#once again you can see my priorities

[sysig]

Something old and borrowed (Patreon)

[unheavenly]

꒰ა ໒꒱

[unproduciblesmackdown]

love my own like theatrical relationship to shakespeare which is a) being so slow to realize like "oh, i've loved theatre? everyone doesn't just feel this way & go 'of course acting onstage would fucking kick ass' & adore rehearsals and hanging around backstage and in greenrooms and changing and performing & etc?' never really occurred to me" and b) my response to most encounters w/shakespeare being "wha" when it comes to anything granular yet the relevance still in the spirit of things lol

namely one prominent example being i was an on campus college student where said campus has a shakespearean theater literally three blocks away, and we had like a freshmen orientation weekly class there doing shit with actors and checking out the theater, not to mention like punchcards to see four shows free (to write up about afterwards but yeah sure whatever) and this wherein also you always got student discount tickets And there were pwyw performances....kicked ass. i went there for shows so many times. i have never fucking known what tf is going on in any of the like dozen shows i saw there when a) audio processing can be tricky enough for real life modern vernacular parsing and b) sure am not used to ye old very stylized language nor any other qualities of shakespearean material so lots of times when i finally started to kind of acclimate to the language it would be like "oh wait that was the conclusion? ok. hoorayyyyy" like also c) You Have A Great Time Seeing Shakespeare Productions Anyways like again i loved going anytime. it's Theatrical and if people are just putting their damn backs into delivering and performing the material it's An Experience even if you're really not following lmfao. and i suppose one can read the text / familiarize oneself beforehand

also like my first and really one of my only like regular theatre performing experiences was my literature class in fourth grade doing a few scenes from julius caesar. i was so hype for getting cassius like one of the most prominent roles? a guy? an antagonist if you're caesar or dante??? oh Fuck yes. b/c of technical difficulties we got to perform it twice in a row when we did a field trip to some other school to perform our respective [scenes from various shakespeare plays] altogether. even back then i was way into it and cared about stuff like "we have like no Effects to make it that dramatic when we kill caesar. or like, non silent. bit awkward" and "also i like, don't know how to act and am just winging it. and of course, i'm also like 9" like in theory i do like to know How to do something vs trying to make it up myself. somewhat lol. a balance, who can argue w/that

beyond that there's also lots of things i just didn't quite realize "counted" lmfao like, when you're a theatre gay with a parent req'ing you go to church every week but you have a good time being in the choir....i was sure on those tenor harmonies & singing loud. and going relatively often to various live theatrical events, having an engaging enough time there, but also would've assumed anyone would be into it And that that's not really the same as actually being in them, of course. but that most of my firsthand experience was just sticking w/ballet for like a decade, and kind of live theatrical performance adjacency there. don't say shit, for years was effectively just like, an ensemble for the occasional performances, but even then it's like hoorayyy i Love rehearsing and being onstage and backstage and dealing w/costumes and coordination behind the scenes and shit. and eventually being like, a distinct individual character in shows, so despite again nobody saying shit you're still somewhat interpreting and doing whatever character work while also enjoying the bennies of [it's dance, so also it's choreographed]....even more clear like oh i love backstage and rehearsing and behind the scenes and onstage and putting together stage character makeup, and i don't mind tackling technical difficulties, and etc etc. didn't even necessarily have the reference like, idk, wouldn't / doesn't everyone feel similarly. classic ye old memory of like being idfk 7 or some shit simply getting to walk with classmates behind a backdrop to the opposite wing of a stage, and loving that lmao. combines a love for [backstage] and [secret passages] type deal lol, big fan of these elements

also in 7th grade doing a theatre/drama class for a few months and we couldn't really get like all this in depth extensive stuff b/c you know, intro course for like 8 weeks for rando middle schoolers, but idk it was just illustrative lmao like after julius caesar, us slapping together some kind of script and my getting to be this fun little theatrical(tm) antagonist guy again? feedback was "what was supposed to be happening" but could've stood to have learned that the enthusiasm and affinity i felt for acting onstage was perhaps indicative of enthusiasm and affinity for acting onstage rather than just, idk, the exact kind of baseline experience any & everyone would have lol. not that i would've necessarily had the chance to really do anything with that knowledge, but even now, ofc i don't particularly anticipate getting to use it, but it's great having that knowledge like ohhh i see. the entire time i've been huge into doing theatre with all these kind of adjacent & gently overlapping brushes with it. gotcha

[outeremissary]

Tagged by @silversiren1101... sorry to be doing this in the literal middle of the night, I've chosen the "sleep from 9-1, then ????-????" route tonight.

Anyway. The only one is the one you already knew, haha. I'm vaguely aware of alexisonfire and Death Cab for Cutie existing - the latter is a really Tumblr artist, I think I've been told? - but I don't know any more than that. I briefly thought I knew The New Low, but it turns out that what I was remembering was being bizarrely obsessed with the song New Low by Middle Class Rut in middle school.

I edited this on my phone so pardon the sloppiness of a last second swap. This was odd to do because I have a Weird Thing where I don't really listen to music by artist a lot of the time, and I often don't know more than a random scattering of songs or a single album from an artist. Artists I am confident I generally know the discography of are kinda few and far between, and I was much better about being thorough like that in high school... Anyway. A random scattering of stuff. Even I don't know how I determined what made the cut and what didn't for half of this list. I assume I can't do duplicates or Lord Huron would definitely be on here.

The blank. I don't have a lot of people to tag, I guess? @camelliagwerm if you're interested and no one has reached out to you yet

[malkaviian]

i have a headache but also i dont want to go to sleep just yet dkjnfjds i want me-time

(warning: as i was writing the tags of this post this turned into another kinda-heavy rant about the situation my group of friends and i are. so keep that in mind)

[tbh-entp]

in a constant state of like medium apathy abt the world. seems kind to even call it morally grey.

[voulezloux]

.

[neo-nomatrix]

Sunshine and Midnight Rain

Luke Castellan x Apollo kid!Reader

word count: 851

summary: Luke castellan and the daughter of apollos love story

a/n: “remember who the enemy is” IM TRYING

Luke Castellan held your heart since the day you met, and you held his.

You arrived at camp a few months after Luke. You were one of the lucky ones, claimed within an hour of being there. Your godly father is Apollo, god of poetry, the sun, music, narcissism, idiocy, stupidity, all that. You had assumed the gods would act superior to all, no matter if they were or weren’t. But Apollo was on a completely different level. You didn’t know why he had taken such a liking to you.

“You remind him of himself,” Your half sister, Kayla, had told you, “an archer who never misses, healer who fixes every wound, gifted singer, and somehow picked up the lyre in a day. And yet, you still ask why Apollo loves you the most?”

“I wish he wouldn’t,” you twirl the golden arrow he gifted you.

“y’know, that hermes boy has been staring since the moment you stepped foot here,” she smiles, nodding to the tan boy sitting on a picnic table.

“Great, more attention,” you keep your sights on the boy, lucas? Luca, maybe?

“His name’s luke castellan,” kayla says, ah luke, that’s it.

“He’s handsome,” you say matter of factly.

“Don’t trust those Hermes boys, all they do is lie,” Kayla leans back and rolls her eyes.

“It’s a good thing I play the lyre.”

——————

“You’ve got a great shot,” a deep voice says from behind you.

You’ve been at the range for around an hour, it’s 4:30, you always practice when no one else is around.

“The whole reason why I come out here this early is so i can be alone,” sure, it sounds mean but you swear you’re not trying to be.

“Sorry, once I see you it’s hard to look away,” you’re not looking at him but you can tell me has the biggest smirk on his face.

“Funny,” you tell him bluntly.

You set down your bow, keeping the arrow in your hand, and sit on the nearby grass. He lays down beside you, you follow his lead and put your hands behind your head.

“That arrow, it’s like it’s made of the sun,” He says amazed.

“A gift from dear old dad. No matter how far I shoot it’ll always come back. Supposed to be a sign of his love or something. But I think he just constantly wants me to be annoyed by him,” you inform him possibly too much.

“Most people would be grateful if their godly parent cares that much,” he says.

“It’s different with Apollo, there is no such thing as true altruism with him,” you bite your inner lip.

“I get that, I’m just tryna say- Hermes never showed up for me, and I'd kill to just have him tell me he cares,” His eyes furrow.

“Guess we both have different priorities,” you smile.

“Opposites work best don’t they?” He smiles back.

“Isn’t it opposites attract?” You wonder.

“Hey, your words, not mine,” he laughs.

“That one’s Orion,” You point up at the constellation.

“He was always my favorite,” he adds.

“Mine has always been Cassiopeia, but you can never see her over here,” You look back up at the sky.

“That one’s Taurus, and then Sirius below, and Gemini above,” you point each of them out.

Even though he hums in acknowledgment his eyes are locked on you.

“You’re staring, again” You mention.

“I told you I can’t help it, especially when you glow like that,” he reaches out and touches your face.

You reach out and grab his hand, running your fingers against his slender digits.

“I’d like to be a constellation when I die, maybe my father will fulfill that wish,” you say to him.

“That’ll be my last wish too, we can lay in the stars together.”

——————

It’s been a day since Percy Jackson came to Camp Half-blood. It just so happens to be your favorite day of the year, capture the flag. You have led the archers on the blue team for years, you’d say you’re doing well for what you’re given. Besides your siblings in Apollo the rest of the kids weren’t as gifted in archery.

As the first conch shell blew you were preparing for your mock-battle. Annabeth in charge of the plan and Percy, Luke with company, and you with the archers. You knew you could, no- would win. The archers took the trees, helping stray company from the skies.

“Today feels like a winning kind of day?” Annabeth asks luke.

“I’ll see you on the other side,” He smiles.

“Luke!” You pull him aside for a moment.

You cup his face the best you can through his armor. “You don’t get hurt okay? I don’t feel like healing anymore wounds from you. Understand?”

“Oh but I love to see you healing” he holds your hand and smirks

“Archers! Move out!” You call your team, eyes still locked with his, smiling.

“so… you and her?” Percy asks the taller boy.

“how could I not? She's perfect. I mean, I genuinely believe I could live without the sun if I just had her.”

And maybe, just maybe, he could.

[jasmineoolongtea]

― i like the way you kiss me . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ .

― the ways in which they kiss you when you aren't actually together yet ₊˚⊹♡

contents: gojo x gn!reader, geto x gn!reader, nanami x gn! reader, choso x gn!reader, megumi x gn!reader, yuji x gn!reader, yuta x gn!reader, headcanons/brief drabbles, slightly suggestive for some of them if you squint a/n: just some headcanons i wanted to write after listening to i like the way you kiss me by artemas plus i needed a short writing break from my risk - megumi fic that i've been working on. hope you guys enjoy this !!!

gojo satoru kisses you like he misses you already despite barely being apart for more than a few hours. it didn't matter to him that he just saw you moments ago. that was nothing more than a trivial fact to him, just like the fact that you two still weren't actually together yet, in the grand scheme of things. why should he be waiting any second longer to feel your touch on him? he was never good at being patient anyways.

