#and he probably could only eat half a bite at a time instead of a full one...

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

hey in your Lights Out au, does Wally still eat with his eyes? & if he does, is that effected by the fact that he's, you know, missing one?

that is Such a good question that i Have Not considered! i'd assume... yea!

[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.

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The meeting goes exactly how you would expect.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You know what?"

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

"What?"

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

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

"I'd rather starve."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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"You'll never guess what I have."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And a seat at Momofuku."

"And that."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hide behind your computer screen.

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

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

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

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

Seungkwan works hard, but the devil always works harder.

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing you can do to stop him, huh?

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

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Beware the wrath of a woman scorned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hook, line, and sinker.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Seungcheol?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who said I was pretending?"

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

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

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

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

"I never said that."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How To Antagonize Your Date In 5 Easy Steps.

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm no quitter."

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

Definitely not that one.

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

"Why, so you can steal my job?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In your periphery hovers his wry, wanting smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, pity looks good on you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fair. You gonna ask me about mine?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Running away?"

"Bored," you lie.

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

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

"Unfortunate."

"How do you think I feel?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Field trip?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"N-not both ways?" you croak.

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

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

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

Whatever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But, thank you."

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

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

"I'm retracting my thank you."

"I'm devastated. Really."

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

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

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

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

"Thought you knew it was Wonwoo."

"Yeah, but why?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who hurt you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I wouldn't say nothing."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You in a rush?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Definitely bad at food, you muse to yourself.

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

Now that—nothing could have prepared you for that.

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

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

"Stop that."

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

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

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

"Is it working?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Seungcheol is my enemy, remember?"

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

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

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

You almost choke on a blueberry.

"Absolutely not."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm running out of options."

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

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

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

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

Your entire body heaves with the sigh that escapes you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Lucky you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A gift. A pithless, wrinkly one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, you're definitely going to cry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You count the seconds till he walks away.

One. Two. Three.

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

"Hey, you ok?"

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

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

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

"Whoa," he breathes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah, I-I think so."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And no text from Seungcheol. (Damn.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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"Here. Drink."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Thanks…?"

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

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

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

"You're literally the definition of easy."

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

"This is not a date. Dream on."

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

"It wasn't."

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

"Chicago."

"Same difference."

Your conversation continues as such.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hi."

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

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

The elevator dings.

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

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You have three reasons to get drunk.

1. It's Friday.

2. You finished your article.

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

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

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

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

So you get drunk.

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

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

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

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

"You got that right."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yours or mine?"

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

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

How To Ruin The Moment In One Easy Step!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Just dates. Nothing serious."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Holy shit. You live like this?"

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

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

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

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

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

You tentatively nod before dropping the noodles in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What, too many dates to cover?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The table stops rocking.

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

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

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

"You asked."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Wh—"

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

"Get. Out."

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

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

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

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Celery. Red wine. Short rib.

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

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

Fingerling potatoes, the red ones. A Vidalia onion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Monday feels tilted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You wonder what you'll be:

10 Signs She Is Clinically Insane.

It's Not You, It's Them!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

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.

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[munariplans]

hi there! hope ur doing well. i love ur writing and have been wondering if you could do a story about reader disappearing on the teams day off. natasha who has a crush on reader notices and spys on reader to see if she’s meeting up with someone. instead it’s just reader being a good person and helping people along the way. making natasha fall in love with her even more.

days off | natasha romanoff

synopsis: based on the request above! thank you anon for your submission :)

natasha romanoff x reader

word count: 3.3k words

a/n: requests and asks are always open

masterlist

“what are you doing?” natasha asked you shyly, her figure leaning against the frame of the kitchen entrance. she watched your hands skilfully kneading the dough on the counter over and over again, folded into a neat rectangle before being flattened and folded again in the next moment. behind you, pans were sizzling with the mouth-watering fragrance of scrambled eggs being cooked on the stove, and the oven let out a ding right as she stepped closer, telling you that it was preheated and ready. 

you let the dough rest, before putting a pre-prepared one in the oven and finally turning to her. “making breakfast,” you said, matter-of-factly, “for the team.”

“but it’s our off-day,” she replied, “and we have chefs in the compound.”

you smiled. “well, i just thought it would be nice to have something homemade, for once. my mother taught me how to cook, and i figured i’d spend the morning of the day-off in the kitchen, where i’ll be busy, and…the thoughts wouldn’t be so loud.”

natasha folded her arms over herself as you came closer. you noticed she had just come back from the gym. she probably hadn’t had anything to eat. 

carefully slicing the freshly baked bread into halves, you took a pair out of the perfect symmetry and placed them on the plate, before ladling a helping of the scrambled eggs, taking a few pieces of bacon out of the other pan, and placing a piece of hash brown right on top, before covering it with the other half of the bread. she watched you work, methodically, seamlessly. you looked like you had been doing it for years. 

then, you wrapped the sandwich quickly, and wrote her initials, N.R. with a smiley on top of the wrapper, before handing it to her. she was taken aback, and slightly red when she looked at the sandwich being offered to her. 

“i-it’s…” she stuttered, heart beating quickly when she realised she hadn’t exactly taken the sandwich, but hadn’t rejected your offer, either. 

“i want you to be my first taster. if it’s good, i’ll call the team down to have it as well. and if it’s bad…” you shrugged, half-laughing in anticipation as natasha finally took it, taking a small bite in front of you.

she took a moment to chew, face in contemplation, as if she were assessing a fine dining establishment before you. you began taking off your apron, deciding to let the chefs help you take over for the serving of the food later on, and started packing your things. 

just before you left, however, you noticed natasha fully into the entryway of the kitchen again, sandwich half-eaten.

“it’s okay,” she said nonchalantly, wiping a little bit off the ends of her lips. “it’s edible.”

you nodded, hiding a smile. “okay means good. i’ll tell the team to come down, then.”

natasha shrugged this time, as if saying if that’s what you want. when you left to shower, however, she smiled quietly to herself, and after making sure that no one was around, did a little happy dance from one of the most delicious sandwiches she had ever eaten. it was more than okay, it was the best breakfast she had ever had. she only wished she had the courage to tell you so. 

the redhead then tore the part of your handwriting of her initials off the wrapper, and kept it in her pocket for the rest of the day.

–

natasha never really knew what to do on her day-offs. it felt weird, to be sitting around doing nothing. she could do her remaining paperwork, but she knew if tony caught her, he would ban her from working on it at all for a week, leaving her even more bored and restless. 

she could sleep in, or explore new york for the day, but she wasn’t fully confident that her russian accent wouldn’t throw the average new yorker off yet. it also didn’t help that ever since her joining the avengers, there was always someone around the block who recognised who she was, who let their eyes rake over her figure for far too long, who made her feel uncomfortable when they got too close to ask for a picture. the others never seemed to mind, but she did. 

she noticed you always seemed to step in when it got too much; telling the fans that enough was enough, or simply holding her waist and slowly whisking her away from their prying eyes and grubby hands. she threw her head back onto her pillow at the thought of your hands on her waist again. natasha seriously needed to stop thinking about you, and her festering crush, whenever she had the opportunity. she needed to busy herself. 

but when you appeared in the commons right as she stepped out of her room to ask what you planned to do on your day-off, you were in your coat and scarf, prepared to head out. the rest of the team was still lazily lounging around the area, in a dazed state from the aftermath of your coma-inducing breakfast. 

“where are you going?” she asked, not wanting to pry too much, but still allowing herself to feed her own curiosity. 

she hated that you always replied with a tone that seemed like it was painfully obvious what you were doing. “out.”

“i know, but–”

“hey romanoff, are you still coming for the basketball game later? steve needs to book the seats.” tony called out to her before she could finish the sentence. he asked you too, but you reaffirmed with him that you weren’t coming. 

you shifted your scarf slightly, turning your attention back to her. “you ever been to a basketball game before? you’ll like it. the warriors are something else.”

natasha shook her head. you knew she had never been. but it didn’t mean that she wanted to go, not without you around. but she also didn’t have the courage to ask if she could tag along to wherever you were going. she knew her limits.

you didn’t seem to take the hint of her wanting to come along, despite her readily asking if you were going to meet someone, or if you were just going out alone, and if you had plans for after. you simply waved her goodbye, and told her to enjoy the game with the team. 

she sighed in irritation when you left, much to the amusement of clint behind her. “does she have a girlfriend or something? is that what she’s using her day-offs for?”

if clint wasn’t already hiding his grin, his friend’s newfound annoyance at your departure definitely made him let out a chuckle. “not that i know of.”

natasha didn’t have much to do that day, and it wasn’t like she was particularly looking forward to the game either, so she decided to spend her day-off the only way she knew how, using her spying skills and finding out what you were doing with yours.

–

in retrospect, natasha knew that you probably wouldn’t have liked being stalked, or followed around without her telling you why, or even simply her not taking the initiative to just ask, when you would have told her willingly of what you spent your breaks on.

she followed you into the university uptown, where natasha knew you guest-lectured in between longer breaks from missions. she just never expected you to come in on your days-off as well. 

you tapped your card in to the science department of the school, while natasha snuck past the security guard after causing a well-crafted distraction. when you entered the lockers to change into your lab coat, natasha waited patiently outside like a schoolgirl hiding from their crush. she supposed she wasn’t so different from one then.

it was only when you walked down the halls into a room guarded by a facial recognition scan, that natasha finally got to know that she a) wasn’t being so discreet after all, or b) you were a better agent than you let on to her. she should have known that you didn’t get promoted through the ranks so fast, so young, without reasons. 

the machine scanned your face, and as the door unlocked, you stood there for a moment, holding it wide open, before leaning your head to the side, one eye locked with hers. 

“do you want to come in and see as well, or do you plan on just waiting for me until i finish?”

if clint had seen the embarrassment on her face, along with the walk of shame she had to put on to enter the room with you, he would have certainly made her the laughing stock of the compound for the day. 

–

you drew up a chair for natasha as you went to your usual work station, a little early for your patient. in the few minutes that the two of you were alone, you hadn’t engaged her at all, simply directing her to sit and watch, while you prepared your materials and waited for your lab assistant. natasha was a little unnerved, and in awe at your professionalism, at the same time. 

you clicked your tongue in slight annoyance as your assistant came in five minutes late, reminding him, almost naggingly, that you only had one day-off per week, and it was precious time that he was wasting for the both of you. he apologised, and got to work helping you set up what looked like a robotic prosthetic leg, on your station. 

the lab was pristine; white-tiled walls and floors scrubbed clean with a very strong stench of antiseptic ensuring to even the most sceptic of minds that you knew what you were doing, and that the lab was clean; if the multiple diagrams of your inventions on the walls and the prototypes lining the shelves around her were not enough proof. you had never told her you had a lab.

a few minutes later, two knocks on the door were heard, and your assistant rushed over to open the door for a man no younger than seventy, hobbling in with great difficulty as he tried to offer help with his support, only to be rejected with a wave of his hand and an upbeat smile. he was an amputee. 

oh. this was what your days-off were for. 

“hello, mr. miller. you look cheerful today.” you got up from your seat to shake his hand. he took your support this time, leading himself to the plush armchair placed across your station. 

he laughed, rough and loud. “david, how many times have i come in here and asked you to call me?”

you smiled sheepishly. “sorry, david. let me help you with this.”

he winced as you kneeled down beside him, outstretching his prosthetic leg and inspecting it. your assistant took notes as you made observations of the various deficiencies and defects it suffered through david’s use of it for the past six months. natasha watched as your hands, the ones that would hold her at night when she cried, the ones that punched the faces of enemies trying to get to her, the very same hands that made her breakfast that morning, ran over the intricate details and bolts and nuts of the prosthetic leg she learned you made just for david, knowing what was wrong just by the feel and touch of them. she adored those hands so much. 

then, you helped him take off the prosthetic, instructing your assistant to hold his hand in encouragement as he winced at the removal. “there we go. wasn’t so bad this time, right? and the leg did hold up quite well, for six months.”

“well, you do maintenance to it every week,” david patted your back, “hard to fuck it up so bad when you fix it up every time i try to, right?”

you laughed, and natasha stopped herself from smiling. at your signal, the assistant brought forth the limb that you both had been working on to replace david’s old one for the past year, shiny and new. the man positively gleamed at the sight of it. 

“ready for a bit of a change, though, mr. miller?”

“now, that is a beauty,” he said as his eyes latched on, before they inevitably noticed natasha sat at the corner of where the limb was, and she swore he held recognition for her instantly. 

you followed his gaze, before his met yours, and the playful smirk he let out was all that you needed to know that he knew. “is that your…”

“...friend, natasha,” you replied him quickly, eyes slightly panicked and subtly, not so subtly, shaking your head to ask him to stop before he let out your little secret. 

“is she the one–”

“–yes, david. she’s the one.” 

he finally caught the hint, and chuckled to himself as he waved hi to her. she waved back, no doubt in confusion of the connection between him and her. she made a mental note to ask you about it later. 

–

when the new leg was fitted on him, david was practically almost jumping for joy at the new flexibility and strength it gave him. his laughter was infectious, as natasha quickly learned, when it caught up to her after it caught you and the assistant, as well. 

“look at the reflexes! and fluidity of this thing!” no longer was he hobbling and exerting his entire strength on the one leg, it was almost as if the leg was natural and part of him itself, as david brought you in for a hug enthusiastically. 

you hugged him back, still grinning. “amazing right, what science can do for you. soon, the future of prosthetics is going to change, and we can make so many more lives better in our community.”

“you two are amazing, simply amazing!” david exclaimed, even as he finally accepted the assistant’s help in testing out the other features of the prosthetic. 

–

natasha stayed until the end of the day for you, when david’s tests were complete and he was all but ready to leave. 

“and to what i owe you this time, again?” he asked. you knew he didn’t have much, it was the sole reason you took him on for the project; but the fact that he remained so grateful, always offering payment, even when you had repeatedly rejected him, always touched you. 

“for you to come back next week, as always. and to thank mr. parker here for all his efforts. i couldn’t have done all this without him.” 

your assistant looked like he was going to cry at the recognition and hug david gave him. “doing a good job, kid.”

you held the door open for david then, and he stole one last glance at natasha before he left. “you know, your girlfriend here really is a genius, ms. black widow. the best of her–”

“–thank you, david!” you cut in, visibly more in a panic this time, as you held his hand and ushered him out, “just a friend, a friend!”

“what?” he didn’t seem keen to leave, “i’m just helping the two of you speed things along. god knows she wouldn’t have stayed here in this boring lab all day, running tests on an old war veteran running his mouth, if she wasn’t smitten with you too!”

natasha’s cheeks instantly reddened, as you sighed in embarrassment. so maybe her feelings were reciprocated, for a while now. 

with the assistant chuckling in the background, you shut the door ushering david out, whispering frustratedly that he was leaking all of your secrets about natasha. “david! i told you and peter about her in confidence!”

“i know, but you didn’t tell me she was head over heels for you too.”

