#// is it the shrimp or is it the one night stand baby??

[ruexoconnor]

[ kneel ] sender finds receiver sick in the bathroom ("tossing their cookies"), and kneels beside them, holding their hair back and cleaning their face ) ( Cody - was it the SHRIMP? lmao )

Her stomach had felt sensitive for a few days now, and while she normally enjoyed his seafood boil, this time most certainly did not agree with her. -- She'd been quieter too, more tired, and perhaps she was coming down with something because the emotional response to his holding her hair, cleaning her face, so gentle and so...concerned, well it pushed tears down her face. It was not a cry, per-se, just, tears, inexplicable and uncontrollable. "I don't know what's wrong with me." she'll now laugh through them, and she doesn't want to worry him more than she already has. "Great. Now I'm gonna need to hire like a really old, really skilled vampire to compel this mental image out of your mind."

[shoyudon]

𝐃𝐎𝐄𝐒𝐍'𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑, 𝐈 𝐋𝐄𝐅𝐓 .ᐟ

them forgetting a date night.

starring. gojo, sukuna, toji x fem! reader

heads up. cursing, no fluff, sukuna can use a phone (bcs u taught him lol /j), sukuna calling u "woman"

note. haiii, how are you guys doing? make sure to take care of yourself!! i'm feeling a bit angsty today, so i'm gonna write a bit of angst. i miss gojo, like so much u guys :( i might make a part two for this btw hehe

──────〃★ 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔

the one thing you hated more than people being late was people who don't keep their promises — your boyfriend wasn't an exception to it. gojo's a busy man, you get it. for months you haven't been able to see him because he was so caught up in the jujutsu world; he saves people dan and night from lingering curses that it broke you a bit.

the jujutsu world treats him like a weapon; and you never liked it. despite your constant battering on him, trying to get him to quit and just settled in for a quiet life, he tells you that he can't. that people needed him, and you felt selfish.

but isn't it fine to be selfish sometimes?

clutching onto your phone, you'd tried dialing gojo's number at least six times before he answers. his voice groggy and slow, as if he had just woken up from a deep sleep, "huh . . . hello?"

you wanted to yell at him, especially because he was the one who has been reminding you about this particular date night — and he was the one to forget about it, "good sleep?" you ended up asking him, voice hard.

"y/n . . . why did you—"

"why did i call? oh, i don't know. maybe because my boyfriend stood me up for an hour and a half. i look like an idiot sitting here, satoru," you mutter out in embarrassment, avoiding the lingering gazes from both waiters and waitresses around you.

for the past hour, you've lost count of how many times you'd ask them to refill your glass of tea — embarrassing. then telling them you were waiting for someone when they tried to ask you if you were going to order anything since there were people waiting for a table, just for the said person not showing up.

"what time is— oh, fuck. baby, i'm so sorry, i fell asleep when i was work—"

before he could finish his words, you finished it for him, "working. i get it, you're always working. clearly, you don't have time for anything else, right?" you ask him, signaling the waiter nearby for the bill.

"baby, i know. i'm so sorry, i'm on my way, okay? please," he whispers. you could hear a few shuffling on the background; along with a few curses he muttered under his breath as he stumble over his feet, mind hazy from all the sudden movements he was doing despite just waking up.

"no need. i'm leaving the place," you mutter, walking out of the restaurant — heels clacking on the pavement, "and 'm leaving you, because clearly you're not ready for a relationship, so bye."

gojo yells out, "what? no, baby. i swear — i'll make it up to you, please. don't leave me . . ." he rambled on the same words over and over again, "where are you? i'm picking you up. please, can we talk about this? i'm sorry, i know i should've—"

"bye, satoru," and with that you ended the call.

──────〃★ 𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀 𝐑𝐘𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍

you fiddled the hem of your dress as you sat inside the almost closed restaurant, the last speck of hope you had on your boyfriend —sukuna— dissipating into hopelessness. standing up you walked over to the cashier, taking out your card to pay for the one glass of shrimp cocktail and one glass of white wine.

the cashier shot you a sympathetic look, and you didn't dare to look her into her eyes. face hard from embarrassment and shame, "thank you for coming, come again next time, ma'am . . ." she bids you goodbye as she returns your card.

walking out of the restaurant that now had the 'closed' sign flipped made your stomach churn in mixed feelings: anger, embarrassment, shame, sadness, everything all at once.

sinking your nails onto the palm of your hand, you muttered out strings of curses. you knew being in a relationship with someone who had no understanding to the concept of love was a hard thing — but honestly, you thought you got a hang of it. all this time you had been nothing but patient with sukuna, but maybe even that wasn't enough for him.

three hours. you sat alone inside the restaurant you booked for the both of you for three hours — each hour depleting your hope even more. and sukuna just managed to fuck it up even after he said he'd try. well, you should've underlined the keyword there: he said he'd try not that he'd come.

maybe you saw it coming yet it still disappointed you anyways.

your phone rang. even before you see who it was — you knew it's none other than sukuna. your heart screamed at you to answer his phone call, but your mind told you to leave it ringing because you were in no mood to talk to him. yet, at the end — you still pressed the answer button.

"what?"

"where are you?" his rough voice echoed through the line as you walked down the nearly empty street, holding onto your purse, "place's closed."

scoffing, you answered, "'f course it's closed, it's almost ten. i've been waiting for three hours, ryo. three hours."

you could hear him inhale sharply, "i was caught up with something, woman. where are you now?" he questioned. hearing a few car honking behind on the background, "where are you? answer me."

"doesn't matter, i left. and i'm leaving you, i was wrong thinking maybe i could've changed you — turns out, i couldn't. good luck to you," you mutter out sternly.

sukuna raised a brow, "y're kidding."

you weren't, and all he could hear next was the loud dial tune of the other line hanging up — now did he realize that this was all serious and you were actually leaving him for good.

──────〃★ 𝐓𝐎𝐉𝐈 𝐅𝐔𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐎

you sighed, dialing toji for the first time of the night when he said that he was going to pick you up for a date, the phone rung for a while before going into voicemail. grumbling under your breath, you tried dialing him again for the second time, which ended up the same way.

all these time spent on makeup and picking out the best outfit — all for nothing as your boyfriend, toji failed to show up on time. angry, you tried calling him again for the third time, only for it to end up in voicemail yet again. this time you decided to leave a message for him.

"hey, you forgot. didn't you? hope you're happy with yourself, cause 'm not."

dating toji wasn't the easiest — but you love him, no matter what he was like. and it was stupid of you to do so, all this time you've defended his name against your friends' malice towards him, saying how he wasn't treating you well enough and that you deserved so much better.

despite all that, you love him. disregarding their words, retorting back to how toji treats you well, which he does — except for the times he tended to forget about everything, even you. maybe it was time to open your eyes and actually break up; because you did deserve better than this.

it would be a shame to let all this makeup go to waste, and so you hailed a cab and decided to go out for a treat. and made the best out of everything, that is until toji decided it would be the most convenient time to call you back amidst your little "me time".

wiping your hand on the napkin, you answered him, "huh, you're alive," you muttered out, huffing.

he sighs, "i forgot, sorry." you couldn't see him, but toji actually looked remorseful, already on his way out of his apartment to yours, "i'm on my way."

you chuckled, "doesn't matter. i left my house," you informed, taking a bite out of the crab meat, "so don't bother coming — and i don't think i don't deserve this kind of treatment from anyone, even you, toji. i'm breaking up with you because clearly you don't take this relationship as seriously as i am."

toji furrowed his brows, "i forgot, i fucked up, i can make it up. where are you right now?" he asks, his voice still as calm as cucumber. but the look on his face contradicted the tone of his voice.

"bye, toji. good luck."

© shoyudon 2024 . no copying or reposting allowed !

[husbandhoshi]

title: eat. play. love.

pairing: seungcheol x f!reader

wc: 19.4k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Looking forward to talking with the two of you.

Wait—two?

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

CC: Choi Seungcheol.

"Choi Seungcheol?!"

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

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

"I—he," you stammer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Choi Seungcheol's name stares back at you.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

The meeting goes exactly how you would expect.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You know what?"

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

"What?"

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

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

"I'd rather starve."

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

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

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

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

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

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

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

"You'll never guess what I have."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And a seat at Momofuku."

"And that."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hide behind your computer screen.

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

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

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

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

Seungkwan works hard, but the devil always works harder.

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing you can do to stop him, huh?

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

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Beware the wrath of a woman scorned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hook, line, and sinker.

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

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

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

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

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

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

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Seungcheol?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who said I was pretending?"

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

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

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

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

"I never said that."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How To Antagonize Your Date In 5 Easy Steps.

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm no quitter."

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

Definitely not that one.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

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

"Why, so you can steal my job?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In your periphery hovers his wry, wanting smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, pity looks good on you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fair. You gonna ask me about mine?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Running away?"

"Bored," you lie.

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

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

"Unfortunate."

"How do you think I feel?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Field trip?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"N-not both ways?" you croak.

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

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

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

Whatever.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But, thank you."

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

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

"I'm retracting my thank you."

"I'm devastated. Really."

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

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

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

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

"Thought you knew it was Wonwoo."

"Yeah, but why?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who hurt you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I wouldn't say nothing."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You in a rush?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Definitely bad at food, you muse to yourself.

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

Now that—nothing could have prepared you for that.

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

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

"Stop that."

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

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

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

"Is it working?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Seungcheol is my enemy, remember?"

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

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

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

You almost choke on a blueberry.

"Absolutely not."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm running out of options."

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

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

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

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

Your entire body heaves with the sigh that escapes you.

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

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

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

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Lucky you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A gift. A pithless, wrinkly one.

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

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

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

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

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

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, you're definitely going to cry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You count the seconds till he walks away.

One. Two. Three.

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

"Hey, you ok?"

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

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

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

"Whoa," he breathes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah, I-I think so."

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

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

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

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

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And no text from Seungcheol. (Damn.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

"Here. Drink."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Thanks…?"

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

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

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

"You're literally the definition of easy."

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

"This is not a date. Dream on."

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

"It wasn't."

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

"Chicago."

"Same difference."

Your conversation continues as such.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

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

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

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

"Hi."

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

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

The elevator dings.

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

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

You have three reasons to get drunk.

1. It's Friday.

2. You finished your article.

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

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

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

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

So you get drunk.

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

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

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

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

"You got that right."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yours or mine?"

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

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

How To Ruin The Moment In One Easy Step!

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

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

It seems that the car ride to your place sucks all the sobriety back into the both of you.

You're lying stomach-down on your bed, Seungcheol against the headboard with his shirt undone. You're in your bra and your still sticky underwear, and somehow, despite being ready to break your three-year spell, you like this much better.

"Imagine if someone needed to piss," Seungcheol groans. "I think we would have gotten fired. Lifestyle would have no editor."

"I honestly think that's why Seungkwan was standing outside for so long."

Upon hearing this, Seungcheol's eyes shoot open. If your phone wasn't charging, you would take a picture. He fell asleep on your shoulder in the car, and now, even with all the affection you can muster, you can only describe his hair as broom-adjacent. Einstein-core. How far you've fallen from grace.

"Don't worry, he won't say anything." And as you watch the color return to his face, you add, "Also, it's not that I didn't want to have sex, I just…" you trail off, hoping he'll get it even though you're making no sense.

"No, it was the right call. I wanna do it when we're both sober."

It smooths your frayed-out nerves knowing that none of this was a performance or a test, just two shy, touch-starved people stumbling in the dark.

"Lemme guess—this is just a typical Friday night for you."

"Flattering but no," Seungcheol replies, grinning something stupid. "Do you always spend this much time wondering what I'm doing?"

"No!" His hands, once busy with scrunching up the fabric of your bedsheets, now find yours, and he runs a careful thumb over your knuckles. You notice he has the care-worn hands of a line chef, or maybe even a baker, which is funny because you don't even think the man knows how to turn on an oven. "I dunno. You just seem so experienced. What about all of those other girls?"

He flips your hand over, tracing the creases of your palm.

"Just dates. Nothing serious."

You want to ask—What about us? Are we serious? But you swallow it all down. You watch Seungcheol's eyes, midnight-weary, fall back upon you, and it feels like he's trusted you with something important.

"Don’t get it twisted, though," he adds, before yawning big and wide without covering his mouth. "I'm a loser, not a virgin. Definitely not."

You bite back a laugh. Killer journalist bio, but that's something to pitch next content meeting.

"Definitely a loser. I think you make me a loser by association."

"Good. So we're both losers. I like that." He smiles at you with so much warmth, it makes your heart physically hurt. Then he clamps down another yawn. "God, I'm exhausted. I think if we fucked in the bathroom, I'd have passed out. Or pulled my back."

"Then sleep," you chide, shucking a pillow at him. "Also take your shirt off. I don't like outside clothes on the bed."

"Say less," Seungcheol says. "I’ll blow your back out another day. Save the date." Between your almost audible gulp and his unfortunately attractive physique, you almost forget the place you're in-between.

Did everyone fit into his arms? Did he lift a hand for just anyone? Two silhouettes in the lamplight—was that how every day with him ended? Or just you, the only other person competing with him for his dream job? The convenient reality scares you.

The thought never seems to cross Seungcheol's mind. His head hits the pillow, and he's out like a light. But not without a not-so-subtle scoot to your side of the bed, near enough that the heat of his skin plays off yours.

You lean into it, liking how your skin buzzes with the closeness.

You're lulled by the sway of Seungcheol's breathing behind you—probably the most quiet he'll ever be. The moonlight oozes into the room; sleep comes over you like water, a slow, gentle wash.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

You can't remember the last time you cooked for two.

You open your fridge, and the hollow insides stare back at you. Rows of condiments and two water bottles. You have finally reached K-drama CEO status.

"Is this the part where I get kicked out?" Seungcheol says, shrugging his shirt back on as he walks out of the bedroom.

"This is the part where I cook breakfast for you."

"Really? You don't have to." He sounds genuinely surprised, which tips your heart a little off-axis.

"I want to," you reply, double checking the fridge as if opening it a second time would repopulate it. "That's what people do when they care about each other."

"Or if they're trying to poison you."

"Will you just let me do something nice for you?" You yank your head out to glare at him, and he looks stung.

"Thanks." He says it after so much pause that you wonder if this is the first time someone has done this for him. You wish you had a better offering, but surely the man with the worst palate in the world could spare his judgment for one meal. "No really, 'cause I am starving."

You let him bask in the rare glory of the unobstructed refrigerator light while you rummage through the pantry for a plan B.

"Holy shit. You live like this?"

"Not always. It's been…a week." All you have is the ramyun Mingyu likes, which feels like a weird, culinary betrayal. But you're hungry, and Seungcheol is eyeing a strange bag in the freezer that you don't even remember putting there. "You good with ramyun?"

"Honestly, I'll eat anything," he whines, gnawing on the ice straight from the freezer drawer.

At least he's self-aware. But he makes all the spaces Mingyu left behind seem a little less empty, and you can't find it in you to be mad at that.

You wait for the water to boil and Seungcheol finds a seat at your tiny dinner table, a misaligned, wobbly product of Mingyu’s inability to read an Ikea manual.

"I'm hoping your week got better?" Seungcheol asks, referring to your capital W week.

You tentatively nod before dropping the noodles in.

"Of course it did—you woke up to me in your bed. Can't get better than that."

"Actually, it's because I finished my article yesterday."

Seungcheol pauses before laughing to himself. "Congrats," he replies, now wiggling the table on its bad leg. "Can't say the same for myself."

you watch the starch-foam wash over the mouth of the pot, precariously close to the edge. You overfilled it, which mildly surprises you until you consider that you're cooking double the food.

There's a stretchy, anxious tumble in your stomach. It's not like you were expecting him to cheer or anything, but it just reminds you that you are, still in fact, competitors. When all of this is said and done, one of you is losing, and from every angle, it seems like quite the death knell for whatever you've got going on now.

It's a pity because you actually kind of like this arrangement. If Seungcheol was in your banged-up flea market chair next Saturday morning, you wouldn't be mad. Maybe you would even make him waffles. From scratch, even.

"What, too many dates to cover?"

He laughs again, somehow to no one in particular. "Something like that."

Past the bruising swell of his smile is the much sharper, more unforgiving edge of an unspoken hurt that you're neither trusted with nor owed, and yet you refuse to drop it. What about me? It feels like you're almost there, wrapped around something bigger, a scoop you can't pull your stubborn teeth out of.

"Is there a reason none of those were serious? Come on."

"What's so wrong with that?" And when you don't say anything, he says, "Trust me, it is never that serious."

His voice ticks up at the end like a teenager trying to play cool and the noodle water boils up around your chopsticks as you try to get your portion cooked through.

You won't—can't—turn to face him. You committed to the line, and now you must see it through, no matter how bad an idea it may be.

"That's not true," you finally squeeze out, finding the right footing for your voice. "It was serious for me. I'm sorry it wasn’t for you."

The table stops rocking.

"I'm glad. Really." He claps his hands together like a cruel punctuation mark, and it's then you remember that the only person as ill-tempered as you happens to be sitting two feet away.

Like an injured animal, your heart wants to cower back into your chest. You knew this was a mistake—this being everything—but an open wound can't help but bleed and your pride can't do without seeing the knife.

"Look, I don't know what your problem is." The pot hisses, astringent and pleading, beneath your fist. "I don't know what happened with your love life, but don't take it out on me."