"missing me already huh?" you murmur against his lips, his hands securing you against him as he pinned you against the brick wall of the restaurant behind you two.

he scoffs at your comment. "oh shut up." his lips are on yours again in a matter of second. you weren't going to lie, you were enjoying this. to see someone so powerful like gojo satoru yet so susceptible to your presence to the point where he couldn't wait anymore to have your lips against his. with his flushed cheeks and slightly puffy lips, you want to forever immortalise this image of him in your mind. silently, you thanked whatever was out there that he decided to forgo his sunglasses tonight as their absence allowed you to truly appreciate the beauty of his eyes, even being able to notice the tiniest specks of what appeared to be gold in his pupils.

as he tilts his head to the side to better fit his features against yours, you swear you can feel his every breath with how flushed his chest is against yours. you even earn a soft groan from him when your fingers dance across his undercut, taking your time to run your hands through his snowy locks.

you're glad that his eyes are closed right now, getting a ticklish sensation as his long eyelashes kiss the expanses of your cheeks with the slight flutter of his eyes so that he isn't able to notice how the red blush that was once contained on your face has now expanded outwards to the tip of your eyes. he bites at your bottom lip gently, as if asking for permission to go further and you grant his request with a faint gasp of your own.

"noisy, aren't we?"

"oh shut up."

geto suguru kisses you like you're his already. the way he snakes his arms around your waist and presses his lips against yours only makes you sink further into his touch. if he wasn't holding you up right now, you would probably melt into the floor just from his proximity alone. you've been dancing around the issue for a few months now, fleeting touches in a dark room, longing glances across the room. it was all fun and games for both of you, seeing how long you could drag out this game of teasing and temptation until the other had enough. you thought you were doing pretty well. that is, until he decided to show up here again and well, just imagine the feeling of his lips against yours wasn't enough anymore.

you've always wondered what it would feel like to card your hands through his raven tresses and now, with your fingers tangled in up there, you can safely say it was better than you could have ever imagined. if it wasn't you who was the one messing up his hair, he would have some choice words to say about it, but as of right now, that was the least of his concerns. right now, his priority was seeing how long it would take for him to become consumed by his desire for you and it seemed like he wasn't going to last long. not with how you would let out a low whine every time his teeth grazed your lips or with your wandering hands taking this opportunity to explore the expanses of his well-sculpted back.

you feel like you've just had your breath stolen from you with how heavily you were panting against him, your faces flushed with want and kiss-swollen lips as evidence of what had recently transpired between the two of you. neither of you make the move to break apart as he leans down to ask.

"so what does this make us?"

nanami kento kisses you with so much restraint it only incites you to try and break down his defences further. his kisses barely feel like pecks, leaving you to subconsciously chase him for more every time he pulls away. he doesn't dare to try and do more, to push the boundary further. not only are you not technically together yet but also he's afraid. not of you, but rather of what would happen if he let his resolve fall and indulged in his selfish desires for what would be the first time in a long while.

he stops for a moment, his face barely hovering centimetres above from yours as his eyes flicker between your slightly agape mouth and your half-lidded eyes, watching him closely as you try to anticipate his next. he couldn't tell which one was drawing him in more at that moment. his breath hitches momentarily when he feels a soft tug at his tie, your right hand absent-mindedly toying with the edges of it as you place your other hand against his chest as if attempting to brace yourself against him. he couldn't tell but your legs felt like they were about to give out at any second with how every single cell in your body felt electrified with the amount of desire and anxiety coursing through your veins.

silence dragged on for what felt like ages, both of you unmoving in your positions until you muttered under your breath. "kento..." your voice was barely above a whisper but at that moment, it turns out that he was not as strong in his resolve as he thought he was with that being all he needed to dive right into you, fully untethered this time as his lips crashed against yours.

kamo choso kisses you like he's scared that this will be the first and last time he'll ever get to do so. there's so much fear and hesitation in his movements yet at the same time, you can feel the fervour and passion that is pouring out of him with every movement of his lips against you. his hands are hovering around your figure, scared to fully let himself hold you as if he's worried that the moment he makes contact, you're going to snap out of whatever daze you're in and run away from him. you aren't going to do that of course, if only he knew how long you were waiting for this to happen. as you feel the cold of the concrete wall against your back, the two of you part, albeit reluctantly, from each other to catch your breaths.

"..are you sure?" he asks breathlessly. his pupils are blown wide open as his eyes seemingly turn into infinite purple voids, watching your every movement unblinking.

you run your fingers across the back of his neck, toying slightly with some of the loose black strands that were clinging to his skin. he looks pretty like this, you think to yourself. he looks at you so eagerly, so soft and pliable in your hands, as he nervously awaits for your response.

"never been more sure."

fushiguro megumi kisses you like you're the air he breathes. who would have thought someone so famously reserved like megumi had it in him like this? you aren't given long to ponder on that thought as his lips are against yours once again, moving in sync with an imaginary rhythm as you frenziedly grasp at the material of his shirt in a weak attempt to try and ground you against his closeness to you. with every slide of his lips past yours, you're pretty sure that he's simultaneously taking and giving you back your breath which you previously thought would be impossible to do but are now sorely proven wrong.

you're not even a lightweight or anything when it comes to alcohol but you're pretty sure you're drunk on the feeling of him the moment his mouth was on yours. much to your surprise, the spikes that he calls his hair are actually pretty soft as you run your hands through them, a soft tug at the hair beneath your fingers drawing out a barely disguised groan from him. you giggle softly against his lips at his reaction and he silences you with another kiss, not that you were complaining as you ardently respond by tilting your head off to the side slightly to grant him better access to your face. your eyes are closed but you can imagine the half-hearted scowl on his face with how his brows furrow in the way that they always do against your forehead.

even though it was barely minutes ago, your mind is hazy as you try to remember the circumstances that led to this situation right now. it was probably a stupid argument that you guys got into, like the two of you usually do, and somehow that resulted in him wanting to prove his point more unconventionally. you give up on trying to recall the details as you can feel your face start to burn up as one of his hands start to wander down to rest against your hips.

"so," he pants, the heat of his breath is warm against your lips. "does that prove my point?"

itadori yuji kisses you eagerly, trying to savour every single moment of his lips against yours. you could feel the excitement basically pouring out from him with each movement of his lips against you, even eliciting a giggle from him that reverberates against your mouth as your noses bump against each other. it's a messy, disorganised sort of kiss with you being sure this is the third time you've accidentally grazed your teeth against his. fortunately for both of you, you're all way too engrossed and intoxicated on the sensation of the other's lips to care.

every time one of you tries to catch your breath, the other tries to chase your lips as they attempt to recapture that feeling again. as your arms encircle his neck, pulling you close to him, you're pretty sure you can feel him groan quietly against your lips with his hands reaching up to cup your face. with a deep sigh, you sink into his warm embrace, taking the moment to fully breathe him in like your life depended on it.

one of his hands falls from your face and gives a tentative squeeze at your waist to which you gasp quietly. taking this opportunity, he breaks apart from your lips and presses a flurry of kisses across your face which earns him a wide grin from you as you half-heartedly attempt to defend yourself from his sudden kiss attacks.

if you knew that a simple, experimental peck on the cheek could earn you this, maybe you should try to do this more.

okkotsu yuuta kisses you like you're a dream come true. hear him out. he never thought that he would get to experience touch like this ever again in his life, nevermind it coming from you in this manner. to him, you were what sweet dreams were made of, so ethereal, so delicate and so much better than whatever could exist in such a cruel world like this. but once again, defying all his expectations, you were here right in front of him and your lips were on his, faster than in the blink of an eye.

cradling the back of your head with his hands, he leans into the feeling of your lips against his as the two of you move in sync with each other. as if the moment couldn't get better, it was as if your lips were perfectly moulded for his or vice versa. he didn't care which way it was, all this fact did was solidify the thought in his mind that you were sent down onto earth from whatever heavenly plane people like you come from just for him to bask in the presence of.

his eyes are closed for two reasons. one, because he's scared that if he opens his eyes, this will be nothing more than a dream that he has to wake up from and two because he's pretty sure that if he was able to see you in your flushed, kiss dazed glory, he would explode on the spot.

despite being able to tell how badly he's been wanting to kiss you, he doesn't let it overpower him, instead taking the upmost care to make sure that you were still unharmed, treating you as if you were some piece of delicate china that could break at the slightest of wrong moves. while it was nice, you were feeling particularly greedy in that moment. you wanted more.

right as he breaks apart for air, you're already back to pulling him closer than humanly possible at this point by the collar of his shirt and you find that you're rewarded with a soft gasp escaping from him as your lips find each other again, this time with a renewed sense of desire and want.

[xxsunoosprincess]

hi, can i reqs enha reaction to waking up with their back all scratched up after a long night with their s/o?

back to my regularly scheduled content 😋 absolutely delicious request

Enhypen’s reaction to seeing the marks you left on their back. (OT6)

pairings: enhypen legal line x reader

warnings, 18+, minors DNI, mentions of sex, handjobs, and marking

Heeseung

Shy baby…. doesn’t tell you because he doesn’t want you to feel bad (and also secretly wants you to do it again). When you wake up he is fully dressed and sitting in bed, back facing away from you which is weird. He’s never awake this early and is he watching you sleep?? Can’t pry what’s wrong out of him so you end up wrestling him down and flipping up his shirt, exposing the marks (and making his cock throb). Repeated tells you it’s not a big deal but walks around with his shirt tucked in like a dork just in case anyone else tries to pull a fast one on him.

Jay

Loves that shit. Type of boyfie that sends you $200 to get your nails done all pretty. Taking care of you is his top priority!! Plus, he loves the way a nice manicure looks when you have your hands wrapped around his cock. He can also feel the scratch marks you leave down his back that much better with a nice set of acrylics. When he catches sight of them in the morning, you will have another “investment” sitting in your bank account immediately.

Jake

Shakes you awake after he takes a shower and the body wash packs an extra sting. Once he has you up and sufficiently panicked… “It’s important, wake up!!” Is not the most delicate way to wake up your partner… he pulls off his shirt and flips over to show you the damage. Thinks he has a rash at first, but it doesn’t take much to deduce what the red lines running down his back are from. Once you tell him, he switches to “Look what you did to me! You wild animal!” all whiny and rosey cheeked. Makes you kiss it better.

Sunghoon

Likes it and makes sure everyone knows about it. “Oh these? Y/n was over last night” cue groans from the other members. After that they stop asking but he makes sure they are visible. Will probably even ask you to do it again and leave marks along his shirt line so they “accidentally” show. And when you do, he makes sure to reward you with an extra nice pounding that night <3

Sunoo

Sweet blushing baby!! He sees it in the mirror while doing his morning skincare and shrieks. It obviously attracts the attention of everyone in the dorm, but he runs back to his room with his shirt clutched to his chest and back pressed against the wall. He finally slips into the room and sees you sitting up in bed, clearly just awoken by the chaos happening behind the door. Jeers of “damn Sunoo I didn’t know you were a freak like that!” from Jake as he turns around to show you what all the commotion was about sends you into your own fit of laughter.

Jungwon

The first time it happened he didn’t even notice. Goes about his day until he is at dance practice and is getting sweaty so he takes his shirt off. Sunoo’s scandalized gasp is all he heard before a shirt is thrown at his face with a hissed “are you crazy? what if the managers see?”. Oops. Not so secretly happy about it. Now he walks around the dorms shirtless after a romp with you in the sheets just so he can show off a bit.

