#he was eating garlic paper

[husbandhoshi]

title: eat. play. love.

pairing: seungcheol x f!reader

wc: 19.4k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Looking forward to talking with the two of you.

Wait—two?

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

CC: Choi Seungcheol.

"Choi Seungcheol?!"

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

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

"I—he," you stammer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Choi Seungcheol's name stares back at you.

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The meeting goes exactly how you would expect.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You know what?"

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

"What?"

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

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

"I'd rather starve."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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"You'll never guess what I have."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And a seat at Momofuku."

"And that."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hide behind your computer screen.

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

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

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

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

Seungkwan works hard, but the devil always works harder.

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing you can do to stop him, huh?

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

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Beware the wrath of a woman scorned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hook, line, and sinker.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Seungcheol?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who said I was pretending?"

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

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

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

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

"I never said that."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How To Antagonize Your Date In 5 Easy Steps.

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm no quitter."

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

Definitely not that one.

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

"Why, so you can steal my job?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In your periphery hovers his wry, wanting smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, pity looks good on you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fair. You gonna ask me about mine?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Running away?"

"Bored," you lie.

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

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

"Unfortunate."

"How do you think I feel?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Field trip?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"N-not both ways?" you croak.

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

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

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

Whatever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But, thank you."

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

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

"I'm retracting my thank you."

"I'm devastated. Really."

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

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

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

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

"Thought you knew it was Wonwoo."

"Yeah, but why?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who hurt you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I wouldn't say nothing."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You in a rush?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Definitely bad at food, you muse to yourself.

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

Now that—nothing could have prepared you for that.

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

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

"Stop that."

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

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

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

"Is it working?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Seungcheol is my enemy, remember?"

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

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

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

You almost choke on a blueberry.

"Absolutely not."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm running out of options."

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

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

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

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

Your entire body heaves with the sigh that escapes you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Lucky you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A gift. A pithless, wrinkly one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, you're definitely going to cry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You count the seconds till he walks away.

One. Two. Three.

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

"Hey, you ok?"

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

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

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

"Whoa," he breathes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah, I-I think so."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And no text from Seungcheol. (Damn.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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"Here. Drink."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Thanks…?"

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

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

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

"You're literally the definition of easy."

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

"This is not a date. Dream on."

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

"It wasn't."

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

"Chicago."

"Same difference."

Your conversation continues as such.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hi."

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

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

The elevator dings.

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

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You have three reasons to get drunk.

1. It's Friday.

2. You finished your article.

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

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

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

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

So you get drunk.

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

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

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

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

"You got that right."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yours or mine?"

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

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

How To Ruin The Moment In One Easy Step!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Just dates. Nothing serious."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Holy shit. You live like this?"

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

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

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

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

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

You tentatively nod before dropping the noodles in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What, too many dates to cover?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The table stops rocking.

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

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

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

"You asked."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Wh—"

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

"Get. Out."

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

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

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

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Celery. Red wine. Short rib.

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

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

Fingerling potatoes, the red ones. A Vidalia onion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Monday feels tilted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You wonder what you'll be:

10 Signs She Is Clinically Insane.

It's Not You, It's Them!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Ask Samuel!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Congrats."

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

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

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

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

"No need."

"What about Seungcheol? Does he know?"

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

"What?!"

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

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

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

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

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

Instead you stand motionless, waiting, emptied.

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

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

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

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

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

He gave up.

None of this should matter to you.

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

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

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

"You're an idiot, Seungcheol."

That does the trick.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"H-how?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Afternoon, boss."

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

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

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

"Friendly reminder we're at work."

"Everyone's at lunch, genius."

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

"You are the worst."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eat, Play, Love: A Guide.

Maybe you'd put it through. Maybe.

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#mine #seungcheol #seungcheol x reader #seungcheol fluff #seungcheol x you #seventeen fluff #seventeen imagines #seventeen scenarios #scoups x reader #scoups fluff #scoups x you #seungcheol imagines #seungcheol scenarios #scoups imagines

[monsterbroth]

My dad and I have a very similar brand of brain funny which leads to a lot of situations where I’m planning on working on something and hes says oh cool I have 3 unread books about that around somewhere

#thoughts #I was just on the phone with him saying I’m looking for a paper guillotine and he was like I have two trimmers if that helps #and then he’s complaining about his belt and conveniently I have a couple of awls for. reasons #unrelated but I’m eating like an unbelievably good mash potato right now like holy shit. unparalleled I have no idea what they put in this #but it’s very tasty #I think it’s garlic maybe and the gravy is pretty strong

[undiscovered-horizon]

hello! if you accept requests for one peaceLive action (I hope)

could you write reader x sanji and I have a strange idea

what if with reader flirting.... another cook? and Sanji feels not just jealousy, but double jealousy... it's very strange, I know, but still I think it's quite interesting.

thank you in advance🙏💕

Enjoying my work? You can leave me a tip on Ko-Fi | Have a request?

