You’re such a nerd.”

“You just snogged me like I came back from war.”

She groaned again, louder this time, and shoved him lightly. “Shut up.”

Still, she didn’t move far. And when he ducked down to look at her properly, he saw it — the pink blush across her cheeks, the way she wouldn’t meet his eyes.

Which meant he really wasn’t letting it go.

“Still not telling me?”

She sighed, then looked up at him, and it hit him again — how beautiful she was when she was flustered. “It was the stupid cricket whites, okay?”

Oscar blinked. “The… what?”

“The cricket match. Your uniform. The sleeves. The sun. Your forearms. I don’t know. My brain shut down. Aarya had to tell me how to spell ‘turbine.’”

Oscar stared at her, baffled. “You’ve been tutoring sixth formers since you were twelve. And cricket whites took you out?”

Felicity groaned and tried to walk away.

Oscar followed her, laughing. “No, no, I’m sorry, I’m just—seriously? That’s what did it? I’ve made you flashcards with little doodles. I learned ballet terminology for you. I literally memorised your favourite cookie recipe -”

“Yeah,” she muttered, dragging a hand through her hair. “And apparently none of that matters because your arms looked good in the sun.”

Oscar blinked again. And then—

“Oh my god,” he said, delighted. “You were checking me out at cricket.”

“I’m breaking up with you.”

“You love me in cricket whites.”

“I am not dignifying that with a response.”

Oscar was glowing. He couldn’t help it. Because the most brilliant, most put-together girl he’d ever known had just short-circuited over his stupid cricket whites.

“Tell anyone and I’ll key your laptop,” Felicity threatened him. 

Oscar bit back a grin and stepped forward, cupping her face.  “I won’t tell a soul,” he said softly. “But just so you know… I would’ve worn that stupid jumper a lot earlier if I’d known it had that kind of effect.”

Her eyes narrowed, but the corner of her mouth betrayed a twitch of a smile.

“I hate how smug you are.”

“I’m not smug,” Oscar said, all innocence. “I’m flattered. My girlfriend thinks I’m hot. In cable-knit.”

“God, you’re insufferable.”

And then he kissed her again — softer this time.

And he was still grinning when they fell asleep, tangled under her duvet, her fingers curled into the hem of his shirt like they always were — the same shirt she’d probably end up stealing the next day.

Cricket whites, he thought, smug and dazed and very much in love.

Who knew?

[sincerelyneo]

hiiii will you repost your old haechan frat boy fic 🫣

i'm not sure if this is the one you were talking about, but it's the only google doc i had of haechan in a college au.

all bark no bite | l.hc

❯ summary: Lee Haechan is the most annoying man you’ve ever encountered. But that doesn’t mean you don’t find him hot; and maybe that’s why he has you flat on his mattress one night at a random frat party.

❯ pairings: haechan x fem!reader

❯ genre: college!au, rivals, smut.

❯ words: 2.5k

❯ tags: 18+ minors dni!, smut, angst, hate sex, oral sex (female receiving), unprotected sex (wrap it up !), pet names, excessive use of the name ‘baby’ and ‘princess’, begging, dirty talk, reader uses she/her pronouns, haechan is very cocky, haechan 1000% has a crush on the reader.

Lee Haechan is an asshole. A condescending, irritating asshole who knows exactly how to get on your fucking nerves and—

“God — fucking — dammit—!”

— is currently the asshole pressing you against his mattress.

Truth be told, you don’t even know how you got here. You remember being shoved in a closet with him for Seven Minutes in Heaven at some random frat party his friends were throwing, but you for sure as hell remember absolutely refusing to kiss him.

“Why not?” He’d sneered, folding his arms. “You scared you’re gonna like it, Princess? Promise I’ll take real good care of you–"

"Oh, please,” you’d scoffed right back. “Let’s not pretend you know your way around a girl’s body, Hyuck. I doubt you could even find my clit–"

"I would obliterate your pussy if you’d let me, and you know it,” there was a glint in his eye as he looked you up and down, “And we both know you’d like it.”

You were so fired up that you hadn’t even noticed how close you’d gotten to each other; you could feel his breath on your lips, his chest against yours. So irritated by his cockiness, you hardly even registered what you said next until it was too late:

“You’re all bark no bite, Lee Haechan.”