END.

a/n: short lil thang to get back into the swing of things after everything that went down today. Good lord… thinking about getting two requests out tonight to make up for deleting last nights :( also reminder that requests are open for 100 follower event!! anyways, hope you enjoy! xx - princess

taglist: @sunoofairyofsass @cha0thicpisces (fill out form or dm to be added)

[chestersturniolo]

Priority

Matt Sturniolo x fem!reader

Summary; Once again you find yourself in an argument with your boyfriend matt, due to his often absence. but this time you decide to tell him how you truly feel.

Warnings; swearing,angst,fluff,use of pet names and y/n. maybe slightly suggestive. I thinkkkk that’s all :)))

—————————————————————————

Matt and I have known eachother for pretty much our whole lives. I’ve been best friends with him for as long as I can remember, and we have been in a relationship for almost 2 years now. 

It’s the weekend, and me and Matt are finally spending some quality time together. I say finally because it has become a very rare occurrence. It wasn’t so bad when we first started dating, but the more popularity he and his brothers gained, the less time I got to spend with him. And truthfully it had been taking a toll on me, and our relationship as a whole. 

We are currently laid on his bed, Matt is on his back, slightly propped against the headboard , whilst I’m curled into him,laying on my side,one leg spawled over both of his, and my head laying on his chest. His arm wrapped around my back pulling me in,impossibly close. We agreed on having a lazy day today, which I suggested. Because our time together had been so limited lately , I really just wanted to be alone-alone with him. Taking him in as much as I could. 

I’m so at peace right now, my head gently rising and falling along with his chest whilst he takes gentle breathes. The soft sound of his heartbeat.  I slowly start to drift off. Matt must have noticed my grip around him loosening slightly , as I feel his hand trail up my back and in my hair, laying gentle strokes. I glance up to see a soft grin on his face, 

“Sleepy baby?” He coos. Now taking a piece of my hair and twirling it, the sound of his rings lightly clinking together.

“Yeaa” I smile sleepily, laying my head back down on his chest. “I just feel so content right now, we haven’t spent a lot of time together recently… ya know?” 

Matt let’s out a soft sigh “I know sweetheart,I know” he says, hand still entwined in my hair, laying a kiss on the top of my head. “But we have all weekend together, just you and me okay?” A couple of beats of silence falls between us ,before Matt gently starts shifting further up the headboard. I sit up with him,propping myself up with my arm next to him.

“Okay?” Matt repeats, his hand reaching out and holding my jaw, thumb grazing my cheek. I melt into his hand. 

“Okay.” I smile lightly. He pulls me towards him, placing a gentle kiss on the tip of my nose, and another on my lips. He slowly moved down to my neck,littering kisses all over it. My eyes flutter shut, taking in the feeling as I cup my hand around the back of his neck.

 

But my eyes are quick to open, when there’s loud pounding on Matts door, making us jump apart slightly. I turn to look at the door,

“Matt! get your ass out here, we needa film this podcast ep” I hear Chris shout through the door, his footsteps fading back down the hallway. 

My head snaps back towards Matt. He is fully sat up, eyes widened. 

“Fuck” he mumbles.

“Tell me you’re joking” i huff, sitting up.

A familiar pit forms quickly in my stomach. This isn’t the first time that our time together has been cut short.And i know it definitely will not be the last. 

“I completely forgot we haven’t filmed for the pod- I’m so sorry, fuck!”

I take a deep disappointed breath..

All of the times that his work has come before me start raiding my mind, and my disappointment and upset quickly turn into anger. 

“Matt,sorry won’t cut it forever. How many times has this happened? How many?” 

my voice slightly raising. I see Matt get slightly taken aback by my tone. 

He lets out a breath “I know okay, but you know our posting schedule-“ 

I cut him off 

“Well clearly you don’t! What happened to “we have all weekend together just you and me”  Huh?…Matt we hardly spend any time together anymore”

Matt shifts his legs to the floor, now sitting on the edge of the bed, and runs a hand through his hair with a huff. 

A small silence lingers whilst I wait for his response. 

“I said I’m sorry!-” He starts, his building frustration clear in his tone.

“-And I know okay, we have this same exact conversation every time I have to film!- but it’s my fucking job y/n!” he strains. 

My anger builds, once again hearing the same excuse I’m given every time. By now I would usually just give up and storm away to sulk. But this time I decide to let my feelings out properly. I’m tired of this. The same back and forth rut we’ve been stuck in. The familiar feeling of being pushed to the side. 

“Matt, I can’t remember the last time we even spent a full day together, just us!” My voice risen. 

“When you’re not filming, you’re with your brothers talking about what to film! When we’re apart you don’t call, and your texts are dismissive. I feel like I’m putting in all the effort here and I-“

“MATT BRO!” 

I’m cut off by Chris banging on the door once again.

I let out a defeated sigh, and bury my face in my hands. 

I feel the bed shift, I glance up to see Matt now stood infront of me, a frustrated expression plastered on his face.

“Look, I have to go and film this episode. I’ll only be gone for about an hour. I’ll come straight back and we can figure this out then okay.” He states,emotionless. 

Once again I’m brushed aside. “whatever Matt” I speak barely above a whisper, but my attitude still prominent.

Matt let’s out a huff and runs his hand through his hair. I let my gaze fall to my lap, as I hear him turn and leave the room. The slight slam of his bedroom door making me squeeze my eyes shut. 

I sigh, laying myself down and staring at the ceiling. A familiar lump starts to form in my throat, tears of frustration and upset now starting to pool in my eyes. 

Our interaction starts to replay in my head,

I really want to work through this with him, I love him a lot, and all I wanted him to do was hear me out. And he left. As usual.

I decide to try and take a nap to fill the void of Matts absence. 

After tossing and turning for what feels like an eternity, I pull out my phone. After a while of mindlessly scrolling , I pull myself off the bed and take myself to the kitchen to grab a soda. On my way to the fridge ,my ears prick at he sound of mumbled echos coming from the stairs. I stop in my tracks. I can’t help myself, as I tiptoe over to the bottom of the stairs. I turn my head to try and hear the boys. A small silence falls, and I shake my head at myself. Eavesdropping? Really? I turn around to start making my way back to the kitchen, until the mention of my name snaps my body back round to its previous position. Eavesdropping it is. 

My heart rate quickens as I hear Matts faint voice. “It’s too much, it’s fucking ridiculous bro”

The distance between us making it hard make out the conversation, picking up mumbled statements from Matt- 

“I need a break” 

“I can’t deal with it anymore”

“I’m done” 

My breath hitches. Tears finding their way back to my eyes as my heart drops. He’s leaving me? I’ve stuck by his side through all of this. After everything we’ve been through he’s…leaving me???

I’m snapped out of my daze

“y/n?” I hear Matt softly call from the top of the stairs, traces of worry evident in his voice. 

My eyes flit up to meet Matts gaze. Tears now streaming down my face. 

Matts eyes widen slightly , “shit” he says under his breath. 

I quickly turn around and head to the stairs down to the front door. I can’t see his face right now, I need to get out. 

I hear Matts quick and heavy footsteps down the stairs, following behind me. 

“Y/N!” 

I don’t stop, I reach the front door and swing it open, running out into the rain. 

“Y/N, wait, please!!!” 

It doesn’t take long before Matt catches up to me ,grabbing my wrist firmly, stopping me in my tracks. 

I keep my gaze on the street ahead.

“Stop okay! talk to me, tell me what’s going on!?” he pleads breathlessly. His voice laced with panic. Silence falls between us, only the sounds of the rain hitting the ground around us.

Matt loosens his grip on my wrist. 

“hey,look at me” his tone now soft. Taking his free, ring clad hand to my chin, gently guiding my gaze to meet his. I stiffen at his touch, but I let my eyes examine his features. His now wet hair slightly falling over his eyes that are frantically searching my face for answers.

I pull away from his grip slowly, taking a step backwards. 

“W-we’re…over…” i utter, tears still streaming down my cheeks, the rainfall disguising them. 

I watch as Matts face falls. Eyebrows knitting together slightly.

“what?” he replies, voice barely audible. Chest starting to rise and fall faster.

“I-“ I start , before burying my face in my hands in an attempt to calm myself down. I take a few hitched breaths before slowly lifting my head to see Matts fingers once again raking through his sopping hair. his eyes are glossy, like he’s close to crying. I feel the pain in my heart deepen seeing his desperate,pleading expression. But swiftly remember why it’s plastered there in the first place. 

Taking another deep breath I tried again “I-I heard you upstairs talking to nick and chris”

Matts eyebrows furrow deeper , a puzzled expression now evident, but this quickly turns into an eyes widened look of realisation as things piece together in his mind. 

“y/n-“ he tried before I cut him off.

“You said you were done with me. That I’m too much. That I’m fucking ridiculous!” I recite his earlier statements back to him through soft sobs.

“I’m sorry I was harsh earlier,but I’m trying here Matt! I wanted to work through this but you’re obviously done with m-“ 

“y/n no baby no! listen,okay!” Matt pleads as he takes a step closer to me cupping my face with both hands. 

“you mean everything to me. I listened to what you said earlier, and you’re not wrong. I haven’t been a good boyfriend recently to say the least and I’m sorry for that-“ 

He pauses , grazing his thumb across my cheek.

“Our filming schedule has been way too intense, it’s been consuming me, I know. what you heard was me convincing Nick and Chris that it is fucking ridiculous , that it’s too much  and that I’m done with it-“ he rambles, now reciting his own words back to me again. In a completely different context. 

My jaw drops slightly as I listen. Matts hands now finding their way to my hips. 

“turns out Nick and Chris feel the same…we agreed on completely stopping the podcast, aswel as cutting back on Wednesday videos. y/n, sweetheart, YOU are my priority,I’ve let this come between us for way too long. No more…”

An unexplainable wave of relief washes over me as I take in his words. How could I have gotten it so twisted? 

“M-matt I’m so sorry I thou-“ I cut myself off, bringing a hand up to hold my face. 

“hey it’s okay,don’t be sorry” Matt assures, his voice light and comforting, as he peels my hand from my face.

“I can see how you would take it the way you did, but trust me when I say I would never do that. I won’t let you go , I love you too much” he says with a small smile on his lips, pulling me closer, our bodies now flush. 

I wrap my arms around his neck, still slightly processing what just happened. 

“I love you too” I whisper , a smile of my own now forming. Matt leans down, placing a soft ,long kiss on my lips. I turn my head slightly to deepen it, standing on my tippy toes. 

The rain still crashing down on us as the kiss became even more intense and passionate. It felt like we were in a movie scene. 

I feel Matts hands snake further around my waist, lifting me off of the ground. I break the kiss with a squeal as he spins us around , my legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.

He lets out a soft chuckle 

“Come on baby,let’s get out of the rain hm?” 

I nod with a soft smile, as he sets off back to the house, still carrying me. I let my head fall into the crook of his neck. 

“How does a bath and movie night sound sweetheart? I’m all yours” he offers as he squeezes me close.