"You asked."

"Yeah? Well, what is this?" You turn to face him, feeling the air between you tense, pulled like a rubber band. "You can't sit in my kitchen and tell me you don't care about whatever this is."

After all of the terse meetings, elevator spats, and foul-mouthed encounters in the parking lot, you can now recognize the fresh twist of Seungcheol's mouth and the livewire of a temper you've become so familiar with.

"Who said I didn't care? I'm just tired of you trying to lecture me about my life. I—"

"I'm not lecturing you, I just know you can't really believe what you're saying." Every word stumbles out, trembling and doe-legged, barely audible over his attempts to interrupt you. "There's nothing wrong with admitting you were in love with someone. And if you can't, I just feel really fucking sorry for you."

There’s an incredulous look in Seungcheol's eyes. But it's the worse part of you, ruthless and hungry for acceptance, that makes you say, "Maybe the fact that nothing lasts is your fault."

"Oh, really?" Seungcheol's voice, half-laugh with none of the warmth, rips through you. "You're really gonna act like you're better than me? As if you don't write in your pretentious little column every week, just waiting for your ex to read it and decide he wants you back again?"

There’s a red hot flash behind your eyes and everything inside you feels like it breaks at once.

"You know, at least I had someone who cared about me. Can't say the same about your miserable, sorry ass. Now get the fuck out of my apartment."

"Wh—"

he stands up, table croaking underneath his fists, and you realize you've crossed a bridge that can never be uncrossed.

"Get. Out."

It feels like a stitch in you has come undone. The water has long boiled over the pot and there's no joy to be found in watching Seungcheol stumble over his pant legs on the way to the door.

"I didn't want Mingyu. I wanted you."

it's not an apology, nor is it an indictment. You don't know why you say it, and you guess Seungcheol doesn't either. The door slams behind him, and all you're left with is a bloated pot of ramyun you never really wanted anyway.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Celery. Red wine. Short rib.

If you had one day left on earth, you think you would go grocery shopping. It was like a prayer to you—you could close your eyes and know exactly what aisle had the beef broth, or feel the stone weight of a can of San Marzano tomato paste.

That's one thing you can thank Mingyu for—it's true that you don't love him like you used to, but you refuse to believe that any love worth having is also worth leaving behind.

Fingerling potatoes, the red ones. A Vidalia onion.

You recite your shopping list, slowly, quietly, a rosary.

Baguette is the next item, with a question mark next to it because sometimes your local bakery sells out after 3.

You pass by, expecting to see the shop window cleared out. Instead you see a familiar crown of cowlicked black hair and a horribly well-worn grin that only looks good because it's on Choi Seungcheol's face.

He's paying for a pretty girl's sourdough, and thyme, rosemary gets washed out by a dizzying riptide of heartache.

It was never personal, you tell yourself. Just another date. That's the angle.

You think it hurts a little less, knowing that it all was a business transaction. A long interview.

The thyme is next to the dill. The rosemary is next to the chives, at the end of the shelf.

You watch Seungcheol lean over the tiny cafe table to take a sip of his date's Americano. Did he always laugh like that? Were you really any different?

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Monday feels tilted.

There's the usual gust of cinnamon sugar and cold brew—today's offering from the interns, who have begun to master the art of pressing the elevator buttons with full hands. Wonwoo is wearing his Monday outfit, a wrinkled cream button up under a navy blue sweater vest. Your cubicle is empty, just the way you like it, save for the ass-shaped spot cleared off on the desk edge.

You like days like this, except today you don't and you know exactly why.

"Today's the day," Joshua says, nose buried in a bakery-style muffin, the top pillowing out of the wrapper.

He stares over your shoulder at your article, locked and loaded for submission to copy.

You are not exaggerating when you say you would die for these four thousand words. You ate and cried and argued for them in what you can only describe as the worst literary coliseum of your life, and now their (and your) fate rests in Joshua’s massive Mickey Mouse hands and Wonwoo's bespectacled whimsy.

"Well, don't let me stop you." He laughs and then totters away, sucking a crumb off a finger. Just another Monday.

Your cursor hovers over the SUBMIT button. You've always been a little scared of it—unsurprising, since you're also the type to triple read an email before sending it—but there's a new kind of fear boxed in those little pixels.

Last night, you emptied out your freezer. Stuck on the back wall was a neon green sticky note, behind all the bags. See you when you get home, it said. You laughed and then you cried and then you ripped it up because that's probably what Seungcheol was looking at the morning you chewed him out.

All of that heartache must have been good for something. To say you wasted it on a no-love situationship wouldn't do any of it justice, not when all that's left is most definitely a crude shoutout on Seungcheol's next listicle. If you weren't already getting one earlier, you sure are now.

You wonder what you'll be:

10 Signs She Is Clinically Insane.

It's Not You, It's Them!

Help! My Friend With Benefits Isn't A Friend Or A Benefit!

At least that one is funny, although if it's the winning line, you don't think you can ever show your face in the office again.

The beginning and the end and the muddy in-between. Entrenched in all of it was this article and this job, and you'll be damned if you let your misplaced faith get co-opted by a sweaty-palmed Casanova.

(8:19 AM; the smell of summer and dried-down cologne. A hand on your ribcage, just beneath your heart. Good morning, Seungcheol says, as if emerging from a long, wonderful dream.)

You picture the byline with editor tacked next to your name. To run your finger over the ink spackled serif of a paper hot off the press, as if somehow it would radiate the misery you had to endure.

(11:41 PM; jajangmyeon and a pack of rice crackers. Seungcheol had given you his chopsticks because you dropped yours. The hum of the broken light outside Wonwoo's office sings in the silence of an empty newsroom. Your eyes meet, and you don't look away.)

There's a sinking feeling in your chest. You close your eyes and hit submit.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Ask Samuel!

It's 6 PM on a Thursday and if you weren't already on your last thread, you are now. The angry red of the Daily Trojan website glares back at you from your phone as you step into the elevator with none other than your editor-in-chief.

You've resorted to reading Seungcheol's old advice columns. Not because you miss him, but because you want to know if he was ever a competent writer capable of talking about something other than how to score on a second date.

That's the only way he's beating you.

(There's also no way you miss him. The thought would make you laugh out loud if you weren't standing next to your boss).

One column became four became ten. After thirteen you concluded Seungcheol must have sustained a head injury some time before starting his job here—you can find no other explanation for how someone so generous and intuitive could've gotten lost in the chaff of articles with more pictures than words.

"Congrats," Wonwoo says, seemingly speaking into the void.

"Pardon?" You close out a particularly riveting query about estranged childhood friends to look up at him.

"Congrats."

"F-for what?" You get that head rush again, the same one you got a month ago at the Italian restaurant with Jeonghan.

"The job. You got the position." Wonwoo clears his throat calmly, as if he's not delivering the most important news of your life. "I wanted to let you know in person before we sent out Monday’s email."

For once, you have no words. In a wonderful instant, they are all zapped out of your brain. You feel hot and clammy and anxious all at once and you half expect to close your eyes and see either god or the flare of a hospital light, waking you up from an impossible coma.

"Holy shit," the primordial ooze inside you says instead. "T-thank you."

"No need."

"What about Seungcheol? Does he know?"

"I haven't told him yet, but he should be aware." Wonwoo pauses. "He didn't submit anything."

"What?!"

There are only so many surprises your body can handle. You feel like you are being held together by a fast-unraveling string on a poorly made sweater. Your stomach is somewhere in your feet and you don't even know where your heart is. Part of you is waiting for the elevator to stop so the entire office can jump out of the walls and laugh at you.

"I too was surprised," Wonwoo says, now checking his smartwatch for messages. "He must have changed his mind. No matter—I'm confident you will be an excellent fit."

The elevator jerks to a stop at the first floor. You feel boneless, like a can of cranberry sauce.

"Forgive me, I have a dinner appointment." Wonwoo ends the conversation the best way he can—with his trademark parentheses smile and a nod of the head—and leaves you in the elevator cabin alone.

All the times you've dreamed of this moment, you're tear-dizzy, joyous, fumbling with your phone to call your parents.

Instead you stand motionless, waiting, emptied.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

To make croissants, you fold a slab of butter into a square of yeasted dough. You roll it out thin and then fold it into itself before leaving it to rest in the fridge. Then you take it out again, roll it, and fold it. You do this until you've forgotten how many times you folded it and you no longer crave croissants.

When you were five, you pressed your nose to the window of your favorite patisserie and decided this is how your mind works.

You've had ample time now to flatten out Saturday morning, to watch all the little layers of doubt and loathing form, and now you're sick of it. It's not often you're star witness to your own unhappiness, but, as if you were called to the stand, you can easily play back the moment you lit the match and then watched everything explode.

You're not sure what either of you were expecting. A playboy and you, who loves so insistently, almost as if out of spite—there is truly no reality in which it makes sense. The fact that you fought over a literal pot of ramyun only proves this.

And now he's saddled you with the final blow. The position of your dreams with none of the glory because he gave up.

He gave up.

None of this should matter to you.

You're standing outside the office, waiting for your ride to your celebratory dinner (this time, on Jeonghan). The little headline man in your brain is silent for once. Instead, you try to enjoy the breeze, honeyed with late June, and not dwell on the horrible twist in your stomach every time you think about your new position. It's been 24 hours since you found out but it is no less raw.

It's then that you catch Seungcheol, creeping out the double doors of the office like some sort of criminal. You're not sure if it's the plod of his Sasquatch feet or that bag you hate so dearly, but you could recognize that walk from anywhere.

His pace quickens when you turn to face him—he's running away. You won't grant him the satisfaction. Not when he's fucked up what little you had left, and then some.

"You're an idiot, Seungcheol."

That does the trick.

"Funny way of saying hi," he responds, bracing himself on the sidewalk as if you're about to hit him.

"Why didn't you submit anything? What the fuck were you thinking?"

"What does it matter to you? You got the position."

"Look, I—" You shut your eyes, feeling the frenetic ice-cream churn of your brain try to put together a million broken up words. "I'm sorry for Saturday. But I never wanted to scare you off from the job. You deserve it as much as I do, and, as much as I hate to say it, I care about you too fucking much to watch you throw away your shot."

Saying the words is like cutting something loose from your chest, a million strings coming undone.

Seungcheol takes a deep, unsteady breath. You watch the crest and fall of his shoulders and the inescapable tar pits he calls eyes get big and shiny.

"No, I—" He pulls himself from your gaze. "I'm sorry. I should have never said that to you. And I should have never treated you like that."

The silence between you ripples, as if after a long rain.

"I was scared. A long time ago, I threw myself into a relationship. I thought we had something really, really good, and then I found out she was also seeing someone else."

Being right never felt so bad. It's even worse that something you would look forward to—the I told you so, the jokes really write themselves—no longer holds any satisfaction, only a sense of loss and a terrible urge to make it right again.

"And it's not right, but I decided that it was a mistake to take chances like that again. And it was fine, fun even, going on all of these casual dates and getting paid for it. Then you just had to mess it up."

"H-how?"

"You were so dead-set on convincing me otherwise. You wouldn't let it go, not with your weird sayings and the way you talked about your ex and when you told me you were making me breakfast. I started believing you, and it really fucking scared me."

There's a sharp pain in your head. It feels like, at once, you were skinned like a fruit. Like the interlude between dream and waking, all the sheets of sleep yanked from your person.

"What…what about the article?" you ask, scrambling. You don't really want to contend with what he just told you. You don't think you can.

"You deserved it more. And you really love what you do. I used to think it was all bullshit, but I was wrong."

You take a hard swallow. The image of Seungcheol, head bowed, a nervous hand on the back of his neck, swims in front of your eyes.

"Whatever. I don't even know what I'm saying anymore," he laughs, mirthless.

"No, wait," you say. "I-I also…never took you seriously, not even when I should've. You know, I read your advice columns. Crazy, I know."

"I do have to say that is one of your more insane claims."

"No, I thought, they were actually, you know…really good." You watch him blink, mouth already twisting up as he fights a smile. "What I'm trying to say is that I think we messed up. In a lot of ways. But I want to be friends again. Or at least not enemies."

Seungcheol takes a long pause before he sticks his hand out.

"Choi Seungcheol. Writer. It's nice to meet you."

Some force, as if you had always been connected, pulls your skin to his. You shake his hand for the very first time, and starting over never felt so good.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

"You're booking Eleven Madison for the office dinner again, right?"

Wonwoo pops his head into your office, his Monday uniform now festive with a holiday tie. Today, it's snowmen with glasses.

"Naturally," you reply. "Unless you have plans on that Friday."

You're referring to last week, when Wonwoo took a call in the middle of a staff meeting and revealed that yes, he would most definitely be available for drinks with Yerim that evening. He ended the meeting thirty short seconds later, and you think you saw him skip to the elevator.

He laughs, deep and caramel. "Not this time. Also—don't forget to review those job applications. Sent them to your email."

Before you can tease him again, he leaves, and you are forced to look at your teeming inbox, the only unfortunate side effect of your new position. But you've never been happier, and a hundred new unread emails never seemed so wonderful. The first time Jeonghan saw you in your new office, you were so giddy he thought you were coming down with something.

You take a hefty sip of today's coffee (ginger, molasses, cinnamon). On the side of the cup, the one you keep facing away from the door, reads SEUNGCHEOL and OAT, in loopy marker letters.

After you shook hands in the parking lot, you agreed to take it slow. You thought bringing everything to a simmer would cure you of your affection, but it wasn't even a month before Seungcheol was back in that same seat in your kitchen, eating the blueberry waffles you promised him.

But if slow meant long phone calls and the nervous twine of your hands after an ice cream date, then you think you like slow. You could do slow for a while.

He's taken to bringing you coffee in the morning. He claims it's your editorial right, but you think he just likes having an excuse to barge into your office. (And close the door behind him. And kiss you. But that's aside the point.)

Plus, Seungcheol's had plenty of legitimate reasons to be in your office. The newest one is the launch of Ask Sunny! , which you think is the best idea he's had since deciding to get you coffee every day. He spent the last few days campaigning to reuse his old alias, but you're pretty sure he was just looking for reasons to argue with you.

"Afternoon, boss."

Speak of the devil, and he shall appear. You always seem to learn the hard way with Seungcheol.

He swaggers in, ear-to-ear smile on his face, before taking a seat at the designated corner of your table.

"I think I like this desk better," he says, folding at the waist so he can lean close to you. Instead of reminding him it's the same desk, you just choose to make space for him, you let him press his nose to yours.

"Friendly reminder we're at work."

"Everyone's at lunch, genius."

He interrupts you with just a touch of his lips, which should be considered no less than a war crime by now.

"You are the worst."

"Not what you said last night. Not even close." He places another wet kiss on your nose before sliding off the table edge to his feet. There's a horrible warmth in his eyes as he watches you very clearly remember what exactly he's referring to. (A wandering hand. A cherry. Dark hair, wound through your fingers). "Anyway, I've got serious problems to solve. Or should I say Sunny? I still think we should have gone with Samuel."

"Executive decision," you tease. "Now if you don't need anything, scram. Out of my office."

"Just wanted to remind you I made reservations for us at Avra today," Seungcheol says, lingering in the doorframe with the shit-eating grin he tends to sport nowadays. "I'll even let you order."

There's no fighting the familiar bloom of laughter in your chest. It boils up, sparkling and citrusy, as you roll your eyes and watch Seungcheol return to his desk no less starry-eyed than how he walked in.

If cooking is a language, then love is the words, and you finally think you're learning to speak them.

You open the email at the top of your inbox: Seungcheol's last draft of the article he never published. You urged him to let you consider it for the next issue, and he finally caved (although you're learning that he really doesn't take much convincing when it comes to you).

Eat, Play, Love: A Guide.

Maybe you'd put it through. Maybe.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

[coquettepascal]

like tiramisu

summary: nothing beats summer vacation like a secret relationship with your dad's best friend, right? wrong! what really beats summer vacation is trying not do jump joel's bones every time you're alone.

tags: 18+, smut, fluff, beach fic, age gap (it's dbf!joel, imagine what you want), dbf!joel, misuse of sunscreen, semi-public activities (not sex), groping, massaging, reader has a dad and brother, overuse of the word pretty, nicknames like pretty___ and baby, oral sex (f!recieving), she/her pronouns for your pussy, joel gets blueballed, fluff, joel and reader are very much in love, established relationship, secret relationship, stereotypical oblivious reader's!dad, mention of food poisoning (nothing graphic), slight grumpy!joel, soft!dom joel (ish)

a/n: woo!! i did it :D this is my submission for @hellishjoel's hot dilf summer challenge (link to the masterlist.) i'm a big fan of their work so i'm just happy to participate. tysm for this opportunity!

(3.6k, not beta read.)

Every year you travel to the coast with your dad and brother, enjoying a week at the tail end of summer to really relax. This year, your brother got sick, and so Joel took his place.

Like Joel, your dad’s best friend. You know, the one that you slept with a month ago one night after everyone went to bed? Joel like kind-of-your-secret-boyfriend-Joel. Simple situation really, you don’t know why you nearly shit yourself when Joel was standing in your driveway dragging a suitcase behind him. 

But, as Joel does, he’s made this easy. It shouldn’t be easy to be separated from him, but it’s made the small moments you can get with him better. Besides, you still get to see him in his handsome glory, all tan and broad and…

The not-easy part is not jumping on him every time your dad turns around. 