For the last three years you’ve been at college, you and Haechan had both been walking on eggshells around each other. There’d always been tangible tension ever since you had shut down one of his rants in class and essentially destroyed him — and from there it’d been a competition to one-up one another. You hated him, he hated you… but doesn’t the line between hate and lust wear oh so thin when it’s someone as hot as him?

The answer is yes, evidently.

After the seven minutes we’re up, Haechan wastes no time dragging you out of the closet and to his bedroom, earning him a matter of gasps and ‘ooohhhs’ from the rest of the players.

Next thing you know, you’re lying on your stomach, hands pinned at the small of your back as he thrusts into you so deeply you swear you can feel him in your stomach. His sheets rub against your clit with every body-wrecking slap of his hips against you, your throat hoarse from screaming. And for a moment you’re really, really, really fucking sorry for even doubting his abilities so much — because God can he fuck.

But you’d never tell him that, you don’t need to. His ego is already massive, he’ll live without validation from you — or so you think.

A hand crowds underneath you, before seizing your neck and pulling you up. The shortness of breath makes you pant, pulsing around him instinctively and you hear him laugh in your ear.

Fucking asshole.

And as if he hears you, his fingers find your mouth — and you gag, because his fingers are fucking thick and he’s shoving them down your throat. And the worst part is you love it, your mouth swallowing them the minute they push past your lips like it was just instinct.

"Oh, baby,” he laughs breathlessly, “Next time you do that, make sure it’s on my dick."

"You fucking wish—” you grunt, because he’s laying into you real deep now, slow, languid thrusts that have you refraining from shuddering all over– “as if there’s going to be a next time, you dick."

"Oh?” his hips still.

Then, almost thoughtfully, they begin again. Slow and teasing and not nearly enough to have you writhing in pleasure. His pace is tortuous, and if he didn’t have your arms pinned behind you, you’d claw at his back to make him speed up.

“Really? You think one night of the best sex you’ll ever have is enough?"

"Please, your dick game isn’t that impressive,” you say flatly. “Just make me cum and get this over with.”

You feel the heat of his breath as he dips his head again, placing kisses on your jaw so gently that for a moment you’re taken aback. “Don’t get impatient now, baby. I told you I’d take care of you didn’t I? Just…” His hips still again– “I think I’d like you to ask for it.”

“Ask?” You scoff, incredulous.

He nibbles down on your ear, before brushing past it with his lips low enough to whisper, “You're right. I meant beg.”

“What, you get off on girls begging for your permission–?"

There’s a rough snap of his hips into you and you have to bite hard down on your lip to stop yourself from whimpering.

"Not just any girls,” he mutters, so quiet that you almost don’t hear. “Only you.”

You’re going to pretend that your heart doesn’t flip when he says that, partially because of how sick it is that that gets you off, and instead focus on what the fuck is going on.

Did Lee Haechan just admit he wants you to beg for him? The same man who’d made it his college mission to torment and tease you at every given opportunity wants you.

If you weren’t lying on your stomach and taking every thick inch of him you’d be running in shock horror. But you find the idea isn’t quite as horrifying as you’d imagined.

“… Maybe we can fit more than one round in tonight, but that’s all I can offer you,” you say after a moment. You can feel him freeze up behind you. “I’m a busy girl with exams, Hyuck, I don’t have time to be running around with strange men–”

“Strange men?” His laugh is really nice. Sweet and dorky — the opposite of the usual mischievous chuckling he did when he knew he had gotten under your skin — and you only manage a huff of your own laughter yourself before you’re caught off guard by his steadily increasing grinds. “And after those exams? Got any time for a strange man like me?"

“…I’d have to check my calendar.”

He hums, and you swear to God if he stops again you’ll take back everything. "But for now… What’s your calendar open to, baby? Three? Four rounds?”

“Bold of you to assume you’ll get me to cum more than once,” you mumble, but you’re beginning to lose your breath as he picks up the pace once again. “I’ll warn you, though – I get loud after two.”

You don’t have to look back to know he’s sporting a smug as fuck grin. “You better muffle yourself with a pillow then, because I’m not stopping.”