“because she’s not!” you whisper-yelled, “she came just to see what i was doing, and…and…”

and…oh. 

david’s look made sense now. it all made sense now. her shyness around you, the way she always wanted you around, always wanted to know what you were doing, the reasons for her coming all this way to accompany you on your day-off. 

you had thought she wouldn’t be interested, and would leave after seeing what your activities just were, but you hadn’t expected her to stay. and you hadn’t expected to feel her gaze on you throughout. 

“when you know, you know.” he assured, patting you on the back again as he walked off, “trust me, kid. and she’s a good one, you picked a good one.”

–

your assistant had retreated to his corner of the lab when you came back in, while natasha stretched her joints and got ready to leave too. it was dark by then, and you felt guilty for making her stay past dinner. you excused your assistant to leave quickly, before finally turning to her. 

“sorry.”

“for what?” she yawned. 

“for trapping you here with me on your day-off. i feel guilty now.”

she rolled her eyes, before jabbing you slightly. “idiot. i stayed because i wanted to stay. and you didn’t force me here, in fact, i was the one who followed you, remember?”

“yeah, you do need to make sure that the person you’re stalking isn’t a super spy like you before you do that, though.”

at the blush on her cheeks and feigned hurt on her face, you quickly decided to change the subject. “what david said earlier…ignore him. he’s old, a little senile. really doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

“really?” natasha frowned, “that’s a shame.”

you nodded, biting your lip as you leaned back against the counter of your station. she continued, “i really wanted what he said to be true.”

you blinked in surprise, unable to hide the shock on your face. it was your turn to be nervous around natasha now. it was always the other way around. perhaps the knowledge of knowing your feelings were mutual beckoned you to retreat to a shy disposition you never showed anyone else. 

natasha shrugged. “damn, i really thought i had a chance with the most wonderful, kind-hearted person i know, who would spend her days off, even, to help people. who i thought was hiding to meet a secret girlfriend or something.”

a smile began to creep its way onto your face. “n-no, no secret girlfriend.”

“shame. i bet that secret girlfriend would be so in awe, falling even more for this person, when she finds out what she does for the people around her. a superhero saving the lives of many as an avenger, and a scientist changing the lives of even more as a civilian.”

“mm,” you took off your lab coat then, coming closer to her. she had a playful glint in her eyes as she put one hand on your chest, preventing you from getting too close. “tell me more praises of what this secret girlfriend would feel about me.”

“this secret girlfriend also does not appreciate when you keep such lovely secrets from her,” she felt your arms on the counter behind her now, entrapping her body with yours, “and when you try to do anything without taking her to dinner first. she’s starving, you know.”

the chuckle that left your lips made natasha only want to kiss you even more. “what do you say i make this secret girlfriend not-so-secret now, and invite her out to dinner with me? her favourite italian down the street from here, my treat.”

in response, the woman before you finally let go of the hand on your chest, and brought her hands to your collar to pull you in, leaving a searing kiss on your lips that left you lightheaded and longing for more, at the same time. 

she held your hand as the both of you walked out of the university, before declaring something she had to say before she forgot, “tell david he should expect to see me around the lab every week from now on too, then.” 

“yes ma’am.”

[avocado-writing]

omg… could we get an astarion x reader where the reader is gale’s apprentice? she’s extremely studious and focused on her learning of magic (as gale teaches her to be) and because gale took her on as a young girl she’s never had her first kiss (much less her first time) bc she’s been so focused on her academics… mwahahahahah 😈

notes: reader’s gender isn’t mentioned, but Astarion does call you “little”! (Edit; part 2)

rating: M

words: 1.8k

pairing: astarion x reader

Taglist: bg3 Taglist: @ghosti02art @sadandanxiouswtf @yeethaw13 (let me know if you want to be added!)

“We hope to see you soon!” calls the cashier from behind the desk, waving amicably as you leave with your arms laden with scrolls and books. You manage a smile over your shoulder, no hand free to return the kind gesture.

“I’m sure you will!” you reply. This is true. Gale has probably spent a small fortune at Sorcerous Sundries, and - with the amount of time he’s been spending with Tav recently - supply runs have fallen to you. Not that you particularly mind. It’s nice to get into the city and get away from your mentor and the de facto leader of your group making heart eyes at each other from across the camp. It’s wonderful that he’s found someone (gods know that he deserves it after all that Mystra business) but he doesn’t have to be so bloody nauseating about it.

You wait for a cart to pass, readjust your hold on the pile, and head across the road. You’re so lost in your own thoughts that you don’t hear your name being called for a second and barrel on ahead - it’s only when you become aware of footsteps approaching that you turn.

Astarion isn’t jogging to catch you, exactly. He’s far too precious for that. But he has increased his speed to close the gap, that little smile on his face which you know can only spell trouble.

“Well, fancy running into you, my dear. Isn’t chance a fine thing?” he purrs. You raise an eyebrow.

“What, you fortuitously meeting me at the only store I ever seem to go to?”

He doesn't reply to that, instead putting a hand on his hip and cocking his head.

“It can be dangerous for a little thing like you to walk around a big city alone. Never know who might take advantage.”

He flashes his fangs with his smile, and you swear your cheeks don’t start to burn.

“I know the route back to camp perfectly well…”

“Oh, so you won’t mind if I join you then? Let me help with those books, they seem to be rather precariously perched.”

You take a moment to look him over. He’s got muscle, of course, you’ve seen him with his shirt off at camp, but you’re certain it’s all for show – you are definitely stronger than he is. Being Gale’s glorified pack mule means you have to be. But, suppressing a smile, you press half of your haul into the elf’s waiting arms and chuckle when he stumbles under the unexpected weight.

“You could suggest to your mentor that he gets into a little more light reading,” he mutters, and that makes you laugh properly. He seems pleased with himself for that. Well, more pleased with himself than he usually is, anyway - so you find yourself walking through the city streets with his company. 

And it’s… nice. You’ve never been sure what to make of Astarion. He’s a bit too cunning for your usual taste in companion, but there can be no doubt that he’s competent. He travels the city streets with a familiar ease, and when he goes to turn down an alleyway mid-conversation, you almost follow him without thinking.

Almost.

“The thing is I’m sure he eats them, but – what are you doing back there? Keep up, I won’t wait for you,” he says, waiting for you. You shuffle awkwardly, and he reads your face without you having to say a word.

“Come now, I’m not going to bite you. Not unless you want me to,” there’s that damned grin again. You harrumph, knowing full well that’s exactly why you hesitated, but not wanting to show weakness in front of him. Nothing that he can use against you. You scuttle along until you make up the distance, and fall back in step.

Soon it’s just the two of you. The city noise dies down and the sound of your boots echoes in tandem with his. He has you completely alone. He could do whatever he wanted with you. You know he wouldn’t, of course, but… you’d be lying if you said the idea didn’t thrill you, just a tiny bit.

Astarion lets out a laugh.

“Your blood’s started pumping faster. Tell me, little mage, is something making your heart pound?”

Oh, right. Vampire. The bastard is uncannily attuned to these things.

“No!” you say, quickly, but there’s not much fire behind it, no real sincerity. His lip quirks. 

“I’ve seen the way you look at me, you know. It’s alright to feel desire. Gale doesn’t seem to take very good care of you, after all…”

That makes you stick your tongue out and gag. You totally ignore the first part of that sentence and spit:

“Eurgh, Gale? Absolutely not! He’s like my brother. We’ve known each other since… well, for as long as I can remember, honestly,” you say. And it’s true. You love him, of course, but not like that. Maybe you’re a bit jealous of Tav but only because they’re taking up so much of his time. You’re desperate to have another magic lesson. It feels like it’s been ages since he’s taught you anything, and you’ve been somewhat demoted to his personal assistant rather than his student. You can’t be too upset, though. He does have that tadpole in his head, so things are probably a lot more pressing to him than teaching you how to properly refine your Fireball spell. 

Astarion sees how introspective you’ve become. You have a habit of chewing on your lip when you’re lost in thought, and he’s become quite partial to it. It’s… sweet. Secretly he’s become quite partial to you. You’re endearing, bullheadedly stubborn, but sincere and enthusiastic. A bright spark in a dark world and he is drawn to you, whether he wants to be or not. 

He’s harbouring something for you, and doesn’t quite want to admit what that might be. So he teases. 

“You really do take up all of your time with studying, don’t you?”

You shrug as much as you can beneath your armful of books. 

“Wouldn’t you, if you had the best tutor around? Wouldn’t you want to learn every single thing you possibly could?”

“All that time squirrelled away over a spell book. I wonder if you’ve ever even been kissed.”

You stop dead. Ah, he thinks. Got you. 

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” you snap, but you know your voice wobbles a little. A bit of a sore spot if you’re honest. Seeing Gale and Tav has made you realise that, actually, maybe there is something you long for. Something more. 

“Ahh, so you haven’t. There’s no shame in that, little mage.”

Your cheeks are burning. You can’t look him in the eye. Thank the gods the two of you are alone, you wouldn’t want anyone to see you so flabbergasted. 

“I’m… you’re…” you struggle to find words to adequately express how you feel. Furious. Embarrassed? A whole tide of things all at once, rooting you to the ground. 

He walks closer. If he was living, you’d be able to feel the heat coming off of him. He puts his pile of books on the top of a part-built wall, then takes yours to do the same. You don’t resist. 

“Would you like to be kissed?”

You manage to drag your eyes up from the ground to meet his gaze, searching it for any hint of insincerity. He is teasing you, a bit, but… his eyes are surprisingly soft. 

He means it. 

And before you can think it over, you nod. 

His lips are soft. Far softer than you expected for a vampire. His kiss gently presses your mouth open, allowing for a lithe and curious swipe of his tongue. You eagerly accept it, voice catching in your throat a little in a half-rendered moan. 

He tastes like mint. It’s fresh. It’s sweet. 

You want more. 

Carefully you put a hand on either one of his biceps, a gentle test of the muscle there. It might be only for show, but it’s firm enough for you to enjoy how it feels in your grip. You sense him smile against your mouth and deepen the kiss, running his fingers up the length of your arm until he can cup your face; grip the back of your head.

When he walks you back to press up against the alleyway wall, you trust him; and when he hooks your collar down with a single long finger, exposing your neck, that half-moan comes back with full force. 

“That’s it,” he sighs, feather-light, “let me hear you, you sweet thing.”

His mouth leaves yours in order to kiss a long line down your jugular. His teeth ghost the skin there, but he never threatens to bite. 

Not unless you want me to. 

You find yourself trusting him absolutely. His tongue flicks against your pulse and you thrust your hips forward inadvertently. It’s an impulse. An instinct. But it has an impact, and you hear Astarion catch his breath just a bit. 

“Where have you been hiding all this?” he asks, gravel filling his voice as you thread your fingers into his hair. 

“Maybe you never gave me a reason to show it to you.”

He seems to like that answer, so when he slips his leg between yours, presses his thigh up to your sex… gods, you start to rock against him without a second thought. 

It’s good. It feels good. Good in a way only your own hands have ever made you feel, late at night, beneath your bedroll with fucking Astarion, Astarion, Astarion running through your head. 

“Look at you. All desperate for me. What do you want me to do, little mage? Where do you want me to touch?”

You take his hand and guide it down your body, yes gods yes to the apex of your legs, and —

Greetings! Hope I’m not catching you at a bad moment, but need those books at camp ASAP. Do let me know when you’ll be back!

Gale’s Sending is like a cold bucket of ice through your body, and you freeze under Astarion’s ministrations. The moment is utterly shattered. A hand on his chest moves him away and he acquiesces, confused but not pushing back. 

“Hello Gale,” you sigh out loud, letting the elf know the reason for the interruption. “Will be back as soon as possible. Not too far from the camp now. Sorry for the delay. Got a little… held up.”

And then you’re just standing there. In an alley. With Astarion. And you feel very silly all of a sudden, very small. Once again your eyes drop to the floor and you start grabbing the books, quickly, anything to distract you from how humiliated you feel. You’re not sure if it’s because you let yourself give into him so easily or if it’s because you didn’t want him to stop — and you’re a bit terrified at how far you’d have let him go. 

“I’ll see you at camp,” you manage to stutter out, before practically running away. 

Astarion watches you go. Your departure stings. 

[beloved-nyx]

𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐑 𝐎𝐅 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃

˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊ SYNOPSIS - What more could a king want than you?

˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊ PAIRING - Yandere!Emperor x GN!Reader

˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊ FORMAT - Oneshot

˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊ CW - YANDERE CONTENT, Alexi is fucking depraved, the wine is really sus, mentions of blood, illegal use of blood (?), implied noncon if you squint, implications of SA on reader (not graphic, just mentions), DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT.

˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊ AUTHORS NOTE - bleh this is my first time writing Yandere sooooo but um hehe I hope this is good and um scary I guess I hope u get scaroused when reading this

You had never liked wine in the first place. 

It tasted sour, left a bitter taste in your mouth that made you want to puke. Maybe It was because you only had enough money to buy the cheap bottles, the ones that nobles would probably scoff at. It’s not like you could afford the luxuries they had anyway, or the time which they wasted by throwing extravagant banquets. 

But you started hating wine more when you stayed at the palace, the place you worked at. The Crown Prince was frivolous, throwing parties and balls every night, and the smell of debauchery was always present. You had no choice but serve the half-drunken nobles all night, wincing and scowling and sometimes even slapping wandering and unwelcome hands that came near you.

You hardly ever got sleep when you stayed at the palace, not when you had to partake in such parties, and definitely not when you could feel prying eyes following your every movement at the palace you begrudgingly called “home” even if it was nothing like that. 

You don’t know how you caught the Crown Prince's attention. You had made sure to look down, made sure not to break the rules, and absolutely made sure not to stand out. 

You knew what happened when poor servants had the affection of nobles.

Poor servants would get beheaded by jealous fiancés, maids would carry bastard children they never wanted, and the nobles would whisper and gossip and cause hell towards those weaker than them. 

“You look lost in thought, beloved.” 

A soft, silky voice that makes you want to claw your ears off startles you from your thoughts, and you look towards your left.

A man is seated at the front of a long banquet table, dressed in the finest clothes one could imagine. His long, black hair is messily done, and his dead, dark eyes stare into the cup he’s holding in his pale, lithe fingers. His lips, dabbed in red powder, are curled up in a smile as his eyes leave from his cup. 

“Am I boring you?” He sets his cup down, and you peer at the contents. Dark, crimson wine enters your sight and you quickly look away, instead looking down at the red, lush carpets. 

“Of course not, Your Imperial Majesty,” You hastily answer, your voice loud in the cold, empty room. The only light that seemed to illuminate the dark was the flimsy glow of the candles, a pathetic attempt at making this situation “romantic.” 

Ever since the Crown Prince, Alexander, became Emperor, your life had become a living hell in the making. He makes a contemplative “hmm,” before tapping his finger on the table. 

“Please, there's no need for such formalities.” He grins, and in that moment you want nothing better than to slap that grin off his face. “After all, we will be married soon. It’s quite uncomfortable having to hear my soon-to-be call me by such a…boring title.”

