#coconut oil is your best friend

[sort-of-dying]

coconut oil. amazing stuff.

[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.

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Ask Samuel!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Congrats."

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

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

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

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

"No need."

"What about Seungcheol? Does he know?"

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

"What?!"

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

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

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

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

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

Instead you stand motionless, waiting, emptied.

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

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

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

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

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

He gave up.

None of this should matter to you.

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

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

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

"You're an idiot, Seungcheol."

That does the trick.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"H-how?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Afternoon, boss."

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

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

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

"Friendly reminder we're at work."

"Everyone's at lunch, genius."

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

"You are the worst."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eat, Play, Love: A Guide.

Maybe you'd put it through. Maybe.

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[najia-cooks]

[ID: A thick white stew topped with a symmetrical pattern of fried garlic, minced parsley, and 'meat' chunks in a bright blue bowl. End ID]

كرناسة / Karnasa (Palestinian yoghurt and rice stew)

Karnāsa, or لَبَنِيَّة ("labaniyya") is a Palestinian dish of short-grain rice cooked in لبن ("laban") and topped with a tadka of fried garlic. "لبن" in Palestine refers to لبن زبادي ("laban zabādi,") or thickened sour milk (aka yoghurt). Laban is used to make a variety of sauces that are served with meat dishes, stewed vegetables, and maḥshis (stuffed dishes); it may also be strained and preserved as labna. Past batches of laban are traditionally used as a starter to ferment new batches from fresh milk.

Karnasa may be made plain, or with fried cauliflower or green beans; the latter variation, called لبنية الفول ("labaniyya al-fūl," labaniyya with beans) is often eaten during the winter.

It is an older custom to prepare karnasa in the morning, then serve it with meat as a lunch forعِيد اَلْأَضْحَى (Eid al-Adha), the Festival of the Sacrifice. Eid al-Adha celebrates the willingness of إبراهيم (Ibrahim) to sacrifice his son at God's command: the أضحية ("uḍḥiyah"), or sacrifice of livestock, occurs accordingly on the first day of the three-day festivities. Families may purchase livestock—often goats or sheep—and share the meat with neighbours, friends, and extended family.

Karnasa is sometimes served alongside khubbiz tabūn, a fermented flatbread, which is torn and dipped into the stew. In this recipe, the robust sourness of the flatbread melds with the tangy, creamy yoghurt and tender, savory seitan to produce a satisfying meal that's delicious hot or cold.

Donate to an evacuation fundraiser

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Ingredients:

Serves 4.

For the dish:

1kg (4 cups) vegan yoghurt (لبن زبادي)

1 Tbsp cornstarch

190g (1 cup) Egyptian rice, or other short-grained rice

225g (8oz) meat substitute such as seitan chunks; or cauliflower

1 Tbsp kosher salt, or to taste

1 cup vegetable stock, or 'meat' stock from cube or concentrate

1 Tbsp olive oil, for frying

Parsley or dried mint (optional)

For the tempering (ṭsha / طشة):

1/2 head garlic, chopped

3 Tbsp olive oil

For best results, use a thick yoghurt such as soy or coconut, rather than a thinner one such as almond.

To make your own cultured cashew laban, follow my cultured vegan labna recipe, but double the amount of water and skip the pressing in cheesecloth step.

Instructions

1. Rinse your rice once by placing it in a sieve, putting the sieve in a closely fitting bowl, then filling the bowl with water; rub the rice between your fingers to wash, and remove the sieve from the bowl to strain. Fill the bowl with fresh water and submerge the rice to allow to soak for 30 minutes to an hour.

2. Whisk laban and starch together and heat in a thick-bottomed pot on low until simmering, about 10 minutes.

3. Add rice and stock and mix. Cook, stirring often, until the rice is fully cooked and the texture of the stew is a little thinner than what you want (it will thicken as it cools).

4. Meanwhile, heat 1 Tbsp oil in a skillet on medium. Fry meat substitute, stirring occasionally, until browned. Set aside.

5. Make the tsha: In the same skillet, heat another 3 Tbsp olive oil on low. Add garlic and fry, stirring often, until a shade lighter than desired. Remove from heat.

6. Stir in salt and tsha. Ladle into individual serving bowls and top with meat; or, cut meat into small pieces, add into the pot, and simmer another minute or two before serving.

7. Top with parsley or dried mint. Serve hot or cold, with flatbread.

[daydreams-after-dark]

Blindfolds | Chan x Reader x mystery man (Minho)

chan x fem reader x minho.

Chan helps you fulfil your fantasy of having a "stranger" sleep with you

Word count: I think about 3k?

MDNI . Content warning below.

————- WARNINGS: unsafe sex, threesome, oral sex, vaginal sex, anal fingering, blowjob, orgasm, slight choking, cum eating, mystery sex, blindfold—————-

You walk down the dimly lit hallway towards one of the unused bedrooms in the holiday house you and your friends were staying at. You and your best friend, Chan decided the scenario will take place in a space that no one is using, to really maximize the mysteriousness of it the whole thing.

Butterflies are going crazy in your stomach, and you tug your satin robe tighter around your waist to try to settle them down. You feel rather sexy and feminine in the robe, the cream floral print against a gold background makes you feel like a queen.

You approach the designated door and knock.

“Come in.” Chan's voice calls from the inside. You swallow hard and push open the door.

You're immediately taken aback. The room is stunning. The decor is dark and moody, with the walls painted a dark grey blue, and the furniture looks as though it’s antique. Paintings of abstract naked women have been hung around the room.

There are various stained-glass lamps, emanating a seductive glow, and there is music playing low in the background. It sounds like French music. A woman’s voice seductively fills the room.

Then there’s the bed. Huge, King sized, so plush and high set. Chan is laying propped up against the dark timber headboard, he almost looks lost leaning amongst the generous number of over sized plush pillows. He’s wearing black tracksuit pants and a muscle tee. It looks out of place in such a sensually styled room.

“What do you think?” Chan gestures around the room.

“Th- this,” you stammer. “It’s amazing Chan.” You move towards the bed, stretching out your hand to touch the dark green quilt. It’s luxurious on your fingertips as you run your hand along the fabric and move closer to the head of the bed. The only thought going through your head is: Someone’s going to fuck you on this.

You perch on the side of the bed facing away from Chan, your feet barely reaching the floor. That's when you notice the black blindfold laid out neatly on the bedside table. Next to it is a bottle of coconut oil.

“How are you feeling? Are you okay?” Chan reaches out to touch your hand that’s resting beside you on the bed.

You inhale deeply and then slowly release the breath. How are you feeling?  It’s a mixture of feelings really. You're so very nervous. That you already know. But, you're also… excited. The idea of what’s about to happen is truly thrilling to you.

You can't believe your best friend Chan agreed to help you fulfil this fantasy. Of being blindfolded and fucked by a mystery person.

Chan smiles “We gotta get you ready!” He practically jumps off the bed and moves around to the side of the bed, taking your hand and helping you slide off the bed.

You've already discussed the details of how you're going to do this, covering safe words and safe gestures, what positions we are going to be in. These had been relayed to the mystery person who was going to be participating. The man coming to fuck you wouldn't be a stranger though. It was one of seven other men, that Chan knows extremely well. You've met them all too, and to be fair, you'd be thrilled to have any of them fuck you.

You stand in front of Chan facing away from him. There is tension in the air and your breath feels wobbly. He steps closer to you, and you can feel his breath on your neck and a pang in your chest. You'd really wish he'd kiss you. Chan doesn't know how much you actually want him. But he's never shown any signs of wanting you as more than a friend. He slowly reaches around, careful not to touch you too much, you wish he would, and pulls at your robe’s rope-tie.

It comes loose easily allowing your robe to fall open. Chan delicately pulls your robe off your shoulders letting it drop to the floor. You hadn’t put any underwear on, and now you're standing completely naked in front of Chan. And only Chan.

It feels extremely intimate and you're feeling self conscious. He hasn’t been this close to your naked body before. Goosebumps form on your skin. It isn’t cold in the room. Chan had thought of that too and had made the room a comfortable temperature. He’s so fucking considerate. You smile to myself.

You close your eyes and compose yourself. Fuck. You're really doing this.

Chan takes your hand again and grabs the blindfold in the other. He steadies you as you climb onto the bed where he resumes the position of laying down and propped up against a pillow and headboard. He directs you to sit between his legs facing away from him, and carefully he places the blindfold over your eyes and securing it at the back of your head. Your senses immediately heighten. This feels so erotic.

“Lean back on me.” He whispers as he guides you to lean back onto his fully clothed body. You can feel his hard, toned muscles flexing underneath you and his breathing is strained. Is he nervous? You can feel an erection beginning to dig into your back. Is this turning him on?

You imagine what this must look like, your exposed, naked body with Chan’s strong legs on either side of yours. You don’t know what to do with your hands so you rest them on your stomach. You don’t know where Chan’s arms and hands are, only that they aren’t touching you. You wish he’d wraps his arms around you. You wish he’d caress your body.

For a moment you try to imagine what it would be like if he did touch you. The sensation of him cupping your breasts, pinching a nipple, sliding his hands over your body. Then you remember why you're here, for a mystery fuck. A small moan escapes you. Did he hear you?

Chan nuzzles his face into your neck, resting his chin on your left shoulder. He's so close. “You already imagining a stranger inside you, hmm?” he whispers. You whimper. His voice turns you on beyond belief.

You don’t have chance to answer because there is a knock on the door. You suck in a breath. This is actually happening.

“Come in.” Chan calls out. You hear the door creak open and then close.

“Are you ready to begin?” whispers Chan in your ear.

“Mmm hmm, yes.” you reply.

“Good, because I think you are going to really enjoy this.”

He takes hold of your hands and places them on the bed either side of your body, using his hands to hold them down out of the way so you can’t go ahead and touch your anonymous lover. You had requested this. It makes you feel like you're being forcefully held in place, although you know you can change things if you want.

You feel the mattress dip slightly. Someone is climbing onto the bed near your feet. Who can it be? Is it Changbin? Or could it be Minho? Felix? Could it be Jisung?

A hand touches your ankle. You shudder, then very slowly and delicately it makes it way up to the side of your knee. Their touch is light and feathery. You swallow.

Then you feel a mouth, a moist, plush mouth just above your knee. You think he is about to take the kisses up your leg, but instead takes his kisses back down, making his way down to your ankle. It feels so sensual. Who do these lips belong to?