“You’re so fucking sexy when you do that.”

Okay, so maybe the whole ‘waiting until after exams’ bit is getting to Haechan. He wouldn’t wait until your calendar cleared up, he couldn’t, his testosterone wouldn’t let him.

It’s been a whole three days since he got to fuck you; and God was it driving him insane.

You glance up at him now, unimpressed. You knew studying with him was a bad idea, but he’d been so insistent; and you had to admit, knowing he had made you cum four times made his presence all the more tolerable to hang out with.

“When I what? Do science homework?"

"No, no – I mean, yes. When you concentrate you get this small… crease between your brows…” He reaches forward – concentrating himself – tugging the plush of his bottom lip between his teeth as he reaches out to poke between your brows. “You look fucking sexy.”

“Alright, Casanova, hands to ourselves” you snort before you return to your reading.

The silence doesn’t last long, and the second he opens his mouth you swear you’re two moments away from taping his lips together.

“Lemme eat you out.”

“Wh– no!” Horrified, you peek around to see if anyone had heard him. But the library is virtually empty – it always is after 11 PM on a Friday.

And also, you’re both tucked away in a table at the back behind the History books that no-one ever takes out.

“You should be studying.”

“Don’t worry about me, I got this exam in the bag.”

You glare. “You’re awfully confident.”

“Yeah.” He shrugs, slumping in his seat again. “You’re my only competition, and, well…”

“Well, what?” You demand, setting your book down.

This was the usual dynamic you were familiar with when it came to Lee Haechan.

“You saying I’m not good enough competition, for you Hyuck? If my memory serves me correctly – and it definitely does – I beat you by 10% on our last exam.”

His own eyes narrow.

Oh, you just hit a nerve.

“Just for that,” he begins slowly, pushing his chair out, “I’m gonna suck your clit ‘til you go dizzy.”

“What part of no don’t you understand?”

But the promise is enticing and you part your legs anyway as he shimmies underneath the table.

“You’re such a fuckboy, I swear–”

“I am not!” He objects incredulously from beneath you. “I just like how you taste, baby.”

A fuckboy, you swear. But he’s got a way with words (and a way with his fingers, and a way with his tongue, and a way with his di—).

You feel your skirt being rucked up and your panties being pulled to the side – seconds later, his face ducks up from the table, grinning wolfishly.

“You’re kinda wet down here, baby. Are you sure you’re okay?” He teases.

“Shut up before I scream,” you grunt, folding your arms.

“Wouldn’t that be a dream?” He sighs. He retreats not two milliseconds after, though, and you hear him whistle lowly to himself. And then, so quiet you almost don’t catch it: “Fucking hell, baby.”

You make a promise that if he calls you baby once more you’re going to kick him because it makes your stomach flutter and your palms sweat — but then he licks a rough line up your pussy and you decide that maybe you’ll allow him to call you whatever he pleases.

Your head falls back as he does it again, and again, and again, as if he’s trying to clean up whatever mess you’d made in your panties. And normally you’d be irritated — wanting him to just move onto your clit already — but he genuinely sounds like he’s enjoying himself.

Quiet groans in his throat and passionate movements of his jaw, and his hands grasp your thighs so tightly you know there’ll be bruises. He smacks his lips wetly and you jolt, peeking out from behind the bookshelf to see if anyone had seen.

“Calm down,” He says, words muffled against you. “Nobody comes behind here on a Friday night. We’re safe.”

And as if to punctuate his point: a finger pulls back the hood of your clit, and true to his word, he sucks. Quickly, you shove your fist into your mouth and begin to gnaw on your knuckles, squeezing your eyes shut so hard that you see stars.

“H-Hyuck,” you whimper, “Unless you want me to get us caught–"

"I know, I know,” he says, sighing. His face comes out from underneath the table again. “I’ll be good if you pull your top down.”

“W-what?” To be fair, you’re still delirious off pleasure because his thumb hasn’t stopped grinding against your clit. “Why?"

"So I can play with your tits,” he says easily, shrugging. “C'mon, Princess. Show me your boobs.”

You stare at him for a moment, disbelief written on your face. “You’re such a man.”