The smell of spices, ripe fruit and freshly made food hits your nostrils. It's markets like this that truly show the genius loci of the place. Mobs of people roll through the narrow spaces between stalls that are bending under the weight of displayed products.

You glance at Sanji, who's walking next to you. Judging by the bliss on his face, you'd think you're in heaven and not some unmarked island in the middle of nowhere.

Then a specific aroma reaches you - something you haven't smelled in a long time but could never forget. It's tangy, creamy and herbal...

"Can you smell it?" you turn to Sanji, suddenly stopping in your tracks. Excitement bubbles inside your chest and cherished memories of beautiful days with wonderful people flash before your eyes.

"You'll have to be a little more precise, love," he answers with undeniable fondness in his voice. His thumb is softly rubbing the skin of your hand.

"Lemon tarragon sauce," you say as if it's the most obvious thing. Looking around, you catch a glimpse of a pot filled with yellow-ish, creamy dip. "Right there!"

Tugging at his arm, you pull him in the direction of the stall and the source of the delightful smell. The market stand is managed by a man around your age. He has a head full of black, dense curls that perfectly suit his tanned skin. There's a clean dish towel tied around his neck as if it's an ascot. Skilled, muscular hands move between pans, pots and counters as he's restlessly grilling meat, fish and prawns to put them in cones made from newspaper and layer the tarragon sauce on top.

The street cook looks up from the dishes when he notices customers approaching. As his dark eyes set on you, the man suddenly perks up and a playful smile curves his raspberry-coloured lips.

"Mademoiselle," he says with a certain intensity to his voice. It almost sounds like he's asking you something.

Sanji immediately cringes at the man's tone. This suave, decadent drawl is something he's also used the very first time he saw you. And considering the fact that you're tightly holding his hand, it had worked perfectly. Now just to make sure that this terragon-smelling, ascot-wearing sleazy guy isn't as successful.

"How can I thank you for brightening up my day?"

"I'd love a serving of prawns with tarragon sauce," you say thrilled. It seems that you're either missing the flirtatious aura surrounding the man or you're willfully ignoring them.

Sanji feels his chest tighten and a bitter taste fills his mouth. Why would you be so excited about someone else's cooking? Worse - what if you will prefer that guy's food over his?

The street cook gets to grilling freshly caught prawns. His fingers skilfully dance in the air as he seasons the seafood and mixes it in the pan. Garlic and lemon pepper fragrances overthrow your senses.

The ascot-wearing man gives you a curious look. "What are you looking for at the end of the world, flower?" he asks.

But before you can answer, Sanji cuts in. "We're on a shore leave," he answers coldly. "Won't stay for long."

"That's a shame," the local chef continues unaffected by Sanji's impertinence. His eyes are fixed on you, eating you up like you're the local delicacy and not the seafood in the pan. "At night the island looks even better. Not that it could compare," he says with a wink.

In a swift move, the man moves the prawns from the pan onto a page from a newspaper. He quickly rolls the paper into a cone. Clearly, he's been doing this for a very long time.

"You're from around here, right?" you carry on the conversation.

"Born and raised, ma cherie," he answers with pride. That shouldn't come as a surprise - ever since the Marines built a base on the surrounding archipelago, the islands have been filled with immigrants who couldn't care less about local traditions and customs.

Sanji feels his irritation only growing, hearing how the pet name rolls off the man's tongue naturally, as though he's calling you by your given name. It feels wrong down to the marrow of his bones.

"So, as a local, can you recommend something to pass the time?"

The bitterness Sanji involuntarily tastes on his tongue is mixed with sweetness that only you can bring him. Of course you don't notice the flirtatious tone - you just want the tarragon sauce and something fun to do before tomorrow comes and the Straw Hats are off for another voyage.

Then, another nice thought stirs inside his head. Maybe you're too deep in love with Sanji to even notice another man's interest? The idea makes him giddy like he's a schoolgirl with a crush. He almost misses the next part of the conversation, too busy with his adorable, a little cringy, daydream:

"While the weather is still good and the nights are warm, skinny dipping is quite popular," the local cook answers while pouring tarragon sauce over the grilled prawns. "Much better with good company," he purrs out. "Prawns with tarragon sauce, on the house." The man hands you your order but with only one cocktail stick as though the blond chef next to you doesn't count as a customer.