“And please, is the floor more interesting to look at than me?” You feel his cold hands lift your chin up, his eyes crinkling as he smiles again. “I missed looking at your face. Ever since I became Emperor, I hardly had the time to visit your chambers.” His fingers inch towards your cheek, before cupping your cheek. 

You try to refrain from scowling. 

“Alexander-”

“Alexi.” He corrects you, and you bite your tongue. 

You open your mouth before he shushes you, his eyes trained on your lips, before pulling away, instead opting to hold a knife instead as he expects the sharp blade. You gulp, and he smiles at your nervousness. 

“I…I think I lost my appetite, Alexi.” You try to refrain from stammering. You weren’t scared-you weren’t, you weren’t, you weren’t-

“But you haven’t even touched your food.” 

His black eyes regard you coldly, and you think dully that he must be having another moodswing. That happened often, at the strangest times too. But it also happened more when he was jealous, when he was sickeningly insecure of himself that he latched onto you to try and stave off those feelings of his. 

“C’mon, beloved. Why don’t you atleast have a sip of your wine?” He tilts his head, pushing a gold chalice in your hands. Your palms are clammy, and you think you're visibly sweating. You grab the chalice in your hands shakily, and he rewards you with a kiss on the cheek, even if it makes you feel disgusting and dirty inside. 

“My attendants told me you’ve been talking to some of those absolutely wretched servant friends of yours.” Alexi places down his knife, instead opting to take a drink of his wine as he hums thoughtfully and your blood runs cold. 

“You know that I’m easily jealous, my beloved.” The words roll off his tongue like poison, but he doesn’t look at you, instead swirling his cup around and examining the contents inside. 

“I-I’m sorry. I was just lonely-” 

He clicks his tongue, silencing your apologies with a wave of his hands. “To say that I’m disappointed is an understatement, my beloved. But I forgive you.” He grins, and gazes at your cup with a slight curl to his lip. “So just drink and be merry, my dear.”

Alexi looks at you intently as you gaze into the contents of your cup, the liquid reflecting your face as you gaze into it with a frown. Alexi places his head on his palm, watching you with some sort of sick glee that makes your stomach drop and makes your head spin. 

You take a sip and almost throw up.

It's thick and visceral, and the taste of iron floods your mouth and clogs your senses. You throw the cup away from you, the wine–no, the blood, seeping onto the red carpets. It doesn’t make much of a difference though, and you collapse on the ground as you try to cough up the blood that you had just drank. Alexi chuckles softly, and you can hear the faint sound of screeching as he gets up from his chair and makes his way over to you, kneeling down and making his pointed, iron-heeled boots stained red. 

“Oh, please don’t look at me with such a face, beloved.” Alexi blushes as you scowl at him, slapping away his hand as he tries and wipes off the blood still stained on your lips. He chuckles, black eyes filled with a sick sort of delight. 

“You know I get jealous easily, my beloved. I just wanted to drill it in that sweet head of yours who you really belong to.” He grins, and you want to puke. 

You never even liked wine in the first place.

[dearlyjun]

— STUDY BREAK? ☆ CSB

☆ PAIRING: collegeboyfriend!soobin x gn!reader

☆ GENRE: SMUT (18+ READERS ONLY!)

☆ SUMMARY: studying with your boyfriend gets boring, so you decide to suck his dick instead.

☆ WORD COUNT: 811

☆ WARNINGS: basically just a blowjob and maybe lots of spit, descriptions of soobin’s dick, cumshot, cum swallowing/eating.

☆ AUTHORS NOTE: not proofread lol im too lazy and busy for that. if you see a mistake, no you don’t.

BE ADDED TO MY TAGLIST HERE!

“baby, what’re you–“

“shhh. I wanna take a break from studying, yeah?” You softly spoke, touching Soobin’s half erect cock over his grey sweatpants.

He was reading his book on the couch, while you sat on the floor in front of him. You were probably doing more daydreaming than studying. With Soobin innocently sitting in the same position that he does when you ride him, how could you not?

“You can focus on your book if you want…” You wrapped your fingers around his length the best that you could through his pants, making him suck in a harsh breath. There was no way he was going to read his book now.

“I can’t.” Soobin whined, leaning his head back against the couch. “Not when you touch me like that.”

You smirked to yourself. Soobin was so hard now, swearing under his breath when you ran your thumb over the tip of his cock. Even through his sweatpants, he was so sensitive.

Finally, you leaned forwards. Hooking your fingers over the waistband of his sweatpants and underwear, and pulling them down.

“Fuck.” You swore. Soobin moved his thighs apart more to give you some room. He was watching you so intently; biting down onto his bottom lip.

“Fuck. I love your cock.” You spoke, leaning in and swiping your thumb over his tip that had collected precum. Soobin’s mouth fell open, already panting. You let a glob of spit fall from your mouth onto it, watching it drip before jerking him off a few times.

You changed your motion, twisting your wrist at the top so your entire palm went over his tip.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” Soobin whimpered, hips bucking into your hand as his eyes screwed shut. “Too much.”

Without saying anything, you wrapped your lips around his tip and hollowed your cheeks; sucking him in. You released him from your mouth with a lewd pop, earning a moan from Soobin.

“Fuck.” He couldn’t take his eyes off of you, despite already looking so fucked out.

You shifted on the floor to get more comfortable, before leaning in again and taking him down your throat; pushing so far that your nose was almost against his lower stomach.

“Oh my god.” Soobin let out a whine; his hands making their way into your hair.

You pulled away from him to get a breath, making a string of saliva connect your mouth to his cock.

“Sh-Shouldn’t you get back to studying?” Soobin was trying to ground himself, even though he so badly wanted to cum down your throat.

“Wanted you to cum in my mouth.” You licked his cock from the base to the tip, pressing your tongue firmly against the now prominent vein underneath. “That okay?”

“Fuck. Oh fuck. Yes, that’s okay.” Soobin was reeling. “Anything you want.”

You squeezed your thighs together, trying to find some kind of relief for yourself. Now you were afraid you were going to soak through your sweatpants.

You tapped his cock head on the flat of your tongue. “You taste so good.” You were just egging him on now, swiping the tip against your lips.

“Fuck your mouth with it.” Soobin was breathing heavy so he was kind of quiet, but you still heard him.

You pumped him a few times with the head of his cock in your mouth; the noise absolutely obscene. Everything was coated in a mixture of Soobins precum and your saliva.

You paused. “Say it like you mean it.”

Soobin took a breath in, trying to ground himself. “Fuck your mouth with it.”

You took him back in your mouth; sucking him in harshly. Soobin groaned, one of his hands in your hair. You could tell he was trying not to push you down on him.

Relaxing your throat, you forced him down your throat multiple times; the sound being the most pornographic thing you’ve ever heard.

“Fuck….that noise. Oh fuck.” Soobin whined. “Fuck im gonna cum.”

You didn’t stop In the slightest, but now Soobin sort of took control; pushing you down onto his length. You mentally thanked your gag reflex for not suddenly enacting on this moment.

All of a sudden, Soobin moaned so loud, throwing his head back against the couch as he pushed his cock into your mouth.

You felt his warm essence in your mouth and the back of your throat. Soobin released his grip on your hair, but you kept sucking him, as if he was a flavor that you’d never get sick of.

You released him from your mouth finally, allowing Soobin to pull his sweatpants back up. Sitting up onto your knees, you grabbed Soobin’s book that was thrown to the side on the couch.

“Back to studying?” You asked, your body still slotted between his thighs.

Soobin shook his head. “Get up here. I don’t think we’re studying anymore.”

TAGS: @dearlyjoonie @mhasimp666 @yomamas-stuff @sleep1tawayy

(some people cannot be tagged, make sure when you add yourself to my taglist that you have the tagging feature on)

[moncherijoie]

Johnny Suh but he can't get enough of you. 😩😩

I've been gone for so long cuz things been fucked up. It still is so it might be slow updates but please have patience with me.

(This is a draft and it isn't completed.)

𝐏𝐮𝐬𝐬𝐲 𝐝𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐤

𝑱𝒐𝒉𝒏𝒏𝒚 𝑺𝒖𝒉 ♡︎ 𝒀/𝒏

𝒥ℯ 𝓉'𝒶𝒾𝓂ℯ, 𝓂ℴ𝓃 𝒶𝓂ℴ𝓊𝓇

𝙿𝚘𝚟: 𝙰𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚞𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚓𝚘𝚑𝚗𝚗𝚢, 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚣𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 . 𝙱𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚑𝚢𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢..

𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜; 𝚜𝚎𝚡𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚏 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚗𝚘𝚙𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚊, 𝚛𝚊𝚠 (𝚠𝚛𝚊𝚙 𝚋4 𝚞 𝚝𝚊𝚙), 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗.

𝑱ᴏʜɴɴʏ walks into the bedroom. Its dimly lit as he sighed. Your body heaving up and down slowly from your breathing. He felt bad from the argument you both had earlier. He should have heard you out that time. But it was too late now.

He knew you wouldn't want to talk to him now. He dropped his bags and went into the bathroom doing his night routine. When the door shuts you jump slightly in the bed subconsciously and went back to sleep.

After the door open and steam exits the bathroom as johnny walks out in his towel wrapped around his waist. He looks at your vanity and decides to sit on it. Looking at himself, he uses your hairdryer to quickly dry his hair.

He look at your figure through the mirror. He felt off at the act you weren't up waiting for him. With stories to tell about work. Plus wanting to hear about his day as well.

There wasn't any food left out for him to eat. His stomach rumbles remembering when you asked him earlier to take you out for groceries.

He didn't care about all that though he just wanted to be with you. The arguement was quite bad he knew you'd probably be angry for days. This already happened before.

"Y/n?" He shook you softly as he entered the bed. With no response. He removed the blanket from your body. He notice you wearing his favorite light blue lingerie, the one you wore for his birthday.

He bit his lips and shut his eyes as you pulled the covers back over you. He could feel a tent rising underneath his towel.

He got up to go change into a pair of loose boxers and hung the towel up. Looking back he saw your breast exposing itself as you shift positions.

"Why are you doing this to me?" He whined as he lied next to you again. It was addicting, he couldn't take his eyes off of your body. Even though he knew it was his, it felt wrong.

You sleeping while he wanted to destroy everything you had to offer. He squeeze his legs shut trying to distract himself. Praying not to get horny.

You instead made things worse turning over to the left. Facing him as you arms swings into his lap. "S-so close" he stated as he saw how close your hand was to his dick.

At this point he can't rid the fact he has a huge boner right now. Thinking of how he's gonna fuck the shit out of you.

That was the last straw. He got up and hovered on top of you. Seeing your neck makes him want to leave dark bruises over it.

He ran his now turning cold fingers over it. Going down to your right breast. He grasp It in his hands squeezing it a little. Thinking about licking and biting it at the bud.

He adjusted the blanket, it now covers the top half and not the bottom. His hands trails again it to your thigh. How he wanted them to shake so much. His hands reached back up to the center.

Your golden treasure for him. Covered in a thin piece of clothing. He runs his fingers up and down it. You subconsciously roll your hips towards his fingers and he smiles.

Johnny knew he was the only one to get you desperate, even in your sleep. Johnny's mind only being filled with destroying your pussy.

"Can't take it anymore" he silently states as he pulled off your panties. Holding your legs open with his hands. Veins now popping out from there to his arms.

"Fuck..." he shuts his eyes thinking of it's a good idea. He should just wake you up and ask, but you would most likely say no. But doing this also made him feel like he was taking advantage of you.

But he remembered the time when you told him once "use me whenever you like, you know I really want it any time of the day or night."

Fuck it. He dives into your pussy. Arousal already dripping out of you as the point when he starts teasing your clit with his tongue.

You woke up, reflex getting to you you accidentally slap Johnny's head. "Who's That!" He didn't budge. He knows himself he deserved the slap. This proves your loyalty to him. "Johnny? W-what are you doING Fuck!" You threw your head back as he flicks at your sensitive bud.

You hands reached for his hair. You rested your shoulders knowing that it was Johnny. Your husband making you crazy. You weren't going to lie you were thinking about him earlier too.

"Johnny please~" you moaned out. As he pulled out and spat on your pussy. Watching it drip down was driving him insane. "Please what?" You shut your eyes as you feel his fingers making contact with your pussy and rubbing rapid circles. "J-just Fuck! I-I mean fuck m-me already please"

Johnny only smiles at you before diving back into your sweet muff. His own cock dripping out precum already.

You grabbed the bedsheets as the feeling occurred in you. The excitement anticipated feeling. "I'm g-gonna cum! Please johnny! I'm gonna c-cum!"

Your chest heaves faster as johnny looks up at your facial expressions. Your eyebrows furrowed. Before it spills out, eyes widening, thighs shaking rapidly, eyes fluttering threatening to shut as tears flow.

"yes Yes YES! Fuck right there" you rocked your hips against his mouth as he moaned against your throbbing pussy. Johnny's grasp on your thighs becoming harder.

Finally he pulls away. Seeing your lightly abused pussy. He spits in his hand before slapping his saliva on you treasure.

You whimper. "You want more don't you?" Johnny asked you as he forced 2 fingers into your hole.

"Yes, I-I want you..." You said as he pumps his fingers in you fast. You could hear the squelching sound your womanhood was making.

"We're going to go all night. For how you disregarded me earlier." Johnny sternly told you. Looking deep in your eyes you knew he was serious.

"It's too much~" You whined. "It's not too much if you hadn't have my dick in you yet." He raised his eyebrow at you and bit his lip.

In a second you was flipped around and Johnny's over you. Giving you backshots that there was no tomorrow.

[thatfreshi]

I was wondering if you could write Astarion having to tend to a very cuddly drunk female Tav. Possibly having to defend her from other people trying to take advantage of her.

This took me on a very sad adventure

TW - blood and gore, attempted sexual assault, drinking

Recommended Song: Drew Barrymore - SZA

The nice thing about no longer being on wild adventures full of tadpoles and cultists is that you and Astarion can go out drinking like normal people. While your vampiric lover thoroughly enjoys a good glass of wine, he usually stops himself at one. Perhaps he's a little paranoid about you, your safety, but he insists not to have more than one when the two of you are out together. At the house? Sure, he'll finish two bottles with you, the two of you drunkenly laughing by the fireplace, but not when danger could be afoot. You try to tell him he's just anxious, tense, that you'll be alright.

"I'd rather just make sure my love. You indulge all you want darling, I'll be fine."

In one of the more rowdy taverns, you and Astarion sit at a table off to the side, watching people get drunk and dance, bumping into strangers, sometimes fights ensue. As per usual, he nurses his singular glass. You look at him, a gleam of sadness in your eyes.

"Are you sure you don't mind? I can just skip out tonight, maybe we can just drink later, when we get back."

"Nonsense, have your fun my sweet. I insist."

You squeeze his hand.

"Alright then, I'm off to get my second... you can tell me to stop anytime!"