—

“Why is this so much more expensive than ice cream?” Joel asks you, eyes squinted as he peers at the chalkboard that hangs above the gelato cooler.

The family in front of you orders and literally pays with a 50 dollar bill, still not getting anywhere near a justifiable amount of change back. Joel squints at the board harder and you smile up at him. He needs glasses, you’ve been telling him this whole trip. 

“Having trouble?” You ask teasingly. Joel’s head turns, face already scowling, but then the employee behind the counter is asking for your order before he can tear you a new one.

Joel is still scowling at you as he shells out 25 dollars for 2 “adult size” cones. 

“S’not necessary to spend this much money on vacation, darlin’, we’re already relaxed,” He grumbles as you walk out of the air conditioned business, back into the beachy heat outside. 

Innocently, you lick up a drip of the tiramisu flavored gelato that drips down the cone. Joel’s eyes narrow more, clearly not appreciative of your behavior so far today. His face eases up when he takes a bite out of his mango sherbet, cooling his flamed temper. 

Your hand snakes into his free one as you walk down the beach, back to where your things are. It’s a quieter day on the beach, luckily. The past week you’ve spent with your father and Joel has been a hectic race for who can find a good spot on the beach, who can find a good spot to sit and eat, and who can find a good spot where the three of you can be left the fuck alone. 

Today you’ve found a good spot, tucked away behind some larger rocks. It kind of looks like it could be dangerous to be there when the tide comes in, but it’s out far today. You’re fine, you’re with Joel, and most importantly, the two of you are alone. 

Your dad ate some bad shrimp last night at dinner and has a horrible case of food poisoning. He assured both of you that he’d be fine on his own, to go enjoy the sun. 

God knows you both will.

You hop over to the blanket you had laid out, cowering under the shade of the rainbow umbrella Joel had bought earlier in the week. He claimed it was so you wouldn’t get heatstroke, but you have a feeling it was more for the sake of his skin. 

As you kick off your sandals, Joel sits down beside you under the umbrella, slurping obnoxiously at the remnants of his mango cone. Most of yours is still intact, though a bit melty. It’s something to marvel at, how Joel can inhale any food of any temperature in the blink of an eye. But it makes up his soft tummy, the one you can rest your head on later when you want to soak up the sun. 

“Do you wanna try mine?” You ask, noting the hungry eyes he’s giving your gelato. He nods and so you lean over to him, extending the cone.

And just as he leans in to take a massive bite, you jerk your hand, smearing tiramisu gelato onto the tip of his nose. 

“Oh my fucking god,” he groans, pulling back, “that’s not fucking funny.” 

But it is funny. Seeing the white cream smudged on his nose, tangled in the bristles of his moustache. You can’t help but laugh at him. 

“That’s what you get for trying to chomp half of my treat!” You point out.

Joel’s head tilts at you, as if to say “really?” 

“Okay fine, I’ll fix it,” you huff. Passing your gelato to your free hand, you lean forward and suck the tip of his nose into your mouth, slurping off the remaining mess. 

Pulling back with a pop, you see Joel’s horrified face. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He groans, wiping your saliva off his face. 

Joel gives you a look, clearly expecting some sort of repayment for the ridiculous stunt you just pulled. Begrudgingly, you hand the rest of your cone to him, but only because you really should put on sunscreen.

—

The sun beats down on you as you lay against Joel’s chest and belly, his legs spread to make room for you. He’s wearing black board shorts that cut off around his mid-thigh, leaving more skin exposed. Joel didn’t wear these ones yesterday, or any day previous. It was just the same red shorts that went down to his knees. But today, he matches you and your black two piece. His thick thighs firmly frame you, keeping you in place. 

“You need to reapply your sunscreen, sweetheart,” Joel hums, blindly pawing the blanket for wherever you tossed the bottle earlier. 

Streams of sunlight bathe you where you sit, the sun no longer blocked by the rainbow umbrella Joel insisted on. You planned on tanning anyways, so you don’t mind as much as Joel seems to. He grabs the sunscreen and his sunglasses, tossing them on. 

Your chin is tucked to your chest, crunched as Joel leans over you more, opening the cap of the lotion. The liquid is so cold in comparison to the warm sun rays that blanket the two of you, a near-pained hiss escaping you.

“Don’t be a baby,” Joel grunts, working the sunscreen into your abdomen.

His hands work your soft flesh so gently, his calloused palms spreading the protective lotion carefully. Joel’s thumbs dig a little harder as he feels your hip bones beneath his hands, making you protest weakly. You know what he’s doing, taking this private opportunity for his own gain.

“Joel,” you warn whinily, squirming. 

His hands grasp you in place, holding you while the cords of muscle on his forearms pop. 

“I said don’t be a baby,” he repeats slower this time, his voice rumbling in your ear.

“We both know you’ve taken worse.”

Yeah. Yeah you do know that. It doesn’t shut you up anymore, whining as he reaches to massage your thighs, his hands slipping to your inner thighs fast. You can barely process his touch there before he’s sliding his hands back to a more appropriate spot, your arms. He’s keeping it PG for the most part at least. The nagging fear of your dad suddenly showing up despite his illness lives in the back of your mind. 

Joel massages your wrists and the palms of your hands, thumbs pushing the flesh soothingly as he murmurs in your ear about how soft you are, how perfect. 

He was keeping it PG, but he’s getting selfish now. The orange sun is painting your skin in a way that’s making it hard for him to think, and it’s been so long since he’s had you alone. Your eyes glaze over as he drips more lotion into his palms, rubbing it between them slowly. 

“Don’t wanna forget your chest, would hate for my pretty girl to burn,” is all the warning you get.

Joel’s arms loop beneath yours, his wet palms sliding up your abdomen and then beneath your swim top. Big hands envelope the starting swell of your breasts, coming upwards and smothering your sensitive skin in sunscreen. His name slips out again, choked and surprised, but this isn’t unwanted.

You miss Joel. Even as he’s been here with you for this whole week, you miss his kisses and his touch. Sleeping in the same room as him, but in separate beds, has been awful. To hear him snore without feeling the vibration of it on your own skin has been treacherous. 

So you’re letting him have this, because as much as you hunger for him, that man is ravenous.

His thumbs rub over your nipples, most of your top bunched up on his knuckles now. Joel’s voice is low in your ears, talking soft like you aren’t in total privacy on the beach. Everything is flying now, his mouth uncontrollable as he tells you how good you feel, how much he missed you. 

“So fuckin’ pretty, all week you’ve been so gorgeous, darlin,’” 

And then the kisses start. Hot down your neck, his scruffy face trails, tongue tracing the bitemarks he leaves occasionally. 

“Joel– Joel no marks,” you remind softly.

He obliges with a grunt, clearly unhappy with the situation. Sometimes he can get away with little marks, ones like on your inner thighs or your tits. But not here on a beach vacation, not so close to your dad. 

Joel continues to kiss you regardless, tilting your head so he can awkwardly meet your lips as he gropes you, massaging the lotion in as if the sun would ever hit any skin below your swimsuit. The atmosphere is only getting hotter as he touches you, the sun blazing against your skin as Joel rolls your nipples between his fingers, making you cry out.

You want more, you need more.

You can feel him hard against you, slightly digging into your back. Sex on the beach is a terrible idea. Public indecency, sand in places it shouldn’t be… but it’s so tempting when you feel how badly he wants you, how badly he missed you. 

Desperately, you turn in his embrace, his hands slipping out of your top, leaving you exposed. You shove your face against his hungrily, feeling as his sunscreen greased hand cups your jaw, gentle even when he’s starving. You open for him easily, letting his hungry tongue taste where he wants. He tastes like waffle cones and tiramisu, you want to lick him clean. You breathe heavily when he slips off your mouth and kisses the side of your face.

“S’a good girl, lettin’ me miss her,” he says into your skin.

Your mouth feels rubbed raw, your nipples are buzzing, and the sun blazes across your back. Everywhere feels warm, his lips, his tongue, your skin, your cunt in these bikini bottoms that stick to you in the worst way. You want Joel’s fingers, spreading you open however he wants. 

Joel is so good at taking care of you, so good that he can hear the rambunctious group of people coming before you can. Hands tug down your top and flip you back around before you can realize.

“You’re alright, s’okay, just some people,” Joel says, sounding anxious himself. 

Just some people. Not anyone you know, just some people.

The two of you quickly switch back to how youwere, your head on his chest while you rest between his thighs. One of his hands rests on your abdomen as he squeezes you affectionately between his legs. It’s really frustrating, watching as the group of people sets up not too far down from the both of you. So much for your private spot on the beach, and potential sex. 

He shifts beneath you, the bulge in his swim shorts uncomfortable. Joel has settled for rubbing his thumb against the smooth skin of your tummy, catching his breath still. 

“You can sleep, baby. Jus’ enjoy the sun, okay?”

The last thing on your mind is sleep, you’re more focused on the conch shell in his pants, but whatever. The sun is warm, and you’re with Joel. His hand stills on your belly, a warm weight in an attempt to soothe you.

-

It works, you fall asleep as the sun sets, and wake up when the cool night air shivers past you. Joel has managed to snake out from under you, using an unused beach towel to make a pillow for you. He’s packed everything up, sans the towel pillow and the blanket you lay on. Everything is ready to go, he’s just been waiting for you.

You watch from where you lay, as he dips his toes in the water. His broad shoulders are covered by a white, linen, shirt, highlighting him across the shore. Something about this is so right, to be on vacation with him, to be taken care of by him. Laying back, eyes staring into the inky night, you wonder what would have happened if the two of you hadn’t stayed up late that night, chatting and flirting. How long would you have gone without feeling loved, and like you belonged? 

Being Joel’s girl is more than that, even if no one knows you’re his, you have come to know yourself through him. His hands brushed away the sands that blurred your eyes, you’re seeing clearly for what feels like the first time ever.

Your love for him crashes down on you hard when he turns, walking back to you with a soft, dorky, smile. That’s your man, that’s your stupid old man, and he loves you.

“You ready t’go, darlin?” Joel asks, clearly relieved you eventually woke up.

With a nod, you walk as a pair back to the hotel. Joel insists on carrying everything, claiming he “don’t need” your help, even as he grunts.

-

Entering  the lobby of the hotel is a reminder that you have to be normal again, you and Joel are just getting along swell, and not seriously infatuated with one another.

His eyes bear into you when you step into the elevator, you can feel his eyes on your back as you press the button for your floor.

“What?” You ask, stepping back to lean against the railing.

Joel’s mouth seems to be dry as he responds, eyes tracing something on your stomach.

“Your tummy,” he manages.

You look down instantly, concerned you’ve managed a sunburn despite Joel’s efforts. Instead though, you find a tan line. A tan line in the shape of Joel’s hand, where it rested as you slept. Ghosts of Joel’s lips and teeth on your neck from earlier murmur across your skin, misting tingles across your shoulders and chest. He wanted to mark you so badly, wanted to sink his teeth into you the way he should have been able to, despite your refusal. Now he has his mark, across your tummy in the shape of his hands, the ones that carefully nurture you. 

You can see how it’s making him tick, how his scruffy jaw is clenched as his eyes are entranced by the shape on your belly. He has to spend the rest of the evening, the last couple of days of this trip, with his mark on you. Joel has to do all of that and not jump onto you at every opportunity he can.

“Baby,” Joel breathes, but the elevator doors open, and your dad is right there.

Your arms instantly wrap around your middle, trying to hide away the Joel-hand shaped tan line. As sick as your dad was this morning, he’s looking miles better. There’s colour in his cheeks, that isn’t green, and he’s standing up.

“Hey kid,” he greets cheerfully, “I’m feelin’ a helluva lot better so I was gonna go out and grab a bite to eat.”

The elevator is so quiet, the doors try to shut and Joel slams a hand against it, to keep it open. Your dad looks a little weirded out, but just smiles. “I’m glad you’re feeling better,” you manage to say, sounding like your lungs have been cut out of your chest.

In the few months that you and Joel have been “together” you haven’t been caught, or even close to being caught. This tan line on your tummy could have been the cat out of the bag, but thankfully your dad seems oblivious.

He steps into the elevator between you two, gently nodding at the elevator doors.

“Y’all gettin’ out? Both of y’look kinda sunfried,” your dad asks.

Joel manages to respond this time as the two of you hurriedly leave the confined space. -

He practically dragged you down the hallway and back to your room once the elevator doors shut, leaving your dad in the dark. Joel dumped all your stuff on the floor near the door, pushing you off him when you tried to kiss at him.

“Naw. Bed,” he had grumbled, making a vague gesture to your bed.

You both knew you had limited time, your dad would be gone for an hour tops. Joel had peeled off his shirt while you shimmied out of what little clothes you had on, your swimsuit coverup falling away easily.

Now, you lay on your back, and if you could look down, you would see the sweat that’s soaking his back and the mess of hair on his head.

But you can’t look down, you can barely move as is. Your legs, which are tossed over his shoulders, shiver, toes curled. You want to ask if he can breathe down there, but your voice keeps catching, repeating his name again and again. The bristles of his facial hair might be chafing, but everything is wet right now, your cunt, his face, your thighs. He’s suffocating in your flesh, opening his mouth to sloppily make out with your pussy, licking at your clit as he sucks it between his lips. It isn’t gentle, he’s fucking famished.

“Joel– Baby, please,” you manage to whimper. 

He probably can’t hear you with the headlock you’ve put him in, soft thighs trapping his ears. Joel’s face slides down further to push his tongue into you, making you clench and gush as his nose presses to your clit. Reaching your hand down, you lace your fingers against his curls, trying to pry him away, but he just won’t quit. Your fingers slip from his sweaty strands, slamming onto the sheets as he doesn’t let up.

“Missed you, missed her,” he rasps between kisses. 

Joel loves this, loves pleasing you. This isn’t submission, this is worship. He talks to your cunt like he knows her, like he’s dating her too. Gentle as he is, he knows where your aches and cricks are, knows how to massage them with his fingers and tongue. Joel takes care of you both, it’s what he lives for. 

“I know, I can feel it, I missed you too,” you babble, hands flagrant between his hair and the sheets.

He laughs softly into you, smiling. You tug him closer, grinding onto his nose as a tease. 

Joel focuses on bringing himself closer, arms snaking up beneath your ass to curl his hands around your thighs, fingers digging in as he pulls you closer. “Been so patient all week, need you t’come for me, please pretty thing?” He groans.

Nodding your head, you start to work with him. Again and again you roll your hips into his face. The two of you are fucking on borrowed time and Joel hastily promises you that he can take care of himself in the shower later, that he just needs to focus on you.

“Just need to taste you, remember your cunt in my mouth, please?” Joel asks.

You nod even faster now, huffing out air as your hips rise and he pulls you closer, tongue and teeth and nose buried in you. Every movement he makes begs for your release, begs for you to give him what he wants. His voice rumbles around your head, a voice encouraging this selfish feeling of pleasure.

“C’mon darlin, I’ve been waitin’ all week to have you. Let go for me, I’ve been patient.”

It sends you over, the mixture of Joel getting pussydrunk on you and the thoughts of him in your head. Your thighs lock around his head even harder, and he powers through without taking a breath for himself. Thoughts of times with him previous flash through your mind as you shiver, thoughts of what he’ll do to you once you’re both home make you gush. He laps it all up, his reward for being patient. 

When he pulls away, your essence is all over his face. Slicked through his facial hair and even on the tip of his nose, like tiramisu gelato. 

Unlike the gelato, you decide not to suck this cream off his nose.

Gently, you swipe a finger over his nose, cleaning it off with your own tongue.

“Thank you, baby,” you hum.

Joel manages to drag himself up your body, caging you beneath him while he smiles. Soft kisses are shared between the two of you, enjoying the peaceful moment where you’re finally, truly, alone. His moustache prickles your upper lip as he smiles and pulls away.

“Can give me your ‘thank you’s’ in a few days time, sweet girl.” He says, pulling himself down to kiss the 5 fingertips of the hand tan line he left.

Looking down at him as he kisses your belly, you hope you'll be exchanging thank you's for a very long time.

[luxurychristmaspudding]

Million Dollar Baby | FUTUREPROOF

prologue

summary: you're in la, and it's time to get this show on the road.

pairing: f!rockstar!reader x actor!joel

ratings/warnings: 18+, MDNI. one minor drug reference. reader has hair and can swim.

wc: 3.3k

an: for @schnarfer, my copilot, and @itsokbbygrl and @undercoverpena. thank you for your patience while i've yapped and not written about these two <3

dividers from the glorious @saradika-graphics

series masterlist | main masterlist | follow @pudding-notifs for updates!

The sunlight is warm, the breeze is mellow, and the bedsheets smell like home. 

Soft, so soft, cool against your warm limbs - every nudge of smooth linen cocooning your body against the waves of wakefulness. You stretch your legs - muscles loosening, mind empty - then your toes, and bury your face back into the pillow with a quiet grunt. 

Everything feels achy today. Just fatigued - cooped up on planes, huddled in the studio, hunched over a notebook in what Jack has fondly dubbed your ‘shrimp position’. But this feels good. Spreading your legs to starfish beneath the covers, breathing in the scent of your own shampoo, before shooting your arms to the headboard and pressing your palms against it. Sinew relaxes a little more, spine crackling. 