Chan releases your arms for just a moment so he can lift your legs over each of his legs, which are spread out wide on the bed. Then he goes back to gently pinning your hands to the mattress.

You sense the other man moving closer and a mouth reappears on your skin. This time it’s your inner right thigh. He drags his tongue from inside your leg near your knee all the way up your inner thigh, sending tingles through your body, but he stops before he gets anywhere near your pussy. He does this again, and then mirrors the action with your other leg.

His hands try to push your legs a little wider and Chan assists by moving his own legs wider again, forcing your legs to part just a little more. You're ready, wide open for whatever you're about to receive.

The touching stops, but you can feel him kneeling in front of you. Your chest is rising and falling rapidly in anticipation.

You're pleasantly startled when you feel a warm liquid landing on your breasts. The oil. Chan must have warmed it up somehow in preparation. You moan at the sensation of the oil dripping down around and between your breasts. You suck your breath between your teeth when you feel a pair of hands cupping your breasts, then squeezing and massaging the flesh in slow, but firm circles.

His hands slide easily over your oiled skin, and you squeal slightly when he squeezes your nipples. As the pinches and flicks become more aggressive you can’t help but arch your back and rock your hips at the sensation.

Chan shushes you. “We need to stay still and take it, remember what we agreed to?” That’s right, part of this was you needed to stay as still as possible, it was all part of being restrained. You compose yourself and stop moving. It’s so difficult but you're determined to play the part properly.

“Good girl.” Chan growls low. Good girl? You love those words.

More warm oil is applied to your stomach. There is so much that it coats your entire abdomen and runs down towards your core, and trickles down where your pussy lips meet. You feel bad for the bedding, it’s probably going to be a mess.

It feels so fucking sexy with your body being this slick and slippery. You feel like a goddess being worshipped and adored, yet at the same time you feel like a dirty whore who doesn’t care who fucks her.

You wait for the hands to return to your body, anticipating them all over your stomach and you moan and pant with the need to be touched now. You're desperate and on the verge of begging.

“Pl-please… please touch me.” you say.

“He wants you to call him ‘Sir’”, Chan whispers.

“Please touch me again… Sir.” you pant.

You let out a long, low moan as he pours the oil at the top of your pussy. It runs down through your lips and onto your asshole. You can’t help but try to wriggle with pleasure and frustration. Chan squeezes your hand, a reminder that you need to stay still. You don’t know where his hands will land next and the anticipation is pure agony.

The stranger lifts your legs up bending them so your knees are up near your chest. Chan removes one of his hands from yours to grip under your knee to help pin it against your chest, whilst the other man pins your right leg.

You feel the heel of a hand press firmly against your clit and begin to move in circular motions, much like they did with your breasts. It provides a grinding sensation that shoots pleasure deep inside of your abdomen.

“Fuck that feels so good… Sir.” you whimper as his hand swirls and presses on you for what feel like and eternity.

He then drags two fingers beginning at your clit all the way down to your asshole, dragging the oil and your slickness all the way down. Your cunt clenches as his fingers pass by the entrance, not stopping to explore. He presses a finger to your rim.

“Aaaah!!” you gasp at the sensation of the pressure.

He massages his finger against you, and you know you're going to open up easily for him. You are so aroused and so slick from yourself and the oil that it doesn’t take much for the tip of his finger to breech the entrance. You grip the sheets with your hands and pant shallow breaths as his finger slips in deeper, deeper, all the way in.

“You’re being so good for him.” Chan’s words of praise in your ear make you melt around the stranger’s finger and you're ready for more.

“Sir… please.. I need… can you put in another finger?”

He slowly removes his finger and you feel two fingers at your rim now. He pushes them in, going ever so slowly. It’s a stretch but he’s moving slowly enough that you're adjusting along the way, making the stretch feel achingly good. He must be experienced at this sort of thing. He knows exactly what to do.

You bring your left arm up and wrap it around Chan’s neck, as whispers words of encouragement in your ear.

The volume of your moans and whimpers grow so loud now that it’s drowning out the sound of the French woman’s singing. The man moves his fingers in and and out of your ass maintaining a relentlessly slow pace. The burning sensation with every drag of his fingers makes you cry out.

“Faster… harder… Sir I need… more.”

He quickly builds up the pace. Chan releases your hand to bring his hand to your neck, wrapping it around your throat and squeezing slightly but not enough to cut off air. Then he brings his thumb up to your lips. You open your mouth allowing him to slip his thumb inside. You pull at the hair on the back of his head and he pushes his thumb further into your mouth. The other man continues to fuck your ass with his fingers.

A mouth lands on your pussy. His tongue swirls around and through your lips. The tip of his tongue slides inside of you. Chan starts to fuck your mouth with his thumb, pushing it deep into your mouth roughly. You want him to ruin you.

You're practically screaming from the glorious agony, your senses are on overload.

Chan removes his thumb. “Is this okay?” he checks in with you.

“Yes… But… I want his cock now.”

“Ahhh yes, I bet you do. Let’s sort you out, yeah?”

The fingers inside your ass are removed and you feel the man shift his position.

His thighs press against the underside of yours. Then… you feel the tip of a cock. He pushes it against your opening, making you let out a pathetic whine. Your body is begging for him to push his cock in.

But he doesn't push it in. Moments pass and still nothing happens. What is happening? A sense of panic makes it’s way into your body. Has he changed his mind?

“He wants to know if we can take the blindfold off?” Chan asks.

You pause. He hasn’t changed his mind. You quickly decide what you want to do. Whoever it is wants you to be right there with him, making this moment together. Not him fucking you, but you fucking each other.

You bite your bottom lip. “Okay.” you say shakily. Your breath quickens at the thought of coming face to face with the man who has been pleasuring you so amazingly.

Chan takes over holding your right leg up and two hands come to rest on the sides of your blindfold, the tip of his cock slips into you slightly as he leans in towards you, giving you a tease of what’s to come. You can’t wait until he is all the way inside.

Your blindfold slides off but your vision is slightly blurry. You blink to adjust your eyes and the man before you becomes clear.

Minho.

He is looking at you expectantly, nervously, like you might run away at the sight of him.

You reach up and cup his face. His cheeks are flushed and lips pink and swollen. He isn’t even being the one fucked right now but he looks like he is.

“Hey.” you say with a dazed smile.

“Hey.” He replies. “Is this okay…do you want to keep…”

You wrap an arm around his waist and pull him down on top of you. His hands reach around to your ass and he lifts your hips up and pushes himself all the way inside of you.

Minho is finally free to make noises now and he makes long low moans as he rocks his hips into you. He looks down to where you're joined to watch his cock glide in and out.

You still have one arm wrapped around Chan’s neck, your other explores Minho’s body. His toned body undulates like some sort of exotic python. He’s even more skilled with his cock than with those magic fingers. He brings his mouth down onto yours mirroring his tongue with his thrusts. A skilled, diligent lover.

You melt together as his long, languid thrusts become deeper and you’re being pressed into Chan’s hard cock.

Without warning, Minho pulls out and flips you over in one fluid move so that you’re on all fours.

You look to the head of the bed and see Chan’s hard erection inside his sweat pants. You’re about to reach for it when you’re dragged down the bed by Minho. You look into Chan’s eyes longingly as you’re being pulled out of reach and he just stares back at you. You want to please him so badly.

Minho pushes his cock back inside of you making you cry out. Pleasure washes over you, mixing with the angst of yearning for Chan. He slides his thumb over your asshole and presses it inside. “Ahhh.. Yes, Minho.” You cry, squeezing your eyes tight.

He pushes it in all the way and rests his palm and fingers on your tail bone. His grip is perfect to rock you on and off his cock. You love feeling so filled up. You’re so close now.

Chan looks fucked out, like he’s on another planet. His engorged, swollen red cock is now out of his pants and in his hand, but he’s not doing anything with it. He’s just holding it absentmindedly. His eyes glazed over as he stares at you.

Minho must notice him too. “Kitten?” he pants. “Do you want to help Chan out? Make him come?”

You look at Chan eagerly. You’re practically salivating.

“Come over here Chan. It’s okay.” Minho encourages Chan over but he doesn’t move. “Before I cum.” He adds, hoping that will spur him on.

Chan, as if possessed, gets up onto his knees and crawls his way towards you. Once he is close enough he offers you the head of his cock and you take hold of it with one hand and guide him into your mouth. Chan whimpers at the touch. You lick your tongue along his shaft and over the tip before taking him deep into your mouth.

“Oh fuck!” Chan whines high pitched.

“Don’t use your hands. Make him work for it.” Minho growls.

You do as you’re told and release your grip but keeping him in your mouth.

Something in Chan snaps. He grabs the back of your head and starts plunging his cock into your mouth relentlessly. He tangles his fingers in your hair as he fucks your face without restraint. It makes you gag. It’s hard to take him and your eyes water.

You look up at him, he’s staring at you while his cock thrusts into your mouth, hitting the back of your throat, making you almost choke. Seeing Chan using you like this while Minho pounds into you from behind, is all too much.

You cry out around Chan’s cock as your legs shake and your cunt clenches around Minho. Your arms and legs buckle underneath you but Minho is there to hold you steady. He wraps an arm underneath you, keeping you in position.

Minho suddenly pulls out, painting your back in his cum with a long moan.

Chan growls and moans and pulls his cock out to massage his release into your waiting mouth and tongue. There is so much, coating your tongue and dribbling down your chin. He leans back onto his heels, shaking as he watches you swallow everything in your mouth, and then use your fingers to scoop the remaining cum on your chin and licking your fingers clean. He looks horrified and startled. Oh shit, have you done something wrong?

Chan quickly gets off the bed and pulls up his trackpants. “Fuck. I am so sorry.” He is so flustered.

“I’ll get the towels.” Minho announces and hops off the bed.

“Chan?” You whimper. He doesn’t seem to hear you. He’s is freaking out. “Chan!” You repeat, “I need you to hold me.”

Chan looks down at you, as though he is scared. What is going through his mind? Cautiously, he edges closer to the bed and sits beside you. You’re still in an all fours position waiting to have your back wiped clean, but you kneel up to let Chan wrap his arms around you. You nuzzle into his chest. Why is he so upset with you?

You feel him relax against you and he strokes your hair. “I shouldn’t have done that to you.” He whispers over and over. You don’t understand. You fucking loved that he did that to you. You’ve wanted it for so long.

“Oh Channie!” You cry. “I fucking want you, you idiot!”