Excited, you take the paper cone from the street vendor. But before you can try the food, Sanji takes the stick and takes the first bite.

A frown enters his face as he chews the prawn. Then he sighs in disappointment.

"Do you seriously call this cooking?" he asks the ascot-wearing man. His voice is laced with anger and disbelief. "A fishman would make a better sauce. It's missing white wine and anise. And there's too much garlic."

You hiss his name out but Sanji appears unaffected. Forcing a polite smile, you turn to the street vendor, who's glancing between you and your boyfriend with a look of superiority. "Thank you for the food and sorry for Grumpy over here."

Only when you're a few paces away from the vendor and definitely out of earshot, do you confront Sanji about his mordant humor.

"No need to get snappy."

He forces his lips into a thin line. "His food is shit and he keeps making piss poor attempts at flirting when you're clearly," he lifts your intertwined fingers, "not a mademoiselle." Although Sanji quotes the word in mockery, it sounds delicious coming from him. If you weren't already sharing his bed, right now you'd be seriously considering it. Planning it even.

"So that's what this is about?" you ask as laughter forces its way out of your chest. Considering how whipped you are for Sanji, it seems ridiculous that you could think romantically about other men. "You're jealous about a smooth-talking cook. Sounds like someone I know."

"Does it?" he picks up on your banter. That familiar, playful smile returns to his face. His eyes momentarily light up, flashing you a glint of various emotions: desire, amusement, adoration. "How many smooth-talking cooks have you seduced?"

You shrug your shoulders and shake your head dramatically. "Don't know. Never bothered to count. I'm just looking for someone to make me lemon tarragon sauce any time I want."

Sanji's hand again rubs the skin of your palm. His other hand reaches for your face, fingers brushing against your jaw. "For you, little dove, I'd make tarragon sauce every day."

"With white wine and anise?" you ask, leaning in slightly. His scent of cigarette smoke and frying oil fills your lungs. Suddenly, the market around you is nonexistent and there's only Sanji.

"The best lemon tarragon sauce you've ever had," he murmurs against your face. His nose brushes against your cheeks.

"I already have the best."

His lips taste like lemons, butter and herbs when he kisses you. Honestly, this is the best version of the sauce you've ever had.

#this is longer than it was supposed to be lmao #sanji #sanji x reader #sanji opla #opla sanji #sanji x you #sanji fanfiction #sanji fanfic #sanji imagine #one piece sanji #black leg sanji #vinsmoke sanji #one piece #opla #one piece x reader #one piece x you #one piece fanfiction #one piece fanfic #one piece imagine #vinsmoke sanji fanfic #vinsmoke sanji fanfiction #sanji vinsmoke #sanji vinsmoke x reader

[anadiasmount]

what do you think an ideal date with jude be like?

a love for the books - jude bellingham x reader.

quick sum: request above!

wc: 1.3k | masterlist | jude’s masterlist

HIII MY LOVE!! i’m so sorry this was delayed but i’m posting this in honor of valentine’s day 😣🤍 ik this might be a little over the top, but knowning how jude is...🤭 HERE’S THISSS FOR YOU AND ANYONE READING!! like always, hope you enjoy bc it’s pure fluff 🤍🤍

“look so pretty for me darling,” jude said coming up behind you where you shyly looked away as you finished clasping your earrings on. “seriously, like how did i get this lucky,” jude kisses your temple and sighed in relief as he hugged your waist.

you smelled his familiar cologne, kissing his bicep that was bare as he wore a simple black button-up and some jeans. looking more boyfriend than ever. “i don’t know jude, you tell me. i’m the lucky one for being able to spend my weekend away with my boyfriend for the first time in weeks,” you say teasingly.

“you’re right. but i have a girlfriend who is patient, loves and cares for me, and planned this evening for the two of us. don’t worry i have something special in store for you later,” jude leans down and pecks your lips in a loving manner, a groan stuck in his throat as he tastes your sweet taste.