You tease as you slowly walk away, almost backing up into a nearby half-orc. He simply smiles at you, one of those smiles that says everything he's thinking, how he thinks you're precious, how he'd gladly never get drunk again if it meant keeping you. Years ago, he would've never given up a vice for some person. But you, you make this feeling well up in his chest, like he has to hold you close at all times, worried someone will snatch you when he's not looking. You may make fun of him for simply being a paranoid person, but you made it a million times worse.

"I'm back!"

Your voice draws out, and you return with two mugs of beer instead of just the one.

"Already going for three darling? You do remember you're a lightweight, right?"

"I'll be fine. Besides, Mr. Knight in Shining Armor is here to take me home if I throw up on someone."

You lie against his arm, starting on your second drink.

"You did eat before we left the house, right my sweet?"

You look up at him silently. He just sighs, running his hand through your hair.

"Then why did you need to go to the kitchen before we left?"

You giggle a little.

"To... pre-game!"

The laughter rings out of your throat as Astarion sighs, again, more annoyed this time.

"So you're telling me-"

"Already gettin' drunk Aster, it's a great time."

The more and more you talk, the more he realizes your words are becoming more slurred. Perhaps he should've asked before you left, made sure you at least grabbed a bite.

"Alright, you stay right here, I'm going to get you some water and a little snack."

He gets up, swiftly grabbing the two mugs off the table while you protest.

"Hey, I wasn't done with those!"

As Astarion makes his way to the bar, asking for the classic drunkard's care package, he's suddenly nervous. Had you ever been this drunk in public before? Maybe the two of you should just go home, before you somehow get your hands on any more alcohol. After thanking the barkeep for the water and some bread, he comes back through the crowd, and sure enough you have left the table.

"Gods damn it Tav."

After setting down what was supposed to be your little pick-me-up, Astarion quickly moves through the groups of people, knowing you probably just got up to dance. The bard playing tonight was quite excellent after all. However, after looking through most of the common space, you're nowhere to be found. That feeling of panic starts to well up inside of him, where he's only driven by fear. He knows you can't be far, but he also knows most of the tavern-goers here are slimy, horrific people looking for their next bag of gold. Walking through the crowd again, Astarion comes near the back entrance, and hears a conversation down one of the abandoned hallways.

"A gal like you, surprised you're here alone."

He rounds the corner, seeing you and a bulky half-elf, your arms pinned above your head. You seem nervous, but not conscious enough to realize anything is truly wrong. Astarion stalks up behind the wretched man, wrapping his dagger around the half-elf's throat.

"No so alone anymore, are we?"

Your captor surprisingly doesn't stand down.

"You won't do shit. People know me around here, important people, they'd surely have your head if something happened to me."

"Not if I hide your body well enough. And trust me, I have experience."

The two of them are un-moving for a moment as your wrists start to go numb from the pressure. You groan in pain, only causing the half-elf to grab you tighter. As Astarion goes to press his blade into the man's neck, he whips around, pushing Astarion back. Gods, he's tall. You fall back against the wall, trying to nurse the pain in your hands. As Astarion and the stranger fight, you hear the sounds of blades colliding, but your head is spinning. Perhaps he was right about the whole 'eat before you drink' thing.

You're interrupted from your thoughts when you hear a loud thump on the floor. The half-elf almost knocked Astarion out. leaving him on the ground. The stranger then turns back to you, lifting you back up from the floor, going to open the back door.

"What a find. Can't wait to enjoy you."

In that moment, while trying to get his bearings, Astarion realizes this wasn't just someone threatening you, and that disgusting feeling fills his stomach. He remembers how many times he shared his body against his will, and the adrenaline of that anger is enough to get him back on his feet. As you and the half-elf make it out the door, Astarion rushes him, tripping one foot out from under him. And then he drives his blade into the stranger's back, again, and again, and again, and again, and again. He's covered in the sinner's blood, shaking with both rage and misery. The violent display helped sober you up just a little, enough to make you realize that Astarion has killed someone behind the bar, and that it was clearly deserved. He looks up, locking eyes with you, still holding his blade down, as if the dead man needs yet another plunging strike in his back.

"Astarion?"

You ask, your voice full of uncertainty, the past few minutes still a blur. He begins to cry, putting his dagger in the ground, slowly crawling over to where you've ended up on the ground. He holds you tight, almost to the point of pain. He doesn't say anything, and you simply watch the blood pour out of the man's corpse as he grips you tight. Flooding memories cover every space of his mind, seduction, imprisonment, and most of all, Cazador's death.

"Astarion... you're hurting my arm."

You say softly, not fully aware of just how distraught he is, still far too inebriated. You're sad though, because he's sad, and you can't quite put together why. He lets go, wrapping his arms under his legs, crying into his knees. You try to comfort him, despite your state.

"It's okay, it's over now."

You don't even know what's over, but if someone is dead and Astarion is still alive, he must've ended it.

"I know."

He chokes out those two pathetic words, looking back up at you.

"We need to leave."

The survival instinct kicks in, knowing he can't explain why this man has at least five stab wounds in his back. The second one of the bartenders finds this, it'll be over.

"Come, this way, we're going to take the back alley."

Snatching up your arm, Astarion leads you through the darkness, mumbling things to himself that you can't quite hear. The two of you move quickly through the night as you stumble around behind him. When the two of you get home, he gets you some water, leading you upstairs so you can lie down.

"Are you okay?"

Such an innocent question. He knows you'll remember tomorrow, that it's not like you're blacked out or anything, just confused.

"I'll be fine my dove. Get some rest now, it's alright."

It's as if he's trying to convince himself, but it's enough for you in your drunken stupor. You curl up into the heavy blanket cast across the bed, and he leaves a kiss on your head. Not long after, you're drifting off to sleep, exhausted.

As Astarion makes his way to the bathroom, he thinks of the horrific things that could've happened, of how cruel humanity is. He thinks about how you have to be the only truly good person in all of Faerûn. He'll never get all the blood off his face, not while you're asleep. His mirror, his sun, his everything, and you were almost tainted the very same way he was.

When you wake up the next morning, Astarion isn't in bed. You try to reach out groggily, looking for that embrace, only to be left with cold sheets. Thinking back on the night before, the memories start to filter in. The drinks, the half-elf, the stabbing, and Astarion sobbing. The full picture isn't entirely there, but there's enough pieces for you to realize. That man, he found you drunk in the tavern, and tried to take advantage of you.

You stumble out of bed, walking down the stairs, rubbing your eyes.

Astarion is in the kitchen, drinking some tea, his eyes bloodshot. You don't say anything, slowly walking up to him, wrapping your arms around his waist, holding him tight. He puts his tea down and rests his head on yours.

"Are you alright my love?"

"I'm fine. Are you alright?"

You make some space again, looking up at him, holding his hands in yours. They start to shake again, rage and misery. You move a piece of hair out of his face.

"He didn't do anything to me love, I'm okay."

"Just- the thought of- I-"

He tries to hold back the tears again.

"It's okay, you can cry. It's going to be okay."

With that allowance, the permission to let go, he cries again.

"I don't ever want you to feel like that Tav, the way I felt. It's so, disgusting."

"I know, but it's over Aster. It's over now. You're okay, we're okay."

You wrap around him again, and he continues to weep.

"I love you, so much, and they didn't ruin you, I promise."

That worry, that he'll never be the same, that he's forever fractured now, that a piece of him is gone. Innocence, what a loaded word. Those who are guilty make the innocent feel guilty, and those who are guilty feel powerful, and the cycle continues, always continuing. You stand in the kitchen for a long time, letting him get all of the pain out, your shirt sleeve wet with his tears.

"I just wish I didn't have to be scared anymore."

You frown, thinking on his statement, knowing that no one is ever truly safe. You'll both live in fear forever, of those that think cruelty is accomplishment.

"I know."

It's all you can say, because you can't lie and tell him there's a day he won't have to be scared, that one day all the monsters of the world will be gone. There's nothing to learn, no moral, no mistake to fix, just pain. Pain caused by those who greed after anguish.

"Do you think I've changed? Or am I just as I was, a scared, beaten slave?"

"Gods Astarion, of course you've changed. It's the world that hasn't. We're better than them though, even if that's all we have."

Neither of you reach any resolution, nothing that makes you feel better. Instead, you sit on the sofa by the fire, watching the wood go up in flames, softly speaking about the suffering. You lie in each other's arms, sad. Misery loves company, and the two of you sit in that aura of grieving for a long time, grieving his past, grieving what could have been a kinder world. But here, in this sacred space, where feelings are free to run wild, where you can cry as much as you need, that's the only place you're truly safe. And that's alright, as long as it's together.

[sanest-bsd-delegate]

General Headcanons with DOA Boys

Headcanon: General headcanons of stuff I think they will do Pairing: Fyodor x reader, Nikolai x reader and Sigma x reader Genre: Fluff, lowkey crack A/N: Thank you dc person for that one fyodor headcanon. →Masterlist

Nikolai

He probably likes to eat mud for fun and force everyone to eat it

You both secretly sneekout of the hideout and visit beaches at night, having deep conversation which would end up with him filling your shorts with sand

he likes to place insects and rats in your closet stating it is a harmless prank. Not even Sigma is excused from his pranks

Nikolai irrespective of being a prankster would gift you with ice-creams and bakery goods [to lactose intolerant ppl, he gives u popsicles]

that was until he decided to prank you once day and put hair in your food

Never fell into his 'get in hole' game. You got stuck in it for 40 days without food and water. No kidding.

The mysterious hole is filled with nothing but junk.😭😭 very questionable junk

You both love to prank others though.

"Let's plant the bomb under Sigma's bathtub" "Extra points make it filled with pink glitter"

Sigma was covered in pink glitter for thirteen days.

But! Personally Nikolai would be one of the best cuddlers in the manga/anime

The first time he wore normal clothes instead of his usual multi layered buisness clothing, you were in tears. How could someone pull such simple clothes so fashionably?

You like to braid his hair. Even if you suck at it, he would wear your braiding loud and proud.

"Ahh quiztime! Who braided my hair?" "Sir this is-" "Wrong answer," boom "it's my love YN who braided it, you are no fun"

And that's how the city's McDonald's got blowed up.

overall he is a good insane boyfriend, so 10/10 cause I love him 😋

Fyodor

This man

I swear he is fine asf but would probably learn all the instruments you like so he can play it to you when you are kidnapped by Dazai most prob.

he is a Lil more insane then Nikolai so he would probably boom North Korea cause he was bored. [NK people i am jk-]

"what did you have for breakfast" "I don't know" "wrong answer" And the next moment you know, South of Yokohama got blowed up

He is the most broken richest man you ever met.

he can't buy clothes for himself or even upgrade the doa office but will gift you a wholeass country as a Birthday return gift.

you force him to wear dresses and paint his nails, 😭 but my man is so down bad that he is sub in this relationship.

"Sir we have bombed the tunne-" "Good verywell" "🧍🕯️" 😭 nah cause they are hella scared when he wears makeup.

He would probably take you to fireworks only for you to realise he is bombing the area again.

"fyodor, we talked about this" "No" and he proceeds to boom everything

he isn't much of a hugger and probably tries to runaway when you try to even touch him, but mf would suffocate you in his sleep with his hug

He probably had tried giving those evil laughs, but the moment he did that, he choked on air.

Me and a person on my server were having a convo and they said "He probably bites his nails to much and they are really short"

he owns a pet rat but denys it

honestly, he is a 10 but he is a terrorist who likes to bomb everything up. But he is your boyfriend and he is hot.

Sigma

-Are you the man of the relationship or he is?

he is more of a 'please don't kill anyone sweetheart' rather then supporting your actions and being a 'lets commit arson dear YN'

Mf is rich asf. He would deny it ofcourse and then proceed to shower you with silk clothes, Gucci , prada comfy…..such a sugar daddy

😭😭hear me out, he is a ball full of sunshine and anxiety but he wouldnt hesitate to kill anyone who does wrong to you or his casino.

-"Sigma am I your first priority?" "Yes-?" "Is the casino your first priority?" "Yes-?" "Me or the casino?" "Yes"

He probably cries everytime you ignore him.

HE REMEMBERS EVERYTHING ABOUT YOU.

once Nikolai kidnapped you for fun and man did Nikolai end up being half bald.

Sigma wants you to stay away from fyodor, because the last thing he knows is that he want to give fyodor a bombing partner.

Atp he doesnt want you to interact any of the DOA members, because little did he know, you will grow more insane with them.

I like to imagine you knowing Dazai and mentioning it to Sigma on occasions, and oh boy Sigma wanted to kill the man when he first met not because you talked a lot about him, but he would probably be the reason why you pull questionable strunt

10/10 Mama Sigma

He also doesnt allow you to run away freely in his casino, for all he knows is that you will cheat and win all the games.

He is so restrictive

You both probably or possibly may have this convo:

"BUT FYODOR GIFTED HIS S/O A WHOLE ASS COUNTRY, WHY CANT I GET THAT PLUSHIE??" "You cant cheat everytime to get the plushies" "BUT-" "Fyodor is a terrorist, we are not like them" "LEAST HE GIFTED HIS S/O-"

Your arguments probably never make sense to others, but its for you and Sigma to know.

Also he gave up on scolding you every time you try to eat casino coins.

He is such a 'I am trying to keep my S/O mentally sane' boyfriend, even if he needs to go to therapy. 8/10 bf material

Guys get a Sigma. Sigmas never disappoint.

A/N: Btw the discord server if you wanna join is here.

[perseephoneee]

Pls write about damon salvatore x y/n going skiing

ski cabin (damon salvatore x f!reader) {ficmas 2023}

꒰ ࿁ ˙ ˖ ໑ happy day 10 of ficmas!

warnings: damon, smut (i censor it so you can skip!): fingering, blood-sharing, unprotected vamp sex

a/n: i tried writing smut. might be a failure. might not. i have no clue. i just work here. also i wrote this while watching the matrix and eating homemade nachos

↳ masterlist  ↳ ship exchange ↳ taglist ↳ ficmas 2023

Once upon a time, your life resembled a sense of normalcy. And then you met the Salvatores. Vampire brothers who seemed to attract trouble no matter where they went, and somehow, they had clung themselves to your life. You would love to blame Elena for this. Still, truthfully, you also had a fascination with their propensity for idiocracy and probably landed in this situation alone. The situation? Being a target for whatever big bad it was this week. 

It was decided that people should split up to minimize their chances of being caught. Unfortunately, you ended up with Damon Salvatore. Damon was the oldest of the Salvatore brothers and the most annoying. He was morally grey, somewhat self-serving, and handsome in a way that should be illegal. Sometimes, you thought he might be fond of you, but then he'd say something sarcastic and mean, and you'd remember why you loathed being around him. Since everyone split up, you and Damon opted to go to one of the nearby mountains, ending up at some ski lodge that some families would use more for vacation than for hiding. It was snowy, and the ice bit your cheeks as the wind tried to push you back aggressively. You sighed in relief when you finally got to the resort lodge and could breathe warm air. Annoyingly, Damon was barely frazzled. 