Chan looks at you warily. “Really?”

You reach up and cup his cheek. “Yes.” You whisper, your eyes dropping to his lips. He closes the gap capturing you in a heated kiss. “Stay with me tonight, Chan.”

“Of course, baby girl. Of course."

Minho returned, cleaned you up and helped you and Chan hop into bed.

"I'm glad you two have finally got your act together." he said laughing as he said goodnight and left you and Chan to snuggle together.

@channieandhisgoonsquad @noellllslut @itshannjisung @kangnina @weareapackofstrays

[saturnbellfromhell]

DRESSING LIKE YOUR RISING SIGN

I'm taking a minor break till next week writing "The Energry Series", since I want to perfect it, seek more knowledge, do better all in all! So today I'm writing a gitty and playful post.

Rising signs are important to the extent that they rule over our outer appearance and how we come across to the world around us. They are the sign showing up first on the eastern horizon the moment we are taking our first breath. Most of the time it is described as the "mask" or "shell" we put on for the world, but I think the energy of your rising sign cannot be a changeable nor is it a mask. It's a natural stance you take on while heading out the door. The second point in the " Big Three" in astrology. Also the planet ruling your rising sign is the main ruler of your chart. Meaning if you are for example a Pisces, the ruler Neptune will be prominent in molding your appearance. Also called the Ascenendant (AC), meaning "rising in power/influence".

So let's get started!

🔳 ARIES RISING

We start of with our energetic baby Aries. These girls win over the color red, that's for sure. Even though I can see Aries rising in a short skirt with a crop top and a ponytail, they also look amazing in street style/baggy clothes in my opinion. For the makeup I see a simple false lash, rosy cheeks and some fake freckles. Cute with a bit of sass!

🔳 TAURUS RISING

My beautiful Venusian girls, who just look right with wavy hair drenched in the smell of argan oil and patchouli perfume on their wrists.These girls in my opinion look right in any boho, hippy, loose clothes. They also can make any long non fitting dress look amazing. For the makeup I would keep it very neutral, with grounding colors and a soft lip color. Also for some reason white looks amazing on them aswell, so angelic looking.

🔳 GEMINI RISING

Oh my, o my here come the funky babes of the group! Gemini risings are known to be a slimmer frame, so I would suggest to play with silhouettes. You can always count on a Gemini to brighten up your day, because of this not only does a bright personality suit them but bright colors and crazy patterns also! They look amazing in anything that stands out. I also se our Gemini rising girlies with some sort of facial piercing, a septum maybe? Or a cute navel piercing, sounds good to me to be honest. For the makeup I can see any dramatic looking eyeliner, eyeshadow or lip...Anything experimental for that matter

🔳 CANCER RISING

Here come the mini Venuses with their stunning eyes and round face. They also look so good to me with their hair in some sort of updo, messy with clips. Their body is know to be also rounded, with a prominent chest and hips. Cancerian girls look good in anything delicate and soft, the risqué look isn't really for them. For jewelry I can see them wearing dainty silver rings or a shiny necklace. I mean pearls are their best friend being the sign connected to the sea and ocean. Think of the mermaid look, fresh, young and mysterious. I also don't know why but Cancers suit coconut scented anything on their skin...again going with the beach theme.

🔳 LEO RISING

Leo's are just the moment, we have all agree on8 that. With their athletic frame and crazy hair I can see why they get the attention. They look amazing in any colors. I would say royal purple, pink, red and gold are my top picks. They look amazing in anything that's dramatic, skin tight or just plain sporty. I can also see them wearing very classy perfume like the Chanel 5.

🔳 VIRGO RISING

I absolutely adore my Virgo risings, they can step out in a button down and some jeans and just look so put together. They are the queens of the minimalistic look. In my opinion greens, greys, soft browns and muted colors look great on them. Jewelry wise maybe some stud earrings and a tiny pendant necklace? The fragrance I see when I think of a Virgo rising is the Armani Aqua de Gio. Think Bella Hadid, she is the opitime of the Virgo rising. Chic but so simple.

🔳 LIBRA RISING

Their don't need a lot, and they absolutely know it. Being the second Venusian babe in our signs they imbody the extravagant look. Think anything trendy, but they also look good in anything classy. I can see a Libra rising with a white corset and puffy skirt, filled with jewelry around her hands and neck smelling of lavender and lemon. Red lipstick and a little bit of mascara. Hair in some sort of braids and big sunglasses! Also I can see them in long sleek dresses making everybody fall in love with them!

🔳 SCORPIO RISINGS

O Morticia Addams, the goth queens and killer looks girlies. The color black is their best friend, but also dark blues, grays, browns, greens. Silver, only silver for the jewelry. They look really good in tight long dresses, leather pants or skirts and platform shoes are a must! They really embody the the dark princess look to me. They are gracefully creepy and I mean that in the nicest way ever!

🔳 SAGITTARIUS RISING

Sag girlies are the girls how can pull of a lot. On their it days they look amazing in bright colors, high heels, any type of skirt or dress. On their off days they best suite the lazy athletic type. With a matching gym set and some cute uggs they rock the city streets. The perfume I see them in is anything with a little bit of spice, that has pepper undertones and are on the "stronger" side, the Versace "Eros" for example.

🔳 CAPRICORN RISING

My beautiful Caps with their high cheekbones and piercing eyes. They are the classic rising. For some reason Caps always look serious and put together, even when not trying. They love dark colors and maybe a statement piece. Like a ruby ring or extravagant necklace piece. White button downs, skinny jeans, knee length skirts, black corsets and lace anything. Also a suit really is your best friend.

🔳 AQUARIUS RISING

These girlies are the trend setters of the zodiac, everybody loves how creative Aqurius risings are. They love to look put together just like their sister Capricorn but when it comes to spicing up they are the queens for that. I think they look cool in metalics too. Their hair looks good sleek backed or maybe some fun pixie cut? Bangs also, not gonna lie. They also need some fruity perfume to add to the look.

🔳 PISCES RISING

Lastly my etheral babes, with their glossy big eyes and tiny frame they look stunning in anything made out of silk. They also look good in airy dresses and skirts. Also a small winged eyeliner with some white dots to to make their eyes pop. For some weird reason Pisces rising are made for white dresses and clipped back hair.

Xoxo

[triple-asstro]

rottmnt!donnie x makeup!reader

a/n: a quick fic i wanted to write, hope you enjoy! love you all <3

            “Wait, you understood…all of that?”

Disguise: blown. You’d been hunkering incognito in the public for a few months now because of the optimistic and rather chaotic opening of your makeup brand. The internet was absolute chaos frothing over the strong pigment and affordable prices: everything a makeup brand should strive to be. It got orders, and that was what’s most important. However, the noise was overwhelming, and you needed to escape. Working under the guise of a pseudonym proved more useful than ever, and it let you breathe. Because of your newfound skills in makeup, you gained a few facts or two about cosmetic science and science‌. That proved to be your smoking gun when Donatello, your science friend, was ranting about his latest project going awry. He ranted, you listened. But this time, you corrected him. Two miracles: one, he was wrong, two; you knew more. 

Now, you were sneaking into your own lab to sneak Donnie in to see your lab: his request. Do you feel stupid? Ashamed, even? Going out of the public eye because of your contributions to the makeup industry, only to have it return like an unwanted family member. 

Donnie zipped to each glass window showcasing the millions of rows of pigments and chemicals, eyes wide like a sleep-deprived child. 

“You have all of this? Locked away?” 

“Yeah, mostly parabens and formaldehyde, but we also keep some chemicals like polonium, radium and-” 

“Uranium?” he said, zipping from the window to your face to an uncomfortable distance. The smudges in his drawn-on eyebrows were more visible than ever, his breath resting on your face. “You have it?”

“Yes. I’ll get you some if you wait.” 

You moved away, inching towards the door. Digging through your pocket brought up a dusty old keycard you kept. The photo you took on your first day, the excited face of you, the same age but optimistic. You owned a company, like a big kid. It looked hideous. The words: “FOUNDER” faded, but still legible. This is your lab, your company; should it count that you’re stealing from your own company? No, right? You made this place, and you’ll take what you want. This is your big kid company. You take what you want. 

Your eyes glanced back, just for a moment, and you can already see Donnie staring at you as if you grew spider legs on your back. Right, making this quick. In, out, five minutes. You quickly scrubbed in, dressed in a white coat and blue gloves. Entering the room, a wave of dust hits you. This caused you to cough vigorously, trying to get whatever entered your throat out. 

Eventually, you got your breath back in you, and gave Donnie a thumbs up. His expression is unchanged, giving you one back without looking up from his notebook. Of course. 

“How much do you want?” 

“As much as possible, five grams exactly.” 

It’d been a while since you strolled down your lab, but the descent reminded you of when you were mixing your first lipstick formula. Olive oil, coconut oil, and beeswax into a bowl and adding a few drops of purple food coloring were the first of many that you made. It was rudimentary and tacky at best, but all your mother did was pat you on the back. Mommy’s little chemist. Now, she speaks to you more like a coworker than her child. In the eyes of success, you got robbed of the thing you didn’t know you’d miss: an embrace. 

But now’s no time to reminisce. Now’s the time for uranium, which was conveniently at the back of the hallway in a little lead container locked behind a plastic door. The uranium had probably five grams from the size of it. You looked around the room, seeing if there were any drawers or cabinets, and thankfully there were plenty. Cabinet after cabinet after cabinet, you finally found the keys in a drawer a few steps away from the uranium. You didn’t question why the uranium was there, which in hindsight sounds idiotic, but that wasn’t on your mind at the moment. You unlocked the case and quickly took the disc of uranium out of the cabinet and was out of the door faster than you could count. An alarm was what you’d expected, but surprisingly, it was quieter than a mouse. A relief. 

Before you could blink, the disc was out of your hands and into Donnie’s embrace. He practically cradled it like it was his child. 

“You’re welcome.” 

Donnie’s head clicked towards you. “Oh, thank you. This means a lot. I’m not trying to be sarcastic about that, really, thank you.” 

“No problem, can’t wait to see what you cook up with this,” you said, noticing a hidden square behind his back. When you stepped to his side, you spotted an open notebook with what looked like scribbles.

 Scribbles? When did Donnie draw? 

“You draw?” you questioned, looking at the notebook without a second thought. Donnie tried quickly turning back around to hide the contents, but you’d already gotten a view: it was a drawing, or more a sketch of an invention. A new eyeliner, covered in holographic purple metal, was obviously marked with his signature on the bottom. Then it clicked. This was a gift. Donnie’s gift. 