“it sounds perfect”

—————————————————————————

the death of cut the cameras

—————————————————————————

A/N - ahhh okay guys that was my first time ever writing something and I’m not sure how I feel🫣 lmk what you think! If you have any requests/Qs my anon ask is on ✨

- 𝑺𝒂𝒈𝒆 ♡

[plutoswritingplanet]

It's A Special Death You Saved (Feyd Rautha Harkonnen x Female!Reader) pt.1

a/n: i had a "no bald men" rule before he licked a knife... so y'all know my priorities are in order. Cross-Posted on AO3

Warnings: Dub-Con (as per usual), Arranged Marriage, Reader is an Atreides (it's just such a good prompt i couldn't help myself),

Summary: A month-long engagement to the na-Baron Harkonnen makes you question, whether a marriage can bloom on the grounds of hate. Loosely based on "Special Death" by Mirah.

Pt.2, Pt.3 Pt.4 (finale)

The message comes from the Emperor himself. An indisputable order that renders your Father speechless. You've never seen him quite as distraught, as when he has visited you in your chambers to deliver the news. Hands fidgeting, eyes refusing to meet yours, heavy shadows falling across his face. He seems to expect your reaction, not giving you as much as a flinch, when you scream your protests at him. And he should've expected as much, you were always the more impulsive of Duke Leto's children. 

- But the Harkonnens are beasts - you argue, voice breaking - You've said it yourself, many times.

- Actually, I think that was Gurney...

- You've never denied it!

And he doesn't deny it now, head hung low. Never, not once in your life, have you seen your Father give up. Until today. 

Your Mother enters just a few seconds after him, her dress flowing around her ankles as if she had floated in on a cloud. She stands to the side of your bed, hands folded, and an impassive expression embedded onto her features. And the more she speaks of the centuries of breeding, the importance of an union and the powers beyond your understanding, the less you see of your mother. What stands before you, instead, is a Bene Gesserit sister, veiled in schemes and dark plans, which were in the making before you were even born. You curse yourself for not noticing this stranger sooner, and storm off, out of your room, your shawl blowing out behind you like bat wings.

Paul doesn't visit you, but you can hear him, even through the effort of swallowing down your tears. He fights for you against your Father. He would fight for you against the whole Empire if he had to, and your heart swells, as he throws a particularly nasty curse into the air of your Father's study. It doesn't change anything. According to the decree of the Emperror, the oldest daughter of the Duke Leto Atreides will marry Feyd Rautha, an heir to the Baron Harkonnen. A centuries long dispute is about to be put to an end, and all thanks to the small sacrifice, which is your life. All would be well in the galaxy. Really, you should be honored, to be tasked with such a monumental peace treaty.

Everyone in the court seems to know about your situation. Mournful looks follow you, as you walk into the training barracks, ridding yourself of layers upon layers of flowing fabrics, leaving you in a rather tight costume, light enough to beat your frustrations out on someone.

Duncan Idaho meets your searching eyes, and you know he is aware as well. All it takes is one inclination of your chin, and he's up on his feet, sword in hand. Loyal as ever, he stands in front of you, watches with mixed feelings as you enable your shield, no questions asked. None needed. 

He barely has time to put his defenses up, when you charge at him, fury and despair pushing your movements into stances which are clumsy and ill though out. Still, there's power within your strikes, a strength of someone who needs to move, unless they break. So he lets you, for a couple of minutes. He dodges your attacks, pairing some of them, never moving quite into the offense.

The rest of the soldiers scurry off somewhere, for which you will be thankful in the future. They might hear your cries of anger, but they will not see you break. They will not see the way your blade smashes into Duncan's shield over and over again, with no regard for the slow attacks, which would penetrate it. Likewise, they don't see your sparring partner fall to his knees and swipe you off your feet in a split-second movement, making you hit the floor with a frustrated snarl. And they don't see you finally give up, and cry, hugging your blade to your chest, the severity of your circumstance falling onto you, crushing you down.

- Never fight in anger, Princess - Duncan reminds you, voice cautious, and you growl at him like a wild animal - It dulls your instincts, makes you distracted.

- Did you know? - you demand, your sharp voice cutting through his half-assed lecture.

For a moment he looks truly remorseful. His eyes float around the room, and your heart sinks when he sighs deeply.

- I found out not long ago - he confesses - Your Father told me. 

Your blade slides against the floor as you throw it, a raw scream tearing through your throat. Duncan takes a step towards you, hand extended towards your shaking form. But, before he can attempt to touch you, you're up, rolling your shoulders forcefully. Tears stain your cheeks, and you wipe them roughly with the back of your hand, skin becoming irritated almost instantly. There are swords laid out on a small table, just beside you,  your fingers grip the cold handle so hard, your knuckles seem to creak under the pressure. Duncan readies himself as well, dusting off his trousers. 

He's not good at comforting, but he's the best at fighting, and if that's what you need in this cold morning, he'll oblige. 

- You'll make it through, you know - he says, his voice genuine, and you laugh without any mirth.

Your blades clash, faces coming closer as you absentmindedly notice small scars adorning his cheeks.

- You can adapt to anything - you strike against his shoulder, the shield pushes your blade away - We could send you to Arrakis right now, and a week later you'd be riding a damned Sandworm into battle.

To that, you laugh, this time your smile reaching your eyes. The idea is preposterous, but it renders your footsteps lighter, and you twist to dodge a nasty blow to the right arm. Duncan huffs a laugh as well, as you slip through his fingers. He points his blade in your direction, a smirk playing across his lips, and you bare your teeth in a playful display of wildness.

- Careful, Princess, you might scare your betrothed away - Duncan teases, as you roll your dagger in your hand.

- Scare a damned Harkonnen? Do you find me that intimidating? - the idea thrills you just a little bit, you're woman enough to admit it.

- I think you're fucking terrifying.

- Duncan Idaho, you better not be swearing at my Daughter.

Your face falls immediately, as your Father approaches the two of you, shooting Duncan a stern gaze which holds no real threat. Still, your sparring partner raises his hands, his blade tucked away safely into his belt. There's sweat clinging to your skin from all the training, mingling with drying tears on your cheeks, and Duke Leto tries very hard not to comment on your choice of processing recent events. Still, he nods at you, and like a good daughter, you put your blade away, walking from the barracks after him. 

***

The Emperor has called for a traditional, Atreides engagement. A mercy, which you're eternally grateful for. You're not too aware of Harkonnen customs regarding marriage, but given the House's reputation, it couldn't have been pleasant. House Atreides however, took to such matters much more ceremonially, old-fashioned to some. 

Soon, a ship is arriving, with your betrothed onboard, and a month-long courting period willcommence. After that, official engagement and soon after, a wedding. Then, you will be transported back on Geidis Prime, where a life of misery awaits. That's all the time you have. A month.  

The dress, which was picked out for you, is uncomfortable and shows both too much and too little skin at the same time. While your legs are bare and exposed to an almost scandalous degree, a high, stiff collar nearly chokes the life out of you. This whole getup was the idea of your mother, as an attempt to highlight your best features and hide all that might be considered less desirable. 

You have no idea what's wrong with your neck. Perhaps, by cutting off your airflow, your mother aimed to keep you docile. 

She frowns deeply as you tug on the fabric, nerves climbing up your spine, growing more desperate every second. She swats at your hand, and you throw her a look. Out of the corner of your eye Paul smiles at your antics, your only consolation in this hopeless place. 

- Stop fidgeting, you'll tear the dress - Lady Jessica scolds you, and you can sense actual worry underlining her stern voice.

The Harkonnen ship slowly glides into the atmosphere of your home planet, a black, awful thing. Like all things on Geidis Prime, dark and miserable. Soon, you'll join them, adorned in equally black and lifeless clothing, never to see your family again. Never to see the Ocean. Your nails bite into the collar of the dress, you can hear a stitch tear.

- Stop that.

Your hands fall uselessly against your body, as your mother uses the Voice on you. Wouldn't be the first time, you were quite the unruly daughter and Lady Jessica was determined to make a Lady out of you no matter the means. Still, this time, the unnatural tone feels more like a panicked plea,  than a light-hearted scolding. 

- Relax Mother - your voice is sharp, despite the slight tremble - In a months time I'll be gone from here forever, stuck in some blackened cell, wistfully sighing "ooh" "aah".

You place your hand on your forehead in a dramatic display of doubtful acting abilities. When you were younger, your mother would laugh at you, as you enacted scenes from romance books. You would throw yourself at a nearby piece of furniture, pretending to be some wronged lover, or an unhappy bride waiting for someone to liberate her. And your mother would clap her hands, thoroughly entertained.

Today however, she doesn't even crack a smile.

- I don't expect you to be happy about all this - she whispers - But I do expect you to wear your grief with some grace.

A slap would've been kinder, you think, and stare ahead, as the Harkonnen ship opens, and a group of people dressed in black spill out of it like ants from a drowning anthill. Your heart is thrumming hard in your chest, and your hand reaches out, despite all your apprehension, towards your mother. A force of habit, to search consolation within her disregarding the fact, that it was her meddling that put you here. 

Her fingers lace with yours, thumb stroking your palm in an attempt to soothe you. 

Immediately, you know which one of the bald headed Harkonnen is your betrothed. 

He's much taller than you, an imposing figure even despite his rather lean built. His skin is almost completely white, as expected, his teeth are blackened out, as expected as well, and his eyes are bearing into you with an intensity so oppressing, you almost look away. Almost. 

- I present to you, Feyd Rautha, the na-Baron of House Harkonnen. 

The pale man steps forward, releasing you from his gaze for only just a moment, to trade pleasantries with your Father, who looks beyond miserable as he fixes your soon-to-be husband with a tired look. Then, Feyd Rautha is brought before you.

There's grace to his movements you did not expect, as he pushes his black cloak aside, and kneels in front of you. Harkonnen were known for their bulky ruthlessness, but this one... This one reminded you of a panther, the way his eyes travelled the length of your body, full lips pulling upward into a barely noticable smirk. 

Customs, you remind yourself, as your mother's hand squeezes your fingers. You don't want to let her go, but you do, slowly, with so many mixed thoughts rattling around your brain, it makes your head swim. 

Feyd Rautha grabs your extended hand in such a gentle manner, you're almost convinced the Harkonnens have shaved some poor bastard and dropped him off instead of the real na-Baron. Then, he lifts your palm up, until his lips press against your fingertips, a gesture so tender, your heart does a flip in your chest. And then, it stops all together, when his grip on your palm tightens, and he pulls your hand closer, to kiss it properly. As if he can't help himself, he looks up at you, and you realize. 

You almost got yourself caught, but reading people's intentions have been taught to you as fervently as reading texts, and you can see right through this facade of chivalry. There's darkness in this man, a swirling void, which brings a wave of cold fear upon you. This cunning, depraved creature will soon enough become your husband, and you'll be stuck with him forever. How long will he keep up this impeccable appearence? Was this performence for you, your Father, his own twisted fun, or all the things combined?

With a furrowed brow, you tear your hand out of his grasp, a full body shiver running up your spine at the sight of his self-satisfied smirk. He drinks up your reactions like a man parched, and you fight hard to put on a mask of indifference, as he rises from his knees to stand before you in all his imposing glory.