“cmon i wanna eat, i’ve been dying to eat for hours,” jude says pulling you to the door hand to hand. “jude wait hold, wait jude! i need my shoes and my purse,” you say giggling and rushed. jude sits impatiently as you finish final details, sighing in relief once you finished.

jude opens the passenger door for you, refusing to let you do anything and let him be the gentleman he is. he keeps a hand on your thigh but from time and time, he'll interlock hands and kiss the back of it gently, giving you a cheeky smile as he sang to his music.

he led you to your table at the exclusive and private restaurant, never letting go until he grabbed your chair and helped you get seated. his brows pulled in as he scanned through the menu, telling you different options of what he saw or what he was in the mood for.

"we'll take the roscatto red wine in a bottle, and bread rolls for starters," jude spoke kindly, his thumb rubbing your skin as you continued to scan in the menu, thanking the waiter when they brought and filled your glass.

"what's the surprise you mentioned," you asked curiously, leaning your head on your hand that rested on your table. "it won't be a surprise if i tell you," jude snickered, grabbing a small bite of the golden warm bread. "yes but i'm impatient and want to know," you moaned. "if you keep whining i'll blindfold you and won't let you see the entire ride there," jude raised his brow testing you.

"fine, now what are you thinking of getting?" you asked taking a sip of the red wine carefully. "maybe the honey garlic salmon with a side of stirred veggies?" he said slowly as he read the menu. you winced in a disgusted manner, shaking your head at the thought of seafood, "ew..."

"oh please," jude laughed at you, "i bet you'll order pasta or noodles of some sort knowing how you are," jude teased earning a dramatic gasp from you. "for your information, i was thinking of it... BUT i'm going to go with the steak with a side garlic parm zucchini bites and stuffed rolls," you poke your tongue out.

jude and you speak quietly among yourselves, laughing loudly as you remember old memories and remince those times where you first met, last minute dates because you had missed each other. going to random gas stations to get snacks, or stay up all night on facetime.

you could remember it all, write all the memories down on sheets of papers and turn them into a book if you wanted to. jude always tells you the day you have kids, and once they’re bigger, he couldn’t wait to tell them just exactly how you met. how his heart bang out his chest and saw everyone blurry and just you standing in the room.

how nervous he was trying to approach you. the eagerness inside him to hear you laugh or make you smile. how determined he was to get your number or any sort of contact because he knew. how much off a stuttered mess he was once he finally asked you if you want to go inside for a drink. how he felt like the luckiest man on earth, almost cried, when you told him the three words.

through think and thin. you were it for him. and he’ll never ever let go of you.

“cmon… we’re almost there baby…” jude said as he dragged you along the gravel road down into a wet trail. “jude when you mentioned surprise i though a movie night with a fort and a game off poker, not this! i just ate and all this walking is gonna make me throw up,” you laughed nervously, almost misplaced your step any a giant rock.

“funny you say movie night… what if we have a movie night here,” jude closed your eyes, then revealed the open setting. “we can star and moon gaze if we get bored, but we can have a movie night here with all these snacks surrounding us,” jude kisses your forehead, watching your mouth agape as you saw the laid out pillows and sheets, a small table containing the snacks and jude’s ipad.

“jude… this is so CUTE. I LOVE YOU! I LOVE YOU! you’re the best boyfriend i could ever ask for,” you squeal hugging him so tight he’s afraid you’ll break his bones. “only boyfriend you’ll have,” jude states in a possessive manner making you roll your eyes playfully.

“only boyfriend i know, unless for some reason henry cavil turns up single?” you shrug pouting your bottom lip, jude immediately frowning as he followed your steps into the sheets laid out. “uhm first off all were both english. second of all that won’t ever happen, i’ll make sure if it. third of all, you say all this after i do this for my lovely girlfriend?” jude speaks as hoe watches you set up the pillows and open bags of chips.

“i was just kidding… you’re the only hero in my life, and i can’t wait to make more of these memories with you,” you say after nagging an upset jude to lay down. he has one hand under his head, as the other one strokes your back, the bringing it up to tuck a curl back, brushing your cheek and leaning up to capture your lips.

you melt inside, feeling a burn sensation as he kiss your lips. this felt different than past times, the way he holds you, kissing you like a starved man, hands brushing and pulling you on top of him so he can further the kiss even more. your hearts beat quicker, not once pulling away, just in your own world with jude.

“as much as i want to fuck you against these sheets… i want to watch the movie with you,” jude pulls away breathless, smears of your lipstick all over his lips as he closes his eyes trying to calm down. “and what if i say i don’t want to watch the movie… that i’ll take that offer right now,” you whisper, kissing his jaw, making jude shiver.