Donnie froze, staring at you as if to judge and gauge your reaction. In truth, he was terrified. To him, giving handmade gifts was everything. The attention to detail, the effort and work to make it personal, it was everything. But people hadn’t always appreciated those gifts in the way he hoped. So, with this, everything changed in the balance. Whether he’d keep or lose a friend, that friend being you. 

“Is that for me?”

“No…it’s not finished yet. It’s unpolished, barely even refined. That doesn’t make a suitable gift…” 

You could see the lies that covered his obviously first plan for a gift, but knowing Donnie, it wouldn’t do any good to call him out on his lie and injure his already egregious ego. However, a snort escaped your throat as you tilted your head to the side. It was adorable to see him stare in confusion, clutching the notebook like it was his personal schoolgirl diary. 

“I won’t judge, honest. I thought you’d sketch on your many tablets.” 

“Those are for calculations, not meaningless sketches.” 

“Can I see your drawing?” 

If we’re being honest, Donatello’s opinion shifted about you so many times that day. It was troubling. When he first met you, he thought of you as he did everyone: ordinary. Another known person to wave to when you crossed paths. But in just one night, it catapulted into something he could never imagine. First, you corrected him on one of his experiments. You listened, and you were right. But one data point isn’t enough to make a valid analysis for someone. So, he inquired more and went to your lab. Second, what he failed to get for how many years now, you simply got like that. He didn’t know if that ticked him off or if it made him adore you more. You were an equal, maybe even more. Hell, probably more than he could ever imagine. Two points. 

You can’t make an assumption on just two data points, but Donnie handed over the notebook, trying his best to make it seem nonchalant. 

He failed. But you wouldn’t say that. 

Now that you were looking at the drawing Donnie did up close, it was, to say succinctly, amazing. The lines were grainy, yet perfectly straight, the shapes were sleek, and of course, lovely shimmering purple as an official coat of paint. It was better than any of the chicken scratches you called designs. This could be the best design for any packaging you could’ve asked for. 

Donnie was silent as you, obviously, surveyed the designs he made. At first, he was in a mix of utter panic. You’re looking at his designs. But they were drafts, sloppy scribbles. If he wanted to present his design to you, it should be polished. Just like him, or more, the confident persona he presented. But, as your observations grew longer, that panic bubbled into terror. Was there a mistake, a potential oversight he overlooked? Could there even be one? 

“You made this, Donnie?” 

“Yes…I did- make it just now.” 

“It’s…” 

Donnie’s shoulders tensed up. This could be- no, this was the loss of a friend. 

“... amazing. You made this just now?” 

Huh? 

“Huh? Oh, yes. I got a flash of inspiration, if you should know.” 

“It’s great. I can’t wait to see it polished. Send it to me and I’ll try to make it real.” 

You slammed the notebook back into his arms, walking towards the door. You had enough events to happen tonight. But surprisingly, Donnie followed with eager enthusiasm, more than you ever saw in him, and even though it could’ve been the bright light of the moon, you could’ve sworn you saw a smile. 

[morallyinept]

Pedro Boys & Cocktails 🍹

More Pedro Boy fun! I've not included measurements because we all like our drinks at varying strengths, so you can tailor make them to your liking.

Drink responsibily folks! 🥴

Also, check out Drinkingpedro on IG for some amazing original drinks, inspired by Pedro & his characters. The account is super fun! Give them a follow. (This was some of my inspiration for this Pedro Boys Cocktail ramble.) Cheers! 🖤

Francisco Morales - 'The Morales Muff Diving Experience' - Crown Royal whiskey, peach schnapps, peach puree, sour mix, lemonade. Open your legs, hermosa. Standard Heating Oil cap optional.

Oberyn Martell - 'The Skull Crusher' - Freshly squeezed blood oranges from Dorne (or your local grocery store if you're unable to sail to Westeros), vodka, lime juice, cointreau, blood orange pulp to top. You know, crushed brain chunks.

Ezra - 'The Wordy Birdie' - Vodka, tequila, white rum, gin, cointreau, lemon juice, simple syrup, Midori, soda water. Served with a case of looted Aurelac gems. Tastes even better with one arm - tingly. Loquacious rambling guaranteed.

Joel Miller - 'Molotov Cocktail' - Empy bottle, handkerchief doused in flammable liquid of choice, or whatever is avaliable when the world has gone to shit. Ignite. Launch at clickers. Watch them go boom. Instant mushroom soup. Nom.

Dieter Bravo - 'The Bola Hair Hold' - Brandy, vodka, absinthe, gin, whiskey, blackberry liqueur. Shake it all up and hope for the fucking best, although you will probably die. Make sure Bola is avaliable to hold your haaaaair as you weep into the fetid toilet bowl.

Javier Peña - 'The Loredo Legspreader' - Gin, lemongrass, lemongrass syrup, fresh lime juice, red Thai chilli to garnish. Serve with a cigarette and a sour resting bitch face. Sweaty pink shirt optional.

Marcus Moreno - 'The Upstaged Father' - Cherry vodka, lemonade, blue curaçao, coconut vodka, mango rum, grenadine, simple syrup, crushed ice, orange slices to garnish. Drink alone in a corner, daydreaming about your heyday as leader of The Heroics, before your 11 year old daughter stole your limelight. Bitters optional.

Pero Tovar - 'Black Powder' - Dark rum, dry vermouth, blackberry liqueur, splash of lime juice, blackberries to garnish. Serve on dry ice for that smokey effect. Then betray your closest friend.

Max Phillips - 'The Bloodsucking Bastard' - Chambord raspberry liqueur, cranberry juice, Prosecco or sparkling wine. Don't worry, these vamps don't sparkle. Vodka. Splash of lime juice. Place on a post-it note and serve to your boss. Brace yourself for imminent fangs.

Marcus Pike - 'The Boyfriend Cardigan' - Vanilla vodka, passion fruit liqueur, passion fruit puree, lime juice, vanilla simple syrup, Prosecco or sparkling wine. Serve to your sweetheart FBI boyfriend, the, very, very goody cop. Although, give him a few of these and then play some good cop/bad cop. It's cuffin' season afterall.

Comandante Veracruz - 'The Guerilla Freestyle' - Dark rum, Campari, orange curaçao, simple syrup, pineapple juice, freshly squeezed lime juice, pineapple wedges and leaves to serve. Use to barter for your freedom. Or not, whatever.

Din Djarin - 'The Space Daddy' - Gin, maraschino liqueur, Crème De Violette, fresh lemon juice, crushed ice and edible glitter for the swirly galaxy look. Might need to remove your helmet when consuming. Keep away from The Kid. This is the - hic! - way.

Silva - 'The Ol' Western BJ' - Irish cream liqueur, Kahlúa, Amaretto, whipped cream to top. Serve in a red bandana covered shot glass. Drink naked from the waist down.

Agent Whiskey - 'The Unfortunate Cowboy' - Bourbon whiskey, Southern Comfort, lemon and lime juice, watermelon juice. Do not operate mincing machinery whilst under the influence. Tuck your lasso in. Watch your step there, cowboy.

Dave York - 'The Suburban Murder Daddy' - Mezcal, sweet vermouth, Campari, soda water, splash of lime juice, orange peel twist to garnish. Drink quickly to tie up your loose ends. Try not to lose an eye in the process.

Javi G - 'The Paddington' - Fresh, warmed milk served in a glass. Marmalade sandwich on the side. Alcohol free. It's past Javi's bedtime. Sssh.

Maxwell Lord - 'The Booty Clap' - Amaretto almond liqueur, Alizé Gold Passion liqueur, Hennessey Cognac. Shaking your booty like this whilst drinking is compulsory:

BONUS!!

Pedro Pascal - 'Purple Rain, d'uh' - Vodka, gin, blue curaçao, splash of cherry sourz, grenadine, lemonade, lemon juice. Try not to blub whilst dancing in the purple rain.

🖤

[pandoramyst]

what wasn’t there before II ✩ Jake sully

contents. 18+ g!reader, dbf!jake, cute names, fluff, adult behavior, age gap

summary. Jake was your father’s best friend but to him, he was like his brother. When you entered puberty, you started to feel foreign feelings about him that certainly, you shouldn’t have been having. When you got a bit older, you grew closer to him and you noticed that he acted the same way toward you.

notes. the love yall give me makes me wanna tear up fr :( also its not edited so sorry for typos and mistakes :/

The last couple of weeks were a rush of adrenaline. The sneaky touching and pecking when your father had his back turned was thrilling but it only pushed you to do it more. Jake had shown you depths of Pandora you never even knew existed and it made you more grateful for his presence in your life.

Not one day went by without him sneaking into your room when he visited to shower you with love. He would do anything just to see your face, even if it was just for a moment. You two grew closer than you had thought was right. Despite the good moments, the doubt you felt never escaped you. Your relationship was obviously dangerous considering Jake was much older than you. However, at his maturity was when your doubt halted. He respected every boundary you had vocally expressed to him and moved completely at your pace.

You wouldn't be shy in saying that your boundaries were certainly strict. But that only lasted until today. Your dad was still asleep as the sun still hurried to rise when you heard the main curtains of your hub shuffle. You were still in bed, appreciating the warm sun on your cheek. The sun shined from the big opening above your bed that worked as a window.

Your head turned when you saw Jake’s big figure walk through the curtains. He removed his bandolier, letting the arrows fall on the floor. His hair was still down from the night before when you used some of your mother’s oil on his hair as hair therapy.

He smiled at you and fell right on top of your body, his arms slowly lowering his torso on top of yours. “Morning, soldier” you chuckled and pressed your lips on his head, giving him tiny kisses.

“you look like an angel in the morning,” he lifted his head up, staring at your face which had started to become red. You pressed his head back into your neck, smelling his coconut-scented hair. This was typical of you two. He would welcome you in the morning in bed, typically before your father woke up, and you would lay there with him, brushing your fingers through his hair.

“What are we doing today?” He asked, his voice muffled.

“My dad will force me to go to the blue petal festival. It’s an annual tradition for us. He wants to take my mom out so he said he needs to get rid of me somehow,” Jake’s body shook as he laughed at your sarcasm.

“Well, lucky you. You’re gonna get more Jake time,” He looked at you and scrunched his nose with a smile. You squished his cheeks together and pouted at his cuteness. “Wanna come with me?”