One eye winked open finds the room washed in gold, sheer curtains fluttering in the floor to ceiling windows, just obscuring the crest of the hills beyond the pool. 

You close your eyes again, breathing in deeply. Your tongue tastes sour, ashy - the only blot on the morning; a reminder of last night. The whirlwind of faces and places you’d been swept through by Eimear after leaving the studio, blurred into one soundscape while you were dreaming. 

You following her - a satin palm curled around your forearm, the gloss of her braids. Have you met…. Completely sober, brain ringing in your skull from ironing out kinks on the record, you’d made your excuses and escaped as quickly as possible from the glitteringly dark bar back to the house. Closed your eyes against the buzz of the Uber’s window, dragged yourself to the sofa, and shared a joint with Adie before hauling yourself to bed.

There’s a clench in your gut, a rumble. You groan, hunger creeping in, bubbling in your throat. You swing a hand away from the headboard, scrabbling about on the nightstand for your phone, squinting at the screen over the duvet. 

No missed calls. No urgent texts.

But at some point in your slumber, you’d snoozed your alarm.

You drop your face into the pillow again, mouthing a fuck into the cotton. Plans of eating at the café in the next neighbourhood over eviscerated by a fuzzier head. Again. 

You throw the covers off your legs, rubbing roughly at your face, and stand with a yawn. Pick up the pants and t-shirt you’d discarded on the floor last night, sling them over the chair in the corner of the room, and then move to retrieve your bikini from the balcony beyond the curtains.

A fine day out. Still warmer than you’re used to summer being, sun hot on your face even this early, but the view - the view. Spoiled by the label, high up enough to be away from the bustle, but close enough to watch the lights and the smog and the constant glimmer of dreams. 

You step back into the bedroom to tug and tie the swimsuit on before swinging open the door. The landing is quiet, empty. The same as you pad down to the kitchen. 

Everything is white, and where it’s not white, it’s glass and natural wood. It’s beautiful, it’s serene, and - as Eimear had said when you first arrived - very rock and roll. 

The wide, clean kitchen, marble-topped island stretched all the way across the space. Perfect for hosting. The sunken living room and its floating hearth. The rugs and the throws, the cushions, the potted plants, fading smell of incense. The bifold doors thrown back so you can step straight out to the patio and then the pool - sparkling, rippling in the morning sunlight. 

The doors Adie obviously hadn’t closed last night. The bottle of champagne he’d left open on the side. 

You give it a sniff as you walk past, deciding it isn’t worth it as you step towards the fridge instead. You pour a glass of orange juice and poke around for something else, grabbing a tub of mango you’d picked up yesterday. Croissants from the bread bin on the counter, then your sunglasses from where they sit next to the flowers Nick had sent you. 

The patio is hot underfoot, and you all but skip your way to one of the loungers set up by the edge of the pool, clutching your breakfast. You slide your sunglasses onto the bridge of your nose, settling cross-legged on the pale cushions. Orange juice cradled between your thighs, croissant and mango in front of you. 

Nick Walton, Hollywood’s newly heralded genius. You’d thought he’d be wanky at first - obnoxious, loud, demanding - but the man who had introduced himself to you months ago, who had joined you in the studio over the last week, was quiet, kind. A crooked smile, an asinine sense of humour. Ready and generous with praise and votes of confidence, gentle direction offered when needed. He’d been a dream to work with, so much so that the whole band had been quick to tell him they’d love to work together again - if he wanted to. And he did.

You savour the earthy sweetness in your mouth, rip a corner off the croissant. 

It was exciting. Being privy to such a project, being sent rough cuts and signing NDAs. It had been something to do on the road - a distraction from the songs you were playing every night, a challenge to fit to a brief. Something you, as a band, had never really done before. Working not just to convey a message, a feeling, but a place. A story beyond what you knew.

You lick the mango juice from your fingers, your wrist, swipe the crumbs from your lap. Finish your orange juice in great gulps, enjoying the coolness, the tartness. You wanted Nick to be confident he’d made the right choice. Confident that you respected his work, appreciated it, wanted to uplift it. 

The extravagant florals that had arrived before Eimear had whisked you away last night confirmed that. The only thing left now was to get the stamp of approval from Joel Miller - co-producer, leading man. 

So squeaky fucking clean you wonder whether the air around him sparkles.

You stand from the sunbed, reaching up, wiggling your fingers at the sky, before swooping low to touch your toes. Almost. You fold your sunglasses up next to your glass, leaving them to tiptoe around the edge of the pool. Moving to stand at the top of the tiled steps, up to your ankles in the water. Cool, cool, cool. The LA skyline stretched out ahead of you - concrete jungle sprawled under clear blue sky. 

Joel Miller somewhere out there, getting ready to gather his thoughts on the tracks. A big deal. Critically acclaimed films, Oscars and SAG Awards, nominations up the wazoo. Something lurches in your stomach, a familiar that has tread with you since the beginning. The doubt, the worry. The almost overwhelming expectation to disappoint. 

Maybe he won’t like you. Maybe he’s never liked your music. Maybe he’ll wear sunglasses the entire time and won’t speak.

Don’t be childish. You take a step deeper into the pool. 

Maybe he won’t.

Maybe he’ll be everything people say he is. Unfailingly polite, sweet. Humorous, if prone to a little grump now and again. Maybe he’s heard a few songs on the radio.

You take a step deeper.

Maybe he’ll be taller than you think. You know he’s handsome. Broad, strong. Greying curls, deep, sad eyes, full mouth and scruffy beard. He’d suited the cowboy get up in the cuts of Red Sky. Not that you ever thought about that when you’d crash in your hotel room at the end of a night. Or his hands. His thick fingers, or the bulge that strained against his low slung belt - 

You crouch, arms joined over your head. Feet anchored, pressure forced down as your legs extend and lift, arcing towards the water. 

The dive sweeps the remnants of sleep, worries, thoughts of Joel Miller away. The water fills the conches of your ears, softening sound. You close your eyes, lost to the peace of the dark. Coolness slips past, greases joints, cradles you gently. You kick and pull until your lungs strain, pushing one foot off the floor to pop back up to the surface, wiping chlorine from your eyes, your lips. 

You look back over the city, treading water, before turning to face the house. Much bigger than it needs to be - but pretty and green. There are plants everywhere - trees and flowers, grass to your right. Sweet honeysuckle on the breeze, musk of heated tarmac. 

You tip your head back, and your body follows. Sound muffled again, you blink your eyes open to look up into the blue. Endless. You search for birds, letting it calm you - how small you really are. How, no matter how many people gather in crowds, there are more who simply couldn’t give less of a fuck about who you are. 

It doesn’t matter if Joel Miller is one of them. 

You swim a few leisurely laps before pulling yourself out and wrapping a discarded towel around your shoulders, drying off just enough to come back inside the house. You’re brewing coffee when Adie emerges - freshly showered, shirt only buttoned halfway, sunglasses on.

You smirk at him, and he flips you off, wincing as he takes a seat at the island. He rests his head in his hands.

“Morning, rockstar,” you beam, pouring the drink into mugs, and he grunts in response. 

You scrub a rough hand over his buzzcut, and he grumbles out a low “Fuck off,” voice low and raspy.

You snicker, placing a steaming cup beneath his hanging head. He’s always suffered the worst with hangovers, unaided by the five years he has on the rest of you. 

“Come on, dude,” you grin, sliding onto the seat next to him, rivulets of pool water trickling down your back. “You’ve gotta look sprightly. You’re seeing George today, right?”

“He’s seen me worse,” he grumbles, taking a sip. He pulls his sunglasses down his nose just enough to give you a once over. “Aren’t you seeing Nick?”

You nod, blowing steam away from your cup.

“And Joel.”

“Joel,” Adie repeats, like he’s rolling the name around his mouth. “Still want to do disgusting things to him?”

You pull a face, knocking his shoulder, and he clutches his stomach with a groan.

“Ew, Adie.”

“Don’t move me,” he gasps, “I’m not at my best.”

“Yeah, no shit,” you snipe, eyeing him over your coffee. He glances back at you once he’s taken a couple of deep breaths.

“Well? Do you?”

You wrinkle your nose at him.

“Obviously, asshole.”

He shrugs, a slow smile stretching his mouth as he curls himself over the counter. You giggle, an embarrassed little sound, and he snorts into his coffee, choking, spraying it over the marble and your arm. You howl at him - Oh, gross, dude - and then you’re cackling together, something like excitement finally rising in your gut. This is your best friend, this is the dream. And this is part of the cycle - tour, crash, doubt, do it again. You swipe your hand down your arm, holding it out to wipe on his shirt. He catches your wrist before you can, twisting so the silk is as far away from you as possible.

“Absolutely not,” he says, grappling with you, “If I have to go upstairs to change, I will literally never make it back down.”

You give up easily, knocking your forehead against his shoulder, still giggling. He smells like Adie. He smells like home.

“You, on the other hand,” he continues, pushing your head back roughly with his palm, “Could definitely do with a shower. If only for the one and only Mr Mi-”

You flick his ear, and he crows at you -

“Bastard! I’ll find some other wanker to sing!”

- as you take off, dancing around the island, edging towards the stairs.

You put your hands on your hips, tongue in cheek.

“I knew you never liked me - y’know, you were always much more made for the attention -”

“Shut the fuck uuup,” he groans, rolling his eyes, “I love you forever, kisses, kisses, whatever the fuck. Shower,” he says, levelling a finger at you.

You bite your lip against your smile.

“Will you be gone when I’m ready?”

He nods, making to cross himself. You snort again.

“God willing.”

“Alright. Have fun. Give George my love. Make sure Cam’s got nothing in his teeth.”

He smiles, all mischief, all genuine affection.

“Will do, bud. You too. Knock ‘em dead.”

You blow him a kiss as you begin to ascend the steps, and he feigns a swing to bat it away.

“Save them for Joel!”

You flash him the finger, and his cackle is the answer to your ringing -

“Fuck you, Gilman!”

Her voice is sweet, gentle down the phone. It makes his chest tighten a little, nails dig into his palms. I miss you.

“Dad, you’ll be fine,” Sarah sighs, breath of air shooting through the line. If he closes his eyes, he can see her smile. Knowing, placating. Hundreds of miles away, back in Texas for college. Sick of LA ever since they moved here.

Sometimes, Joel reckons she had the right idea.

“You’ve worked with way more intimidating people. And from what Nick’s said, she seems really nice.”

He grunts, swiping a hand across his face, scratching at his beard. She’s right.

“I know. Jus’ want it to go well. Feel like I know nothin’ about it, just gon’ be sittin’ there -”

“Dad,” she groans, “Chill out. Pick something you remember about the lyrics. Say something about the drums or melodies. Get a selfie for Ellie. That’s all you need to do. Anything else is a bonus.”

Joel casts a glance over at Ellie - all limbs sat at the kitchen counter, munching on cereal, earbuds in. 

“Okay. Alright.”

There’s quiet for a moment, and he cringes at how well she can read him.

“Sure?” She checks. He clears his throat, nodding.

“Yeah. It’ll be fine.”

He can hear her smile again.

“It will. Right, I gotta go. Call me later, I want all the details.”

He chuckles, kneading his forehead.

“I will. I love you, baby girl.”

“Love you too, Dad.”

The line cuts, three beeps, and he turns his attention back to Ellie. Takes a moment to watch her head bopping, her foot tapping, before waving an arm around until she takes an earbud out.

“Ready to go, kiddo?”

She swallows comically, giving him a thumbs up before leaping off her seat, crossing the kitchen to deposit her bowl in the sink. 

“Yup. Are you driving?” She asks, crossing back over to the foyer, eyeing the keys in the blue dish by the door.

“Sure am,” he grins, taking her bowl from the sink and stacking it in the dishwasher. She rolls her eyes, jamming a foot into a shoe. “Precious cargo.”

“Joel,” she groans, standing, “I am seventeen years old -”

“Ah,” he chuckles, clapping her on the back, opening the front door. “Still my kid. Let’s go.”

She’s watching him. 

He can see how her eyes keep flicking this way in his periphery, her smirk from the passenger seat as he taps his thumbs on the steering wheel, chewing his cheek.

“Are you nervous?” 

His eyes find hers, crinkled with a smile, warmth hidden behind the mirth. A depth of understanding that goes beyond her years.

He shrugs.

“Is it obvious?”

She looks out the windscreen, avoiding his eye, but he can still see the downwards tip of her mouth as she tries to hide her amusement.

“No.”

He grinds his jaw, feeling the beginnings of a flush crawl up his neck.

“You know,” Ellie says, turning to face him again, “She’s supposed to be really cool. Nice. They all are, even if you don’t meet the whole band. Forget about anything else you might’ve heard. And - she’s just a person. It doesn’t matter if you don’t sound like you know enough. It’s not your job.”

A single eyebrow climbs up his forehead.

“You heard that, huh?”

This time, she does smile.

“Relax,” she says, “And if you screw it up, at least get that selfie for me.”

He chuckles, eyes scanning back out over the road. Traffic, people, lights turning red to green.

“I’ll do my best.”

He doesn’t want to tell her how he stayed up late last night watching your interviews. Doesn’t want her to know how he watched the Wired Autocomplete video three times - because you’re funny. Smart and sharp, and private. He appreciates that. Knows you must have worked hard to reach a point where others have so many questions. 

Doesn’t want her to know how he then went on to watch live performances, songs recorded in front of thousands of people. Wishing he’d paid better attention when she’d shown him before. Covers sung in live lounges, radio appearances - one by Sabrina Carpenter that’s been everywhere lately, another about orange blossoms, before finding his favourite. Just you, strumming a guitar - something rare in all the other footage he’d watched. Lover, You Should've Come Over.

How he’d then tapped out your name on Instagram, scrolling back through weeks of posts. Photoshoots, festivals, tour, magazine covers. Stumbled across edits, something Sarah had taught him about. Videos, compilations of you that made his face heat with shame, his heart beat faster. He’d thought he was above it all - within the same stratosphere, unaffected by such things. But he’d been proven wrong. Taken in by your voice, your words. How you looked in that dress, the sliver of stomach exposed on stage. Your doe eyes in the dark of a bathtub, a shoot for Vanity Fair.

He’s really realised, perhaps for the first time, that Ellie is right. Ellie, who’d had your posters up in her room until a year ago. Ellie, who Sarah had taken to your gig at the Staples Center. Ellie, who’d been playing your music - loud - ever since she’d first found it. Music which, he knows now, he also loves.

You are cool - so fucking cool, so fucking beautiful. Accomplished, respected, talented. And now he’s noticed the colour of your eyes, the curve of your lips, the ease with which you perform. The way you move, how electric you are.

And he’s going to be so out of his depth.

He pulls up just down the street from her school, slow halt of tires on tarmac, watching the throng of students cross the road. A jumble of bags moving along the sidewalk, and when they part, he watches Ellie grin as Dina looks up from her phone to wave at the two of them. 

His daughter grabs the backpack by her feet before leaning over to kiss his cheek. He tries to smile.

“You’ve got this,” she whispers, a gentle hand on his arm. She smiles back as she pops open the door and scooches out. “Remember, selfie - and if Vic is there, tell her I’m single -”

“I’m right here,” Dina laughs from over her shoulder, giving Ellie a playful shove. Joel chuckles, returning her yelled Morning, Mr Miller. Ellie shrugs.

“Okay, tell her nothing. I just think she’s cool,” she winks, closing the door with a soft thud before throwing an arm around her girlfriend, chatting away to her as they disappear into the crowd of teenagers. 

Joel waits until he can no longer see them before checking his flush in the rearview mirror. When he’s satisfied he looks close to normal, not nervous, he takes a deep breath and pulls off. 

There’s someone he has to meet.

[kissforyouu]

making a sanrio bento box for your boyfriend ! ♡

pairing : jungkook x sanrio girl!oc

genre : fluff

a/n : happy new year!! hope you guys have a wonderful year ahead ❤️

i wanna know, know, know, know,

what is love?! ♡ !! (๛ ˘ ³˘)۶

you were so excited. so excited that you could run a marathon, have a dance battle, binge watch 10 dramas and study a whole semester in one night. you have all the energy in the world right now.

for the past 2 weeks, all you've been seeing on the tiktok is women making cute little bento boxes for their partners. and you just KNEW that you had to make one for your boyfriend. it's a must. they looked so freaking out your heart literally fluttered at the mere thought of making one for your boyfriend and seeing his reaction.

so now here you were, in front of your kitchen island, preparing your boyfriend's lunch box. the box was just plain steel (boring!) with no design or anything else. it suits jungkook. but you were gonna personalise it according to your likings. you don't think jungkook would get mad anyways. he'd find it rather cute.

currently, you were placing all the tiny fried shrimp in the lunchbox, also making sure to pin cute hello kitty and flower toothpicks on it. you also put a little mini container with some sauce in. for the main proportion, you decided to just make a cute hello kitty sandwich. truth is, jungkook was just going to his aunt's house to see his little cousin. a lunch box wasn't even necessary, but you wanted to do it anyway. you made sure to make it look extra cute so that jungkook's cousins would want a bite too!

closing the sandwich and placing it inside, you also sprinkle some rainbow sprinkles around the sandwich. oh my god, so cute! (you want to eat it now)

the lunchbox was turning out pretty cute and really really pretty. there were flower shaped dragon fruit inside alongside another small container of sprinkles and raspberries.

you're having so much fun by just cutting these fruits into little shapes.