“if you’re a good girl and do what i’ll say, i’ll gladly grant the wish, so turn around for me and press play…” jude’s voice then deep nudging to the ipad and watching you slowly turn and lay on his arm, feeling your nails gaze onto his skin as you traced his veins.

after a couple minutes of silence and just your breaths and watching the movie, you feel jude pull the strap of your dress down and pepper kisses all over your bare shoulder. “stay still, gonna give my girl the love and care she deserves…”

your love was definitely a story for the books.

#jude bellingham #judey thoughts 5️⃣ #jude bellingham x reader #jude bellingham imagine #jude bellingham blurb #jude bellingham one shot #football fanfic #footballer #football x reader

[collecting-stories]

Strawberry Gazpacho - Carmen Berzatto

A/N: Some people asked for a part 2 of Blueberry BBQ, so I decided to stay on the fruit trend!

Summary: Reader and Carmy continue to bond over food.

The Bear Masterlist

✰ ✰ ✰ ✰

"What is this?" You asked, staring down at the bowl Carmy had placed on top of your papers. You were in the back office, trying to work on the week's payroll when he'd come in, told you that you needed a lunch break, and placed a plate down in front of you. 

"Try it," he urged, wringing his hands in his apron and looking like an eager little kid. 

"Carm-"

"Try it," he repeated and you obliged. Regardless of what it was you knew you would like it. Carmy made it, which immediately meant it couldn't be bad, but also, Carmy made it. For you, more specifically. You took the proffered spoon and dipped it into the bowl, surprised when you pressed it to your lips and found that it was, in fact, cold.

"Gazpacho?" You asked, after a second bite.

You had told him last night, while watching TV and letting him finish the tupperware of tofu feta that's you'd made the day before, that you hated gazpacho. You loved soup and tomato was your favorite; a nice, roasted red-pepper tomato, heavy on the garlic, that you'd perfected over the years. But no gazpacho. You couldn't get used to the fact that it was cold. 

"You like it?" He asked in a way that suggested he might genuinely be worried that you would tell him it was horrible.

"I mean, it's the best gazpacho I've ever had," you took another bite as proof, "it's spicy."

"But?"

You weren't sure if he was fishing for a compliment or trying to convert you onto a food you held in disdain but you assumed that if he wanted someone to tell him that he was a skilled chef he would've gone to Syd or Marcus with his cold soup.

"It's cold soup Carmy, I just can't fuck with cold soup." You replied, "it's good though."

He reached for the spoon in your hand and dipped it into the bowl, trying some of the gazpacho that he had made. He nodded his head, as if to confirm that it was good, as if he didn't already know it would be.

"Should I like, fall over at your feet and tell you that you've converted me to gazpacho and it's the only thing I'll ever order for the rest of my life?" You teased, leaning an elbow on the desk. It felt completely natural to be this relaxed with him and yet, just weeks earlier, you'd been fretting over the idea of having him come over for Sunday dinner. 

He handed the spoon back and you took another experimental taste.

"I mean, you're still eating it," he pointed out, grinning. 

In no world would Carmy say that he was 'good with people'. If he wasn't saying the wrong thing then he was saying nothing at all (and that was also wrong). He wanted to spend more time with you, the most time he could afford outside of The Beef but the only way he really knew how to spend time with anyone was cooking. So he kept cooking for you, things you liked, things you hated but liked when he made them. He kept trying to find the perfect thing to say and the perfect recipe to go along with it, as if that would remedy his inability to tell you that he wanted more from whatever this situation currently was. You weren't dating but he wanted to be dating but he wasn't exactly the dating type (as far as having an actual open schedule went). 

"Touche," you replied, taking another bite. "I can't decide if I'll regret telling you this or not but my mom has a recipe for strawberry gazpacho that apparently my grandma used to make every summer."

"Strawberry?"

"I can already see the gears turning in your head Carmy," you laughed. 

He looked down at you, piercing blue eyes taking your measure, "can you get me the recipe?"

"Are you gonna make me eat it?" You practically pouted. 

He nodded, "yes."

You groaned and leaned back in the office chair, "god, the things I do for you Carmy." You sighed. "I'll text my mom for the recipe...I can pick stuff up on my way home, if you want. Or if you're all gazpacho'ed out-"

"No, tonight works." He agreed.

Before you could say anything else Marcus was calling Carmy back to the kitchen. He wiped his hands on his apron once more and push himself off the desk. Before he could pick up the bowl you put your hand over his, "I might try another bite." 