He raised his eyebrows, “To the festival?”

“Yes dummy,” You said flicking his forehead.

“Are you sure? It isn’t really my setting?”

“Oh wow, is that your excuse for not wanting to hang out with me?” You rolled your eyes at him playfully and pushed him off of you.

“How dare you,” He gasped and tried to reach out for you as you walked towards your wooden wardrobe. You opened the doors and pulled out a white sleeveless tank top with a long blue loincloth to match it.

You placed it in front of your body and smirked at him, “You like it?” His elbow rested on the bed and he stared at you with half-closed eyes, lip between his teeth. “Come here and let me show you how much I like it,” You dropped the outfit on the floor and slowly walked towards him. 

He reached out a hand to you and when you grabbed it, he pulled you down on top of him. His arm was secured on your waist as he kissed your face. His lips inched closer to your lips but he avoided them, showing you once again how committed he was to respect you.

You placed each of your arms next to his head on the bed, and you lowered your face to his. His eyes went to your lips and then looked up into your own. “Want me to come to the fest, baby?” he whispered a breathy “hm”.

You breathed on his lips, closing your eyes as you synched your breathing. His hands went down to your lower back, caressing it with his thumbs. You could sense he felt uncertain about whether to make the first move or not so you just initiated it. 

“Please, come..” your voice became deeper

You pressed your lips on him, savoring the moment. He moved his lips with yours, slowly and deeply. His hands went on your bum, rubbing it up and down as he found new confidence in being bold with you. His fingers hooked around your shorts, pulling them down to reveal the floral print underwear that he had gifted you.

Underneath, you were clearly wet, the dark, wet patch on your undies making it apparent. Your underwear was creating friction as it was rubbing against his thigh. “you're wet, pretty girl?”

“Jake..” his name rolled off your tongue and with a whiney voice you begged him. He kissed your lips sweetly, sucking them with his so that he can pull you more towards him. When he backed off, he used his finger to pull up a hair strand that had fallen on your nose.

“Your dad should be awake now, don’t want him to catch us, do we bun?” Jake raised his eyebrows and your face relaxed. But it wasn't the calm kind of relaxed. It was the face you made when you were pissed. Your eyebrows and eyes were relaxed and your lips were slightly pushed forward. Jake had spent many days with you to know what you looked like when pissed.

You pushed yourself up from the bed and looked down at him, before walking towards the curtain that separated your bedroom from the kitchen.

“Oh, bunny” he rubbed his nose with his fingers and his head fell back on the bed. Despite you not wanting to admit it, he was right. Your father was in the kitchen, cooking breakfast. His back was turned to you. Jake had already made it out the window in your room and to the front curtain of the hub.

“Your late, partner” Jake had walked through the opening, holding the curtain above his head. Your dad walked towards him, giving him his hand to do their typical handshake. You walked out to the balcony and saw your mother sitting on the swinging wooden bench, a mug in her hand.

“Mama,” you sat next to her and she placed her hand in your hair, pushing it out of the way. “Haven't seen you in a while, my sun” your mother had been stuck in bed as she was carrying your baby brother in her belly. This pregnancy was far more tiring than the last one and you had witnessed it. Helping her stand up from low platforms and making sure when she wakes up at night to empty her bladder, that she is safe.

“How do you feel?”

“Ready to see this fussy boy already,” she said while rubbing her belly. You chuckled and watched her proudly stare at the bump as if your brother was physically here with you.

“Shouldn't you be getting ready for the festival?” she raised her eyebrows

You groaned, “Mama, I don't wanna gooo. It's so boring” She held her belly and laughed at your whining. “Come on, it's not so bad. Get your butt up and go get ready, I'm sure Neïtan will be waiting for you,” she nudged your shoulder.

Neïtan and you had a bit of a difficult relationship to describe. He wasn’t exactly your friend, more so your friend’s friend but regardless he always hung around you. Occasionally, when you were hanging out he would shoot you glances and winks, making it obvious that he was into you.

[requiemfordreams]

Some tips that helped me lose weight while having an ed and preventing dizziness, fatigue hair loss, and brain fog.

For some reason eating after 2pm has reduced my cravings alot.

Chewing sugar free gum helps alot. Most of them contain sorbitol for the sweet taste and consuming sorbitol in a large amounts can lead to it acting as a laxative.

Coffee. To keep you full and again another laxative. But it can only be had hot for it to work.

Dry fruits. They contain little to no calories and prevent you from feeling dizzy.

Some junk foods are considered empty caloric foods because they do not provide any sort of good calories that your body can use, which can lead to your body storing them. So if you can find a low empty calorie food, you can sometimes eat them to keep yourself full. I should note this might not work for some people but it has worked for me.

What also has worked for me is make the same lunch to take to school, which is really low cal and because it is my comfort food and it helps me not think about food and since I spend 9 hours at school, not counting the 40 mins it takes me to and fro from school, I'm able to spend an ample amount of time not eating and that works wonders

and if my parents asks me to eat, I just say I shared my friends' lunch and I'm full.

I m like to distract myself from eating everytime I have a craving by chugging alot of water, which is first good for your health and keeps your belly full for longer.

I take multivitamins to keep up with all the necessary nutrient needs.

I also drink like 30gms of protein powder with water to help with my muscles, and also because protein helps in losing calories.

Fruits. Especially watermelons. They are so full of water, a cup of watermelons contains 46 kcal and can make you feel full really fast and they are packed with the good kinds of carbohydrates, vitamin A, C, and B6, full of potassium and absolutely no fats or sodium.

Cucumbers. Again, water based with almost little to no calories to them.

If you are having hair loss problems, biotin is a great supplement for hair and so is protein.

Try as much as you can to make sure you're not alone too long. Because when nobody is there around you, you're more prone to giving into your urges. So if you see that in you, try being around as much people as possible.

Coconut water is a great drink to help balance your electrolytes and keep your nutrients to the level.

Coconut oil and if you're Indian, ghee is great for your hair because it makes your hair more healthy and strong. It would be best if you kept your hair oiled overnight before washing and not just a few hours.

If it helps, because it has worked with me, even though I look fat, I tell everyone around me about how little I eat or how healthy I eat. And sometimes if I have to eat with other people, I will only have half of the food I ordered and ask if anyone can finish it because I'm not used to having so much food. Or I already had such a big breakfast that this seems too much. The little lies, that make you feel accountable into not eating so much even when you're alone.

I like to avoid sodas and energy drinks even if they're diet soda or not, because they honestly have way too many calories that your body can retain.

Masturbating. It's weird but five mins of it can lead to losing 400kcals and that's worth a bit of something.

Studying. It doesn't feel like it but you use alot more calories when you're concentrating on your work.

Sitting up straight. The will of keeping your shoulders straight and your spine straight, it takes up alot of calories because your body is not used to you doing that.

Doing chores around the house that require you to be on your feet.

Drink alot of water. But not too much.

Make a habit of waking up at a certain time in the morning and sleeping at a certain time. This makes way for a more disciplined mind, and more will power and honestly, not only do you not get so much fatigue or dizziness, it cultivates good sleeping habit. Which is not only good for the body, it also helps you stay focused in classes.

There is a certain set of yoga called the suryanamaskar which promotes good cardiovascular health and if you do 12 sets of it everyday, helps in losing calories. And they are so simple and easy for you to do if you don't feel like you have much energy.

I don't have more but if I do, I'll reblog and add them.

[malusokay]

How to get the perfect summer tan

If there is one thing I love, it's tanning. Spending hours by the pool, sipping fun cocktails, listening to music, and gossiping with friends?? AMAZING. Here are some of my tips for the PERFECT gold summer tan <33

The schedule:

Tan with a timer!!

Tan front - 15 mins

Tan Back - 15 mins

Tan from - 10 mins

tan back - 10 mins

Go in the water for a while. I usually go in the pool, but ocean water is better(I don't know why lol)!!

HYDRATE

Reapply tanning oil/sunscreen (products listed below <3)

Tan front - 15 mins

Tan Back - 15 mins

Tan from - 10 mins

tan back - 10 mins

Go on the water again and have a drink.

Repeat however many times you want

Products:

Im a Hawaiian tropic girl through and through (please sponsor me), but any recommendations are very welcome!! :)

For tanning:

Hawaiian Tropic Satin Protection Sun Lotion SPF 30

Hawaiian Tropic Protective Dry Spray Oil SPF 8

Hawaiian Tropic Tropical Tanning Oil Dark

After Tanning:

Baby oil (apply on wet skin!!)

Hawaiian Tropic Aftersun Body Butter Exotic Coconut

Victoria's Secret Body Lotion Vanilla

Face:

La Roche Posay SPF 50

Caudalie Sun Protection SPF 50+

Whatever hydrating sheet mask you have lol <33

My current tanning playlist:

Extra tips:

Take proper care of your skin!! Make sure to always use moisturiser and reapply your sunscreen!!

If you don't have tanning oil, you can also use coconut oil, I used it for years, and it works fine.. make sure to use sunscreen tho!!

If you want your tan to look more golden, EAT CARROTS.

Like a lot of carrots, not joking.

Shower every evening!! Especially if you use sunscreen and/or tanning oils <3

Reapply sunscreen after going into the water!!

Check the UV!! 5-6 if you're really just starting, 6-10 during summer <33

Reminder: These are just MY tips; if you disagree, that's okay. Also, Im Spanish, Tan very easily and rarely get sunburned; depending on your skin, this may or may not work for you!! :)

And as always, please feel free to share your own tips in the comments so we can all get the best summer glow together!! <33

✩‧₊*:・love ya ･:*₊‧✩

[lavendertales]

header: @saradika

Works marked with ** are EXPLICIT. AGELESS/EMPTY BLOGS & MINORS WILL BE BLOCKED!

Joel Miller x f!reader || Wicked games: Part 1 | Part 2**

After returning Ellie safely to one Joel Miller, the three of you have gotten closer than you could’ve imagined. Particularly you and Joel.

Joel Miller x f!reader || Not a want, but a need**

You’re a sucker for Joel’s fresh-out-the-shower look.

Joel Miller x f!reader || skyfall

in the aftermath of Joel's most shocking confession, you try to support him to the best of your abilities.

Joel Miller x f!reader || kiss it better**

one of Joel’s bad days turns into a rather heated make-out session.

Joel Miller x f!reader || dark times

the night you find Joel in a questionable state, to say the least, is the night a confession leaves your lips. A confession that both uplifts and shocks Joel.