"AH!" you let out a big scream, you're startled. obviously there's only one culprit. jungkook. he pinched your waist.

"baby, what is wrong with you?" you send him a small glare, turning back to continue your work.

"what's this?" jungkook takes a step further to stand next to you, his head hovering over yours to look at the food.

"ugh, i wanted to surprise you with this." you pout, leaning your head towards jungkook's shoulders. he snorts, humming.

"it's fine, i like seeing you cook anyway."

"it's already cooked! i'm just putting it all together!" you whine, completely annoyed by his sudden appearance.

"tssk, come on, baby." jungkook leans forward to rest his forearms on the table, head turned to you. he tries to sneakily sneak a piece of dragon fruit in his mouth but fails. laughing out, he still munches on the fruit, making your eyebrows frown.

"jungkook! you're so annoying!" your lips formed to a big fat pout, eyebrows raised as you playfully slapped jungkook's back.

it was clear to jungkook that you just wanted to surprise him with the bento box and that he ruined all of your plans by checking on you. but it was so cute. he was watching you from afar earlier, finding it completely endearing and adorable how you were so focused and just in your little bubble. he was so in love.

"no, you love me." he teases back.

"no, i hate you. you're a very annoying man." you roll your eyes, going back to your work while jungkook snickers.

"that's not what you say in bed though. oh my god, jungkook! i'm yours! i wanna cum!" he snickers.

"hey!" you slap his back again. jungkook dramatically clutches his heart, making exaggerated noises. "don't do that." you glare.

"yes, ma'am."

he couldn't help but smile, enjoying this sweet moment to the fullest. for the rest of the time, jungkook stays fully quiet, just letting you have your fun meanwhile he's just admiring you. here and there, he would sneak his arm around your waist to tickle you a little and make you shriek or rub your ass a little.

currently, he had his chin on your shoulder, arms on each side of you on the table. you were taking an awfully long time finishing off this little lunchbox.

"done yet?" he groans. you hum a small no. jungkook whines back.

"i'm finishing off the last bit, wait."

jungkook nods, letting go of your body and sitting on the table instead, right next to the lunchbox.

"you look so pretty." he coos, the tip of his toes poking your waist.

"ew! get your dogs away, jungkook!" you can't help but giggle as you poke his feet.

"no, they wanna touch you. my toes love you sooo much."

"ewwww, i didn't know you liked feet!" you laugh.

"yeah? wanna try it out next time?" he jokes.

"no! what the fuck?! that's nasty!" your face turns sour, vigoursly shaking your head from side to side.

"joking! joking!" he pokes his tongue out.

"very funny. but anyways, i'm done." you hold out cute bento box for him to see with a bright smile on your face.

jungkook giggles, jumping off the table and bringing you into a hug. you place the bento box on the table and hug him back, letting the big man make you completely disappear in his embrace.

"thank you, i love you." he kisses the side of your head, then temple.

"hey!" you grab the collar of his hoodie before he pulls away, then point at your lips.

he scrunches his nose in reaction to your actions, "of course."

your body pulls you closer by holding your face with both his hands, connecting your lips for a sweet kiss.

"oh my god, i forgot something!" you mumble in the middle of the kiss. jungkook pulls away, letting you wander off to wherever again. you run to your room, pulling out one of your pink sticky notes and a pen.

"what're you doing?" your boyfriend trails behind you, curious to see what you were doing.

"i'm writing you a note."

"lemme see." he places his hands on your hips to have a peek but you quickly shoo him away.

"read it when you eat it."

"but—"

"anyways, i'm done." you interrupt the poor man. he opens his mouth to say something, but stops. instead, he ruffles your hair.

once you're done assembling everything together, and also folding the sticky paper and making a heart out of it, you wrap everything in a serviette and hand it over to jungkook.

"okay, byebye. eat it with your cousin, okay? tell him i missed him!" you pat his cheek.

"of course, baby. bye, i love you." he kisses your lips one more time with a small squeeze to your waist.

-‘๑’-

"kookie!" jungkook's cousin jumps on his back, super excited that his very much older brother is back to see him again.

"hey, buddy!" he squeezes him in his embrace, delivering a small kiss to the child's cheek.

"you wanna eat something?" he playfully punches the kid in the stomach.

"yeah!"

"you remember y/n? she made this for us. you know, she told me to tell you that she missed you."

"yes, kookie! the pretty lady you brought with you." the tips of the little boy's ears turn into a deep shade of pink at the thought of you. once jungkook notices this, he laughs, pinching the little boy's ear.

"you like her?"

"y‐yeah..." he shyly admits.

"okay, i'll bring her with me next time, hm?"

the kid's eyes instantly lit up as he excitedly jumps up, arms in the air.

"let's eat this for now."

the little note you wrote had been in jungkook's mind the entire ride and he's so eager to finally open the food up and read what you wrote. sure, it was just a small note. but jungkook loved these kind of things. it was the little actions that mattered the most to him. he loved it whenever you showed your love through little things like this. it was so much more than just little for him.

once the little starts to happily munch of some of the fruit, jungkook quickly picks up the little note. he carefully opens it up, excited. it amazed him how he would get excited over the smallest things you'd do.

once he reads the notes, he swears he's never been more in love. there's a big fat smile on his face.

✉⤷ you're the only one for me. ♡

-‘๑’-

taglist : @fungie2332 @wintertxt @wheexine @hyunjinswifeee @ohsweetmimosa @canyon-lwt

[delulu-baddie]

 girl in the mirror

a/n the song uses a male figure as the focus just ignore that :)

summary you and paige have another fight which leads to the end of your relationship

warnings some swearing and slightly suggestive content

pairing paige bueckers x reader

Based on the song 'Girl In the Mirror" by Megan Moroney

Part 2

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The girl in the mirror

She's lost her damn mind

She's gotten too used to

Cryin' all the time

I'm not sure how our relationship ended up where it is right now. Everything started off so well, dates every weekend and never wanting to be away from each other turned into rain checks and not even wanting to sleep next to one another. Here I was again crying alone in our shared apartment after yet another argument with my girlfriend.

He puts her down

She puts him pedestal high

The girl in the mirror

She's lost her damn mind

The night started off so well, Paige and I had finally found a day that worked for both of us to go out like we used to. I wore her favorite dress of mine and she had even got me a new necklace to accessorize with.

“Hey baby, im almost done I just need to put on some lipstick” I said looking at Paige who had just walked into the bathroom through the mirror. “ No rush, I just wanted to come give you something before we head out” she replied, grabbing my waist and turning me around to face her. I was met with those dazzling blue eyes and the smile that never fails to warm my heart, “what is it?” I asked her, smiling back and wrapping my arms around her neck. She pulls out a small black box and opens it revealing a gold necklace with a small plate that had the word ‘forever’ engraved in it with our anniversary on the back. I gasped immediately hugging her “Oh my gosh it's beautiful” I quickly let out, “glad you like it” she responded with a slight chuckle, “I love it” i said correcting her, “here let me put it on you”. I turned around so that she could get it on easier running my fingers over the engraving on the front. I gave her a peck on the lips and told her I'd be done in just a second and we could head out after that. 

We arrive at the restaurant and get seated fairly quickly before being greeted by our waitress. She was pretty and wasn't wearing much makeup, from what could tell she also had an obvious liking towards Paige. “Hi my name is Morgan, i'll be taking care of you guys tonight, how are you guys doing” she asked smiling, but staring at my girlfriend  we both said a quick good before starting to tell her what we wanted “I'll take the chicken alfredo'' I told her she grinned and wrote it down on the pad before turning to page with a smirk continuing to ask “And for you gorgeous?” . The comment caught me off guard, but the night was going so well, it wasn’t worth the headache of bringing it up. “Um I'll take the shrimp scampi,” Paige answered, unphased by the compliment. She told us that she would be back shortly with our orders once again making googly eyes at Paige. Of course with the popularity, I was used to other girls making comments about my girlfriend but none of them were ever made in front of me up until now and it made me feel uneasy, but nevertheless I still ignored bringing up the comment. 

We got our food and made light conversation about school and Paige's excitement to finally be back on the court this season. After about an hour it was time for us to get our check and head back home, I stepped away to the bathroom. What I didn't see was our waitress Morgan take advantage of my absence and leave Paige a note with the check.

He just walked out and she's standing right here

She loves the boy more than she loves the girl in the mirror

The girl in the mirror used to know who she was

Now she's up wondering why she's not enough

When we got home Paige immediately pulled me into a heavy kiss and things started getting heated very fast, that's until the receipt from tonight's dinner fell out of her pocket with a phone number and “just in case you get bored” scribbled on the back of it. I didn't know what I was more shocked about, the fact that she had the balls to give that to someone who was clearly taken or the fact that my girlfriend had kept it. I grab the paper before Paige can even though she did try “What the fuck is this?” I asked with an angry feeling I'm starting to get to know too well. “It's nothing” she said defensively, “Really, because it looks like you were planning to take up up the offer to use this phone number for a booty call, I knew she was giving off bad vibes. I should've never left that table.” I shot back. “Chill out, I didn’t even notice it” she said, “Oh please save the lies Paige you and I both know that's not true. What were you going to wait for us to get in another fight and go fuck her while I'm at home crying my eyes out” I replied with my eyes getting watery “well it would be nice to have someone to fuck, we haven't had sex in weeks, all you do is find something new to be insecure about and then cry because I don't want to hear you nag in my ear. Gosh y/n you're so freaking annoying sometimes I swear” she shouted, grabbing her keys and walking out the front door slamming it shut. Is that really what she thought of me, was I  just a placeholder until she found someone else just so she wasn't alone. I stood there for a second taking in what just happened and then decided to go get ready for bed, i wasn't going to spend my night crying even though it's all I really wanted to do.

She's wearing the dress that I wore out tonight

I'm the girl in the mirror, that's why

She looks just like me but I don't recognize her

She's got the same eyes but they're heavy and tired

I walk into the bathroom and look at myself in the mirror trying to take in the person I've become. I constantly look tired from the lack of sleep, I’m breaking out from the stress of fighting so much , I don't think I can take it anymore.I don't even recognize myself anymore. I used to be so happy and vibrant, now you can see the light in my eyes slowly dimming. I didn’t see what my friends were talking about until now. I'm fighting for a relationship that only one of us wants and it's becoming clear that I love Paige more than she loves me and honestly more than I love myself.

Why it didn't work, well, it's perfectly clear

That reflection was enough for me to realize that I can't do this anymore. I can't stay here wondering if she's okay all night and then have her crawl into our bed in the early hours of the morning and act like nothing happened until we get into another argument. I need to put myself first. So here I was packing a bag to go stay with my best friend for a while until I can find a new place to live and start over. I need this, we both do. We're turning into the worst versions of ourselves and as much as this hurts it's a must if either of us ever want to be happy again. I finish grabbing my last bit of stuff from the bathroom and look up in the mirror one more time catching a glimpse of the necklace she gave me tonight. It's ironic that the night she said we'd be forever turned out to be our last. I took it off  closing the clamp and went to sit it on the nightstand by her side of the bed. Finally with that I'm off to start a new chapter of my life, I grab my keys walking out of what's now just her apartment, i’ll come back to get the rest of my belongings, but this was needed, I'm making the right choice for both of us.

I loved the boy more than I love the girl in the mirror

You can't love the boy more than you love the girl in the mirror

[shaykappa]

Favourite/Funniest Line's from Crooked Kingdom

"Let's go." "Me?" "No the idiot behind you."

"How is-" "Nina is fine. Jesper is fine. Everyone is fine except for me because I am stuck with a gang of hand-wringing nursemaids."

"Now why can't people be this easily trained?" Kaz murmured as he crouched to oblige the dog with a belly rub.

"Did you know I am next in line for the Fjerdan throne? They call me Princess Ilse of Engelsberg." "There is no princess of Engelsberg. It's a fishing town."

"Has anyone noticed this whole city is looking for us, mad at us, or wants to kill us?" "So?" "Well, usually it's just half the city."

"Big, blond and blind. The Fjerdan way."

"If I live I'll buy you waffles." "You don't have enough money to buy her waffles."

"Do you know what Van Eck's problem is?" "No honor?" "Rotten parenting skills?" "Receding hairline?"

"Isn't that how things are done around here? We all tell Kaz we are fine and the do something stupid?" "Are we that predictable?" "Yes."

"It seems everyone is forming alliances." "They're called friendships Kaz."

"You are very welcome Nina Zenik. You may repay me in the costumary way." "Waffles?" "Lots of them."

"I need to do this. I've never been to my mother's grave. I am not leaving Kerch without saying goodbye." "Trust me, you care more than she does."

"You are stupid about a lot of things Wylan, but you are not stupid. And if I ever hear you call yourself a moron again, I am going to tell Matthias you tried to kiss Nina. With tongue." "He' ll never believe it." "Then I 'll tell Nina you tried to kiss Matthias. With tongue."

"Come on, let's do steal all my dad's money. "Isn't it your money?" "Okay, let's go steal it back."

"I think you 'd flirt with a date palm if it would pay you any attention." "If I flirted with a plant, you can bet it would stand up and take notice."

"Yes, yes, Nina Zenik is hungry. Now, will someone feed me before I am forced to cook one of you?" "Don't be ridiculous. You don't know how to cook."

"On a dare I ate a literal through full of waffles and nearly went back for seconds."

"Pick up the pace." "If I spill a single drop of this it will burn straight through the floor onto my father's dinner guests." "Take your time."

"I am Dunyasha, the White Blade, trained by the Sages of Ahmrat Jen, the greatest assassin of this age." "Doesn't ring a bell."

"Fate brought me here." "And does fate pay your wages?"

"My parents thought I would drown because I crawled into the sea as a baby, laughing." "Perhaps they were worried you would talk yourself to death."

"Kaz. You may not be glad we are alive, but we are glad you are alive."

"You are better than waffles, Matthias Helvar." "Let's not say things we don't mean, my love."

"Are you mad?" "I'd probably be happier if I was."

"You have to be the craziest bastard I ever met." "I'll take that as a compliment."

"My leg! My leg!" "I recommend a cane."

"What is wrong with him?" "Same thing that's always wrong with him. He's Kaz Brekker."

Jesper followed Wylan down the hall. "Hey." Wylan kept going.

"Jes, I 've thought about this-" "Thought of me? Late at night? What was I wearing?"

Wylan ran his tongue over his lips and spat in his father's face.

He was pale, with tufty orange brows and a hunched posture that gave him the look of a giant shrimp.

He felt bad for the guy. Not bad enough to wake him up and untie him, but still.

"I 've been shot!" He had not been shot.

"How about I push you in the canal and we see if you know how to swim?"

"Tell you what. When the day comes, mark it on your calendars. I can think of a lot of people who 'll want to throw a party.

"Wait. Is my tie straight?"