***

You can feel his eyes follow you, as the welcome committee retreats into the Palace. He doesn't let you out of his sight throughout the feast, which takes place immediately after his arrival, and even now, as he gets ready to "entertain" the court by indulging in some barbaric ceremony of his, his eyes are trained only on you. 

It's uncomfortable, to say the least, having him stare at you, while you sit surrounded by your family, who, for the most part, say nothing. Except Paul. Your dear baby brother, your protector in all this madness. As Feyd Rautha throws his coat to the side, showing off his (admittedly impressive) muscles, Paul leans towards you.

- He looks like a hard boiled egg, don't you think sister? - he whispers and subsequently ends your vow of silence. 

The giggle you let out is caught quickly by everyone around, your betrothed included, before you press an open palm against your lips. 

- Behave - your mother warns, and you try, you really do.

But in the serene light of the fading sun, your soon-to-be husband's head does look frighteningly egg-ish. God, you'll get yourself killed, before the wedding ceremony is even resolved if you keep this up.

You're seated high in an outdoor theater. One of your grandfather's favorite places, where he used to dance with bulls for sport. Where he met his demise.

Feyd Rautha presents his knives to you and your family, their blades glint ominously in the setting sun. Again, you are struck with the sheer grace this man exudes. His movements, despite being forceful and wild, have a beauty to them, as if he was rehearsing ancient dance moves, rather than killing blows.

And, despite your brother's earlier comment, there is something enticing in the way his pale skin catches the rays of bleeding sunshine, slowly creeping towards the horizon. He's almost beautiful, almost handsome enough to consider. 

The thought leaves your head almost immediately, as the Harkonnen servants bring in his apparent opponent. Your heart drops to your stomach at the sight of a beaten, dark skinned warrior. Immediately you recognize a Fremen, you've read so much about them in your free time. You know how they filter water, what they eat, how they move through the sands, and despite your knowledge you can't fathom, why this poor man has been brought here. 

At your side, Paul shifts in his seat, all jokes leaving him in a hurry. The both of you watch, as the man you're promised to toys with a clearly drugged victim. Slashes bloom on the prisoners skin, blood sprays in the air. You refuse to look away, to show such weakness, even as Feyd Rautha grabs the poor man by his hair and with a forceful push impales his throat on the blade. Blood pours down onto the sand, paints the Harkonnen's face and chest a deep shade of red.

It's a brutal display of power, of cruelty and wildness the Harkonnens are known for. Suddenly, everything Gurney has warned you about, while training your fighting skills, rings like a thousand of bells in your ears. This is who you will marry, who you will spend your entire life with. 

You swallow down an urge to throw up, and stand up from your seat. 

The show must go on, you think, throwing your Mother one, venomous look, trying to force her to understand your pain. Then, you lock eyes with your betrothed, who watches you from below with a cruel smile, blackened teeth on full display. You meant to congratulate him, to play the part as instructed, but you can do nothing of the sort. Instead, you stare back at him, disgust flowing from your features like a broken faucet. 

Lady Jessica opens her mouth, but before she can, without a doubt, scold you again, you're out of the seating area, your footsteps echoing in the halls. 

Once you're sufficiently tucked away from prying eyes, your back hits the wall, and you allow yourself feel the luxury of unbridled panic. Your breathing comes out in fast, shallow pants, as cold sweat forms on your forehead. Thoughts racing, your fingers tangle into your hair, tugging at the roots. This is your future, the only future waiting for you, and it's filled wth pain and blood.

- Have you enjoyed the fight, my Lady? - you immediately know it's him, despite not hearing him speak before.

A gasp of surprise leaves you before you can catch it, and your back straightens almost painfully fast. 

There he stands, tall and lean, and terrifying. Blood still decorates his torso creating a contrast that is both terrifying and hypnotizing. He watches you, curiosity and humor swirling behind his eyes. You can't decide whether they are completely blackened out, or if they hold a blue, almost serene hue. 

- No - you answer, finding your voice entirely too shaky for your liking - I did not enjoy it.

He laughs, a guttural, low sound that makes the hair stand at the back of your neck. You know he wouldn't dare try anything here, right under your Father's nose while the engagement is still in the making. Yet, as you stand frozen, just you, him and the marble walls around you, dread finds home in the pit of your stomach.

- Was that man Fremen? - you ask, partially to fill the silence, partially because you're genuinely curious.

The man shrugs, you can see muscles moving under his white skin. He takes a step towards you and you will yourself not to run.

- Sometimes we bring a couple of captured desert rats home - he explains with a nonchalant tone - Mostly for entertainment.

The almost bored intonation he uses to describe this barbaric ritual makes something boil deep inside you. 

- That's cruel - you counter, emotions flowing freely onto your face, much to the man's delight - To deny those men the honor of dying on their home planet. To drag them into a completely foreign place, just to kill them for sport, like some animals... It's...

- Some of them live - he cuts you off, taking another couple of steps towards you, but in your growing outrage, you barely notice - Our brothels are filled with Fremen whores.

Your face twist into an expression of utter repulsion, and Feyd Rautha raises his eyebrows in a pathetic mask of confusion, almost childlike giddiness lighting up his eyes as he looks down at you.

- Oh, don't give me that look, my Lady. - he cooes, and you've never felt a stronger urge to slap the daylights out of someone - I know for a fact there are brothels on your planet filled with hungry soldiers.

- Yes - you bark back at him - but the people there are working prostitutes, not slaves!

He shrugs, looking somewhere to the side of your face.

- A waste of money, if you'd ask me.

- Good thing no one has - there's venom in your voice, and your betrothed sucks a breath through his teeth.

You curse yourself for leaving your dagger, for not concealing it somewhere in this ridiculous dress, because the way the Harkonnen's expression shifts freezes blood right in your veins. 

He looks at you, amusement tugging at the corners of his lips, while something much darker lurks in his eyes. His bloodied hand comes up, finger making contact with the exposed skin of your shoulder. You can feel the thick liquid stick to your flesh, as he drags his hand down, painting you, marking you.

- You're quite the little viper, my Lady.

Watching him silently, you don't respond. Don't know how to, when he closes the distance between your bodies enough to make you feel the heat radiating off of his chest, while the smell of blood and sweat completely assaults your senses. It's sickening, the way he looks at you, like you're a new toy, just waiting to be unpacked and destroyed by too eager hands. 

- My Uncle, the Baron, has instructed me, to be the utmost gentleman to you. To woo you completely - his voice is low, barely above a whisper, as he grins down at you - But I just can't lie to my future wife like that, can I?

He leans closer and finally, you take a step back, sliding out of his space, assessing a cautious stance. His hand almost follows you, the skin of your shoulder feels conflictingly cold without him.

- Once we're wed, I will possess you completely - this time you stand your ground, as he approaches, circling you like a lion stalking it's prey - And then...

He leans down beside you, shoulder to your shoulder, close enough for you to feel his hot breath graze your ear.

- Like the bull that took your grandfather's life, I shall pierce you.

The violent innuendo doesn't slip past you, and with hatred brewing behind your eyes, you look straight at him, forcing your fear to lay dormant. 

- You're disgusting.

- And you're blushing like a lovely, virgin bride should - he concludes, sending an awful wink your way, before withdrawing from you completely. 

Your veins burn hot, as you watch him leave, a selfish confidence painting his steps, and you beg every God in existence to grant you a sword in your hand. Or a dagger. A kitchen knife would do as well. Anything, that would help you cut this unbeatable, patronizing, infuriatingly handsome smirk from Feyd Rauthas face.

Alas, you're left with nothing, only a small glimmer of hope dangling in front of you, after your damned betrothed's words fully register in your brain.

A bride you might be, but certainly not a virgin one. Duncan Idaho made sure of that many years ago. The thought makes you smile, despite nerves wreaking havoc in your body. At least that's the one thing Feyd Rautha won't be able to take from you.

[husbandhoshi]

title: eat. play. love.

pairing: seungcheol x f!reader

wc: 19.4k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Looking forward to talking with the two of you.

Wait—two?

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

CC: Choi Seungcheol.

"Choi Seungcheol?!"

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

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

"I—he," you stammer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Choi Seungcheol's name stares back at you.

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The meeting goes exactly how you would expect.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You know what?"

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

"What?"

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

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

"I'd rather starve."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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"You'll never guess what I have."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And a seat at Momofuku."

"And that."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hide behind your computer screen.

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

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

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

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

Seungkwan works hard, but the devil always works harder.

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing you can do to stop him, huh?

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

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Beware the wrath of a woman scorned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hook, line, and sinker.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Seungcheol?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who said I was pretending?"

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

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

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

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

"I never said that."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How To Antagonize Your Date In 5 Easy Steps.

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm no quitter."

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

Definitely not that one.

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

"Why, so you can steal my job?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In your periphery hovers his wry, wanting smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, pity looks good on you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fair. You gonna ask me about mine?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Running away?"

"Bored," you lie.

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

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

"Unfortunate."

"How do you think I feel?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Field trip?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"N-not both ways?" you croak.

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

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

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

Whatever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But, thank you."

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

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

"I'm retracting my thank you."

"I'm devastated. Really."

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

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

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

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

"Thought you knew it was Wonwoo."

"Yeah, but why?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who hurt you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I wouldn't say nothing."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You in a rush?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Definitely bad at food, you muse to yourself.

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

Now that—nothing could have prepared you for that.

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

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

"Stop that."

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

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

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

"Is it working?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Seungcheol is my enemy, remember?"

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

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

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

You almost choke on a blueberry.

"Absolutely not."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm running out of options."

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

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

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

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

Your entire body heaves with the sigh that escapes you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Lucky you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A gift. A pithless, wrinkly one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, you're definitely going to cry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You count the seconds till he walks away.

One. Two. Three.

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

"Hey, you ok?"

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

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

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

"Whoa," he breathes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah, I-I think so."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And no text from Seungcheol. (Damn.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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"Here. Drink."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Thanks…?"

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

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

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

"You're literally the definition of easy."

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

"This is not a date. Dream on."

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

"It wasn't."

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

"Chicago."

"Same difference."

Your conversation continues as such.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hi."

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

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

The elevator dings.

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

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You have three reasons to get drunk.

1. It's Friday.

2. You finished your article.

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

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

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

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

So you get drunk.

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

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

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

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

"You got that right."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yours or mine?"

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

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

How To Ruin The Moment In One Easy Step!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Just dates. Nothing serious."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Holy shit. You live like this?"

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

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

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

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

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

You tentatively nod before dropping the noodles in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What, too many dates to cover?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The table stops rocking.

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

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

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

"You asked."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Wh—"

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

"Get. Out."

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

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

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

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Celery. Red wine. Short rib.

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

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

Fingerling potatoes, the red ones. A Vidalia onion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Monday feels tilted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You wonder what you'll be:

10 Signs She Is Clinically Insane.

It's Not You, It's Them!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Ask Samuel!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Congrats."

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

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

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

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

"No need."

"What about Seungcheol? Does he know?"

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

"What?!"

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

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

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

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

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

Instead you stand motionless, waiting, emptied.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

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

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

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

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

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

He gave up.