Joel Miller x f!reader || Not enough**

You risked your life, and now you find out just how Joel feels about that.

Joel Miller x f!reader || Where you belong**

Who would've thought one of Tommy's good friends would have such an impact on Joel?

Joel Miller x gn!reader || Can't love you in the dark

Joel doesn’t like to talk about his past. But when he tells you about Tess and Sarah, you finally see him clearer than ever.

Joel Miller x gn!reader || We go down together

After a friendship ends unexpectedly, you're there for both Joel and Ellie.

Joel Miller x f!reader || illusory light

when you get hurt, it triggers an overly-protective side of Joel.

Joel Miller x plus size!f!reader || Mine**

calling Joel Miller mine awakens something in him that turns out to be in both your favor.

Joel Miller x Williams!plus size!f!reader || can't help falling in love

after everything you’ve been through together, Joel comes to realize just how much you mean to him.

Joel Miller x gn!reader || relief**

You find a jar of coconut oil & give Joel the best massage of his life—and something more.

Joel Miller x f!reader || Baby came home

you and Joel revolve around each other all the time, and when you finally make a move, Joel panics and opens up to you.

Joel Miller x f!reader || Guilty pleasures series** (COMPLETED)

It was clear from the first moment you met that you and Joel aren’t the best of buddies. But you do find yourself gravitating around each other in spite of everything, and when secrets will be spilled, the course of your relationship will be changed drastically.

[smuts-whore]

Title- Pride

Jey Uso x Black Female Reader

Rating- 18+

Warning: Smut

Word count:1429

I just finished my promo so I'm sitting at my vanity bushing my hair. I hear a knock on my locker room door.

I say," Come in I guess."

When I looked up I saw Jey Uso standing at my door. Me and Jey had a complicated relationship. We fuck a lot, like every night but we're not together. I put my melt band on my wig and turned around waiting for him to say something.

"You did good tonight mama", he said grabbing my hand.

" I always do. Ya'll were okay", I said as I giggled as I saw his face drop.

He said," Damn just okay? Maybe because I wasn't the one talking."

"Well that can really be the problem because I don't like when your mouth is open. I'd rather it occupied", I said sucking on his finger.

"Girl you better stop playing while we at work", he said biting his lip.

I laughed and walked out my locker room and was met by my best friend Bianca Belair.

Her eyes grew as she saw Jey walking out of my locker room and then she grinned.

"Are you two together" she asked crossing her arms.

"No of course not", I said scoffing.

"Really that's how you feeling. Well have fun by yourself tonight", he said walking away.

"Why would you say that? That boy is crazy over you", Bianca said while hitting my arm.

"I know I just can't go there with him you know. I'd rather just have casual hookups", I said rubbing my finger through my hair.

"People who are sleeping together every night and can barely sleep without each other are not casual Y/N. Think about it", she said walking away to meet Montez.

~At the hotel~

I'm laying in bed twisting and turning. I can't sleep at all. I want Jey in my arms and not only that I'm so fucking horny. I decided to suck in my pride and text him.

Y/N~ Hi

Jey~ What

Y/N~ Can you come to my room?

Jey~ No

Y/N~ Please I want to talk

Jey~ Sorry not tonight

I threw my phone down while groaning. I do want to talk but I want to get some first and he knows that. You know what I'm going to beat him at his own game.

I got up and went to take a shower. When I got out I went in my bag and grabbed my red and black lingerie. Before putting it on I put on my Victoria Secret lotion all over my body. I took some coconut oil and rubbed it on my pussy.

I put on the set with some black heels. I went to the bathroom and took off my bonnet and fixed my hair and edges. I sprayed the matching perfume on me and sighed looking at myself in the mirror. Damn I'm fine. I grabbed my robe and put it over my outfit for me to walk to his room.

I grabbed my room key and headed to his room which was on the floor above me. When I arrived in front of his hotel room my body started to heat up with want. I knocked and he yelled out that he was coming. When he opened the door he rolled his eyes.

I stared at him biting my lip. He just got out of the shower because he had water dripping down his body and a towel wrapped around his body. His tattoo looked good wet.

"What do you want Y/N", he said knocking me out of my thoughts.

"Can I please come in", I asked and he moved aside so I can walk in.

I sat on his bed and was welcomed by the smell of cologne. I whined and he caught me but chose to ignore it.

"Why are you mad at me", I said looking up at him.

"The fact that you had to ask is pissing me off more. You play too much. One minute you want me and the next your telling people we're not together with an attitude towards it. Make up your fucking mind!"

I jumped at him raising his voice at me. He never does that. Even though I was shocked, I had to cross my legs at the heat that grew between my legs. I bit my lip and he watched my expression closely.

"I'm sorry daddy", I said with a smirk.

His eyes darken with lust at those words.

"I'll take my punishment like a good girl", I said opening up my robe leaning back so I was on display.

A slow "fucckkkk" left his lips and he sat down next to me.

"Strip and lay on your stomach now", he said getting up as I hurried and took off all my clothes and laid on my stomach and arch my back so my ass was in the air.

I felt a smack on my ass and I squealed.

"You always wanna disrespect me but I'll show you disrespect tonight", he rubbed his finger between my folds rubbing small circles on my clit. I whined as he removed his hand but gasped as I felt him push his entire dick in me.

"Fuck you so tight", he said groaning as he started to thrust in slowly. I moaned and pushed back on him. He held my hips to stop me from moving and I groaned.

"Faster daddy please", I said which he quickly did. He started pounding me at a god speed. I gripped the sheets and I squealed at how good it felt. My wetness

"YES DADDY. Don't stop, don't stop, please don't stop", I said as my toes curled.

He pulled me up and my back was against his chest. He nibbled on my ear and said,"Who the fuck said I was stopping."

He reached down and started rubbing my clit fast. I gripped his risk that was playing with my clit as my vision got blurry. He groaned and said "Damn mama" as I clenched my walls around me.

I said,"Please daddy can I cum."

He rubbed my clit faster and said,"Go ahead and cum around daddy you little slut."

That pushed me over the edge and I came saying,"THANK YOU DADDY."

As I came down from my high and he flipped me over and kept going. I grabbed the sheets trying to pull myself off him but he gripped my hips to keep me in place.

"No don't try to run. I take all your bullshit so you are gonna take this dick"he said going faster in my sensitive cunt.

"Daddy stop please", I said as I felt tears run down my face at the over stimulation I feel. My entire body felt like it was on fire. He reached under me and rubbed my clit. I could help the screams and tears that came out. I clenched around him and before I could stop it I squirted all over his cock and his lower stomach.

"Damn mama that was sexy. You think you can do it again".

I whined knowing I was about to have a hell of a ride.

Four orgasms later and him finishing on my stomach we we're finally done. He pulled out of me and i winced at sensitivity that I felt. He went in the restroom and came out with a white rag and cleaned me and him off. He pulled the covers over us and I laid in his chest as he wrapped his arms around me.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said it like that", I said looking up at him.

"Why do you play with my feelings Y/N. I have told you over and over how much I love you but you act like you feel the same", he said rubbing his finger through my hair.

"My pride. I really do love you it's just easier if I pretend I can be without you but I can't. Tonight alone in my room I thought I was gonna lose my mind the way I missed you. Your smell, your arms, your kiss, your penis", I said as we laughed at the last part.

"So you love me" he said smirking knowing he has me as his now.

"Shut up and go to sleep Jey", I said laughing.

He kissed me and then released my lips and kissed my forehead. He turned off the lamp on the nightstand and we cuddled up and went to sleep.

[legendary-pink-dot]

Stages of Growth

Pairing: Francisco "Catfish" Morales x reader (no gender specified, but female in my mind)

Rating: Mature (is that still a common rating today? I'm an Old)

Warnings: A couple references to sexual activity, but nothing too graphic.

Word Count: 1,000 on the nose

Summary: A chronicle of your relationship, and Frankie's hair.

Notes: Fuck you, Pedro, for having such pretty hair. I spend way too much time thinking about it. And about Frankie generally. ❤️

---

When you first met Frankie, his hair was medium brown and short. A close-cropped buzz cut, mandatory for basic training, given to him without choice. It suited him, but also didn’t – a perfect match for his ambivalence about joining the military and what the service meant for him. You wondered what personality his hair would have once it had a chance to grow in. What kind of man Frankie would become, the promise his future held, what kinds of things he could and would learn to do.

When you finally had your first night together, he had just arrived home, on leave from a long deployment, your letters having kept him company and chronicled your growing connection. His military haircut had been allowed a reprieve as well, one of the perks and markers of being chosen for Special Forces training, needing to blend in with the locals of the various foreign countries he was sent to. That length of hair reflected well on him and the way he carried himself with new confidence, though there was still a tendril of ambivalence left, along with one wayward tress on his nape that insisted on rebelling, growing literally sideways with no sign of ever giving in.

On that first night Frankie had let you excitedly fist your hands into his longer locks as you kissed, quietly observing how it added fuel to your fire. Later that night, he let you guide his mouth to wherever you wanted it on your body, your hands in his hair acting as reins or restraints when needed and as silent praise when not. When you came, you had pulled his hair so hard that he saw stars and it spurred his own high, barreling him uncontrollably into it seconds later.

By the time he quit the military after many years of dedicated service, his locks had matured into a deeper brown – “English Walnut 7533” according to the Pantone color chart you had pilfered from your interior design firm – and had changed shape and texture, expressing itself in mostly neat, evenly shaped waves and curls, especially in humid weather or the rare time he let you style it for him with your carefully chosen products.

One of your best memories from that time was a hazy, lazy day in the tropics when you were both too overcome with the heat to do much else but lie in shaded loungers on your balcony. Frankie was suffering from the temperature, and the light strokes of your fingers across his brow hadn’t been enough to soothe him, or to satisfy you.

Coconut was the hotel room’s free shampoo offering, and soon the scent of sweet suds had wafted between you. You felt tiny soap bubbles pop, carbonation as you slid your fingers through his locks; you saw the frown lines on his forehead gradually smooth out as his eyes drifted shut and he sighed in delight; you felt the air around him drop several degrees purely from relaxation. You relished his moans when the cool rinse water sluiced down his scalp and into the repurposed ice bucket from the previous night’s champagne. Despite the humidity, his curls had dried by the time night fell, only to turn into sweaty waves again once you tumbled into bed with newfound energy to explore each other’s bodies.