“And you’ve still got the limp to prove it, haven’t you, baby? Don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you can’t walk straight.”

“Whatever.” You pull your top down, tug your breasts out of their cups – only to appease him and get him to shut up. Immediately he takes one in his grabby hands, all warm and rough as he tugs and pulls at one nipple.

So, okay, maybe he does know what he’s doing. Sometimes. Who are you kidding? All the time.

“Hm, you like that, don’t you?"

"Shut up,” you hiss, “if you get us banned from this library because of your dirty talk I’m never fucking you again—shit."

“We both know that’s not true.”

A steady stream of suckling on your sensitive bundle of nerves calls your attention elsewhere; at the same time, your nipple is rolled between his index and thumb. You feel like you’re buzzing all over, and it’s not because you’ve had five cups of coffee in the last three hours.

You don’t realise that you’re panting – fucking close – until Haechan releases your clit with a pop. He ducks underneath the table to peek up at you again. "Are you trying to get us caught?"

"I’ll be quiet,” you promise through gritted teeth, shoving your top into your mouth. You restrain the urge to curse him out because you could feel the beginning flutters of your orgasm on the tip of your tongue, and you know he’ll draw it out as much as possible if given the chance. “Just keep going."

He’s wearing a victorious, shit-eating grin when he gets back to it, energy increasing rapidly. He eats pussy like he’s competing for a trophy, and truth be told, you don’t mind being his prize if he makes you cum as hard as you did a few days ago. His tongue moves eagerly, tracing letters and numbers and fucking his name on your sensitive skin before sucking again.

No noise. You try to coach your brain into silence.

You never usually have a problem keeping quiet for the first orgasm. But as much as you hate to admit it, the act of being eaten out in a public library is a different kind of turn on.

And it really doesn't help that Haechan knows exactly what he’s doing.

Maybe that’s why when you cum, you have no problem with clinging to any part of him you can get your hands on — his hand on your chest, his hair between your legs. A weak whimper follows as you contract around nothing, hips bucking gently into his mouth, and he takes it all in.

Fuck.

He slides back from under the table and resurfaces a metre away, grinning widely. You know the image of you looking so ruined because of him is doing wonders for his ego — so as quickly as possible you pull your top down and readjust your skirt, panties irritatingly rough against your skin.

"Good, huh?"

You don’t want to give him anymore satisfaction, but you know with the orgasm he had just given you so publicly, there was no use in lying. In fact, you’re certain lying to him would only make his cocky ego flame even more.

“Whatever, Hyuck. You give good head, I’ll give you that.”

He hums, leaning backwards. “Thanks, baby. Now, bend over."

”Excuse me?“ You say.

“C’mon, you can’t just let me eat your pretty pussy and not expect me to get hard. You’re blue balling me here, Princess.”

You’re so genuinely shaken by his unfaltering confidence that you just stare.

“And don’t pretend you don’t love my cock.”

“Hyuck—”

“Bend over, I’m not kidding.”

You’re in a library. Letting him eat you out was already a reach — but you can’t deny that you do love the feeling of him inside you. And he did take good care of you last time. And —

You sigh in defeat, standing. “Remember what I told you last time?"

"You get loud after two. I’ll keep that in mind, baby.”

[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.

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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.

[crunchystarz]

"Nightmare"

Leona Kingscholar x GN!Reader

Summary: In which Leona has a terrible nightmare regarding you but no worries you're there to comfort him

Cw- mentions of death in nightmare, angst, fluff, established relationship, One shot

Word count: 887

A.N: Wowza first non creepypasta work on this acc spare me (I'm still figuring this whole Tumblr thing out lol), also this is imported from my Google docs so the spacing might be a little weird

His heart pounded in his chest, like the crash of waves. The sound of blood rushing through his veins loud in his ears, drowning out all else. His body refused to move, as if something rooted him to the ground.

He stared at your lifeless body, his breath hitching in uneven gasps. Helplessness consumed him. He wanted to scream until he couldn't anymore , but the cry caught in his throat. He was frozen ,completely immobilized like a statue.