None of this should matter to you.

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

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

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

"You're an idiot, Seungcheol."

That does the trick.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"H-how?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Afternoon, boss."

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

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

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

"Friendly reminder we're at work."

"Everyone's at lunch, genius."

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

"You are the worst."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eat, Play, Love: A Guide.

Maybe you'd put it through. Maybe.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

[tongue-like-a-razor]

Hotter Than Texas | Part III

Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x F!Reader

A/N: Thank you for all the lovely messages about this series! I'm so happy y'all are loving it and are excited to see it continued <3

Summary: Bradley Bradshaw is tasked with transporting a not-so-delicate package in the form of Jake Seresin's baby sister, who turns out to be Bradley's dream girl worst nightmare.

Aka it's a road trip, strap in.

CW: swearing, age gap (10 years)

WC: 2200+

Part I | Masterlist

“You got a girlfriend, Brad Bradshaw?”

Bradley looks over at you, sitting in his passenger seat in a green sundress, fiddling with a charm on your bracelet. “No,” he replies rather hoarsely, unsure how to interpret your question.

“Why not?” you continue, your tone light and carefree, as though you’re just asking about the weather.

“I dunno,” Bradley mutters uncomfortably, returning his attention to the road.

You look up at him abruptly and he throws you a brief glance; just long enough to see the concern on your face. “Think about it,” you suggest.

Bradley sighs, making a concentrated effort to check his blind spot before switching lanes – like driving could distract him from this conversation. Why doesn’t he have a girlfriend? He’s never really thought about it so, clearly, it hasn’t been at the top of his priority list. “The last girlfriend I had was in college. Didn’t last long, either,” he says, hoping this might appease your curiosity enough for you to change the subject.

“Hmm.”

He looks over at you again, wondering what you’re thinking. Wondering if you might consider this little detail a red flag. “I haven’t really met anyone I wanted to spend all my time with,” he says. Until now.

“Interesting,” you muse, leaning back into your seat as though you’re satisfied with this response.

“Is it?” Bradley asks, his gaze inadvertently coasting over your bare thighs every time he glances at you.

You shrug mildly, your fingers once again toying with your bracelet.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” Bradley asks, feeling temporarily bold.

“Mmm,” you deliberate, dropping your hands into your lap and slanting your head back against the headrest. “We’ll see.”

Bradley furrows his eyebrows, now watching you more than he’s watching the road. “What does that mean?”

“It means, we’ll see, sugar,” you respond absently. Then, suddenly, you spring up in your seat. “Apple orchard ahead!” you exclaim, pointing at the sign on the side of the interstate.

Bradley, more confused than ever, blinks between your outstretched arm, the billboard, and the road. “You want to pick apples?”

You give Bradley a look and say, “They’ll have pie!”

“Oh!” Bradley chuckles. “Say no more.” He makes a few lane changes so as not to miss the fast-approaching exit.

“We can have the pie for lunch,” you say, glancing at the clock on his dash.

“We can stop for lunch and then get pie,” Bradley proposes, hoping to once again enjoy the pleasure of your company at a restaurant.

You consider his offer and then counter with, “We can have some pie, then have lunch, and then have some more pie.”

Bradley laughs. “Sold.”

…

About an hour later, Bradley is sitting with you on a small dock overlooking a creek, the open pie box positioned in between the two of you.

“That’s a fresh pie,” you comment, sticking your fork into the flaky crust.

Bradley grins at the top of your head as you lean over the box to take a bite. For some reason, your obsession with pie supremely amuses him. “You’re fucking adorable,” he says before he can stop himself.

You freeze with the fork in your mouth and then slowly blink up at him, your eyes searching his for a moment before you sensually draw the fork out of your mouth and then lick it for good measure. Bradley nearly has a heart attack. You smirk at him playfully and then get to your feet. “You think?” you ask, as though you want to hear him say it again. You bend over slightly and lift your leg to remove a sandal.

Bradley watches you gracefully step out of your shoes while beads of sweat collect under the collar of his t-shirt. How could he have let that kind of thing slip?

“Fancy a dip, Rooster?” You eye him mischievously.

Bradley gulps as you bunch up your sundress, exposing more of your legs than he should ever get to see, and dip a toe into the water. The current bubbles around your foot.

“It’s cold!” you squeal, lifting your foot out of the water with a laugh.

Bradley chuckles, getting up as you hop in your excitement on the edge of the dock. “Careful,” he cautions, holding his arm out in case you fall. “Don’t slip.”

You plunge your whole foot into the water before promptly removing it with a splash and a yelp.

“Come on,” he says. “How cold can it be?”

You giggle, taking a hold of his arm as you once again lower your foot into the creek.

Bradley lets his hand close gently around your elbow, steadying you while your toe makes circles in the water.

“How deep do you think it is?”

And before Bradley has a chance to respond, you make your way to the bank and take several steps into the creek, squealing as you go. Bradley shakes his head with a laugh as you wade further in.

“What’re you waitin’ for, handsome?” you call to him when you’re about knee deep in the water.

Bradley, who’s pretty sure he’s going to be replaying that line in his head for the next week, strolls up the dock toward the bank. He slips off his shoes and stands on the slope for a moment, letting the water lap at his bare feet.

“It’s freezing, right?” you exclaim giddily.

Bradley shrugs as he finally enters the – admittedly frigid – water. “It’s nice,” he says. “Refreshing.”

You snort as he strides toward you and, when he’s close enough, you dip your hand into the water and splash him.

“Hey now,” he cautions. “Don’t start something you wouldn't want me to finish.” He’s deep enough now that the bottoms of his shorts are skimming the surface of the water.

You giggle and splash him again – harder this time.

Bradley shakes his head, lowering his hand into the water. “Just remember,” he says, “you asked for this.” And then he glides his hand along the surface, sending a cluster of water droplets in your direction.

You screech, covering your face and, not a moment later, start a boisterous aquatic attack, showering him with icy water and completely impairing his visual field. The skirt of your dress floats in the water like a lily pad as you retreat deeper into the creek.

Bradley, who’s now soaked from head to toe, peels off his t-shirt and tosses it onto the dock. Then, he follows you deeper. “You’ve been warned, princess,” he says, gathering a wave of water and sending it in your direction.

You scream as the giant splash drenches you entirely. You stand still for a moment, accepting your fate, and then you wrap your arms around your shoulders, shivering as you glance up at Bradley whilst water drips from the tip of your nose. “I’m all wet!” you shriek.

Bradley laughs, finally approaching you. “What did you expect?”

“That you’d let me win!”

Bradley eyes you with a smirk. “Let you win? Honey, you don’t know me at all.” Bradley can’t remember the last time in his life he’d used so many pet names, but, looking at you, they just keep rolling off his tongue.

You pout at him, your lashes dripping water every time you blink. “I’ll get you back when you least expect it,” you say.

Bradley chuckles. “Your lips are turning blue,” he says, noticing that your teeth are starting to chatter.

You let Bradley lead you out of the water and, once you’re back on the bank, you start to wring out the bottom of your sundress. The wet material sticks to your curves invitingly and Bradley begrudgingly looks away.

…

“Want me to drive for a while?” you ask, approaching the car.

Bradley looks over at you with an amused smirk as he pulls open the passenger door. “Nope,” he responds.

“You don’t trust me with your precious Bronco?” you ask playfully.

Bradley chuckles, shaking his head. “I just don’t mind driving.”

“Neither do I.” You shrug.

Bradley ponders for a moment before replying, “Next time.”

You raise your eyebrows at him. “Planning another road trip with me already?”

Bradley feels the unwelcome – but vexingly predictable – stutter of his heart as you continue to hold his gaze. He tightens his grip on the frame of the door he’s still holding open because he can’t very well sink his hands into you. Not only are you much younger than anyone Bradley’s ever dated, you’re also Hangman’s little sister, a reality so unfortunate that it almost feels contrived. Of all the girls in the world, why does he have to be so utterly infatuated with you? After a few seconds of – we’ll call it deliberate – silence, he grins. “If you’ll have me,” he says.

You smile. “Fun,” you say, drawing a little closer to the passenger door – a little closer to Bradley. “Where are we going?”

Bradley gulps uneasily. “Anywhere,” he says, his voice raspy and uneven.

You graze your teeth over your bottom lip and Bradley could swear that the heat of the afternoon sun is about to melt his very bones. “I’ve always wanted to take the scenic route to Alaska,” you muse, pursing your lips.

Bradley watches you unblinkingly. “Let’s go,” he says.

You let out a peal of laughter and slap him lightly on the chest. “Can you imagine?” you exclaim.

He can. “It’s a bit in the opposite direction,” he says somewhat ironically. “But anything’s better than the desert,” he concludes, slowly shifting his weight after standing very still for a very long time.

You smile at him sympathetically, as though you can tell he’s suffering greatly. “Rain check?” you ask softly.

Bradley, who is absolutely sure that there isn’t a single organ in his body left uncooked, comments facetiously, “Does it ever rain here?”

…

“Let’s stop for some coffee,” you say about half an hour after getting back on the road.

If Bradley didn’t know any better, he’d think you might be finding excuses to extend the trip. “With a pinch of salt?” Bradley teases you, but obediently merges onto the offramp.

“I’m thinking of switching majors,” you say quietly, as though you’re unsure whether you really want to share this information.

Bradley glances over at you as he pulls up to a red light. “Sounds like you might need something a little stronger than coffee.”

You snort loudly and then let out a dramatic sigh. “I’m thinking you might be right, darlin’.”

Bradley’s heart races as he pulls into the lot of the first bar he sees. Frequenting watering holes is absolutely on the list of things Bradley should not be doing with his colleague’s baby sister. But you seem like you need to get something off your chest. And Bradley can’t imagine a more ideal way to spend an evening.

The tavern is low-lit and crowded, and you shift slightly closer to his side upon entering. Bradley instinctively places a hand on your back, like it’s meant to be there or something. He guides you through the packed bar toward an empty table near the back and waves down a server before taking a seat across from you.

He slides you a cocktail menu and watches you peruse it without saying a word. When the server arrives, you order a paloma.

Bradley orders a whiskey neat and fixes you with a weighty look once the server departs. “You want to talk about it?” he asks.

You shrug. “We can.”

Bradley continues searching your face. “Do you want to?”

You sigh and look down into your lap. “Nobody knows yet,” you admit. “I’m halfway through my junior year so switching would really set me back.”

Bradley nods sympathetically. He knows all about being set back. “What are you thinking of switching to?”

“Psych,” you respond hesitantly.

Then the drinks arrive and you fall uncharacteristically silent. Bradley takes a sip of his whiskey while you down a quarter of your cocktail in one gulp. “You want my advice?” he asks. “Or are you just sharing?”

You meet his gaze distantly. “My parents are gonna flip shit,” you says monotonously, as if you haven’t even heard his question.

Bradley smirks at you. “It’s their job to overreact,” he says. “They just want to protect you.”

You absently run your finger around the rim of your glass. “My brother’s gonna question my judgement. Say I’m making a mistake.”

“Your brother has questionable judgement, himself,” Bradley points out.

You let out a small chuckle. “I wish I knew both outcomes before making a decision.”