"We should ski," Damon said to you. You brushed your fingers through your hair, trying to get snow out as you glared at him. 

"I don't ski."

"Quitters talk," Damon sighed, taking in his surroundings. "Besides, what else is there to do? Besides each other." He whispered that last part to you, that stupid half-smirk on his face. You slapped him in the arm. He was a compulsive flirt at the worst of times. He also loved to ignore you when you expressed disagreement with what he said. So, he rented skis (he had no money, so you guessed compulsion) and forced you to suit up. You tried biting him when he attempted to help you, but you think that only added fuel to his fire. Waddling outside was even worse, as you relied on him most of the time. Looking at the snow-capped hills made fear grip your heart. You wished that the enemy would just kill you already. "Why do you look like you're going to throw up?"

"I don't like this."

"It's fun. We could be brooding in a cabin like my brother, but instead, we're in the great outdoors," Damon laughed. You tried shifting on your skis but felt your knees lock up. "Seriously, what's your problem?"

"I like having control over whether my body is going to eat shit or not."

"You and your control," Damon grumbled. "Y/N, learn to live a little." Shockingly, Damon was weirdly patient with you as he showed you the basics of skiing. He even helped you down the bunny slopes with minimal teasing. He taught you how to pizza, and when you felt yourself start to slip, he'd grab you and hold you upright. It was one of the few times where you weren't sniping at each other the whole time and instead actually having fun. Your body was exhausted when you returned to the lodge, and you were thankful to take off all the warm and heavy gear. Unsurprisingly, Damon immediately got himself a glass of bourbon. You got a hot chocolate and enjoyed picking the whipped cream off with your finger and licking it off. While you enjoyed your dessert, Damon went to find an available room in the lodge. He came back a few minutes later with a devilish smirk on his face. 

"I don't like that look," you mumbled, sipping more hot cocoa. 

"Guess what, princess? The only room left is a single bed," Damon fell next to you on the couch, throwing his arm around you against your protests. "Guess we'll be sleeping together after all."

"You're ruining my quality hot cocoa time," you hissed, pulling away from his arm. He just laughed, as he never took your threats that seriously. Why should he? You were human. He was a vampire. It was an unfair fight. 

You hadn't packed much when you ran, so you just tossed your backpack in the corner of your room when you got there. It was a queen-sized bed, at least, with an ensuite bathroom and winter cabin appeal. There wasn't a couch, just a scratchy-looking chair. You could sleep on the floor. 

"You're not sleeping on the floor," Damon said behind you, almost scaring you half to death. 

"I didn't say anything."

"I can hear you thinking," Damon muttered in your ear, sending shivers down your spine at his proximity. He went to the lounge on the bed, laying back against the pillows, every bit emulating Adonis with how he wrapped his arms around the back as his face caught the light streaming through the window. Sometimes, you wondered whether Damon's favorite form of torture was just being the object of desire that was unattainable. Yes, he drove you up a wall, but you weren't stupid. He could be loyal when he wanted, and his body alone was sculpted by some vain artist who wished to achieve perfection. You could see his arm muscles, the sunlight dancing across his cheeks, the bridge of his nose, and his lips. His eyes were the color of the sky reflected on the snow, a dangerous blue. Like a wolf just waiting for its prey to slow enough to make its bite. "Admiring the view?" he purred, turning to look at you. 

"Admiring a view, not necessarily you." You stepped closer into the room, removing the scarf and jacket around your neck. You kicked off your boots, leaving you in just your sweater and jeans. You pretended not to notice him watching your movements. There was a desk against the wall; you sat at the chair and faced Damon, curling your legs up under you. 

"You're scared of me," Damon said, turning back to face the window. 

"Am not," you huffed. 

"You think I'm gonna bite you?"

"Yes," you answer plainly. Frankly, you had yet to learn where you stood with Damon. Sometimes, he treated you like garbage; other times, you thought he would give up everything to protect you. 

"Come here," Damon sat up, moving to the end of the bed. You look at him with confusion. He huffs in frustration, grabbing you and pulling you onto the bed with him. You fall against the pillows with a yelp, glaring at the vampire as he sits back next to you. "I would never hurt you."

"You're not always the nicest," you mumble. "Sometimes I can't tell."

"Y/N, look at me," Damon grabbed your chin, forcing you to face him. "I'm damaged goods, but don't think that I would agree to hide out here with you if I didn't care. I do care. A lot." He brushes a strand of your hair behind your ear, his touch gentler than expected. "The best thing about returning to Mystic Falls was meeting you."

Damon was never a subtle person, and he doesn't try to be one now as he leans down and kisses you. His hand cups your face, tilting your head back so he can deepen the kiss. You let out a sigh of contentment, which just fuels him further. He tasted like bourbon, and you found you enjoyed it. 

*smut!!! proceed only if you want to*

Your hand found its way to his hip, fisting the fabric as he moved to be above you. He was assertive but not rough, and it was something you appreciated. His hand dipped under your sweater, feeling its way to your waist and under your breasts. You let out a gasp as he moved his lips to your neck, leaving nips and kisses and, most likely, many marks. Your hand flew up to his hair, gripping the raven locks and causing him to growl. 

"You drive me crazy," he mumbled, helping you pull your sweater over your head. He kissed you again, his hand running over the smooth skin of your stomach. He pulled away when you shrank back, hesitant. "You're beautiful, don't worry." He dropped down, kissing over the expanse of your belly, helping you feel more comfortable. He kissed his way up to your bra, for once looking unsure. You gave him a smile as you sat up, reaching behind to unhook your bra and toss it aside. Damon wasted no time planting kisses and licks over, under, and in between your breasts. The moan you let out was embarrassing, but Damon was just encouraged. He came back up to your lips, his fingers still playing with your nipples. 

"I see you like my mouth now," Damon whispered. 

"I hate you," you kissed his jaw, leaving bites down his neck. It was your turn to smirk when he became the one making noises. Your hands ran under his shirt, feeling the muscles in his shoulders. He sat back to remove it, and you spent a second admiring his figure. The both of you feeling impatient, you pulled off both your pants, so you were left in your underwear. Damon flicked the waistband of your grey panties with a bow in the middle. 

"Cute."

"Do you always talk this much?"

"Only to girls I like."

You rolled your eyes, smiling at the boy as his hands ran up your thighs. You pulled him down for a scorching kiss, already addicted to his lips on your own. One of his hands ran between your thighs, lightly touching your clothed center. You hissed into his mouth, and he only smirked. 

"Can I remove these?" Damon asked, looking at you. You nodded, shirking them so you were completely bare. You felt so vulnerable and yet comfortable in his presence. You sighed in pleasure when his finger found your clit, circling it with just the right amount of pressure to make you crazy. When he entered you with his fingers, his thumb replacing the gentle motions on your clit, you let out a moan that was almost pornographic. You buried your head in his neck as he pumped his fingers in and out. If his touch was this heavenly, you weren't sure you were capable of learning what else he could do. You moved your hand to his briefs, but he nipped your jaw as a warning. "No touching." He removed his hand, leaving you feeling empty and disappointed. You were about to deliver a sarcastic retort. Still, it died on your tongue as he removed the last piece of clothing, and you were faced with his better-than-average member. Damon grabbed your calves, pulling you farther down the bed and situating himself between your thighs. He kissed you hard, lining himself up before pushing in slowly. The stretch was a lot, but the pleasure overrode it as you felt your head drop back in a moan. 

"Fuck," you swore, wrapping yourself around him as he started to move. He fit you in a way you hadn't experienced before, and you weren't sure who you'd become when he left you empty. 

"I should've done this sooner," Damon groaned, kissing your neck and shoulder. He let out a hiss of pleasure when your nails scraped across his shoulder blades. He pulled out, sitting back against the headboard and pulling you onto his lap. He helped you sit back down on him before you had time to complain about the temporary emptiness. His hands grabbed your thighs, helping you bounce on him. Both of you moaned, and your head fell back as you fell into a rhythm. 

"The sight of you coming apart on my cock, tits bouncing, is the best thing I've seen in my life," Damon smirked, leaning forward and attaching himself to one of your tits. You had no clever retort, nothing to match the sense of euphoria you were experiencing. You noticed the veins under Damon's eyes and used your thumb to brush them gently. 

"You can bite," you whisper, eyes widening at the dark overtaking his eyes, but you aren't scared. He didn't go for your neck like you thought; no, he sunk his fangs into the top of your tits. One of his hands gripped your hip, the other reaching between your legs to circle your clit. It was so much pain and pleasure at once that you raced towards a finish you had been nearing for a while. You came with a shout, head falling onto Damon's neck. He came after you, fangs detaching and a growl leaving his lips. 

*end of smut*

You separated, falling to rest next to Damon. He pulled you into his side, biting his wrist and touching your lips. You accepted the blood hesitantly, letting it coat your throat before pulling away. He kissed the top of your head, one of the most domestic things you had ever experienced. 

"Damon," you whispered, tracing his chest with your fingertip. He looked at you in question. "I would be open to being yours." You see a boyish smile on his face, something that makes him look the age he was turned and not the age he is now. 

"I think that can be arranged," he said, kissing you again. 

The next day, he took you skiing again, but you kissed at the bottom of the slope this time. 

[kazumist]

3 hours, 27 minutes, and maybe around 2 seconds. no, miya atsumu is not going insane. what do you mean? he's perfectly calm. but with the amount of missed calls, ignored messages, and attention that he's been giving to the time right now, maybe—just maybe—he's losing his mind a bit.

he had no idea what he had done wrong to deserve this. of course, there was the possibility that you slept in since it is currently a sunny saturday after all, but between you and atsumu, he was the one who would usually sleep in until god knows when.

atsumu had made prior plans for the day. and that was to go out on a walk with you (a quick date to a café as well), go back to his place, and either play video games with you and osamu or watch some movies while cuddling. a perfect plan for a lazy saturday if he had to say so himself, if only he didn't fail at the first step: asking you out for the day.

well, technically, he didn't fail. it's just that you have been responsive as of now. atsumu is at least 90% sure that he did nothing wrong. when he walked you home yesterday, you were quite fine! you even gave him a quick peck on the cheek before going inside your home (that made atsumu actually go to bed while smiling like an idiot, but of course you don't need to know that).

it took him another 5 minutes of waiting before saying fuck it, and getting himself ready to check up on you himself. (actually, he made sure to stop by a convenience store first to buy a few snacks to bring you.)

the moment the door in front of him opened, he expected to see you. but the one who greeted him instead was none other than your younger sibling. "are you here for (y/n)?" your sibling asked him. "uhm. yeah, i am. they haven't been responding to me at all," he says.

"sick in bed, so they've been there ever since this morning."

oh, so that's why you haven't been responding to him.

"can i come in then?"

your sibling opened the door more and stepped aside, a sign of inviting him, which he gladly accepted. he started heading to your room, a plastic bag filled with snacks still in hand. he gently knocks on your door, waiting for a go signal to get in.

"yes mom, i already took my medicine!" he heard you say in a sick voice. from what he could tell so far, your nose was probably clogged right now, which was why your voice sounded a bit different than before.

"i didn't know i was your mom now." atsumu chuckles.

"tsumu?"

"the one and only, baby."

"you can come in." your boyfriend gladly opens the door and waltzes into your room. however, he didn't expect you to be so wrapped in your blankets. "sorry about earlier. mom has been nagging me a bit about my medicine."

atsumu places the plastic bag on your desk nearby. "i tried reaching out to you everywhere, but you weren't responding, so i got worried and decided to check up on you," he says, proceeding to sit on the edge of your bed. you pull up the blanket on you, covering half of your face. "sorry about that, my phone died on me last night. it hurts me to move around right now, so i haven't plugged it in." 

"it's alright; you shouldn't move around that much anyway," atsumu replies before getting up and plugging your phone in right after. he was about to go closer until you stopped him. "wait! don't come closer."

"what? baby, why?"

"i might get you sick as well if you do," you pout.

he chuckles at your words: "my immune system is pretty strong, you know?"

"but still…"

"baby, it's fine." he kisses your forehead. "i got you some snacks, by the way, but with you being sick right now, i don't think you can eat 'em."

"awe.. just one bite?"

now, don't look at him that way. not when you both know he's weak to that pleading look on your face, especially with those pouty lips that he'd love to kiss right now if you weren't having a burning fever at the moment.

"fine… just one."

yet one turned into two, two turned into three, and so on!

if there's one thing that could make miya atsumu weak in the knees, it's you.

(by the time your boyfriend got home, he was sneezing, and when the time came, it was your turn to take care of him now.)

a/n: i dont like this one bit tbh... i also forgot to change the you and your to ya and yer 😭 probably ooc atsumu but this is just pure word vom 🧍‍♀️

[manuscrypts]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𝒜 𝐵𝐿𝒪𝒪𝒟𝒴 𝑅𝐸𝒰𝒩𝐼𝒪𝒩 — j.slaughter

word count ; 5k

warnings / tags ; MINORS / AGELESS BLOGS DNI, fem!reader, VERY DARK CONTENT, murder, heavy non-con to dub-con, light stalking, minor knife play (?), blood play, forced to fuck in ur boyfriends blood, typical johnny slaughter things, biting, fingering, oral (f!recieving), p in v sex, johnny threatening you, mentions of kidnapping + more murder, kinda dead dove do not eat.

authors note ; ok I wrote this at 5am feverishly, so there will probably be a lot of errors and it’s a bit rushed, but shirtless johnny has had me in a chokehold and I’ve been THINKING so I had to scribble something down — I swear I’ll do better next time 🤍

  the heat haze shimmered above the road as you and your boyfriend continued to drive in the rust bucket of a car, which had practically become an oven. the smell of the leather seats mixed with the intense heat and long journey was enough to make you nearly throw up. your only saving grace was a little hand fan your grams gave you as a kid, and the occasional breeze that came through the window when the car could manage to go faster than 20mph. 

  you and your boyfriend were heading to dallas for a weekend away together, taking his fathers rusty old car that had started making a weird sound and smelt of burning about half way into the journey. you got lost at least three times, and of course your boyfriend blamed it on you because you had the map, and not the fact he just wouldn’t listen to you and take the directions you were giving him.

 “look, there’s a mechanics there, we should pull over and see if it’s anything important.” your boyfriend spoke in the most annoyed, yet monotone voice he could, not even sparing you a glance.

 “oh great, stay in this backwards little town that I’m pretty sure neither of us have heard of, sure that’ll be great.” you retorted, folding your arms and looking out the window to the streets you were driving through.

 “just shut up and wait here.”

 you glared at him as he got out and slammed the car door as loud as he possibly could, shaking the car side to side and managing to get the attention of the mechanic working in the garage just ahead. you didn’t even bother looking at him while he was talking away inside, instead you got out the car and headed to the little store just a few buildings down.