He had failed you. The thought tore through him sharp. Why hadn’t he been faster? Stronger? Smarter? His mind replayed every moment, every decision, desperately searching for the one that would have ended differently.

If only he’d been better, you’d still be here. You’d still be breathing, your chest rising and falling with life, those eyes he loved so dearly looking back at him.

His hands trembled as he reached for you, cradling your cold, unresponsive body. He hadn’t even realized he’d moved. Tears blurred his vision,throat tightened. It didn’t matter anymore not the pain in his knees, not the ache in his arms from holding you so tightly. Nothing mattered.

Why hadn’t it been him instead? He’d trade everything, it didn't matter what as long as he could hear your laugh one more time, to feel your warmth, to see you smile.

Leona jolted awake with a sharp gasp, his blankets tangled. Green eyes wide and darting around the room. His heart was racing. A hand dragged over his face, trying to ground himself as reality slowly bled back in.

It was a dream. Only a dream.

Just a dream Leona…

Yet the vividness of it lingered. He turned his gaze to the empty space beside him on the bed, and his breath hitched again.

“[Name]?” His voice, rough and strained, cracked as he called out. His ears twitched, and relief washed over him as he heard the soft sound of approaching footsteps.

Your footsteps

The door creaked open, and there you were, bathed in the faint morning light spilling through the window. "You're finally awake, morning sleepyhead," you said with a smile. Your voice was warm and laced with affection as you walked over to him.

Sevens did he love your voice.

Leona exhaled shakily, the weight on his chest easing slightly. But his body remained tense, his hands gripping the sheets.

You noticed how off he was immediately. “Leona?” Concern filled your voice as you sat down on the edge of the bed, your hands resting gently on his shoulders grounding him.

Before you could even say anything else, Leona moved. His arms shot out, wrapping around you and pulling you down onto the mattress with a forceful yet desperate urgency. You let out a yelp in surprise.

His grip was firm, almost crushing, as though he feared you’d disappear if he let go. You could feel the faint tremble in his frame, it made your heart ache.

“Leona?” you repeated softly, tilting your head to look at him. He didn’t answer, only burying his face in the crook of your neck. The steady rhythm of your heartbeat against his ear was the only thing he could focus on.

You were alive.

"What's going on?" you asked gently, your fingers threading through his hair and brushing behind his ears in a soothing gesture. "This isn't like you."

“Bad dream,” he mumbled, his voice barely audible. But the unease in his tone betrayed him. You frowned, concern deepening as you pressed a soft kiss to the top of his head.

"I'm here now," you whispered. "I'm not going anywhere."

You lay back against the pillow, letting him cling to you. Slowly, you matched your breathing to his, your chest rising and falling in a rhythm until his ragged breaths began to even out. Your hand moved in slow, comforting strokes along his back, and eventually, he calmed

You felt a vibration against your chest, followed by a deep, purring. It brought a small smile to your face. "You know," you teased lightly, "purring like that? Not very nonchalant housewarden of you."

"Shuddup," he muttered, his voice muffled as he pressed himself closer to you. You giggled softly, the sound making his heart leap. This time, the pounding in his chest wasn’t fear, it was just love.

He nuzzled his face deeper into the crook of your neck, inhaling the comforting scent of you. The memory of the nightmare still lingered, but it was dulled now, by your presence. You were here, alive and breathing, and that was enough for him.

After a moment, he pulled back slightly, just enough to look at you. His green eyes, usually half-lidded, were wide and searching, drinking in every detail of your face. He couldn't get enough.

Everything you. He loved each of your features,

everything. Because it was yours.

“I love you,” he said, the words escaping him before he could even registr what he was saying.

You smiled, the kind of smile that he'd do anything for just to see.

“I love you too.”

Leona pulled you closer, his arms tightening around you as his tail snaked in between your legs. For now, that was all he needed, just you, safe in his arms, your warmth calming him.

He was at peace. Calm and tangled in one another.