On his first day at work as an aviation mechanic, his pilot’s license having been suspended over some cargo he shouldn’t have flown, he smushed his hair into an old baseball cap that read “Standard Heating Oil”, borrowed from a close friend and military comrade, and took to wearing it almost constantly. He said it was for practical reasons and that he was just too lazy to fuss over his hair, but you knew better. That hat was the first thing he took off when he got home, and the last thing he put on when he left, like he was some method actor with dual personalities.

When he came home a week late from a private group mission gone disastrously wrong, dropping his bags in the doorway and enveloping you in a crushing hug, one of your hands had automatically threaded into the curls on the back of his head, longer and strongly defined now, more for you to hold and more for him to be anchored by.

When he finally shared what went wrong on the mission and how they had lost their leader and friend, he buried his face into your neck, your tears trickling down your cheek to be absorbed by his scalp. One glance downward and all you could see was his locks shot through with silver and grey – much more of it than he had left with. Whatever he went through in South America had quickly accrued compound interest.

He had also lost his hat somewhere during the mission, and from then on never wore one again unless required to at work.

When he had nightmares or panic attacks from that mission, the touch of your hand gently weaving through his hair was his lifeline, something to focus on as he fought his way back to reality and to you.

Now solidly in middle age, Frankie has fewer nightmares, the dreams having receded both in frequency and intensity, and the silvery grey evolution of his hair color seems to have abated too, a rare pause in time.

He keeps his hair at the length you like: long enough for the curls to fully develop and be free, but short enough that he doesn’t have to fuss over it too much. He lets you style it, even lets you wash it for him as your new Sunday evening relaxation ritual. He lets you do whatever you want; you’ve earned it after everything he’s put you through as part of his messy, fractured life.

Tomorrow, Frankie’s pilot license is finally set to be reinstated. Maybe you’ll suggest he get a haircut to celebrate this next stage of his life. Or maybe not.

[strawberry-yougurt]

team zit!!

Zedaph: Vegetable oil is made from vegetables, coconut oil is made from coconuts, so BABY OIL- Tango: CAN'T WE JUST HAVE A NICE FAMILY DINNER FOR ONCE?!

Impulse: Uptown Funk would've made it into the Shrek Soundtrack. Tango: That's the truest statement I've ever heard.

Tango falls over Zedaph: Tango! Are you alright? Tango: Is that you, God? Zedaph: What? Tango: It's just, you sound a lot more like Zedaph than I expected.

Impulse: The moon looks beautiful, doesn’t it? Zedaph, looking at Impulse: Yeah… but do you know what’s more beautiful? Impulse and Zedaph in unison: sighs Tango

Tango: We need a plan to beat them. Impulse: Okay, listen up. First, we fill their shoes with wet cat food. Tango: Impulse: Judge me all you want, I get results.

Impulse: I just had a long talk with Zedaph and Tango about hitting and now they are yelling “it’s my turn to perpetuate the cycle of violence” before hitting each other.

Tango: You say “Please” and “Thank you” in front of Impulse all the time, and they never repeat it. Tango: But you call Zedaph “Ass-faced motherfucker” ONE TIME…

Zedaph: So… I’ve seen you’ve been spending a lot of time with Impulse recently. Tango: No, Zedaph, it's not what it looks like, I swear. Zedaph: Oh really? So no reason for me to be jealous? Tango: No! You’re the only one for me. Zedaph: Is that so? Tango: I promise! Impulse and I are just dating, okay? They’re my partner. Zedaph: So there are no best-friends-feelings involved? Tango: You are still my one and only best friend! They’re just the love of my life, nothing more! Zedaph: But I’m still the platonic love of your life, right? Tango: Of course bro! Zedaph: Bro… Impulse: What the-

Tango, watching Zedaph and Impulse from afar: Two Bros, Chillin in a hot tub. Five feet apart because they think they’re not gay, BUT THEY REALLY ARE-

Impulse: Tango, why is Zedaph intruding on our cuddle time? Zedaph: Tango, why is Impulse intruding on our cuddle time? Tango, in distress: Please… I have two hands…

AND IM BACK WITH THE QUOTES

[hanilessa]

before reading please pay attention to the series masterlist, to make sure you have read the previous chapters!

your likes, reblogs and replies are greatly appreciated! i hope you like it, enjoy reading!

HALF AN HOUR FOR LOVE — Childe x F!Reader Chapter 2. Your name

The small bathroom was filled with the pleasant aromas of candles and various oils. The candles smelled of lavender, while the delicate oils were scented with coconut and cinnamon. It was really relaxing for you. Delicate fluffy foam bubbles lay on the surface of the water, creating various shapes and patterns. It was quite funny.

Hot water pleasantly relaxed your stiff muscles and injured leg, and it helped you to let go of all the pain. A wineglass of red wine was on a small table next to the bath, and you reached for the crystal wineglass to quench your thirst.

You really wanted to relax. If only it were possible. You took a sip of wine and the cool, sweet liquid washed over your throat. It helped calm your nerves a bit, but your head still hurt.

You furrowed your brows in displeasure. Your thoughts kept returning to Tartaglia. No matter how hard you tried to think of something else, you kept thinking about how rude he was to you.

You felt your anger starting to rise again in your chest as you remembered his cheeky smile. What kind of person did he think you were, when he asked you to lie in his bed?

He really saw you as that kind of person? Or did he decide that his beautiful face, muscular body and financial position will help him get any girl into his bed? You snorted in annoyance, blowing a small piece of foam off your nose.

Yes, he was really handsome. But that didn't change the fact that he was a rude and moron who didn't respect other people's boundaries and feelings. And you were insanely annoyed by the fact that he couldn't leave your thoughts.

Before yours and his strange acquaintance, you heard about Childe many times, but in those moments you could easily put him out of your head. So why is he now so tightly seated in your skull? What changed? But you knew you wouldn't give him a chance to taunt you.

Your wet palm rested on your forehead, your head continued to hurt, and you thought that you should take medicine. You changed your position because your body began to gradually become numb. Because of the water your skin gradually softened, which caused an unpleasant feelings. You had to get out of the water.

Surprisingly, thoughts about Tartaglia miraculously disappeared from your head when you remembered that you would soon need to go to the main Snezhnaya's academy. You should have found out what documents needed to be prepared for admission to the academy and when you need to make the first tuition fee.

Also, before going to bed, you were going to call your family. Therefore, when you finished with all the water procedures, you left the bath in high spirits, and the thoughts about Childe, as they appeared in your bathroom, remained there. And today it didn't bother you anymore.

The next day you were in a good mood. Even though you didn't have the best day yesterday, today you thought about how you want to make the most of this day. Unfortunately, your injured leg still bothered you, and you limped awkwardly on your way to work, noticing the surprised looks of your colleagues on you.

You greeted them shyly, trying to avoid questions about what happened to you. But you didn't manage to avoid questions from your friend.

"What's wrong with your leg, Y/n? Why are you limping?" Yoimiya excitedly sat down next to you on the bench when she noticed you limping and wincing in pain.

Ei remained silent, but from her look, you realized that the woman was also worried about your condition. You made a sad face, realizing that you couldn't get away from your friends' questions. They often worried about you because you lived alone and there was no one to take care of you during this period of time.

You said many times that you could take care of yourself, but just like with your mother, your friends didn't believe you at all. You appreciated their care, but you were confident that you could handle a small injury.

As you suspected, Yoimiya asked you too many questions, asking you how, where and why you got this injury. Ei, unlike her too noisy friend, occasionally made comments and asked you to be more careful next time. When both girls found out the cause of your injury, their indignation knew no bounds.

"Of course, I heard that he doesn't have good manners, but to neglect someone’s health and feelings so much, you have to try!" Yoimiya snorted, turning her nose up and showing that she was very unhappy with Childe's behavior.

"Yoimiya, please keep calm." Ei calmly demanded.

This made you laugh.

"Perhaps we aren't given to understand what is going on in the heads of rich guys." You smiled and the girls picked up your mood. Despite yesterday's bad memories, today you were in a good mood.

You and your friends headed to the cafeteria, and the only thing you really wanted right now was a good meal. But your appetite was gone immediately after you saw the ginger man. He stood in the parking lot next to his car and pressed some girl to it.

You just snorted, thinking that this guy had no shame or conscience. And you really didn't want to have anything to do with him. You didn't want to waste time on him, so you turned away from him and continued talking to Yoimiya and Ei.

The next few days passed quietly and without incident. Your injured leg finally healed, which made you happy. And, to your happiness, you forgot to think about Tartaglia. You continued to do your job, making various deals with many companies around the country and communicating with various people. And sometimes it seemed like a chore to you.

You wanted to get some rest and visit your family in Morepesok. But you couldn't find a free day off for that. All your free time was spent cleaning the house and cooking your own meals. You really hoped that soon you would have free time and be able to visit your mother and Xiao.

You were snapped out of your thoughts by your boss's voice.

"Y/n, please give these documents to the chief secretary." The man put several folders with documents on your desk. “I need to leave for a while. I hope you can handle it."

"Of course, I will do it!" You smiled and followed with your gaze as your boss left the office.

The day was sunny, it was warm outside. You left the building and headed towards the main company building. It continued to stand majestically, drawing all attention to itself. Holding the folders with documents to your chest, you continued to walk forward. Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted a black Mercedes Benz in the parking lot next to the building.

You concluded that Tartaglia must be somewhere in the main building of the company. You bit your lip in annoyance. You had no desire to see this man. And you continued to be annoyed by the fact that you started thinking about him again. Why, when you noticed any reminder of him, did Childe so easily become everything you could think of at any given time?

Thinking about how much you were unhappy about this, you didn't notice that you went up to the third floor of the building. The place where business meetings usually took place, and where the director's office was located. You knocked on the large door with your fist and pushed the door open in the hope that the secretary was in the office.

You looked around in confusion. You were in the alleged office of the secretary, but she wasn't in the office. You really hoped you could leave the documents with the secretary. But Lady Fate had a completely different way, making you nervous.

The office was bright, despite the fact that the window was covered with large dark green curtains. To the side was another wooden door, behind which, as you assumed, was the director's office.

You thought irritably that you would have to go into his office, but right now the last thing you wanted to do was meet Childe. In the hope that there would be no one in the office, you quietly took hold of the gilded doorknob and opened the door to the office. What you saw made you scream in fright and drop important documents from your hands.