[cinnamon-girl-writes]

dinner dates ! jjk x reader series pt .1

by @cinnamon-girl-writes

featuring: yuuji, gojo, megumi, inumaki

yuuji itadori:

yuuji would defintely take you to a hibachi grill

you’re wearing a baby pink sundress with cherry blossoms on it and he’s wearing a white button down shirt and black slacks cause he wanted to dress up for his girl !!

he thinks it’s really cool how they cook the food in front of you and he likes the entertainment

definetly orders a bunch of other dishes for you guys to share (boy where tf are you getting that money from???)

actually. he saved up all his money so he can take you out for a really nice dinner 🥺 he loves you so much and he just wants you to feel special and beautiful

he orders pork gyoza and tempura shrimp for you guys to share 😈

if it’s your birthday yuuji would ABSOLUTELY tell the cook and have the restaurant sing you happy birthday

then he records it and posts it on his instagram story because he’s just so proud of his girl 💗

if the restaurant has a koi pond he will absolutely LOVE it

afterwards 90% of his camera roll will be pictures of the fish (the other 10% is you)

would be like ‘babe they’re so pretty 😚’ and y’all would spend like twenty minutes just looking at the fish

not that you mind because you love to see your sunshine boy happy and you like the fish too

he would definetly toss coins in the pond with you and be like ‘babe let’s make a wish to be together forever at the same time 🥰’

you would do it of course and he would be over the moon

makes you pose by the fountain and takes pictures of you because his girl is just so pretty, how could he not?? :)

afterwards you guys go get dessert at a cute lil cafe and he gushes about how much he loves you <333

gojo satoru:

you know this man would take you to the most fancy expensive restaurant just because he can

he forgot to tell you so one night at six thirty he’s just like get ready 😏 and you’re like wtf

he orders a taxi (read: nanami) because he can’t drive :/

when you get there there he tells the waiter the name and y’all go sit down at a private table in the back of the restaurant with a really pretty view of the city

the waiter brings out a bottle of red wine and pours it for you while you and satoru chat

when i tell you that he orders so much sushi-

the waiters have brought out a platter of (probably) every type of sushi that the restaurant serves

also his favorite type of sushi roll is shrimp tempura roll I don’t make the rules

he sees a plate of onigiri in front of him and he’s like ‘aww inumaki 🥺’

please he loves his students so much it’s so sweet

you both eat a bunch of it until you’re feeling super full

then he’s like ‘okay babe what do you want to order??’

and you’re like 🙂what

he’s like ‘baby that was just the hors d'oeuvres 😣’

he makes you order a main dish because ‘it’s okay you’ll be hungry again 😙’

you order some miso ramen and he gets a steak

it’s actually really food and you’re glad you had werem’t too full for it

satoru definetly feeds you some of his food from across the table

afterwards, the two of you walk around the streets for a little bit and get some matcha ice cream to finish the night off ✨

megumi fushiguro:

i think that, instead of a restaurant, megumi takes you around the city for street food because you’ve never really explored the city before

it’s absolutely lovely; the weather is nice, it’s not too busy, and it distracts the two of you from being jujutsu sorcerers

you find a street vendor that sells korokke so that’s what you eat first

you see a souvenir shop down the street, so you decide to go in there and get some cute little gifts for your friends 😌

megumi finds a silly pair of tourist sunglasses that he thinks itadori will like and you get nobara a blue scarf decorated with little animals

as you exit the shop, you start to feel hungry again so the two of you decide on yakisoba and it’s delicious 😈

the two of you walk for a while together, hand in hand until you see a stand that sells mochi

you insist to megumi that you have to bring some back for gojo: ‘come on megs, he would love it! especially from you’ ‘he can buy his own food 🙄‘

of course you eventually convince him and gojo loved the sentiment (and the food)

you guys end the night back in his room, cuddling and watching a movie 💜

toge inumaki:

okay so inumaki totally takes you to one of those cute animal restaurants

i’m gonna go with he takes you to a pig cafe <3 and omg they’re so adorable!!

he bought you guys matching hoodies when you started dating so y’all are wearing those 🥺

also i headcanon that inumaki has a really cute instagram that he keeps up with so of course he’d take you to a spot where he could take lots of pictures of his girl <3 and baby pigs ofc

you guys order ramen and sushi and the food is really good! :)

the restaurant has a huge glass wall so you get a really pretty view of the mountains

the vibe in the restaurant is also really nice, there’s chill ambient music playing in the background which reminds you of him 🥺

he thinks you look so cute (and you do ofc)

he can’t really talk about it with you because of his technique so he has his notes app open to type you messages 🥺

he gives you so many forehead and palm kisses so that he makes sure you know how much he loves you 🥺 poor boy it absolutely whipped for you

speaking of being whipped, he also tediously makes sure you’ve eaten enough and that you’re liking our food 

he’ll 100% share his food with you either way, he loves the feeling that he’s taking care of you 

afterwards you guys go get boba tea before you go back to jujutsu high and he walks you back to your room to kiss you goodnight 🥺

[itsbackwoodsbby]

His Favorite

Trevante Rhodes x Black Fem Reader

Warning: Religion! Recreational Drinking! Smut! Protected Sex! Stripper!

Summary: Trevante's favorite stripper is out of work for a while and has no one as a replacement. You decide that you want to be his favorite. Not just for the night. His forever replacement.

Sunday, he’s always in the church. In the front row, he is watching his dad preach about how wonderful God is. But even saints need to let loose and be wild. On the weekdays and Saturdays, you can catch him at Pink Paradise, the best strip club in the city. He comes in and gives a few dancers money, and once he gets hungry, he’ll go to the bar and order something. When his army friends come with him, he orders hot lemon pepper wings and Hennesy. He orders a small appetizer and a soft drink when he's by himself. Depending on whether his favorite chef is in the kitchen, which is a rare occasion, he’ll order shrimp and fries with lemon on the side.

Then he’ll come to find his favorite dancer to get a lap dance from. She’ll take him to the back and give him the dance of his life. When he pays extra, she opens her throat for him. It’s not the best, but what is a recently honorable discharged army man with no wife supposed to do?

It’s Sunday, you sit down in the church, running a tad bit late. You had a late shift last night, but you’ll be damned if you missed church. You see him in the front as usual as you listen to the pastor talk about how God will make a way out of no way. Then, it shifts to him congratulating and thanking his son for his time in the service. He then calls him up to stand next to him.

“Trevante, son. I love you. I’m so proud of your accomplishments in the service. God has blessed you and worked on you. Because you know you used to be a handful. Boy, you used to give me hell.” Pastor Rhodes says. Everyone laughs at that comment. “But you grew up an amazing strong-minded, young man. You know how to stir away from temptations because the army gave you a new mindset.”

The statement makes you giggle. Stir away? Please! It’s Praise Pussy Sunday tonight at Pink Paradise and you know you’ll see him tonight. And his favorite dancer is out with the flu, so you’re going to be his replacement tonight. Hopefully, you just be his new favorite forever. 

Around 9 pm, you get ready to go to work. You shower and put on something comfortable and easy to take off so you can put on your work outfit. You pack your work bag with two extra outfits, lotions, perfume, wipes, two mini bottles of Crown Royal, makeup, deodorant, and gum. You head to your pole room, grab your money bag, and empty out the cash from Saturday night. You quickly count it and you see you made $659 that night. 

You go to your car and you head to Pink Paradise. You look in the parking lot to see if you see Trevante’s car. You know he's here when you see that black 2023 Corvette with the top down. You walk inside the club. It’s packed as usual on Praise Pussy Sunday. You see the girls in outfits. Some of them dressed as nuns, priests, and other sexy holy things. You go to the locker room. As you maneuver through semi-naked women and bare-naked women, you can hear that Trevante is the talk of the room. You can hear the other girls murmur amongst themselves. “Yo, Kream is gone. And I saw Trevante in the crowd tonight. I love Kream, but I want Trevante to myself. You don’t say anything, you just get dressed. If you say anything about wanting Trevante, the girls will eat you up. You recently started stripping, so they call you a baby stripper. It’s best to stay silent, but you have to prove that you have more experience than an actual baby stripper. As you do your makeup, you take one of the bottles of Crown Royal to calm your nerves down. The club’s atmosphere usually is laidback, but you have to know what you’re doing. If you don’t, you’ll barely get anything and it’s very hard to come back after making a fool of yourself. One by one, the girls dance and you patiently wait until your turn. You have a special performance under your sleeve. 

You peek out the curtain to observe the room. It is sort of blurry from the haze of people smoking weed. You look around until you spot Trevante. He is talking to his friends in a booth, fucking up those hot lemon pepper wings. You keep that spot in your mind for your performance. As To My Bed by Chris Brown comes on, you feel the crowd's laughing and talking fade in the background as the lights dim. You walk out slowly and sway your hips to the melody. Everyone is focusing on your body, but your main focus is just to get his eyes on you and it is clear he is just as entranced by you. Your movements are slow and sensual, but you feel no shyness on stage. 

You are a natural at this. Your hips grind to the song, slowly making their way towards him, watching him react to each move. You reach the pole, tracing a circle around its base. The beat drops, and you take hold of the pole and begin to slide down it slowly. You swayed your hips in a slow circle, teasing the crowd but keeping the focus on Trevante. As you slide down the pole, you lean forward and let your body rest against it, teasing your body shape just enough to create the desired effect. The crowd yelled out their approval, but you couldn't keep your eyes off the one man in the booth. Everyone is throwing money and your other dancing peers are shocked that you have this talent in you.

After your dance, you go into the locker room and use your baby wipes to get the sweat. The girls are hyping you up as you’re changing into your second outfit for the night. After that, you walk around the club. Customers are giving you tips and complimenting you. You go to the bar to get a drink and you’re about to pay when Trevante stops you and says he will pay instead. He smiles at you and you see he is wearing his grillz. You almost faint as you look at the shine. You would honestly let him take you down right now in front of these people, but you have to have some decorum. You two sit at the bar.

“Can I get what the lady got?” He asks the bartender, who starts making the drink again. You take a baby sip of the drink. “Thank you for paying,” You smile at him. “You’re welcome. You were amazing.” He says to you biting his lips. “I ain’t never seen you before. You must have recently started working here.” He asks you. “Yeah. I started working here a few weeks ago.” You smile. “Thanks, I try when it comes to dancing.” You say, trying not to sound too cocky, but you are proud of yourself. “Say, do you know where Kream is?” He asks you with a curious look on his face. “Oh, she is going to be out for a few. But, I can always help with your Pink Paradise needs.” You smile at him. He smirks, “Oh, a newbie can help me? He laughs at your smile drops from your face when you hear the word, newbie. “I’m just playing. Show me what you got.” 

You take his hand and walk him to the back. As you’re walking back there, some of the bitter girls are mad. They try to stop you from giving him a dance. “Trevante, what about Kream? She wouldn't like that her replacement is a baby stripper.” They say to him, but he doesn’t care. 

When you get in the room, you lock the room. The lights in the room are a low-light purple and the floor has a white fur rug. He sits on the couch and looks at your body some more, loving your curves and that ass behind you. You walk to him and start giving him a lap dance. Sitting on his lap, grinding your hips, teasing him as if you are about to kiss him, and kissing his neck. You stand up and get behind him. You rub up and down his chest. You see he is getting stiff in his pants. You smile and look at him.

“I can’t be doing bad for a newbie.” You smirk at him, as you get back on top of him and rock your hips on him. “Not at all.” He grunts lowly and starts feeling your body. “Do you do more?” He asks you. You eye him as you continue dancing, “As in?” He smiles, “Do you give head? Sex?” You smile at him, “Yeah, but it’s extra.”

Trevante didn’t care. Honestly, he needed something new. Kream is okay, but he needs better. And you are probably letting him fuck you. It is a win-win for him to have a new favorite. 

He pulls his boxers and jeans down and his semi-hard dick is staring at you. You get on your knees and waste no time and take his whole dick in your mouth. You start bobbing your head down his dick and you feel his hand travel to your head. He guides your head down his shaft. You look up and see his mouth is hanging open, licking his grillz. You then begin to feel his grip on your hair tightly and start getting rough hitting the back of your throat. You gag a bit, but you take it like a champ. You come down and start sucking on his balls as you stroke his shaft. 

“Shit, you damn sure can suck dick better Kream, that’s for sure.” He mumbles under his breath, biting his lips as you come back up and resume sucking his dick.”Yeah, suck this dick.” He throws his head back on the couch and places his hand back on your head. He pushes your head down further as he begins to twitch in your mouth. This tempts you to suck him faster. He closes his eyes and he nuts in your mouth. You swallow it and your mouth slowly comes off his dick. 

“Damn.” He tries to catch his breath. You giggle at him. “Did I do okay?” He looks at you, “You did better than okay. Damn.” He repeats making you laugh. “You know, you can always do more.” You smile at him. He looks at you, “You playing?” You shake your head at him, “No, I’m not playing.” You give him a slow strip tease and he looks at your bare naked body. He pulls you to him and smacks your ass. “Damn, your body is so perfect, baby girl.” You smile at the compliment, “Thank you.” He hovers over you, and you look at him, “So where do you want me?” You ask him. “On the floor.”

You lay on the floor and the next thing you know your legs are in the air and he’s eating you out with his grillz on. You feel yourself sinking into the floor, gripping his head. His tongue swirls around with your  clit. He pulls your legs on his shoulders and shakes his head in between. “Trevante, fuck.” You moan out and start caressing your breast.

 Your legs stay on his shoulders, but you feel something teasing your clit. It slides up and down and once it’s at your entrance, he pushes all of his dick inside you. You grip onto the floor as he stretches your pussy out. He is generous enough to let you adjust to his big size. Once you are comfortable, he starts deep stroking inside you. Even though you don't necessarily have to be quiet because of the loud music, you still try not to be loud. You bite your lip and look into his eyes. Mistake. This makes him fuck you even more while looking deep in your eyes. He folds your legs up to your ears and goes deeper inside you, making his curve tease your spot. 

“Deeper! Deeper!” You cry out. He smiles and begins hitting your spot. Your eyes roll to the back of your head. You couldn’t believe that the preacher’s son is fucking you like this. “Aye, mamas, look at it.” He groans out. You bite your lips as you watch his dick go in and out of you. Then he starts pounding and gripping your neck. Your eyes close as your body gets tingling from being close to your climax. 

“Mm, is my new favorite going to cum for me?” He teases you but confirms you’re his new favorite at Pink Paradise. You nod your head yes. He pops your thigh, causing you to gasp and exhale your moan out slowly, “Yes, yes. I’m going to cum for you. Shit.” You cuss under your breath. 

He holds your stomach down and goes deeper. You squeal as you cum on his dick. He keeps going until eventually he slows down and cums. You whine as he pulls out. He falls back on the floor as well. You two lay and stare at the ceiling as his phone goes off multiple times and one of the other girls is banging to get in the room. You sigh and giggle. 

“That was so amazing.” You admit to him. He smiles. “Yeah, it was.” You two catch your breath and he looks at his phone and laughs. You look at him, “What’s funny?” You ask, being curious. He shows you his phone. His homeboys are blowing him up. 

“Yooo, T? Where you at nigga?” 

“Trevante, if your ass is not out here in 3 seconds, you paying this bill.”

“Man, nigga is you getting some pussy? Ain’t no way you still in the back room now.”

You laugh, “Well, we should probably hurry up and get you back to your friends.” He nods as he takes the condom off and the two of you get dressed. He looks at you and bites his lip. “Say, can I get your number? This normally ain’t like me. But … it’s something about you.” You smile and look down, “Yeah, you can.”You put your number in his phone and in return, he pays you for your services. He gives you close to $1,000. You smile and thank him for the money. 

You are pretty exhausted from fucking, so you decide to go home. You go to the locker room and receive a few dirty looks, because you got Trevante all to yourself. The rest of the girls are hyping you up. You smile and thank them. You get dressed, head back to your house, and instantly run in the shower to wash the sex off your body. Afterward, you lotion up, put your pajamas on, and begin counting up your money tonight. You made $1256. You finally made four-digit money. You smile and go to your bed and lie on your silk sheets. Your phone dings. It’s an unknown number. You look at the message. 

“Hope you sleep well tonight. Definitely my new favorite lol.”

With another solid confirmation like that, you smile and sleep like a baby.

[callsigndragon]

Dawn

Pairing: Jake 'Hangman’ Seresin x Wife!reader

Word count: 1054

Warnings: pregnancy, labor... and all the fluffs.

Summary: A new member of the Seresin family.

A/N: this can be considered the second part of Sunshine or be read as a stand alone 🤍

FOREVER TGM TAGLIST: @tayrae515 @alexxavicry @xoxabs88xox @mercurio23 @shrimping-for-all @abaker74 @smells-like-perfect-senses @djs8891 @purplevortexx

(if you want to be tagged, leave a comment!)

When you were in your fourth month, Jake found out he was going to be a father. You were so occupied with work and worried about his well-being while he was deployed that you didn't notice that the missing periods, the nausea, the cravings, and all that were more than just a random succession of events. 

Telling him on a phone call was not ideal, but there was no other way of informing him that by the time he came back, you would be bigger than when he left. The line fell silent after the news was delivered, and you thought that he wasn't happy. Then you heard a distant "I am going to be a father" yelled from the top of his lungs, and you knew that he was not only happy but excited to see his baby.

Months went by at a slow pace. He hated not being there for you, but he assured you that once the baby was ready to be born, he'd be there. That was the only promise he made to you during the pregnancy. 

Now you're on your way to the hospital, holding hands with one of Jake's sisters after your water broke during lunch. Jake was on his way back to the States; the mission was over, and all the squad was coming back home for the holidays. It seemed like your baby was so excited to meet their father that they decided to come two weeks early, much to everyone's dismay. Jake was supposed to be home tomorrow, and you just wished your baby wasn't too eager to be born. 

Baby Seresin's labor is long. Apparently, contractions weren't strong enough for you to dilate 1 cm per hour, so it takes longer than any of you expect. Jake's sister, Jo, is there, offering you water and telling you how strong you were and how well you were doing it. And as much as you love her for helping you, you just want Jake at your side. 

Contractions get faster and stronger by the second, and you just want it to be over—to have your baby in your arms and hold them and see how much they look like Jake and how much they look like you.

"It's time to push, Mrs Seresin"

"But my husband isn't here." You whimper, not ready to do this without him.

"Mrs. Seresin, if we don't get this baby out right now, there can be consequences." 

"Y/n," Jo calls your name, moving your wet hair out of your forehead, "Jake will be here tomorrow, but we have to take care of this baby now, okay?" 

"But Jake-" 

"Jake's here," he says, entering the room while taking off his hat. "I'm here, sunshine. I'm here now." 

He kisses your forehead and your nose before looking at you. "H-how?"

"I got a feeling and asked to leave a day early. Cyclone owed me one," he says softly, caressing your cheek. "Now, Mama Seresin, we're gonna bring this baby home for Christmas, alright?" 

You nod, holding his hand in a strong grip while the nurses prepare you for the delivery. 

Thirty minutes later, Dawn Seresin is resting between your arms. Jake's on his knees next to the bed, observing his girls with the most proud look someone has ever had while looking at you. 

"When did you choose Dawn?" You ask him, moving your head in his direction, your free hand caressing his hair. 

"Well, you're my sunshine, the light of my life, and she's our first daughter, and Dawn means 'the first light before sunrise' so... It came to me one night but I didn't thought you'll like it" 

"Are you kidding? It's the cutest thing ever," you say, laughing and crying at the same time. 

"Too many emotions, mama," he jokes, kissing your hand. 

"Yes, too many," you agree, looking at your baby girl and smiling. She has Jake's nose. "Wanna hold her?" 

"I don't know how to," he whispers, a glimpse of fear in his voice. 