 “heya, darlin’.” the shopkeeper chirped up from the seat behind the counter, his feet propped up on the glass top as he read the newspaper.

 you spared him a polite smile and went straight to the refrigerator toward the back of the store, grabbing a bottle of water and sighing in relief at the cool air that hit you as soon as the door opened. the shop was pretty small, paint peeling from the walls and the door, posters all over that were a couple years past whatever they were advertising, and the cigarette smoke hung heavy in the air — presumably from the rugged looking man behind the counter.

you decided to grab a few more drinks and some snacks for yourself before making your way to the counter, not bothering to buy anything your partner liked. 

 “is that all, darlin’?” the cashier stood up and tapped away at the till, counting up all the things you bought for yourself.

 before you could reply, you saw a stack of newspapers at the side of the counter, big bold letters on the front reading “another teenager missing—” and you couldn’t read the rest from it being folded over.

 “oh that’s some nasty business, that is…” the man behind the till spoke in a thick southern accent, noticing how you were looking at the papers, “whole bunch of ‘em gone missing recently, search parties ain’t turnin up nothing, I bet they all dead by now…”

 “oh wow…” you grimaced a little to yourself, “sounds like it’s quite a big issue round here.”

 “yeah, like we say it been happenin’ awhile now, was one at a time then a few of them seemed to disappear. cops say there ain’t no way of knowin’ if they went missin’ round here, but everyone knows they did.”

 you politely put a paper on the top of your other things and he nodded, placing it neatly into the bag he packed some of your stuff into already, “you be careful out there, darlin’, ain’t no safe place nowadays.”

 “I will, thank you.” you gave him another smile and took your bag from the counter, you stopped just shy of the front door, “you wouldn’t happen to know if there’s a motel or somewhere to stay round here, would you?”

 “oh sure thing, there’s a motel ‘bout mile and a half up the road, ain’t nothing too fancy but it’s a roof over your head.”

 “thank you.” you grinned and let the door swing shut behind you while you reached into your bag to find your water, the little bell on the top of the door ringing out as you left.

 “oh gosh, I’m so sorry!” you yelped as you walked into something solid.

 “it’s alright, darlin’, you all good?” the deep voice spoke out from above you, his firm grip on your elbow to balance you.

 you looked up to him with doe eyes, a heat rising up your face as you looked at his ruggedly handsome face. your eyes tracing across the scar that ran across his head, then down his jawline before quickly coming to your senses.

 “I’m so sorry, I should really watch where I’m going, I was just trying to grab my water…” you spoke sheepishly, strangely embarrassed that you hadn’t been paying any attention and walked into someone that looked like him.

 before the man could even reply to you, you heard a familiar voice shouting at you from across the road, the anger in his voice very apparent.

 “where the hell did you go? didn’t I tell you to wait in the car? I was worried sick.” your boyfriend stormed across the road without even looking to see if there were any cars or anything, “what the hell were you doing?”

 “hey, do we have an issue here?” the man you just met spoke up, moving to stand in front of you, he crossed his arms across his broad chest and glared at your partner to the point you could see how uncomfortable he was becoming with the stranger looking at him. 

 he was taller than your boyfriend by quite a bit, more muscular too, he had a deeper voice, better hair…honestly he was better in nearly every way. a wave of guilt washed over you pretty quickly after thinking that, you should be defending your boyfriend and not lusting over another man, but you couldn’t help it — after the day you’d had with your partner treating you the way he did, you thought it fair to think another man was attractive — it’s not like you were going to act on it or even see this man again after today.

 “oh no, don’t worry, he’s my boyfriend, he was just over at the mechanics up there and I went to get some snack without saying anything,” you chirped up from behind the stranger, tiptoeing around him to get closer to your partner, “you know with all the stuff happening around here, it was a silly thing for me to just wander off without saying anything, especially in a strange town.”

 “alright…” the strange man paused and then frowned slightly but nodded, giving you a slight wave as he turned and walked into the store you just left.

 “who the hell was that?” your significant other muttered as he began walking away up the road, dragging your suitcase behind him. 

 you opened your mouth to answer him but before you could even get a word out your boyfriend spoke up again, “doesn’t matter. the cars gonna be in here for the rest of the day, said it’d be fixed tomorrow, noon by latest. motels not too far up the road so we’ll just stay there for the night and then we can get the hell out of here.”

 you sauntered behind, not even bothering to give him an answer, instead you just rolled your eyes and admired the way the sunset cast a beautiful orange hue across the fields in the distance. the entire walk to the motel had you thinking about the man you bumped into and the headline of the newspaper that was in your carrier bag from the store.

 a chill ran across the back of your neck just at the thought of all those poor kids who’d gone missing, and you wondered if they were all dead just like the shopkeeper had said they were. it was weird that it seemingly kept happening and the police didn’t seem any closer to catching the perpetrators, because you knew it had been going on for a while — but then again, what use were the cops anyway?

 “looks like the motels just up here”, the voice pulled you from your thoughts and you looked up to see the large building with a big sign outside with “MOTEL” written on it.

 “what gave it away?” you chucked to yourself, ignoring the annoyed sigh that you got in response.

 “give me a second and I’ll go check us in for the night.”

 “alright.” you grabbed your carrier and suitcase from him, and he kept hold of his own bag as he walked to the front desk.

 you stood outside for a couple of minutes, having the uneasy feeling that you were being watched from somewhere, but there was no one else but you around for what seemed like a good way away. your eyes darted back and forth along the long stretch of road, looking into the trees that lined it, but it was too dark already to see anything if it were stood there stalking you. 

 “hey, got the key, come on.”

 you followed close behind as your boyfriend guided you to your room on the second floor, once you stepped in you looked around with a bit of contempt. it was far from perfect, honestly it looked a little grimy and dusty, but it was a roof over your head for the night like the shopkeeper said to you. 

 you threw your bags down at the small table and chairs that were in front of the window, locking and latching the door shut behind you. you peeped out the curtains and looked back down to where you were just stood, scanning intently for a sign of anyone else but there wasn’t, the only thing that seemed to be moving were a few birds fighting for some scraps on the side of the road. 

 “you got nothing I like?” he grumbled as he scrounged through the bag you got from the store.

 “nope, if you want something then you should go get it yourself.”

 he mumbled something under his breath as he stood back up, grabbing his jacket from the bottom of the bed and storming towards the door. the mood he was in was foul, you could practically feel it in the air and you just wanted him out of the room for a little while. you both needed some time alone to cool off, and as much as part of you wanted to ask him to get himself a seperate room, you were too scared to spend the night alone here. 

 “lock the door behind you, I want to go have a shower.”

 he didn’t even reply to you as he slammed the door behind himself, but still you heard him lock it behind himself just like you requested.

 you took your light jacket off and threw it over the back of one of the wooden chairs with a grumble, as you did your coat caught the bag you got from the store and made the newspaper fall to the floor. you bent down to pick it up with annoyance and then sat down, unfolding it and reading the headline in full — “another teenager missing in newt, ninth person missing in the last four months.”

 “holy—” you whispered to yourself in shock, your eyes looking at the picture of the long haired young man on the front, your heart feeling heavy just from looking at it.

 you read a little of the article, it talked about when it first started and when each disappearance happened, and how little they knew about anything. there had been a lot of search parties in the county and the surrounding ones too, but there was never any luck. from what it seemed, it was like all those people just up and vanished into thin air, the police had nothing and there were no witnesses. apparently it caused a lot of ruckus within the town, lots of meetings held in the town hall and people trying to come up with their own solutions rather than relying on the police to do anything. 

 you threw the paper onto the table and shook your head, an uneasy feeling creeping into your entire soul, you wanted out of this place — you wished you could have stopped in any other town than this one, why did it have to be this one? 

 “god, I hope he’s okay…” you thought out loud to yourself as you stood, suddenly worried about your boyfriend being out there all alone.

 you ran your hands up through your hair and let out another sigh, deciding it best to take that shower you said you would, hopefully washing the day away would make you feel any better than you did now. you grabbed a few things from your suitcase and bag and took them into the bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind yourself — double and triple checking it was locked before placing your things down and turning on the shower.

 you undressed and kicked your clothes to the chair that was next to the door, and stood with your hand under the water, waiting for it to heat up, yet it only seemed to get to just under lukewarm before not getting any hotter. it didn’t really bother you, you were in need of a cold shower to wash away the grime of the hot summer's day, but you’d still have liked a little heat to the water.

 you stood under the shower head for a good while before washing your hair and body, reaching out the shower to grab your shampoo from the side of the sink. just as you did you finally heard your boyfriend return, and you smiled to yourself, just happy he was safe.

 “hey, sweetie,” you called out from the shower but it didn’t seem like he heard you, instead you heard the tv turn on and you rolled your eyes.

 you knew he was probably still in a mood with you, and it didn’t surprise you in the slightest — he was always one to hold a grudge, if you didn’t apologise then you swear he’d go weeks without talking to you, just to spite you. he was stubborn and argumentative, but he could be sweet and caring, and even though some of your friends hated him, you loved him. he never really showed the better side of himself to other people, but when it came to you, he’d do anything — even if it drove him up the wall crazy. 

 the water switched off with a squeak and you carefully stepped out, wrapping your towel tightly around you before moving in front of the sink and looking into the mirror. you made quick work of brushing your teeth and squeezing the water out of your hair, then you did your usual nighttime routine to get it out of the way sooner rather than later.

 “hey listen, I’m sorry about earlier,” you stepped out of the bathroom into the dark bedroom and switched the light off behind you.

 just as your eyes adjust to the light difference, a large hand slammed over your mouth from behind, and then you felt the cool sensation of metal pressing up against your throat. you cried out from behind the hand as you saw your boyfriend splayed out on the bottom of the bed, his blood soaking into the covers and spilling onto the floor, throat cut ear to ear to the point you swear he was nearly decapitated completely.

 “don’t make a sound, okay, sweetheart? otherwise you gonna end up like that annoying boyfriend of yours.” the voice was familiar, deep, southern.

 your eyes widened, blurred from the tears pouring from them. it was the man from earlier, the one you walked into outside of the store. was he annoyed to bumped into him or that your boyfriend seemed to mouth off at him?

 a million thoughts ran through your head in an instant, you didn’t even notice the hand move away from your mouth until the figure slowly walked around you and stood in front of you, his knife trailing along your throat at the same time.

 “you… you’re from the store—“ you could barely spit your words out coherently through your sobbing, not being able to take your eyes away from the pools of blood trickling down the sheets. 

 “hey, you remembered me? that makes me feel real special…” he laughed, the tip of the blade tracing a light line down the middle of your chest and stopping at the top of your towel.

 “I’m sorry for walking into you, I swear I didn’t mean it, I was just—“

 “sweetheart, I don’t care about that, I ain’t that sensitive.”

 he placed the blade under your chin and forced you to look up at him, he wanted all your attention and he’d make sure you gave him it. you didn’t know what to say back to him, you weren’t even sure if you should speak.

 your heart was practically beating out of your chest as he stepped forward, backing you up against the bathroom door. you shut your eyes in wait to feel him attack you, but instead you felt his lips against yours — warm and gentle at first, but then he moved with more forced, more hunger.

 you instinctively moved away from the kiss, smacking your head off the door behind you and gasping.

 “I’m sorry, I just…”

 “what’s wrong, sweetness? you’re a single lady, dont be going and worrying on me now,” his tone was mocking as he pushed his knife more firmly against your throat, a warning.

 you couldn’t even speak, you just nodded. you knew what was coming and you knew you couldn’t exactly fight him, he was twice your size and clearly had no issues with killing anyone that didn’t give him what he wanted. you couldn’t look at him though, you felt dirty beyond what a shower could wash away, instead you stayed looking down at your own feet, trying to ignore how much of your boyfriends blood covered the man’s clothes. 

 he leaned down and kissed you again, this time he was a lot rougher, his free hand grabbing at your hip with a painful grip, his body pushing up against yours until there was no wiggle room left. you barely kissed him back, but still enough that he’d recognise you were doing as you were told. 

 he lowered the blade slightly as he forced you toward the bed, a sudden horror coming over you, he wanted to fuck you on that bed. the bed soaked in your boyfriend's blood, pools of it. that’s when a realisation dawned on you, he was the one who made all those people go missing, all those poor teens everyone thought was dead — all those people you know are dead.

 “wait—“ you quickly spun around and faced him, looking up at his face and you could see the anger flash in his eyes, you knew you couldn’t push your luck too much, “at least…at least tell me your name, please.”

 he laughed and gave you a genuine smile, “it’s johnny, baby, why? you wanna know what name you’re gonna end up screamin’?”

 you nodded innocently in hopes to just buy yourself some more time, praying the police would barge through the door and shoot him dead, but you knew it was wishful thinking. he’s a man that’s got away with it for this long, he obviously doesn’t make mistakes, he knows what he’s doing.

 his finger hooked over the top of your towel while you were distracted, he loosened the fold that held it up, and it crumpled to the floor with a quiet little thud.

 “damn.”

 johnny smiled to himself as he carefully dragged the blade from your pubic bone to the bottom of your ribs, his eyes practically fucking every part of your body already. without much thought your hands shot up to cover your body from his gaze, the embarrassment of being naked in front of a stranger immediately making you cower in front of him like a scared puppy. he didn’t even speak as he grabbed your wrists and yanked your hands away from your body, a quiet sadistic chuckle coming from him as he moved closer to you. 

 “you got some body on you…” his mouth ghosted across yours as he moved his lips down to your neck, kissing and suckling at your supple flesh.

 he kept moving forwards until you both fell onto the bed, the sound of the blood squelching under you and you couldn’t help but yelp, to johnny’s amusement.

 it was cold now, the sheets were full and with every movement more blood squished out of them with a sickening wet sound. you couldn’t help but whimper at the idea of it, the way your entire body was covered in blood, how it slashed up on your face and was soaking into your hair — it was enough to make you want to throw up, you squeezed your eyes shut and breathed in and out loudly to try and calm yourself. 

 “hey, open your eyes.” his voice was low, annoyed.

 the knife pressed against your neck enough to pierce the skin, blood trickling from the wound just enough for johnny to run his tongue along it, licking up all the blood with a satisfied hum. 

 “you taste good.” his free hand ran up the inside of your thigh, the blood coating it making it all the easier for him.

 more tears rolled down your cheeks but you didn’t make a sound anymore, instead you were too focused on the way his thumb rubbed rough circles on your clit, his mouth suckling on one of your nipples — it was like he was trying to pleasure you, and some part of you hated that more, you’d rather him just get it over with and hurt you, but it was obvious he didn’t want that — or at least that’s not all he wanted.

 johnny let his mouth move further and further down your body until his mouth replaced his hand. his tongue swirling around in circles across your puffy, sensitive clit, quiet moans coming from him as he relished in the taste of the blood and your slick mixing together so beautifully. you felt sick to your stomach, not because of what he was doing but because you were enjoying it, because his mouth sucking and teasing at your cunt was one of the best things you’d ever felt. your boyfriend rarely went down on you and when he did, it never felt like this.

 you couldn’t help but let out a quiet whimper, your back arching from the bed and coaxing him on even more. his tongue moved with more speed, going between circles on your clit or fucking into your clenching hole.