Bradley could sure relate to that feeling. “Sometimes, you just have to go with your gut. It may not apply here, to be honest, but this guy I know – one of my superiors – he uh, he has this motto: ‘Don’t think, just do.’ I’m not saying yours has to be a split second decision. But, if it were, and you had to decide this minute, without weighing the consequences or talking it over with your family, what would you choose?”

You blink up at him soberly and state, “Naval Academy.”

Bradley’s eyes widen stupidly as he processes your words. “That” – he croaks, then clears his throat – “that’s not psychology.”

You suck in your cheeks and solemnly shake your head.

Tag List

I’ll be tagging the rest in the comments shortly!

@joaquinwhorres

@katiemcrae

@sehnsuchts-trunken

@toomuchfluffs

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@lonelywitchv2

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@cyanide-cryptid

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@shanimallina87

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@iminlovewithenchilidadas

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@avis15

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@ijustwantedplums

@hal3ynicol3

@avengersfan25

@hallecarey1

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@kpopgirlbtssvt

@lilianashomaresparza

@lovingperfectionsblog

@bblpbb

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@SometimesAnAlice

@risingtripletaurus

@adaydreamaway08

@mattyskies

@desert-fern

@catsandbooksandstuff

@Topguncultleader

@avengers-fixation

[peachysunrize]

The Ballad of a Dragon ⥃ Modern!Aemond Targaryen

Summary: after an argument with your husband, you find him playing his frustration away and eventually apologizes to you on top of his piano.

Warnings: 18+ mdni! Smut, angst, fluff, p in v, oral(F!receiving) fingering, Aemond eats pussy like a champ, both parties are so petty, post argument/make up sex, hand kink, body worship, Aemond knows how to work with those fingers, he plays piano👀 tell me if I’ve missed something. English isn’t my first language<3 no beta...

Word count: 3.15k+

A/n: so this pure filth is based on this post, and @barbieaemond motivated me to write it! So thank you, my love, and thanks to Aemond’s long fingers for being a great inspiration to write a hand kink fic. I’m also taking a little break from writing for a month or so<3

“You just came home, Aemond! We had a reservation for tonight that you missed, you arrived at midnight from work and now you are taking a call to go and fix Rhaenyra’s stupid mistakes again?” You groan, pacing around your bedroom with Aemond burying his face in his hands, sitting on the bed in front of you.

“I can’t just turn a blind eye to them when they need help!” He explains, raising his voice a little. He is frustrated beyond words; work has been hectic lately and the company’s responsibility has fallen on his shoulders, forcing him to carry the weight alone.

“You’re already half blind, it wouldn’t hurt to close your other eye and ignore them for once!” You know you shouldn’t have said that, but you’re fed up with all the negligence, nights staying up just for him to either sleep in his office or crawl into bed at four in the morning.

It isn’t his fault mostly, it’s the pressure his father, siblings, and Otto put on him, but you wish he would say something and stand up for himself.

“That was a very low blow, wife,” he says through gritted teeth, glaring at you as he puts his elbows on his knees, “I can’t let her mess up everything we have worked so hard for! This company will be ruined if I don’t fix Rhaenyra’s fuck ups!”

“It’s not your responsibility, Aemond! It’s hers! It’s her mistake, it’s her fucking fault! I shouldn’t be begging my husband to make time for me, his wife, and spend some time home! You reserved the table, you told me to get ready because you wanted to take me out on a date! I’m just glad I didn’t go to the restaurant myself or tomorrow’s headlines would have been worse for your reputation than Rhaenyra’s mistake can ever be.”

“My work is my priority! This is my family’s business, do you know what that is? Family? Because by the way you’re acting, I’m not quite sure you have the slightest idea.” He stands up as well, running his fingers through his hair as each word falls from his lips and you feel the sting of each one in your chest.

“I can’t believe you, Aemond. How can your work be any more important than your wife?! How? I get it, you’re this tough guy, knight in shining armor always trying to get on your father’s good side and want his praises. I get it, you’re desperate for his affection. But what about me? I spent hours getting ready for my husband, just for you to treat me like trash! I left my family because of you, Aemond, and I would do it a thousand times more because I love you. Although I can’t say the same about you.” You know it was a pathetic move to get a rise out of him, but after what he said, it’s only fair to treat him just as he is treating you. 

Tears sting your eyes as you look at how red he has gotten, knowing that you’ve woken up the hot-tempered dragon inside him. Good, he needs to feel ashamed and angry for how small he made you feel with each mean word that he said.

“You think I don’t love you anymore?” He asks, his voice barely above whispering, but you hear him perfectly and see how rapidly his chest is moving with the deep breaths he is trying to take.

“No, but I can’t deny that I’m doubting it. You put work over the family we created together, over your wife, and you want me to accept it without complaining, without telling you how much I miss you and how it hurts to be apart from you while you constantly choose your work over me!” You sob, putting your hands on your hips as you turn away from him. Even the sight of him makes your heart clench.

“I’m working my ass off for you to be content with your life, to have enough money to waste on petty and unnecessary stuff—“

“Don’t you dare guilt trap me, Aemond Targaryen! Don’t you fucking dare make me feel bad for wanting to spend time with my husband!” You nearly scream at him, tears now falling freely from your eyes as you turn around to look at him.

Even at this moment, he looks so beautiful — silver hair shining under the dim light of the room, his white shirt unbuttoned a little and his sleeves rolled up, showing off his toned forearms. If you weren’t so mad at him, you would have jumped on him the second he walked through that door.

“I can not control my siblings! They are idiots, sure but do you have any idea how bad their actions can destroy everything we have worked so hard for? I need to go because my father called.” he tries to reach for you, but you pull your hand away from him, taking a step back because you can’t bear him trying to sweet talk his way out of this like he always does. You shouldn’t let him minimize your feelings.

“Your father or Otto? Did he say if you save Rhaenyra’s ass, you would become Viserys Targaryen’s favorite child? It looks as if his affection is worth more than our marriage.”

“Stop with this nonsense, you know it’s not!” he glares at you, his pupil blown with rage. How could you ever think like that? Did he truly drive himself away from you to the point that you doubted his love for you?

“Do I, Aemond? Do I? Because instead of apologizing to me you are telling me how your work was more important than not showing up for a date you organized! I felt so beautiful, Aemond, so happy that after such a long time my husband was going to come to pick me up and spend the night with me! Now I just… I just feel so fucking stupid for getting my hopes high.” 

You watch him take a deep breath, shaking his head as he marches out of the room swiftly, not bothering to spare a glance at you. He is frustrated, you get it, but to leave in the middle of an important argument like a child being denied a candy is pretty immature of him.

You sigh and wipe your tears, walking towards your wardrobe to pull out one of your sheer nightgowns, changing into it to sleep in something comfortable while your husband's side of the bed gets colder by the second.

The sound of music fills the house gradually, taking you by surprise. The last thing you expect is to hear your husband’s favorite classical piano piece echoing within the walls, and you halt in your steps, guilt creeping inside your chest as you listen to the distant sound of the piano before you grab your robe and walk toward the playroom.

You find the door open already — the orange hue of the lights illuminates his silver hair and sharp jawline, his eye is closed while his fingers move in rhythm, each finger pressing the right note on the tempo, and you can see the frustration and tension leaving his shoulders the longer he plays.

Nocturne in C-sharp minor fills the air around you, and you remember how he played this the first time the two of you met; it was filled with so much laughter and excitement as he gushed about his love for classical pieces, how hard he tried to regain his posture and strength while he lost half of his eyesight. You guess you fell in love with him at that very second he sat behind the piano in the instrumental shop.

Your gaze falls on his hand, long denty fingers moving with grace, pressing the keys one by one, and you lean on the doorframe, fidgeting with the hem of your robe while you rub your thighs together, the images of how those same fingers have given you the most blissful orgasms ever flooding your mind.

You watch him pushing the pedals down, his eye following the path of the notes he has memorized on the keys, and you keep admiring his ethereal form. Sometimes it feels unbelievable to be the wife of such a beautiful and otherworldly man, to be this lucky to call yourself Mrs. Targaryen, yet, there are moments you recall how everyone told you that the same name comes with a curse, that Targaryen men are ambitious and cunning. They are right on both matters.

The slickness between your thighs gets worse the more you stare at him and his skillful fingers move as if this is the easiest piece known to mankind with how smoothly he is playing it.

He plays the last note, sighing softly as he retrieves his fingers from the keys, turning around to look at you with an easy smile on his thin lips.

“Thought you had left before I heard you playing,” you say, matching his smile, growing a bit nervous with how his eye drinks the sight of your exposed thighs.

“I had half a mind to do so,” he replies, extending his hand to show he wants you close, “C’mere,”

You push away from the doorframe, walking to where he is sitting before trailing your hand over his extended arm, his large palms coming to rest on your waist. He looks up at you, fingers gently massaging your back.

“I’m sorry, I…” 

He shushes you, pressing a kiss to your stomach before placing his chin on the soft flesh, “I should apologize. I didn’t realize how terrible I was treating you. You are my priority, I should have treated you much better.”

“I…I was in the wrong too. It was very pathetic of me to act so desperately, I know how much your work means to you—“

“No, no,” he stands up, caging you between his body and the piano, forcing you to sit a bit on the keys, a not-so-great sound coming out of the instrument, “You aren’t desperate, and even if you are, you do have a great excuse for it. I neglected you for a job that can be done by anyone.”

“It was a petty argument anyway, I’m sorry for being mean. I miss you so much, that’s all,” you say, gasping when he picks you up so effortlessly by the back of your thighs, putting you on top of his royal piano before he takes home between your legs.

“I miss you too, sweetheart,” he whispers, leaning down to peck the corner of your lips, “I could see how truly desperate you were when you rubbed your pretty thighs together.”

“Y-you saw that?” You exhale, craning your neck to give him more space to attack the skin of your neck, littering his little bruises and bites all over you.

“I know my wife, I know her weaknesses. I could smell you from here, and I’m sure if I were to touch you down there…” he locks his eye with yours, one of his hands traveling down towards your panties, chuckling darkly, “my my, so wet and I haven’t even touched you yet.”

He brings his fingers to his mouth, licking your essence off them while he holds eye contact, watching how your lips part in desire as you keep your gaze fixed on his lips and tongue.

“Lay down, I need to apologize to my wife properly,” he pulls the strings of your robe, dropping the fabric on the floor, revealing the sheer fabric to his hungry eye, “I’m an idiot for taking you for granted. Fuck, baby, you look so delicious.”

You pant as his words go straight to your core, heat filling your belly and your wetness oozing out of you slowly. He puts his palm on your chest, gently pushing you back on the cold surface of the piano before he spreads your legs properly, humming as his good eye finds your glistening cunt.

He kisses your knee before pulling his chair closer and sit on it, his tall body giving him the advantage of coming to the same height as your body. Aemond preps your inner thighs with kisses, marking his territory with each nibble and bite which are rewarded by gasps and whimpers from you ever here and there. 

He kisses your navel sweetly, nuzzling his head into your hand when you reach down to smooth a few wandering strands of his hair out of his face. You keep him close when he finally, after who knows how long, gives into his urges and attaches his lips to your buzzing clit, moaning as your sweet nectar finally roots its taste onto his tongue.