MASTERLIST

[solarstranger]

omg your game sounds so fun!!!! may i submit for your consideration: shouto + offer

andie pants!!!! thank you for joining and for the versatile prompt. took me a while to decide how i wanted to go about the word offer, but ultimately settled with this after some thought. i hope the grown ass adults sitting behind me right now in the coffee shop didn't see the word sex on my google doc lmfao.

todoroki shouto + offer

c.w. minors dni. mentions of nsfw themes but nothing explicit. some cussing.

there were many things in your life that you could honestly say you are proud of.

your education. your passions. the amount of time and energy you’ve put into working on yourself and becoming a decent human being who tries to do something worthwhile with your life despite the strong gravitational pull your bed—and shouto—had on you every single morning without fail.

what isn’t one of them is the sheer number of hours you spend on your phone—scrolling through countless attention-span-killing reels—reels that are too damn funny or sexy or relatable for their, or your, own good. so much so that you wouldn’t have noticed the loud thump that resonated from your bathroom just now—drowning in a remix of justin bieber’s baby—if it weren’t for a pained hiss that could only come from your boyfriend’s mouth.

you shoot up at the sound—alarmed—head craned toward the source. “shouto?”

“…yeah?”

“you okay?”

“yeah,” he says again, the edge from earlier now making way for his usual soft-spokenness. “i’m alright. just—cut myself.”

at that, you hurriedly crawl out of bed, phone long forgotten on your newly washed sheets, before padding your way towards the smaller room. you didn’t know what you were expecting to see purely based on what he just said, but relief washes over you anyway when a seemingly okay shouto comes into view, a smidge of what looks like fresh blood staining the side of his chin.

he shoots you a sheepish look, razor in hand.

you shake your head, stepping slightly towards him and taking his jaw in your hand to examine the damage. “i thought i told you to be careful when shaving.”

“i was,” he claims, putting down the blade by the sink before placing his big hands on your hips where he once seriously, albeit drunkenly, insisted they belonged.

“well, you weren’t careful enough,” you quip, reaching for the overhead cabinet for a cotton pad and alcohol.

shouto doesn’t say anything to that, only watching you as you soak the material with disinfectant, quietly hissing once again when you turn back towards him to dab it on his small wound.

you try not to focus on how he’s staring at you the entire time.

or the fact that he’s kinda…sort of…topless right now.

“thank you, love,” he offers when you step back to throw the soiled fiber in the bin, and it takes everything within you not to playfully roll your eyes at the subtle yet somehow palpable lilt in his voice—the lilt that never fails to show up whenever he’s feeling affectionate.

particularly, when he feels affectionately babied by you.

“don’t start, sho,” you warn, peering at your reflection (partly to avoid his gaze or his abs) as you smooth down the invisible wrinkles on your burgundy dress. “you’re not even dressed, for fuck’s sake.”

“yeah, well, about that…”

you whip to look at him. “no.”

“wha—”

“we’re not bailing on your father, shouto.”

“who said we were bailing on him?”

“you think i don’t know how your propositions end up?” you shake your head, turning on your heel so you can march back to your shared bedroom.

“you know,” he’s trailing behind you now, dressed in nothing but his trousers, “you keep on using that word, but it’s incorrect. i’m nothing but subtle.”

“sure, big guy.”

“i’m serious,” he presses, circling your king-sized bed and planting himself right in front of you so that you’ve got no choice but to look at him.

“we’ll be quick,” shouto promises, a hint of a smile fighting to tug on his annoyingly—seemingly perpetually moisturized—lips.

you huff, before twisting back to stubbornly rummage through your purse. for what, you don’t know. “that’s what you always say.”

“and that’s how i always intend for things to go when i say that,” he alleges, leaning in to your side so he’s still all up in your face. “it’s just that…things usually don’t go as planned.”

at that, you can’t help but snort. “yet another reason why we shouldn’t have sex before we go.”

and when he doesn’t say anything, you finally give in and spare a glance at him, only to be met with a pouting shouto.

you frown. “don’t give me that look.”

if anything, shouto only pouts even more, although you can tell he’s trying hard not to grin.

you bristle.

“it’s working, isn’t it?”

"fucking—”

a/n. offer (v.) to put forward for consideration, to make oneself available. anywho, i'm still new to writing shouto, but if there's anything i learned about his characterization from you, andie, it's that he's a mischievous little shit deep down lmfao. i hope you enjoyed this <3

send me a character + word and i'll write a short drabble. ✍🏼