 “fuck, such a desperate whore,” he smirked to himself as he forced two fingers into you, not even caring whether they were too big for you to handle or not.

 “wait, ah—“ you tried to move back and away from his hand but his other hand gripping at your hip was too strong, you couldn’t move away from him.

 his fingers were buried knuckle deep inside of you, curling and twisting against the deepest spots inside of you, his mouth resuming what it was doing before — and you could feel yourself unravelling like you never had.

 the tears only got worse when you looked to the side, your boyfriend still laid there with his neck slit ear to ear, a horrible feeling in the pit of your stomach as you squeezed your eyes shut. you were disgusting, a horrible human, who in their right mind enjoys getting fucked by a psychopath? one that just killed their lover, one who has you coated in the blood of the person you loved? what the hell had even happened? you had no idea how any of this happened, and your heart broke the more you thought about how he died angry with you, how he died with you angry at him. 

 you were too busy in your own thoughts that you didn’t noticed your orgasm sneaking up on you so quickly, that disgraceful feeling in the pit of your stomach unravelling into something much better, a white hot ball of pleasure, johnny’s name rolling off your tongue like it’s a name you’ve moaned for the last few years.

 he couldn’t take his eyes off you, the way your mouth fell open and your eyes rolled back as he forced you to come on his fingers, the way his name sounded so angelic when it came from your pretty little mouth. he could barely contain himself anymore, his cock almost painful behind the confines of his tight jeans.

 “so… goddamn needy,” he panted as he stripped himself down to nothing, his muscles highlighted by the tv’s flashing pictures at the bottom of the bed. 

 there was something about you that he couldn’t put his finger on, you lured him in from the moment you walked into him. everything about you was perfect, was enticing, you were made for him and he knew it — he knew he had to make you his, and that’s why he followed you and your boyfriend to the motel. he needed to get rid of him and claim you as his own, to fuck you in front of him, but he got too cocky, said somethings johnny didn’t like and he got mad and slit the fuckers throat.

 johnny loomed over you, his big cock teasing up and down your slit, and you couldn’t help but cry. he was too big, bigger than you’ve ever had, and you knew he wouldn’t be gentle with you. he looked down at you with the devil in his eyes, and a smirk on his face, “I’ll give us a little more room, yeah?”

  he kicked to the side and forced your boyfriend's corpse to the floor with a loud wet thud. he laughed to himself as he slid you more into the middle of the bed, more into the pools of blood. he was sick, disgusting…he was getting off on this, all the blood and fucking you in it. 

 as he began to push himself into you, you whimpered at the stretch, “wait, johnny please, too big—“ your hands slapped up and gripped at his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin and breaking it. 

 “it’ll fit, don’t worry, just take it.” he licked the blood from your cheek and forced himself deeper into you with a groan, “fuck…shit”

 he relaxed and leaned down, letting his head fall against into the crook of your neck as he got as close to bottoming out in you as he could.

 he loved the blood, he loved fucking you like this, claiming you as his own whether you wanted him to or not, and it was obvious.  you didn’t know whether he wanted you after this, what was going to happen but you needed to live, to fight for your survival, that much you knew — you had to do the things he liked, and it became pretty obvious what that was. 

 it wasn’t exactly hard to enjoy it, the way his hips moved all the way back then slowly pushed back to you, his cock sliding all the way back in again, the tip kissing your cervix surprisingly gentle.

 a pleasurable sigh escaping past your lips as your hands weaved into his hair, dragging his mouth down to meet yours. you opened your legs further to give him more access, and he took that as an invitation to speed up.

 “dirty little slut want more of daddy’s cock?” he muttered in between kisses, his bloody hand resting against your cheek, and covering your face.

 “fuck— m…more please” you couldn’t help yourself, every single atom of self respect had practically left your body with each thrust.

 his cock had stretched you out beyond your limit but you didn’t even care, the pain was part of the pleasure, and the more that his cock hit that spot inside of you, the less you could think straight. cuss words fell from his mouth as he forced two of his fingers into your mouth, and you could see the glimmer of sick satisfaction in his eyes as he made you taste your lover's blood. you could see how much he enjoyed it, so against every fibre of your being, you let your tongue swirl around his digits. you let out a moan and sucked on them, never once letting your eyes leave his.

 and with that one move you send him over the edge, his thrusts became uneven and hard, he was practically feral. he leaned down and slammed his mouth against yours and bit harshly at your bottom lip, making it bleed just so he could taste you again. he moaned into the kiss, blood and spit stringing up to his lips from yours as he leaned up, his cum coating your insides without any care in the world.

 “fuck…” he panted and collapsed down on you, taking a moment to catch his breath.

 when he moved back it didn’t take him two seconds to replace his cock with his fingers, forcing you to keep his cum inside your aching cunt.

 you could feel how heavy your eyes were getting, the mix of traveling all day, crying, and being brutally fucked had took it out of you. every single muscle in your body ached, you didn’t even think it was possible to be as tired as you were right now.

 “that’s it baby, don’t you worry, I’ll take care of you, I’m keepin’ you.”

[takotakigum]

kiss it off me — gojo satoru

characters: gojo satoru x fem!reader

warnings: dubcon (probably noncon), food play, making out, gojo satoru is a pervert, this is messy: both literally in writing and content, breast fondling, and breast kissing

word count: 1.8k

synopsis: that one summer day you find out gojo satoru might have a liking to your breasts…covered in melted ice cream.

takotakigum’s kinktober 2023 | please read at your own risk!

“i bought ice cream! anyone wants to share?” you hear an excited voice echo through the outside hallways of the classroom, a chill creeps through your spine despite the humid atmosphere all around you. of course, before you could even answer—which you didn’t even think of—the shoji loudly slides open with much force coming from gojo’s foot. there he stands, a big grin stretched along his face holding two cones of ice cream; his eyes becoming crescent shapes as his glasses fall loosely to his nose. “oh? there’s one one else here again?” from your desk, you shake your head to a no. although gojo doesn’t falter with his smile, but instead, he seems to get brighter. “well, more for us!” there’s only two cones in his hand, so you want to ask: how? but you don’t even know if he’ll give you a useful answer.

with the sweet tooth gojo satoru has, you’re in no way surprised that he absolutely loves eating ice cream on a particular hot summer day in jujutsu high.

however, something you did not expect is him also being extremely clumsy with his precious dessert that his arms are flailing by the second, his own ice cream cone abruptly dropping and splattering on the confinements of your jujutsu high’s uniform.

“gojo,” you sigh, looking down at your table, hoping the ice cream cone landed there. unfortunately, the cold, seeping substance you feel directly on your breasts proposes otherwise. “oh no, i’m so sorry!” overly dramatic and overly sarcastic is what gojo sounds like. “gojo,” you say again, eyes fixated on your messed up uniform as you hold in a deep frown. “it’s the fourth time this week.” you manage to say, goosebumps sprouting all over your arms when gojo leans closer to use his bare hands to wipe away the ice cream off your chest.

his fingers are slow, feeling up the accentuated curves on the upper half of your breast that got contaminated with the dessert. your breath quickens, and you bite your inner lip as you feel the pads of his fingers give little controlled pinches on your uniform’s fabric—acting like he’s soaking out the absorbed melted dairy when really he isn’t.

“has it been? gosh, i’m so sorry, really!” by now, irritation eases back the goosebumps that went up. “i don’t have any other spare uniform now, gojo.” your voice becomes smaller, yet it weighs the same. gojo knows it, he isn’t stupid—clumsy but not dumb. at least, not dumb on purpose. “hmm, but you shouldn’t even be wearing the outer uniform when it’s summer. did ‘ya know that?” with your three years of studying in jujutsu high: no, you didn’t. but it doesn’t even seem real, you should know.

before you could say anything, gojo’s hand now rises higher to the dry part of your uniform—the buttons on near your collar. for a brief moment of shock, you stay still, and you gulp at the sensation of gojo’s knuckles teasingly flutter against your neck. within that still moment, gojo was able to snap off the buttons in charge of closing your uniform’s top together with ease. naturally, your vest loosens, and the white button up you’re wearing inside peaks through. once more, your breath gets heavy. and it piques the interest of gojo in front of you even more.

“what are you doing?” you ask so sweetly—so innocently in gojo’s end. your hands try to close the buttons back up, getting conscious. “helping you clean and letting you cool down, duh!” gojo’s hands regress, sticky hands grab onto your outer uniform tighter, pulling it down until it’s crumpled up on your elbows. “‘s killing two birds with one stone.” he says, face too close. you feel his hair tickle your forehead with the way he’s leaning towards you eyes fixated down rather than in front of you. with your jaw going slack and face going hot, you quickly rush your hand to hide under his glasses, palm pushing tighter onto gojo’s eyelids when his hand squeezes on your shoulder.

in that moment of purely fluster, you realize gojo hasn’t moved. at that moment of broken composure, you forgot to remember some things. “you know,” your hand can feel the way gojo’s cheekbones contract as he—you assumes—smiles. “i can still see. even if you’re covering my eyes.” almost, you almost slap him. your still clothed breasts, with a faint stain of melted ice cream that has seeped through the first layer of fabric and onto the second—has been stared at by gojo for the past five minutes. “d-did you have to keep staring, then?!” your face is hot, your legs stiffly closed together under your table. “maybe?” from between his teeth, gojo sticks out his tongue as he grins.

taken aback by everything, you fail to feel the waving presence of gojo in front of you, then, a glob of white ice cream replaces the dollop of white hair that was once in front of you. “sorry, sorry.” even so the apology, gojo’s voice is still laced with amusement; his hand holding the cone obnoxiously swaying the ice cream side to side without care. like he wants it to melt and holler down back to your chest. “what do you want me to do with that?” you ask, the sweet treat getting closer to your lips by each word you speak. gojo only shrugs, not stopping until your mouth has been smothered with the cold temperature of the dessert.

suddenly, the wave of coolness disappears within an instant. instead, it’s replaced with gojo’s own lips. you dare not admit how soft it feels, or how if he pushed his body a little bit more onto yours, your mouth would’ve been so weak that it would open up just enough for his tongue to slip in and taste the rest of you. but somehow, your senses get a hold of you. and this time, you really were about to slap him—that is until his hand wrap around yours and nonchalantly holds them with a level of strength you struggle to be released with.

your breath is heavy as gojo’s tongue prods into your mouth. disgustingly so, it’s sweet. all of his essence is so, so disgustingly fucking sweet. his tongue is deep in your mouth, saliva of which you don’t even know is from trickles along the side of your chin, mixing in with the remains of the melted ice cream down on your neck. with a loud, needy release from your mouth, gojo pants along with you. you’re unable to speak, though. with the way his tongue is undying as it laps on your lips hungrily for every bit of stray sweetness, you’re in no shape to move an inch.

however, when gojo’s mouth roughly kisses down from your lips and follows the trail of melted spit and dairy to your neck and collarbones, you make an attempt to push him off. somewhere along the desperation of touch by gojo, his glasses falls on the ground, although you nor him spared the time to glance at anything other than the moment. you feel as though each push you project onto him, he places more of his body weight to you. you whine in each attempt of defeat, and with each whine slips out an undistinguishable moan from the back of your throat. your body naturally lets it out, continuously, too as gojo begins sucking on your neck, leaving pink bruises.

“so sweet, aren’t you?” with a voice so hoarse like that, you can’t seem to deny the way your nipples harden under your clothing anymore. “gojo,” you whine, eyes shut close as blood continues to rush up to your cheeks and stain. “no,” you whine again, head turning left and right with all your strength when you feel his tongue play lower than your collarbone.

“be a good girl and hold onto my shoulders for a bit, ‘kay?” you shouldn’t. god fucking knows you shouldn’t when the opportunity to distance yourself is right there. but alas, you obey. your hands weakly clutch on the fabric of gojo’s uniform—exactly on his shoulders, as he asked you to. your body and mind do not intersect into any agreement. your mind is telling you to use your strength to pull gojo away, to use your arms to do something that would retain your self respect. but your body? it can’t hear it—can’t understand it.

just like how gojo’s ears sign deaf when you whisper and choke on your own words trying to tell him to stop—to not go anywhere lower than your neck. after successfully undoing the buttons of your last remaining top, gojo’s fingers scoop up the last bit of ice cream that’s almost liquid on the table. you yelp out at the cold substance being massaged onto your breast, especially the nipple. “tastes better like this, i have to say.” gojo speaks like he’s ever had a hold of your tits before. his tongue is back with more fervor than you’d imagine. it flicks over one of your nipples, sucking loudly and groaning when the soft skin easily gets squeezed by his other hand.

you, are a different story. as gojo seems to bask in your melodic, repetitive moans of his name, you feel tears prick at the corner of your eyes angrily as gojo’s pace is too far beyond enjoyable; layers of sweat accumulating on your skin, giving it an extra shine gojo is murmuring about. but even so, why did you not beg of him to stop? when did you forget to shake your head no after the first few times? even with gojo’s hands and mouth dissipating all the innocence on your body, even with his bite marks charring your skin with evidence of sin—why does your lower abdomen twist for more?

as your thighs subconsciously rub against one another along with your fingers gripping on gojo’s hair and shoulder so tightly—gojo’s phone rings—too loudly.

“fuck,” he clicks his tongue, licking one last stripe of whatever your breast has to offer and rises his head to give you one last deep kiss for you to feel the fleeting moments of his sore tongue. gojo takes the call right in front of your face, his lips swollen as his eyes are gazed in lust. “gotta take this mission, sweets.” gojo says, face morphing into a look of stoicism as he finds his disregarded glasses on the floor. gojo wipes some excess spit-mixed-with-dairy with his hand from your cheeks to suck in his mouth. you, being dumbfounded, is unable to say anything before gojo is near the open shoji already.

“gojo! are we not going to talk about this?? fuck that mission, please get back here and-” as if nothing ever happened, gojo beams a smile at you. red lips unwavering as he bids you farewell.

“i’ll buy ice cream again when i get back, then we can continue~ ah, but first, you should fix up. you might get cold next.” with a wink, he’s gone. leaving you in your heated, disheveled state: clothes crumpled all apart, hair disorganized, chest heaving with large breaths of hair—and all the possible things gojo has done to you.

© takotakigum | do not repost, translate, or plagiarize my works.

[sinnerlillith]

Okay but imagine 🌽⭐️ Eddie with a best friend who’s curious about what’s it’s like sleeping with one , like I can’t stop thinking about how mf nastyyyy he would be omggg😭😭😭

Oh.my.god. He would be so freaky. like a little too freaky. and he also has costars with male and female anatomy. pornstar eddie is for everybody, this man fr don’t care as long as everyone is feeling good/having fun and gettin they money

he talks to you about ALL his porn experiences, and sometimes, you literally get so horny from his conversations that you have to take a break. other times, you’re truly just blown away by the things they have him do.