"Oh, come on, I've seen you with your niece and nephew; you're a natural!" 

You carefully move the small baby into his arms. Looking at the love of your life holding your baby in his arms, the softest smile in the world adorning his features, and tears welling up in his eyes, becomes the first core memory with your daughter. 

“Honey, you can sit down, you know” 

“What if I wake her? I can’t move an inch or she will wake up and she’ll cry, and then you won’t be able to rest.” He whisper-yells, already stressed. 

You cover your mouth to stop laughing, but it’s just so funny seeing the confident aviator with two confirmed air-to-air kills being completely overwhelmed by his own daughter. “You know she’s gonna cry for the next… 18 years of your life, right? When she’s hungry, sick, or sleepy... When she’s bored, when she’s sad. When a boy rejects her…” 

He looks at you with wide eyes. “I haven’t even processed that I’m a dad yet. Please don’t talk about B-O-Y-S, she won’t date until she’s 30” 

“Maybe she’ll like girls. What if she brings a girl home who you think is a friend but who’s actually her girlfriend?” 

“Now you’re just trying to kill me” 

"I'm just saying, you never know," you shrug as you adjust the blankets around your body. 

“Sunshine, you’re enjoying this a bit too much, don’t you think?” 

“Jake, I kept her safe for almost nine months, and now it is your turn to start worrying about her."

Jake sighs, sitting down in the rocking chair next to the bed. “I’m gonna get wrinkles all over my pretty face.” 

“You’ll still be the hottest dad around,” you state, making him wink at you. “Babe” 

“Yes?” 

“What would you have called the baby if it was a boy?” 

He smiles, tracing Dawn’s nose with his finger. “Meyer” 

“Meyer?” 

“It means ‘bringer of light’ in Hebrew,” he admits, his ears turning red in embarrassment. 

“Good name for the second child” 

“Already thinking about the second one?” he laughs. 

“It will happen eventually” 

Jake nods, looking at his daughter and thinking how beautiful and perfect Dawn is, and how excited he is to bring little Meyer into this world. Hopefully, he will have your nose. 

[missmarveledsblog]

IF SHE WERE MINE ( BRADLEY BRADSHAW X READER )

summary : when  rooster finds reader stupid boyfriend cheating he doesn't mind telling him exactly how stupid  he is for hurting  a woman like that  , a woman he dreams of

warnings: slight angst , fluffy i guess  , there will be a smutty part two 😉 

Every week  , every day and every second  Bradley " rooster" Bradshaw was convinced the universe was against him  knowing the one woman he truly was in love with was in the arms of another because he was afraid to  do anything so he ended up watching her kisses on someone else's lip , her doe love filled glances for him  to another .    He wanted his happy ending ,  the one where he got the girl . so now here he was stuck in another bar or club in town  jake insisted on bringing him but never said why just he needed to be there , that it was going to be important . just as he was about to leave  he watch as the asshole walked in with another girl on arm . Anger wasn't the emotion  he could describe what he felt watching the man , the girl he loved so much and this prick was wrapped around another.  No bradley was beyond the point of anger , maybe even homicidal .  how could this prick take what he already have for granted.   

" hey asshole what the fuck " he growled storming across the bar ignoring jakes calls.

  " who's this baby" the woman had the nerve asked.

" the best friend of his girlfriend " he snapped not caring the woman flinched at the words.

" hey come on man be cool " .

" be cool , she's at home probably believing whatever lame excuse you gave to be with this trash , how could you pick anyone above Y/N  i mean if i was with a girl like that  hell all other women would be faceless because a face like hers would drowned out the world . she does so much for you and yet this is how you repay her cheap hook ups with other women in bars not even hangmans that bad" he snapped .

" hey " jake yelled offended.

" you've got the most beautiful version of sunshine back home waiting on you and yet this is what your doing , your lucky she even picked your sorry ass spend time with , a girl like that is one in a million , you don't do anything to fucking mess that up  or even risk losing " he ranted and raved .

" sounds like your more in love with her "  the woman said softly not taking offence  to his words towards her and moving far from the man she came in with .

" i do and i let a low life bastard take her before i couldnt even tell her how i felt " he sighed . 

what bradley didn't notice in his verbal crusade was phoenix leading Y/N into the bar to catch the bastard red handed .  nat, jake and bob caught him the night before and decided she would need to see  it first hand , rooster was suppose to be there for her help pick up the pieces but she should know that jake didn't fill him in on the plans by looks of it . yet Y/N  stood listening to her best friend telling her definitely now ex   her loved her. 

"Y/N shit hey baby "  .

" really man " the three dagger squad members and the woman he was there with all deadpanned. 

" Don't heybaby me what the fuck " she huffed.   

" it's not what looks like promise " he scampered towards her . 

" and you did you know he was seeing someone " she turned to the woman .

" no i  didn't if i did  i would not be here " she glared at the man .

" roo apologise from being mean to this woman " she turned to bradley .

" yeah sorry i didn't actually mean to call you trash " he scratched the back of his neck .

" no it's fine heat of the moment but i can see why you love her " she smiled .

" and you cheating shrimp dick of a man , you can't go around sleeping with multiple women with that thing no wonder  the ladies of san diego are depressed , get your shit out of my place or i will throw it on the street as for the spare key leave it or my very big friends here will get it off you  " she crossed her arms standing in  front of the man . 

" i'd go now and lady if you want good time blondey over there isnot too bad " she turned and walked off  straight out of the door .

" follow her " nat ,jake and the woman yelled at rooster.

" oh shit yeah " he ran out the door.  once he got out he could see her heading for the car park  her head still high when she got to the car but the second he could see as her hand touch the door  when the emotion of it all hit her . 

not a second did he wait running towards her  grabbing her into his arms as the sobs wrack through her body .

"i got you darling , i alway got you " he kissed top of her head just letting her get it out of her system .

" can you take me home roo , your home i don't want to be in mine " she sniffled wiping her eyes . god it broke his heart seeing her  so broken and hurt but hell he wasn't going to lie he was so proud of how she handled it in the bar .

  " course come on we can get your car later " he smiled softly leading her to the bronco .

" i get cheated on by a guy i only gave a chance to because i never thought you'd love me back like more than a bestfriend and it took him to cheat for you to say you love me " she turned to the man her laughs turning to a another wave of sobs .

" it's actually phoenix car i don't know how i was going to get into it " she wiped her eyes .  he opened the door for he letting her in before he went to his own side her ex eyes locked on her , like he wanted to say something but when he seen the pissed glare from rooster he quickly changed his mind . while she sat there , her  head a jumble mess of emotions from the hurt and heartbroken  , down right stupidity of being with a man like her now ex,  then the feelings of every word rooster said. a man she had known since she was a little girl , her best friend  , the man she truly loved .  the irony of it all was just exactly something life would throw at her she couldn't help but laugh.

" hey what's so funny" he smiled .

" oh shit i'm sorry  really i wanted to tell you but come on your  you , i don't deserve you OWW " He yelped feeling her pinching him .

" hey i will not sit here and listen to you put yourself down ok , your most amazing stupid man i know " she looked up at him , he was smiling brightly  down at her . he'd always looked at her like this but this time it finally made sense , how he always looked at her like she hung the moon and star, the pure love she felt for him was reflected back and yet only now she saw it .

" i'm an idiot , i mean i should of known he was cheating  and i was oblivious to how you felt even though it been staring at me all this time " she shook her head.

" thats me " he winked

" come on just give your brain a rest tonight we can talk about all this another time " he squeezed her hand before driving off . 

"I don't wanna talk roo , I want you and roo "

" take me home or lose me forever " she chuckled.

" show me the way home honey " he kissed her hand . 

Part two *

[freedjustinemywife]

Thunder legion hcs but some of them get weirdly specific bc i think abt them too much

(Part 1??)

- Originally Bickslow and Freed lived together as roommates, Evergreen lived in fairy hills and Laxus had his own penthouse. When Fairy Tail disbanded they began living together while they were in Blue Pegasus as it was just easier, and they never stopped (im running off the hc that theyre all living together for most of these)

- Freed is the cook of the raijin tribe, they used to have a cooking rotor but it slowly became just Freed cooking every night

- Evergreen CAN cook basic meals but hates doing it so just, wont. Back when there was a schedule she asked Freed to do it instead and he usually agreed because he enjoys cooking

- Bickslow also can cook, but likes to experiment quite heavily and will not be convinced to make a normal meal. Got banned from cooking after he served shrimp pasta with ice cream

- Laxus can cook you a damn good grilled cheese, but thats it. Only cooks when people are feeling like grilled cheese

- Bickslow is a painter, not-quite Reedus level but still good, they like to paint from the imagination more than from reference which ends in very interesting (and only mildly disturbing) pieces

- Evergreen likes to garden, its something she started when she was young because her mother told her fairies like to care for nature. Their apartment is filled with various plants that she keeps and cares for, and while she could use magic to help them grow she prefers doing it by hand

- Freed enjoys playing a lot of musical instruments, hes best at violin and has been playing since quite young along with piano, but can also play gutair and bass as of more recently. Also has a collection of books in the apartment, originally all stored in his room before he ran out of space

- They have a schedule of getting up at about 7am at the latest most days, its not heavily enforced day to day but they stick to it on missions, if not getting up even earlier depending on the job

- Off-mission though? Nobody is actually getting up at 7am. Bickslow doesnt have a set time to wake but tends to actually be an early riser, he enjoys the mornings so he usually gets up a bit before 7, occasionally to do some painting or stretch ect

- Freed wakes up at 6am sharp and gets straight out of bed, no yawning or stretching or anything just stands up and walks away

- he is also the one attempting to enforce the 7am rule (sorry king) but bickslow usually joins in if only to annoy people

- Evergreen prefers to sleep in a bit more where possible, usually till half 8 or 9 if she can get away with it, then spends way to long in the bathroom doing her hair, makeup, and picking an outfit

- Laxus normally gets up at 10 and is impossible to wake before that, youd have to kick him awake and hes still grumpy afterwards

- Freed is French (I WILL DIE ON THIS HILL) and comes from a military background, specifically a noble house that specialised in military trading and training in France (i have an entire backstory mapped out for this freak if anyones interested drop me an ask)

- Bickslow grew up in the circus, hes always been naturally flexible but its where he honed that ability as well as learning some acrobatics, however it burned down when he was a teenager and the puppets (“babies”) he keeps around are the result of friends who died in that fire

- Evergreen is Scottish and grew up mostly raised by a single mother, her father was around for a few years but was generally a horrible man, a drinker and abuser who eventually left her mother alone. She also has a brother a few years younger than her who she helped to raise and is still close to

- Freed is the tactician of the thunder legion, comes along with being a leader but hes usually the one coming up with the plans

- Speaking of, hes someone who prefers to have a plan before a fight where possible, particularly as his magic is one where its difficult to construct quickly, especially if he wants a high powered jutsu shiki. So while he can think quickly on his feet hed rather have a plan mapped out

- Evergreen is the one who’s best at thinking quickly, if they end up in a situation where a snap decision needs to be made shes confident enough to make it and order her teammates around without second guessing herself

- They also all understand the importance of teamwork and its the main reason they’re so effective (as seen in the battle of fairy tail) their close bond allows them to work extremely well together, even if they tend to argue sometimes

- When Bickslow dislikes someone they have a habit of showing it on his face, usually by pulling a disgusted expression

- Ever does this too in a more subtle way, usually exchanging a glance with one of the thunder legion if shes not liking what somebodies saying. She WILL be gossiping about it later

- If Freeds not interested in a conversation he just silently walks away when youre not looking, people have gone 10 minutes before noticing hes left before

- Laxus just leaves mid-sentence though, doesn’t even think about it just walks away

- None of them can drive anywhere for various reasons, Laxus obviously gets extremely motion sick so is out for the count right off the bat

- Bickslow was banned due to being deemed “a danger to himself and others” after he got too many speeding tickets and crashed the car into a postbox

- Evergreen literally applies makeup while driving, shes blasting the radio while doing lipstick without looking at the road and its terrifying

- Freed is who people THINK would be the most responsible driver, and while he’ll get you to your destination safely, he also has a bad habit of ignoring the speed limit and accidentally running red lights. Unlike Bickslow however hes somehow managed to avoid getting any tickets

[pippin-katz]

I need a cast audiobook of RWRB. If no one else, then at least Taylor and Nick reading Alex and Henry. I need it in my life.

And in ACD fashion, here’s a few lists of lines/conversations from the book that I am desperate to hear them say. I want to hear them read all of the lines, but these are the ones that pop out to me!

Post Writing Note: These turned out to be way longer than I thought they were going to be 😭😂

Alex Lines:

Oh yeah, that was a wild night. Two whole keynote speakers. Nothing sexier than shrimp cocktails and an hour and a half of speeches on carbon emissions. - page 5

'Archnemesis' implies he's actually a rival to me on any level and not, you know, a stuck-up product of inbreeding who probably jerks off to photos of himself. - page 7

Jesus Christ, it’s like they can see into your soul. Cornbread knows my sins, Henry. Cornbread knows what I have done, and he is here to make me atone. - page 77

I always thought you’d kill me in a more personal way. Silk pillow over my face, slow and gentle suffocation. Just you and me. Sensual. - page 80

Shut up, shut all the way up, oh my God. - page 131

For fuck's sake, man, you just had my dick in your mouth, you can kiss me good-night. - page 145

What in the rich-white-people-sex-dungeon hell? - page 149

Bisexuality is truly a rich and complex tapestry. - page 194

Listen: I'll fly to London right now and pull you out of whatever pointless meeting you're in and make you admit how much you love it when I call you "baby". I'll take you apart with my teeth, sweetheart. - page 204

You don't get to sit up here and pretend like it's someone else's problem. None of us do. - page 209

i want to see a cage match between your grandmother and this fucking ghoul running against my mom. - page 221

I do think I got a gut feeling with you, I just didn't have what I needed in my head to understand it. But I kind of kept chasing it anyway, like I was just going blindly in a certain direction and hoping for the best. I guess that makes you the North Star? - page 244

Henry! Your Royal fucking Highness! - page 269

Really nice. Fuckin' ghost me for a week, make me stand in the rain like a brown John Cusack, and now you won't even talk to me. I'm really just having a great time here. I can see why y'all had to marry your fucking cousins. - page 270

I fucking love you, okay? Fuck, I swear. You don't make it fucking easy. But I'm in love with you. - page 271

I'll leave, as soon as you tell me to leave. - page 275

Okay, I'm into making history. - page 280

I completely fucking love you. - page 291

I'm there for whatever you decide you want to do, just, like, let me know if I need to start practicing gazing wistfully out the window, waiting for my love to return from the war. - page 296

AN INCOMPLETE LIST: THINGS I LOVE ABOUT HRH PRINCE HENRY OF WALES Note: just the entire list, I need it, but I'll point out some of the best ones anyway lol

9. How hard you try. 10. How hard you've always tried. 11. How determined you are to keep trying. - page 303

16. Your huge, generous, ridiculous, indestructible heart. 17. Your equally huge dick. 18. The face you just made when you read that last one. - page 303

20. The fact that you loved me all along. - page 303

God, I want to fight everyone who's ever hurt you, but it was me too, wasn't it? All that time. I'm so sorry. - page 303

Listen, I'm telling you right now, I will physically fight your grandmother myself if I have to, okay? And, like, she's old. I know I can take her. - page 312

You and me and history, remember? We're just gonna fucking fight. Because you're it, okay? I'm never gonna love anybody in the world like I love you. - page 312

Sería una mentira, porque no sería él. (It would be a lie, because it wouldn't be him.) - page 317

but i've kissed your mouth, that corner, that place it goes, so many times now. i've memorized it. topography on the map of you, a world i'm still charting. i know it. i added it to the key. here: inches to miles. i can multiply it out, read your latitude and longitude. recite your coordinates like la rosaria. - page 319

give yourself away sometimes, sweetheart. there's so much of you. - page 320

Zahra, you're my mean friend. - page 339

I've never... I haven't been through anything like that. But I've always felt it, in him. There's this side of him that's... unknowable. But the thing is, jumping off cliffs is kinda my thing. That's the choice. I love him, with all that, because of all that. On purpose. I love him on purpose. - page 344

For what it's worth, that is the bravest son of a bitch I've ever met. - page 347

My life is a cosmic joke and you're not a real person. - page 371

You are, the absolute worst idea I've ever had. - page 372

FIRST SON ALEXANDER CLAREMONT-DIAZ'S ADDRESS FROM THE WHITE HOUSE, OCTOBER 2, 2020 - pages 372-375 Note: just, the entire speech, the whole thing

America: He is my choice. - page 374

Henry Lines:

Hmm, I always liked Luke. He's brave and good, and he's the strongest Jedi of them all. I think Luke is proof that it doesn't matter where you come from or who your family is--you can always be great if you're true to yourself. - page 45

The turkeys are not going to Jurassic Park you. You’re not the bloke from Seinfeld. You’re Jeff Goldblum. Go to sleep. - page 82

You are the thistle in the tender and sensitive arse crack of my life. - page 73

fucking eyelashes - page 142

I shall just have to make it the best orgasm of your life. What can I do to make it good for you? Talk about American tax reform during the act? Have you got talking points? - page 196

How is a man to get anything done knowing Alex Claremont-Diaz is out there on the loose? - pages 202-203