He is starved, and you realize soon with how he keeps his face buried into your cunt, tongue flickering over the bundle of nerves, teeth sinking into your flesh a little. He doesn’t seem to care about how messy he is eating you out, he has set his goal of making you at least come on his tongue twice tonight. 

“Aemond!” your moans fill the room, back arching off the piano as he keeps you down by his hands on your hips, the tip of his tongue collecting your wetness happily while you writhe beneath him, feeling the knot in your belly tightening by the second.

He knows you like the back of his hand, so he speeds up a little, focusing on sucking and licking your clit while you buck your hips to his face. He loves how desperate you are for him, all laid out and pretty and ready to come just for him.

“Fuck, love, I’m—” You throw your head back, tangling your fingers through his hair before you explode on his tongue, whines of pleasure making him dizzy. He keeps flickering his tongue until you stop twitching and push his face away from your swollen pussy.

He grins at your breathless form, caressing your thighs as he stands up and kisses a path from your lower belly up to your lips over your nightgown before he pulls you in a searing kiss, letting you taste yourself on his pink bruised lips.

“I could feast on you all day, sweetheart. I should write a ballad in honor of your pretty cunt,” “You are unbelievable!” You giggle, leaning on your elbows to kiss him again, moving until you are at the edge with your husband between your legs, “You said twice, why are you still up here?” You whisper against his lips.

“I saw how you looked at my hands earlier. I think it would be only fair to make sure you forgive me if I fuck you with my fingers, hmm? You love them, I’m sure they can be convincing enough.”

You nod, words failing to come out of your mouth when he pushes the strands of your nightgown down your shoulders, the chilly air of the room hitting your bare breasts. He leans down to kiss the top of your chest, writing the ballad he promised with his lips over your skin.

His hand moves down where he was a few minutes ago, long digits rubbing between your soaked folds slowly. He makes sure you aren’t as sensitive as you were before he pushes one finger in, keeping you close to him with a hand on your back while the other works his finger in and out of you, drowning your moans with passionate kisses.

He adds another one, curving his fingers inside you slightly as he pushes them deeper, reaching your sweet spots effortlessly with how skilled and long his fingers are — courtesy of practicing piano from a young age.

“Aemond, fuck—please!” your desperate whine adds fuel to the fire starting inside him, and he compiles, fucking you faster with his hand while the rock of his palm rubs your clit with just the right amount of pressure.

You fall apart again easily, gasping as your thighs start shaking with how good he makes you come, lips forming into an O-shape while he keeps his pace up, making sure that you ride your high gracefully before he pulls you in for another rough kiss, his tongue invading your mouth quickly.

“I need you so much, sweetheart,” he says, unbuckling his belt before he pushes his pants and boxers down enough to pull out his weeping cock, “let me have you, baby, please.” “Yes, yes I need you too. It’s been so so long, Aem,” you reach to stroke him gently, scooting closer to him so he can pull you down a little, keeping you tucked between his firm body and piano while somehow holding you up by his large palms under your ass.

You guide him toward your entrance, gasping in union as soon as the fat tip of his cock breaches past your ring of muscles before he pushes himself deep inside you until there is none to take.

You cling to his shoulders as soon as he settles inside your cunt, his hot breath fanning on your face as he gets adjusted to your warmth. It’s been too long for both of you, but he makes a promise to not make the same mistake again, ever.

“Fuck, love, I missed you so much,” he groans in your ear as he starts thrusting up into you, the angle making him reach the deepest part of your pussy easily. 

“Me too, baby…” you gasp, hips snapping into his as he goes faster, less patient and ready to devour you thoroughly. You take what he gives you, deep hard strokes that rock your world and leave you breathless and a moaning mess. He relishes every sound that falls from your lips, thinking to himself how no classical piece can ever come close to how beautiful you sound when he pleasures you, and he silently beats himself for neglecting you so much.

He is close, embarrassingly fast and he can feel you tightening around his girth with each thrust. Aemond hides his face in your neck, quickening his pace as he fucks you roughly, pulling screams of ecstasy out of you with ease.

“Come inside me,” you bite his earlobe, your breasts rubbing against his covered chest as you lean upward a little, “I need you, please, husband.”

“Then come with me, come now so I can give my girl what she wants,” he replies, snapping his hips faster into yours until you crumble in his arms, gushing around his cock a few seconds before he follows you, keeping his hips still as he pumps you full of his warm cum, your name falling from his lips like a prayer.

“Don’t you dare put us through that again, Aem, do you hear me?” you ask him, kissing the side of his face lovingly.

“I’d rather die than upset you again, beloved.”

[leahsgf]

LIFESAVER - leah williamson

leah williamson x child!reader | based on this request!

leah sighed as she awoke to the sound of your cries ringing through the baby monitor for what felt like the tenth time that night, wincing even more when she checked the time - it of course being only five minutes before her alarm was due to go off, only her luck.

you were usually a pretty good sleeper, and rarely cried in general, never mind throughout the night - so she had known almost instantly the first time you had awoken that you were feeling under the weather, and her worries had only proven right as the night had gone on and your state had worsened.

and again, as if it was part of a well planned routine, your cries only intensified when she eventually padded across the hallway and pushed open the door to your room, your little arms immediately throwing themselves up towards her, desperately in search of any form of comfort.

she bent down and scooped you out of your crib, cradling you in her arms in an instant, never one to deny you her embrace.

“i’m here sweetheart, i’ve got you. what’s the matter hm? can you tell mama?” she soothed for what felt like the hundredth time, running her hand through your bed head, voice so gentle that no outsider would believe it was the same stoic england captain they were so used to if they witnessed it.

you simply whined, more tears angrily slipping down your noticeably red cheeks as you buried your face into her neck, whimpering - her feeling warmth radiating off of you like a heater.

she had picked up on your temperature over the night and had kept an eye on it, and whilst it had definitely now started to come back down, she could tell that you still weren’t feeling great. she could guess based on how sniffly your cries had become, paired with the level of sick you'd been over the course of the night - that you’d picked up the latest nasty bug, most likely from your nursery, despite you only going there once or twice a week.

the nursery that you now wouldn’t be able to attend for the next forty eight hours whilst your mother went to training.

usually, leah wouldn't even hesitate to call jonas and let him know that she wouldn't be able to make it to training - you were her number one priority always, but of course, the one day you get ill happens to be the one day of the season that leah can't miss, or arrange for somebody to look after you at home.

meaning she'd have to bring you with her.

“okay my bubba. we’re gonna make you all better in no time, kay? you're gonna be my little helper for the day and come to work with me, and see all your aunties! they'll be so excited to see you.” she chatted away to you as she made her way down to the kitchen - prepping your morning bottle and fetching you some 'magic' medicine, whilst bouncing you gently in her arms.

you settled finally as you drank, clutching onto the bottle for dear life as leah stroked your forehead, it’s temperature finally going down to somewhat normal as the medicine started to kick in, your tiredness following, and catching up to you.

you were almost fast asleep as she bathed and changed you into some fresh, non sicky clothes, texting the arsenal group chat as a pre warning of your previously unexpected arrival.

she was grateful to say the least when she looked in her mirror to see you still knocked out in your car seat as she drove to the training ground - hoping that you finally getting some rest in meant that you were on the up, and that you'd wake up feeling better again.

“come on then my girl, let’s go see everyone then shall we” she whispered, pressing a kiss to your head as she unbuckled and lifted your sleeping frame into her arms, slipping your dummy into your mouth and grabbing your blanket, before grabbing both of your bags and heading inside.

-

“there’s my favourite girl!” an unmistakable irish voice boomed down the corridor from behind the pair of you, leah wincing as you stirred ever so slightly - not wanting to deal with another repeat of this morning.

thankfully, no such thing happened - katie getting the hint after a single look from the blonde, and a slap on the arm from caitlin.

“shit, sorry! do you want us to take her whilst you go and speak to jonas and kim about the plan for the day? they said it won't take long today” katie whispered, already reaching out for you before she had an answer.

“you’re a lifesaver, thank you! i'll be as quick as i can - if she does wake up there’s anything she’ll need in her bag, but she should hopefully be out for a while.” leah gently transferred you into katie’s waiting arms, a now well practiced routine with the team whenever they wanted baby cuddles and you were sleeping, and passed the aussie beside her your bag.

-

by the time you woke again, nearly four hours had passed - and you had been in pretty much everyone in the building's arms at some point or another as the team took turns doing drills.

your auntie viv was the lucky one this time, your eyes fluttering open slowly as she swayed with you wrapped up in her hold, humming a dutch lullaby. she was easily one of your favourite people, and had been for as long as you could remember, having cried in everybody else's arms apart from hers, the most awkward and freaked out person over holding a baby in the room, when you were a couple of weeks old.

"vivi" you mumbled, voice muffled by both your dummy and the sleep as you glanced up at her, playing with her fingers ever so softly.

"hi tiny, you feeling any better?" she asked, knowing that you probably had no idea what she was asking you, and that the fact you weren't crying was probably the best answer she was going to get.

you had perked up massively, some colour finally returning to your cheeks as your sleep clearly fought off whatever nastiness you had been feeling earlier on.

you babbled incoherently and pointed towards where alessia, katie and steph were chatting - another sign that you were definitely feeling a little bit more like yourself, wanting to be involved in what everyone was doing again.

the dutch woman placed you down on the floor as you wriggled and attempted to get down yourself, chuckling and following after you as you determinedly toddled over to the trio.

katie was the first to notice you and scoop you up, pretending that you were a rocket ship, making you squeal with laughter before steph had reminded her to be gentle with you. she only tickled you softly in response before placing you back down and letting you kick a ball to her and alessia, as steph rummaged through your backpack for a top up of medicine and a snack for you - knowing that you'd likely be starving.

the australian had very nearly been met with a complete meltdown when you'd spotted the medicine, it only being resolved because you saw lia stopping to get a snack and take her own medicine for her leg, letting you go and happily sit with her, thinking you were as cool as your auntie lia as steph popped the syringe of pink liquid into your mouth.

-

leah had been checking in on how you were doing every half an hour or so, and she had never been happier to see you run towards her when she caught your eye.

"hi my baby! how are you feeling?" she cooed, granting your wish to be in her arms immediately and fussing over you whilst thanking all of the girls for their help.

“she’s been good, slept like a champ and just had some more medicine - think she’s officially on the mend.” steph answered, grinning at you and playing with your hair as leah pressed kisses to your cheek.

you clapped your hands and cheered, not understanding the words but loving the attention that was on you - and how the horrible ache in your body had started to fade.

“alright then! we’re all done for the day so we’re gonna head off for some much needed rest - thank you girls for all of your help with this one. say bye to your aunties then bubba.” leah collected all of your stuff and waved goodbye - you copying her almost identically, as expected.

“bye bye.” you said as clearly as your dummy would allow, waving again at each of the girls individually, who had all gathered near you, their usual place whenever you were around.

“clumsy lessi.” you mumbled as you pointed at alessia, the rest room erupting in laughter just like every other time you said it, and the striker once again protested.

“she knows like ten words and those are two of them!”

"don't get mad at the baby for speaking the truth russo!"