Half naked man and woman sat on a large glass table, kissing roughly and passionately. The ginger man leaned on the table, holding the girl sitting on him by the rounded hips. The half dressed girl ran her thin fingers over his bare shoulders and embossed abs, and two people continued to kiss until they were distracted by a loud sound from the door. Childe pulled away from the girl's lips, and she looked at him disappointedly.

"Darling, what happened?" She whimpered, puffing out her lips a little clumsily and, as if by chance, straightening her blouse, thereby exposing her magnificent chest in a black lace bra.

"I-I'm sorry." You immediately lowered your eyes, and, as if remembering the fallen documents, squatted down, trying to quickly collect the documents and get the hell out of here. But this turned out to be extremely unsuccessful, and important documents scattered more and more across the floor.

You swore in your thoughts in annoyance. Why did you and he have to meet again under these circumstances?

Tartaglia looked in your direction with interest, and his heart beat faster when he realized that it was you. You're that girl. You were the one who made him feel incredible excitement, and at the same time, you were the main character in his bet with Ayato.

And both of these facts delighted him. He knew you would be his, in his bed. Even if he has to move mountains for this. And the fact that you were such an unapproachable girl added oil to the fire. Childe never turned down a good fight, and this fight must have been one of the most exciting of his life. He was in anticipation.

If he wins — and he will definitely win — Ayato will help him and his family. He would never turn his back on his family and would do everything possible to make his family happy. Even if he has to go over the heads.

"I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you, and I'm leaving now." You finally collected all the documents in folders, picked up the folders from the floor and hurried to turn to the door so as not to blush even more at the sight of half naked people.

"Yes, you can go." The blonde sitting on the table said slightly displeased, throwing one leg over the other and carefully pulling on the black stocking that had come down.

The ginger man looked at you excitedly because he didn't want you to leave. All these days he did nothing but think of you.

How beautiful you looked the moment you hit him. And your words struck him to the very heart. Even despite the bet, you were insanely very interesting to him. Therefore, he hurried to move his secretary away from him in order to come closer to you.

"Wait, you're that girl..." Childe came closer to you, causing you to step back in fear and look at the floor because the man's appearance was truly embarrassing. "Don't leave. I didn't even know your name."

You chuckled ironically at your thoughts. Wow. He remembered you.

"Hey, bunny." A girl whimpered behind him, causing Tartaglia to roll his eyes in annoyance, distracted from the girl he was interested in. The girl who blushed so damn cute and shyly looked at the floor. He wanted to look at it a little longer. How cute you were blushing right now and how hot you looked that evening, it made his heart beat at a tremendous speed. The combination of these different emotions tempted him to watch you longer. He was hoping to find out what other emotions he could make you feel. "I miss you, hurry up."

You tried not to raise your eyes to the man in front of you, because it was beyond your strength and embarrassment. But despite that, you were still able to see his bare abs when you entered the office. And damn, he really was well built and handsome.

That was the last thing you should be thinking about right now. Taking a deep breath, you looked into his blue eyes and said:

"I'm sorry, I don't think knowing my name will change anything for you. Besides…" You looked behind him at the blond girl who continued to sit on the table. "You shouldn't keep your woman waiting."

The secretary perked up noticeably when you mentioned her.

"I see that you're a very understanding person." She said, smiling, and you smiled her with the same sugary smile.

You gave the documents to Childe. And without saying another word, you turned your back on the two people and walked out of the director's office. Tartaglia curled his lips in annoyance. You left him in such a vulnerable state with no chance to say anything back to you. It looked like you and he were competing in some kind of competition.

Who will find the best way to piss off the other person? You or him?

He annoyed you, you annoyed him. This was your common. Common thoughts that haunted you and him.

He was annoyed, he wanted nothing so much as to make you want him. The consequences don't matter. In any case, he will win the bet — and you will cease to exist in his thoughts.

"So where did we stop?" The woman asked coquettishly, reminding him of her presence. Childe growled in displeasure. Without even turning to her, he said:

"At this moment. Svobodna*."

The only woman he wants right now is you.

For Tartaglia, it was something of an exciting battle. Sweet goal to which he aspired. The way that he must go to achieve the goal. And the end result, which has always been the most long awaited and exciting. He lived for these feelings and never gave them up. As is the case with you.

His end result was the well being of his family, and you were like the way he had to take to achieve his goal. And Childe knew that this way was, is and will be one of the most difficult in his life. But he also knew that he would go this way. It doesn't matter what he needs to do for it.

For you, it felt like you were in hell. Your friends asked too many questions, but you didn't know how to explain the whole situation to them. There was no escape for you. It seemed that Tartaglia literally replaced all the air next to you, because his presence next to you was too much.

Every time Childe saw you, he immediately came up to you and started pestering you with his questions about your name, your phone number and asking you if you were going on a date with him. It was very annoying, because you really wanted all thoughts of him to disappear from your head as if they had never been there. But because he found a reason to be with you almost every day, it seemed impossible.

And even now, when you sat in the cafeteria and ate calmly, he sat in front of you and with his fingers counted a hundred and one reasons why you had to go on a date with him. None of the reasons seemed worthy to you, so you continued to ignore him and all the prying eyes of other people that were directed at you and him. The extra attention was really embarrassing.

"I really want to apologize to you."

You looked at Tartaglia, who continued to talk about something, and noted for yourself that he didn't pay any attention to other people's views. He's probably just used to the extra attention. For the first time, you thought that you even felt sorry for him.

"Okay." Unexpectedly — even for yourself — you said, attracting the attention of a ginger man. He paused, surprised that you answered him. Usually you were always silent and ignored him. "I'll go on a date with you if you promise not to invade my privacy again."

A satisfied smile appeared on Childe's face. Gotcha.

"You won't regret it, princess." He stood up from his chair, winked at you and said: "If I can’t get your forgiveness on this date, I promise I will never bother you again. At the end of the working day, I will wait for you at our place."

He finished speaking and left the cafeteria, ignoring the girls who were trying to talk to him. You frowned. What did he mean by the phrase "our place"? Was that the place in the parking lot where he hit you with the car door? Your eye twitched. You held back the curses in your tongue. This guy…

You didn't notice how the evening came. The sun was gradually sinking below the horizon, turning the sky red. A light breeze was blowing outside, but you understood that such weather wouldn't last long. Soon you will need to dress in warm clothes. You slowly walked towards the parking lot, noticing the familiar male silhouette.

His jacket was open, his ginger hair swaying in the wind. He was leaning on the hood of his car and smoking a cigarette. When Tartaglia noticed you, his face lit up with a cheeky smile. And you felt your cheeks suddenly turn red.

"I think, after seeing my bare body, you shouldn't be embarrassed." He said cheerfully and invited you to sit in the passenger seat.

You looked at him with irritation in your eyes.

"One more joke like that and I'm not going anywhere with you."

Childe laughed and sat in the driver's seat. The engine was started and the car started moving. The car left the territory of the company and rushed in an unknown direction. Music was playing in the car, you tried to relax and leaned back in the seat. Tartaglia looked pleased. Suddenly a thought came into your head.

"You asked me my name."

You broke the silence, thereby attracting the attention of a ginger man. He raised an eyebrow and smiled. You smiled back and said:

"My name is Y/n."

Svobodna (rus.) means "You're dismissed" or "You can go".

— taglist: @httpmitsuya @gojoandelsalovechilde @duckyyyx @i-x4o @chishiyawifesworld @ajaxstar @kiryoutann

[ameliora-j]

Hi, I'm glad those other asks made you smile 😄 for your 4k celebration, can I get Tiana with Sugar Daddy!Hotch meeting black!reader for the first time 🥺

hi honey!! i’m so sorry that this took so long but i wanted it to be good cus i love this concept sm :( (and also cus i had go keep reminding myself it was a mini blurb not a full fic 💀) i hope i did it justice though :(

you were sitting in a restaurant, waiting for the man to show up. you’d met him through a website for this stuff, and he seemed like the least creepy one to make an arrangement with. more than the business side of it, he was actually interested in you… and getting to know you. and you wanted to know more about him too. it was two weeks of nonstop texting and late night phone calls where both of you fell asleep still connected—he woke up much earlier than you, and you’d oftentimes wake up to seeing him getting ready on the facetime screen. it melted your heart every single time you woke up and he hadn’t hung up yet.

his work schedule finally calmed down, and you two were able to schedule a date. so, now here you sat in a long black gown with a high slit, a cute pair of heels, and your usual every day jewelry. your nails were freshly manicured and your hair freshly done. you’d shaven yourself to be smoother than a baby’s bottom and made sure to apply your cocoa butter and coconut oil so your skin was soft.

“yn?” you heard a deep voice drawl. you followed the black slacks all the way up to a nice gucci belt, then a pressed white dress shirt and a red tie, all the way up to your handsome aaron.

“hi aaron…” you whispered, standing to hug him as you gaped.

“you look gorgeous… how much did all this cost you?” he asked, pushing your seat into the table as you sat down.

“oh no, don’t worry! i wanted to!” you assured him with a smile.

“yes… and i want to pay for you to look as good as you do. so tell me how much, and i’ll reimburse you” he smiled. “and if you think about making even one more purchase with your own money we’re gonna have some problems, yeah?” he raised a brow.

you gulped softly and nodded. “yes sir” you whispered softly.

the two of you spent the whole night, talking and laughing over the high end restaurant’s top shelf wine. your time spent with aaron was fantastic, it felt like the two of you had known each other for years. he was a gentleman the entire night, asked about you, listened while you spoke… opening up to him felt easy. he felt like a man you could be yourself around.

“yn… i have to be completely honest” he began as he paid the bill. “i don’t… want this to just be uh… a ‘business’ thing” he murmured out, lacing your fingers together. “if it’s okay with you… i’d like to continue taking you out on dates and getting to know you… i-i’d… i’d like for you to be my girlfriend” he smiled shyly at you as the two of you stepped out of the restaurant.

“oh aaron…” you whisper. “i want that too” you smile. “all of it… i had a great time with you tonight and i’d love to keep it going? back at my place maybe?” you smile hopefully.

he asks you if you brought a car. when you tell him that your best friend had dropped you off, he decided then and there that he would drive you back to your place. the two of you chatted, sipped on wine and watched movies. all the way up until you fell asleep, and woke up on aaron hotchner’s chest.

and as you were crawling down to suck him off to make his morning wood go down before he made you breakfast, both you and him decided… this is how you want to wake up every morning.