They wanted something less fruity than the truth, but truly, what is gayer than a woman who languishes away in a crumbling mansion wearing her wedding gown every day of her life, for the drama? - page 205

Someone else's choice doesn't change who you are. - page 229

Most things are awful most of the time, but you're good. - page 230

The phrase "see attached bibliography" is the single sexiest thing you have ever written to me. - page 241

Should I tell you that when we're apart, your body comes back to me in dreams? That when I sleep, I see you, the dip of your waist, the freckle above your hip, and when I wake up in the morning, it feels like I've been with you, the phantom touch of your hand on the back of my neck fresh and not imagined? That I can feel your skin against mine, and it makes every bone in my body ache? That, for a few moments, I can hold my breath and be back there with you, in a dream, in a thousand rooms, nowhere at all? - page 242 Note: based on the parts of this we did get to hear Nick say in the film, I think this would kill half the fandom lol

When have I ever, since the first instant I touched you, pretended to be anything less than in love with you? - page 272

I never thought I'd be stood here faced with a choice I can't make, because I never... I never imagined you would love me back. - page 273

The Mail will write mad speculations about where I've gone, if I've offed myself or vanished to St. Kilda, but only you and I will know that I'm just sprawled in your bed, reading books and feeding myself profiteroles and making love to you endlessly until we both expire in a haze of chocolate sauce. It's how I'd want to go. - page 294

Here lies Prince Henry of Wales. He died as he lived: avoiding plans and sucking cock. - page 298

"Because I'm not like the rest of the men of this family, beginning with the fact that I am very deeply gay, Philip." - page 298

But the first time I saw you. Rio. I took that down to the gardens. I pressed it into the leaves of a silver maple and recited it to the Waterloo Vase. It didn't fit in any rooms. - page 300

I thought, this is the most incredible thing I have ever seen, and I had better keep it a safe distance away from me. I though, if someone like that ever loved me, it would set me on fire. - page 300

And then, inexplicably, you had the absolute audacity to love me back. - page 300 Note: I really wanted to just type out most of the page, but I restrained myself lmfao

I don't know if I would have chosen it yet, but it's out there now, and... I won't lie. Not about this. Not about you. - page 338

Bit short for a stormtrooper. - page 340

I've bloody well had it. I've sat about long enough letting you and Gran and the weight of the damned world keep me pinned, and I'm finished. I don't care. You can take your legacy and your decorum and you can shove it up your fucking arse, Philip. I'm done. - page 347

I've been as gay as a maypole since the day I came out of Mum, Philip. - page 353 Note: there's never too many times to hear the words "gay as a maypole" and the emotional infliction here is lot different lol

Both:

Am I offending you? Sorry I'm not obsessed with you like everyone else. I know that must be confusing for you. Do you know what? I think you are. Only a thought. Have you ever noticed I have never once approached you and have been exhaustingly civil every time we've spoken? Yet here you are, seeking me out again. Simply an observation. - page 18

This is idiotic. Let's get it over with. I'd rather be waterboarded. Your country could probably arrange that. Go fuck yourself. Hardly enough time. - pages 36-37 Note: yes, I know Nick read this part in his book-to-screen video thingy but it's not the same as having them both saying the lines fully in character.

What does Jedi have? Fuckin' Ewoks. Ewoks are iconic. Ewoks are stupid. - page 52

yo there's a bond marathon on and did you know your dad was a total babe I BEG YOU TO NOT - page 84

I'm going to die. I'm going to kill you. Yes, you are. - page 133

You were jealous. You want me. Yes, you preening arse, I've wanted you long enough that I won't have you tease me for another fucking second. - page 137

Hi. Hello. I'm gonna take your pants off now. Yes, good, carry on. - page 141

Ugh, you look ridiculous. Should I-- What? No, of course not, keep them on. Oh my God, what are you doing? I can't even look at you. No, Jesus, I just mean--I'm so mad at you. Just, come here. Fuck. I'm quite confused. Me fucking too. - page 150

I'm not... historically great at talking about things. Well, I wasn't historically great at blowjobs, but we all gotta learn and grow, sweetheart. - page 165

Bitch, you took me there. alskdjfadslfjad NORA YOU BROKE HIM - page 212

D'you know what I want? What? I want, to do the absolute last thing I'm supposed to be doing right now. Then tell me to do it, sweetheart. Fuck me. Well, when at Wimbledon. Just so we're clear, I'm about to have sex with you in this storage closet to spite your family. Like, that's what's happening? Right. Awesome, fucking' love doing things out of spite. - page 217 Note: I think this conversation could singlehandedly kill the fandom if we got to hear Taylor and Nick deliver these lines

Can't you ever just do one thing without having to be so goddamn extra about it? That is bloody rich coming from you. - pages 260-261

What do you want? I want you- Then fucking have me. -but I don't want this. - page 273

You seem... less pissy. You're one to talk. I wasn't the one who stormed the palace in a fit to call me an 'obtuse fucking asshole'. In my defense, you were an obtuse fucking asshole. - page 277

I honestly have never thought I deserved to choose. But you treat me like I do. You do. I think I'm actually starting to believe that. - page 279

What about you? What about me? Christ, Alex. The whole bloody time. The whole time? Since the Olympics. The Olympics? But that's, that's like- Yes, Alex, the day we met, nothing gets past you, does it? 'What about you,' he says, as if he doesn't know- Shut your mouth. - page 283-284

Hello, what was that for? I just, like, really love you. - page 286

What are you doing? I'm taking a picture of a national gay landmark. And also a statue. It's funny. I always thought of the whole things as the most unforgivable thing about me, but you act like it's one of the best. Oh, yeah. The top list of reason to love you goes brain, then dick, then imminent status as a revolutionary gay icon. You are quite literally Queen Victoria's worst nightmare. And that's why you love me. My god, you're right. All this time, I was just after the bloke who'd most infuriate my homophobic forebears. Ah, and we can't forget they were also racist. Certainly not. Next time we shall visit some of the George III pieces and see if they burst into flame. - page 289

If Alex from this time last year could see this. He'd say, 'Oh I'm in love with Henry? That must be why I'm such an arse to him all the time'. - page 387

Thanks for reading!! If you enjoyed this post & would like to support me, you can give me a tip on my Ko-Fi! ☺️

[candywife333]

You Can Have Him

Summary: I am having Jungkook's baby. That's right bitches, you heard me right. We had a one night stand and now I am going to make him pay in cash and chocolate doughnuts-- currency of the gods. No emotions, just mucho dinero. That's the motto for today. There's no way he can fall in love with a virtual freeloader right? Let's all pray that he doesn't for my sake and yours.

chubby reader x idol (loaded) jungkook

Disclaimer: This character of Jungkook is not a representation of the real life Jungkook. Keep in mind this is all fiction.

Mini- series

(haven't decided on how many parts. I guess however many it takes me to get my thoughts across)

PART 2 of Only Here for Food

You know when your bladder just can't hold in the piss and it has to empty itself under just about any circumstance? Well that was me right now, as I sauntered into HYBE. I used the wonderful bathroom on the first floor and with a jolly grin on my face went to the cafe. Their desserts were simply exquisite. "One new york classic cheese cake with a boba tea please". I clapped my hands , giggling in glee as I saw all the other options I couldn't wait to try every time I visited the HYBE building.

I took my aesthetic picture of the desserts as the employee who handed me the food smiled at me. Happiness is contagious, just like the plague and that is the best part about it. Trudging over to the BTS waiting room , I saw my favorite super squishy couch and sat on it, ready to eat my dessert and some bibimbap with pork belly I had made for lunch today.

I kept all my food on the table, having brought an abundant amount for the guys as well. They may like it, and if they didn't I had so many neighbors I could just distribute the food to. I dove into the bibimbap, moaning as the flavors hit my tastebuds. This is truly what I lived for, fatty oily sweet and savory rice loaded with greasy meat, spiced vegetables, and fried egg. Taehyung walked in, clearly surprised at what I had brought and my presence. "Hey Y/N , what are you doing here? Jungkook is in the recording room".

I smiled, "Oh, I didn't come for Jungkook necessarily. I was just going to give him papers that my lawyer drew up in case I saw him around the building. I actually just came here to eat and brought some food with me in case you guys wanted to try any. Made it all early this morning after my mommy pilates class". I chewed loudly with fervor, "Why don't you also try some food? I made bibimbap, japchae with tiger shrimp, fish cake stew with sausages, and kimbap. It's all home made".

Taehyung reluctantly took his first bite, and then it was game over. He sat there eating the food with me as I showed him reruns of different series I was watching. I showed him how I was midway through death note and my plans to dress up as a Shinigami this halloween. I was also knitting a shinigami inspired scarf with apples laced all throughout. He chuckled and laughed with me.

The rest of the guys filtered in, behooved to see Taehyung get along so well with Y/N. They saw the abundance of food, and Jin was the first to serve himself a plate, exclaiming and gesticulating ,"So good Y/N, so good, you are truly a goddess. I was just missing home made food so much". The rest of the guys also decided to chow down, trying to steal the cheesecake from Y/n as she was slowly eating it, attempting to prolong the experience.

Jungkook walked in, sweaty and tired from recording his new track for a feature when he saw Y/n. His face contorted into disgust. What the hell was this girl doing here again? Wasn't setting up a child support plan after his unfortunately positive paternity test enough for her?

He loudly stomped in the room, slapping his doc martens against the ground. Y/N heard the noise and looked up to see him. "Hi JK, want to try some food? I just made it this morning. Took me two hours, but I wanted to bring a treat for all of you just in case. Was supposed to go on a picnic today with my boy toys but I thought I would feed you guys instead". Jungkook nodded his head with pure defiance and rage, till a singular word filtered through his brain, boy toys?!?!! He shrieked in a fury, "What the hell do you mean by boy toy women? What type of males are you frolicking with? Are you getting run through by every damn male out there?"

Y/N weakly smiled, "I mean, I wish I had the braveness to cavort with every handsome man I met. But I am just too scared of STDs you know. Trust me on this though JK, if STDs never existed, I would fuck my way through an entire fraternity. I have the stamina of a stallion". She proceeded to imitate a neighing of a horse, as the boys all tried not to choke, aspirate, and die on their food.

Y/n continued, "I just came here to talk to you about honoring the part of our agreement that talks about baby time twice a week. Twice a week I will be here so we can have our baby interaction time , so as a dad you can be close to the baby". Jungkook was ready to rip all his hair out of his head. What the hell was she talking about? Then he remembered the part of the contract which stipulated that he was supposed to meet her twice a week to interact with the baby as it was in the womb and for one year post partum.

"Just let me know once you are ready, and we will go into a private room so you can touch the baby directly-- you know skin to skin contact and all". The boys tried to not laugh openly at Jungkook as he stared at y/N horrified of her request. They all filtered out immediately. Namjoon stated somberly, "Jungkook you can use this room with Y/N, I will close the door so you and her can have private time with the Baby".

Jungkook timidly walked over to Y/n and sat next to her. She emanated the scent of fresh laundry and coconuts, very appealing and nothing that he had ever smelled on any of the girls he usually bedded. Y/n lifted up her dress and Jungkook was shell shocked to see red lacy panties stretched down due to a surprisingly round baby bump the size of a small melon. Her thighs were thick and glistening with moisture . He almost had the urge to bite her thighs. Wait, what the fuck, where was this thought coming from?!

Y/N lifted one eyebrow, "Aren't you going to touch the baby? Don't be scared by my pussy, don't worry, it won't bite. It will maintain its distance, it is well trained and domesticated". Jungkook's hands slightly trembled as he placed both of them on either side of her stomach. He felt the warmth of her silky skin radiating through his hands, as an unwarranted image of Y/N with his cum stuffed up her pussy and his cum sprayed all over her pregnant stomach ambushed him. He jolted away, hands moving away due to the sudden unbidden thought invading his mind, infiltrating his brain.

He asked softly with concern, "Is this normal for your stomach to be this big for two months?" Y/N cooly replied, "They are actually twins. I am preparing cribs and clothes for them. Double the work actually, but I can't wait". She giggled, nose scrunching up and mirth in her eyes. Jungkook saw how beautiful she was, for the first time since he consciously met her.

Y/N squealed out, "Ok now Mr Jungkook. Hands off the goodies. Visitation hours are over". She flipped down her dress as Jungkook now couldn't get the image of her ripe swollen stomach and panties out of his mind. She clouded his thoughts so quickly, no wonder he got her pregnant he mused to himself.

The members came back in as Y/N stared at her phone, watching death note on youtube with Jimin who snuggled up next to her. Jungkook felt a flash of envy thunder through his body as he saw the mother of his kids so close to Jimin. He shouldn't feel this way, but he did. A model named Jin Hee, from one of their previous photo shoots came over to Jungkook and sidled up to him.

Jin Hee held on to Jungkook's arm and started talking to him, flirting with him, as Y/N watched the scene unravel from the corner of her eye. She had great peripheral vision, took her vitamin A and carrot intake very seriously, thank you very much. As Jungkook sat down now, Jin Hee sat so close to him, she might as well be on his lap. Jin Hee was clearly trying to prod Y/N to breaking since the news had spread quickly about Jungkook's baby momma. Everybody knew who Y/N was in the HYBE building.

Jin Hee, a stereotypically thin model had been vying for Jungkook's attention for the longest time. She did not want to lose to a fat pregnant non celebrity baby momma. Y/N calmly put her phone down next to her, to the confusion of Jimin. In a calm voice that could slice a human's flesh with its sharpness, she drawled out firmly, eyes facing Jin Hee, "You can have him you know. I don't fight over community dick. If you want him, you can have him. You clinging to him like a baby koala is making you look desperate. I am not jealous of you in the least. My eyes are on a different prize, and Jungkook is not it. I eat leftovers usually, but if Jungkook was a left over, I would throw him in the trash".

[satureja13]

Ji Ho, Jack and Jeb's Therapy Game started to merge after they met in Bacalao Bay. And they are not quite sure how to deal with that. Should Jeb and Jack log in with Ji Ho or should they wait to not interfere with Ji Ho's therapy? They decided to wait and just watch what happens since NPC Jeb knows where to find the Captain and real Jeb doesn't and to give NPC Jack time to regain access to his memories.

They took the ferry southbound to the islands where - NPC Jeb is sure - they would find the Captain. The poor Princess did not take the passage well - just like Ji Ho. She sits on the deck next to NPC Jeb and prays to the gods that this will be over soon... NPC Jack, however, seems to enjoy the ride ^^' He started to talk again - because nothing can shut this big snout of him, not even death. But he still can't remember anything from the night he died.

When they reached the landing stage on the main island, the first thing NPC Jack noticed was the fish shack. (To his defence: there wasn't much more to see anyway ^^) NPC Jack: "Gods I'm hungry!"

They didn't even notice the beautiful sunset. NPC Jack because -> hungry, Jihovere because -> sick and NPC Jeb because he's worried for the poor girl.

As soon as the fish monger gave NPC Jack his plate, he started to wolf down his lobster roll right at the stand. Jeb was startled. Jihovere, still a bit weak on her legs: "Can we sit down at least?" (Yes, Tiny Can did a very good job with their NPC versions! hahaha)

NPC Jack: "Hm?"

Jihovere and her new friends had studied the map they found in the Vicegerent's office thoroughly. Jihovere: "Are you sure your Captain will be able to steer us through the shoals and cliffs to the remote cave where the Vicegerent and the Demon entrench?" NPC Jeb: "Oh, he will. I've never met a bolder and more daring ('and daunting' he added, but just in his thoughts) man like him." (I don't know if greasy popcorn shrimps are the right food choice when you're nauseous, Jihovere...)

It was late when they left the harbor. Tomorrow morning they will start their search for the fearless and skilled Captain.

They went over to their lodging nearby the monger arranged for them. (TMI: This is one of adult Ji Ho's houses.)

Jihovere still doesn't feel much better (owing to the shrimps, I bet!) so they just chatted for a while and went to bed soon.

Outtakes

NPC Jack fell in love with NPC Jeb! So this is the counter episode to the mini episode when Jeb fell in love with Jack shortly after Vlad's death ö.Ö' Which lead to Sai and Jeb's first break up...

After NPC Jeb regained his composure: "I'd rather have you, Jihovere!" NPC Jack: "What? Ewww." (Argh! They try to make me sway! Because they know: for me, Jeb is the perfect partner for each of them! For Ji Ho / for Jack) But their hearts want what their hearts want...

'I'll push the wood (stir it, stir it, stir it together) I'll blaze your fire Then, I'll satisfy your heart's desire (Stir it, stir it, stir it together) I'll stir it, yeah, every minute, yeah All you've got to do, baby, is keep it in, and

Stir it up Little darling, stir it up Come on baby, yeah I say stir it up Little darling, stir it up, oh yeah

Quench me, baby, while I'm thirsty Cool me down, mama, when I'm hot Your recipe is so tasty And you sure, baby, can stir your pot, so'

Stir it up - Bob Marley This songtext leaves nothing to the imagination ^^'

The Therapy Game Master Post with the sessions and places so far is -> here

From the Beginning 🔱 Underwater Love 🔱 Latest

Current Chapter: 'Who killed Jack?' from the beginning ▶️ here

📚 Previous Chapters: Chapters: 1-6 ~ 7-12 ~ 13-16 ~ 17-22 ~ 23-28