“you did what?” your jaw drops at him

“yup. craziest threesome of my life. who would’ve known that pretending to fuck ‘my boss’ in her tight pencil skirt," he air quotes, "while her ‘secretary’ has a fake dick in my ass would have been so... fun? I felt like we were straight up acting in a movie.”

“in a corporate office set, too...? I mean, wow.”

“yeah,” he half laughs, “the secretary girl was a hot idea though.” his voice drops and his tone gets sultry. he leans in, his face now close to yours with a strange smirk. “you seem real curious, sweetheart... maybe you should come see with your own eyes, huh?” he flirts.

“oh shut up, dork.” you smile, putting your palm on his cheek and pushing his face away. he chuckles at you.

let’s get this straight tho, pornstar Eddie eats ass. I don’t care what anyone has to say, he probably had to eat someones ass for a video, and then got hooked on it because his co-stars said the orgasm they got was a REAL one. didn’t have to fake SHIT.

some nights, you recall the things he told you about and touch yourself to it...

other nights, you don’t have to use your imagination, because he literally sits with you as you both watch the porn videos he starred in.

“if you’re so curious, why don’t we just watch some?” he said it so nonchalantly. Of course, you agreed, and then you both made a habit of watching his new videos when they get released.

you watch him fuck in all sorts of positions you haven’t heard of before. you wonder how these people are so damn flexible.

Their legs are twisted around his body, and he thrusts at different angles constantly. He always switches his body around, unable to stay in one position for no longer than 2 minutes. Eddie is as hyper during sex as he is in his everyday life

Lots of positions had your jaw dropping, but one particular position made your heart slightly... break at the intimacy of it?

Now, it still looked a little rough, and a little freaky, but their bodies were hooked together, and the girl had nothing else to hold on EXCEPT for him... He said it's called the "torch position."

But imagine... Eddie fucking you instead, and all you could grip onto was his body. He would have his large, warm, hands holding up your back as he thrusts into you, while all you can do is claw into him, moaning and crying in pleasure. your face would look so desperate from all the arousal, trying to hold onto something. 

His curly head would be between your raised legs at the sides of his neck. maybe he’d turn to the side sometimes, to kiss and bite your skin. his big brown eyes would lower down to where your bodies are joined, lustfully licking those plump pink lips of his. 

Your face quickly warmed up, heating up more and more by the second. Your panties were turning into a slick mess. You shuffled your legs awkwardly, but you’re unable to keep your eyes off the screen.

“that looks... intimate for a porno.” you observe.

“I uh... I guess so.” he mutters, turning his head to eye your side profile before speaking again, “I was just lookin’ at her tits, so..” Eddie chuckles awkwardly, turning his face back to the screen.

he very quickly adjusts his pants, feeling them get a little tight.

Eddie’s pants were getting tight because not only does watching porn get almost anyone horny, he was watching it with his best friend.

his best friend, that he was probably definitely attracted to, was watching him pump people full with his cum, covering their chests with it too. making their faces trickle with it, their mouths stuffed with it, their hands dripping in it...

“that position was, uh...” he interrupts his own thoughts, trying to figure out what to say- fun? hot? sexy? boring because it wasn’t you on his dick? it wasn’t you moaning at his face, digging your nails into his skin, screaming how good he feels? 

“...pretty wild.” he finally states. 

the lighting is always so good, it makes his inked chest glisten and glimmer with sweat and cum. His tattoos flex above the muscles of his body every time he moves.

speaking of muscles, pornstar eddie is a tiny bit more toned because he literally has to take care of his body, since he practically does a form of physical exercise for a living.

his leg and arm muscles flex and tighten the most under the set lights. the shadows and highlights it provides helps show definition to his body, you can’t stop staring at them.

you pretend you’re the girls in the video being fucked by him, sometimes. you envy them, even if their moans are fake. you still wish it was Eddie that was thrusting into you that fast. speaking to you like that. 

his back muscles protrude out deliciously when he bends over to speak into their ears. into their mouths, too. and at their sweaty pleasured faces.

“good girl, you like that?” 

“you want more?” 

“keep squirming, it’s fuckin’ hot”

“yeah? jus’ like that? keep beggin’ then.”

“oh you’re cryin’? what you cryin’ for, dollface?” he says that one while he’s got his fingers in their mouths, gagging them a little bit.

and when the girls are on top, or even pegging him, he makes the hottest faces. his eyes roll, his hair is so messy, his mouth even drools. and one time, that cute pink tongue of his stuck out. poor thing was so overwhelmed with pleasure.

another time, he was tied up while he was being pegged. his wrists where cuffed, and arms tied back to a bed frame. he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. 

honestly, any time someone’s on top, he can’t stay quiet. he’s loud, but not obnoxious. he actually sounds naturally loud. like all the pleasure he’s feeling is real.

“oh fuck, don’t stop, please!”

“that feels so good-- shit..”

“mmm fuck yes, fuck me..”

“ah fuck, keep going.. gonna cum!”

“harder... need it harder..”

little do you know, he fucks the hardest and cums the most when he’s fucking the girls that look like you. and in his solo videos, he thinks of your body every time his eyes close. He almost accidentally moaned your name too

his hands too. oh my god. he’s got different rings to pick from for certain videos. they sparkle in the camera lense when they roam over someones body. the veins in his hands are defined in close up shots of then curled around someones throat, or squeezing the fat of someones ass when they ride him.

his fingers skillfully pump in and out of people, making them cum hard, and he pulls them out, glistening wet. he brings those thick fingers to their mouths, and has them suck everything off. those damn fingers that you’ve wanted inside of you for a while, all on display, shining with someone else's cum.

his voice hums through the screen, and then he praises them for cleaning his fingers so well before fucking them absolutely filthy. their obnoxious moans fill your ears, but you can only focus on eddie’s voice.

and thats just with the girls. he doesn't even want to show you what he does with the guys between his legs. 

“so what’s it like?” you ask innocently, after the video of eddies most recent porno ends.

“whats what like?”

“having sex with all those cameras around? and people in the room directing, or watching you?” you ponder. “and having sex with all those attractive co-stars?”

he thinks, wondering how to answer you. you’ve never asked before.

“it’s... well, it’s kinda crazy, but also fun. I get paid to fuck.” he says, “and everyone has experience, so it feels pretty good, for the most part.”

“for the most part?”

“yeah... sometimes it’s just straight up exhausting.” eddie complains, “and awkward.”

you understandingly hum, silently agreeing that it must be awkward to have sex with all these people around, all these cameras and corny scripts.

“as for the ‘attractive’ costars,” he starts up again, “I think they’re alright. some are super hot, others are... whatever.” he shrugs.

“whatever? you looked like you were having a lot of fun to me.” you tease him.

“it’s called ‘pretending’ sweetheart,” he smiles at you, tilting his head and showing those cute dimples, “people do it sometimes.”

you roll your eyes at him.

he speaks with that flirtatious tone again. “maybe I should just fuck all that curiosity outta’ ya... show you what I look like when ‘m not pretending, huh?” his eye brow raises under those curly bangs of his, smile never fading.

you get butterflies from his words. how dare your best friend be so bold with you after you both watched him fuck on his screen? “In your dreams, Munson.” you try to act unfazed by his words.

little do you know, he indeed does fuck you in his dreams. sometimes it’s far more intimate than the position you mentioned. other times, its more filthy than any porn video he showed you. 

[hiorisgf]

##WAY TOO CUTE FOR MY SAFETY SAVE ME

↪Ft. Nagi

Event Navigation

"Ah."

A sound of surprise escaped your lips as you stared at him, astonished to find the snow white haired male napping comfortably with his head on the table. You pause from your steps, a bit hesitant to come forward—for what reasons, you don't know. Maybe because you didn't want to wake him up from his obviously pleasant sleep, but not like you could care enough to wonder why anyway. You remain standing at your initial position by the door, at a lost for what to do. 

"You can sit here you know" Nagi said, voice thick with sleep. He turns his head to face you, half lidded eyes staring right back at yours and you would be lying if you said you didn't find it attractive.

You shriek, and unfortunately for you, the sound you let out wasn't cutesy in the slightest—it was the kind of sound that would be suited for when you're voicing ogers screeching to death.

"Oh my god" you heaved out a sigh, clutching your chest tightly. "You scared me, since when have you been awake?" 

"A few minutes ago, I could hear your screaming from miles away" 

You pause, before swiftly realizing what he meant. "My bad, walking around blindfolded is a terrifying experience." you said, shivering at the memory.

"Really? It wasn't that way to me" Nagi tilts his head and darn was it infuriating how effortlessly cute he could be.

"Yea I'm sure." you snort, and Nagi squints his eyes as though confused, and by this time, you wanted nothing more than glomp him. "You were probably carried by Reo or something"  

Nagi's eyes widens, and he lets out an 'ooh' sound "How'd you know?"

"Lucky guess" was all you said

A momentary silence befell on the two of you as you looked at the room. The classroom you noticed to be yours, was covered with heart decorations that screamed love all over and it was a bit sickening just how much they over decorated the place. You notice the clock right behind Nagi, it counted to 30 minutes—a bit lengthy you think for a booth on an event that lasted for only a day.

The door opens and you divert your attention away from the clock and instead to the person who entered. He holds a tray with a parfait standing on top of it with all its glory. The person walks closer until he stands beside your table and with swift motions, he places the parfait on the table along with it, spoons for two people.

"We never ordered anything" you quickly told him, it looked expensive with how presentable it looked. 

"I know, but your classmate, Reo, has offered to buy it for the two of you." he flashes you a grin, a harmless, customer service smile, he flashes to the two of you before excusing himself goodbye.

"Ah—" you helplessly watched as the staff walked away, looking at the parfait that sat in the middle of the table. You blink, once, twice, and the dessert starts sparkling, as if seducing you to come and eat it. 

"You want it?"

You flinch, as if a criminal found guilty. You shake your head "No no, I can't—"

"It's fine, I don't mind. And everything available on the menu is for two people anyway."

"Well.." you look at him, as if verifying if he really was alright with it before taking the spoon and taking a hesitant bite.

Wow. You gasp, it was delicious—easily topping most of the desserts you've eaten before. You ease your body as you take yet another bite, it was addictive—way too delicious to be made by someone with the same age as you. 

"Is it good?"

"Yep, it went way above my expectations" you replied, taking yet another bite of the heavenly made dessert. "You try it too, you won't regret it" 

Nagi hums, and you wait for him to take a bite. To your surprise however, he only opens his mouth and lifts his head up a little. 

"What are you doing?" you asked, raising a brow at his rather eccentric yet still adorable actions..

"Feed me, please?" he tilts his head in a way that would highlight his charms in all the right points. 

Your heart tightens and lets go with a boom, "No, get your own spoon and feed yourself with it" you coughed into your hand, resisting his charms with all of your might. 

"That's tiring" Nagi grumbles, and even now, he's as adorable as can be. You dig your nails into your palm, tight enough you think it'd bleed. But in the end, you were no more than a fool down bad for a man who'd find it troublesome to look your way. 

You groaned, although not truly annoyed as you scooped up ice cream and shakily offering it to him. "Goodness, you sure are tiresome, Nagi" you say, a defeated smile taking place on your face.

He takes a bite, and it's evident he likes it by the way his eyes light up with glee. "It's good" he says, chewing on the strawberry. 

"Right? I told you so!" 

You passed the remaining minutes of your inprisonment with light chattering. Enthusiastically, you told Nagi about the drama's going on at the school campus with great detail, like how student a and student b because of homewrecker student c, and the beef student d had with student z. You half expected Nagi to fall asleep during your gossiping so you were surprised when he didn't, and even participated by giving his opinions on the topic. A small action, and yet to people who knew Nagi, it meant everything—such was the case to you. And you probably shouldn't get ahead of yourself, but you truthfully felt a bit special when Nagi participated with things he would usually find troublesome with you. 

"So so, you know that one couple in my class that does disgusting pda everywhere?" 

"Yea, they were pretty loud and distracted me from my game" you nod your head, glad he atleast knew those two. "Ok so apparently, the guy was cheating on her with the school secretary! Can you believe that?!" 

"Wow, really?" Nagi half heartedly reacts. It's not that he isn't interested with what you're saying—but he just happens to be more focused on the way you move your hands alot as you speak, and the small, yet adorable way you scrunch up your nose when you mention a person you particularly dislike; he is focused, just on the wrong things unfortunately.

Nagi thinks you're pretty, breathtakingly so. And he can't help but feel a bit excited when you show him the bits and parts of you that you wouldn't let others see; loves learning more about you, what you like what you don't like, the games you like or the mangas you enjoy—and most of all, he enjoys it when he sees you smile—a real, genuine, and carefree one. Nagi adores it when you smile like the way you do now, he adores it so, he can't help but curve his lips upwards as well. A small, and yet nevertheless there kind of smile.

"Dude, you aren't even listening" you drive him away from his thoughts, and he shifts his attention back to you again. He spends a moment to look at you and in result, you groan—whether in annoyance at yourself for being absolutely down bad, or for him not listening, is a mystery with an answer for only you to know.

Ring ring!!

The clock rings, and the door opens right after. Outside, was a staff who tells you that the time was up along with some acquaintances (Reo being one of them) waiting by the door. "Ah, we can go out now. You can get your switch back now too. That's great!" you said with a smile, standing up from your seat and cleaning up the table—or atleast organize the empty plates and dirties utensils. 

"Oh, it's over already" Nagi echoes your words, disappointment smeared on the words that leave his mind. 

"Nagi?" you pause from your actions, a bit curious by the sudden decline of his mood.

"Too bad." he leans on the table, cocking his head to the side "I wanted to talk to you more too." 

Oh. God.

Are you dead? You think you died with the way your heart ceased moving entirely as the thought of breathing and moving your chest was an action way way above you. 

"Well—we can always spend more time together next time, just tell me if—if you want to talk and I'll gladly spend—yea, spend some time with you." you stuttered, tripping over your words as heat creeps up on your cheeks due to his bold statement.

"Really?" the way he raises his head and looks at you with anticipation isn't helping your case, really.

"Yes, really. Promise" you nod your head, trying your utmost best to look at him in the eye to show the sincerity of your words.

"Nagi!" Reo calls from the door, waving him over, with his switch in hand; you both turn your heads to look his way, and Reo greets you hello when he sees you notice him as well.

"Well, I have to go now." Nagi says, slowly standing up from his very comfortable seat. "Bye [Name], I'll talk to you later" 

You wave him goodbye, showing a part of the happiness that explodes inside the confines of your ribs on your smile. You fall to your knees shortly after you see them disappear, unable to calm your beating heart from breaking out of its cage and run around the room anymore. Today felt like a fever dream, with him smiling at you and all—the last part too. You think you'll pass away today, you're sure you will.

"Hah, simp." the familiar voice of your friend—whom also happened to be one of the staffs at this booth teases. 

"Shut up and let me have my moment rat."