There were other things that Carmy could probably be doing with his evening. Catching up on sleep, working on the recipes that he and Syd had been spitballing for the updated menu, mending whatever semblance of a relationship he still had with Sugar. Instead he was looking forward to going to your apartment (which was leagues nicer than his shitty place) and cooking. He'd lived so long on white bread and peanut butter and chips and soft drinks and anything quick that he'd forgotten what it was like to cook just because he enjoyed cooking. Hell, he'd forgotten that he enjoyed it. The only thing, lately, that really felt like it brought that enjoyment back was standing in your kitchen.

"Rigoletto has taken up residence on the island and he refuses to move so...we're down some counter space," you said as soon as you opened the door to Carmy, moving aside to let him into your apartment. 

He stopped at the island, leaning over to pet Rigoletto, who half-heartedly rolled onto his side to give Carmy better access to his stomach. "Hey chef," he teased. He turned to look at you, still stroking the cat as he did, "strawberry gazpacho?" 

"I would just like to disclaimer that I don't think strawberries are going to improve my deep-seated hatred of gazpacho but-"

"I mean, you did eat most of the one I made earlier," Carmy pointed out as your mouth fell open in surprise. 

"Angel! What a snitch!" You laughed, "I can't believe he told you."

"Hey, it's my kitchen, I've gotta know what's going on." He followed you around the other side of the island, grabbing the notebook you had sitting on the counter and scanning over the recipe. You'd called your mom on the way home and asked for a copy of the recipe, which she'd gladly texted ("does this have something to do with that cute chef where you work?"). You'd picked up whatever ingredients you didn't already have at your house and set everything out for Carmy before he'd even gotten there. You felt a little silly, being so excited just to have him come over and cook with you (for you) when there was no real definition to what your relationship was. 

"Did you cook growing up? Like with your mom and stuff?" You asked, stealing a strawberry out of the plastic container. 

"No," Carmy shook his head, then amended his answer, "not really. My ma always told us to help but if we did she yelled at us for doing something the wrong way...it was better to just stay outta her way when she was in the kitchen. You?"

"Oh yeah, my mom's not like...the best chef in the world or anything but she loved trying new stuff. Anything we wanted we could ask for and she'd try to make it. And then as we got older we would have like, nights where one of us got to cook." You replied, "I like it but...I don't think I'm good at it."

"You are...I mean....not like, you've got potential." Carmy explained, blue eyes glancing up to meet you across the island and you smiled. 

"Thank you chef."

You left Carmy to the strawberry gazpacho and the chicken he'd brought over to make some dish you'd never heard of before while you got Rigoletto's dinner out. The cat had finally moved off the island and you sprayed it down with cleaner to at least give yourself a better chance of not picking white cat hair off your dinner plate. 

Carmy fit right into your kitchen, probably the whole apartment for that matter. It was something both of you had thought, more than once, but neither of you said anything about. He felt like he was waiting for something bad to come from all the good you had been supplying in his life recently. Bad news always felt like it was lurking around the corner for him, especially these days, and he didn't want to put everything in one basket. But being in your kitchen, in your space, felt good. It felt like he was supposed to be there. 

"Did you know," you were saying as you came back into the kitchen, leaning near him to look at the chicken he was searing on the stovetop, "that I didn't know what mortadella was before I started working at the Beef?" 

Carmy turned his head to watch you fish a piece of garlic out of the skillet and eat it whole, "Did you just?"

"It was cooked."

"It was a whole clove of garlic."

"I love garlic," you shrugged, dropping the fork in the sink, "but seriously, I had to google it cause I didn't know what Richie was talking about when he was trying to explain it."

"It's very Italian." Carmy replied. 

"You're very Italian." You grinned and he rolled his eyes.

"I am, yeah." And then, "I still can't believe you ate that."

"You act like you've never eaten garlic before."

"Not just shoved a whole clove in my mouth." He replied. 

"It tasted good." You shrugged, "I always use too much garlic. Like if a recipe says three cloves I use six."

"Yeah that's why I said you had potential." 

"Well now I just feel like that's your 'I don't wanna hurt your feelings' way of saying I'm actually shit at cooking." You replied. 

"Nah, if you were shit I'd tell you."

"Yeah but then who'd balance the books for you?" You teased, searching in the cabinet under the island for wine, "red or white?"

"Uh...white for this." Carmy replied.

You pushed the bottle of red you were holding back into the cabinet and went to the fridge, pulling out the Chardonnay you'd bought last week. You grabbed two glasses from the cabinet, handing him one once it was poured. 

"Is this the 'only white you'll drink' wine?" He asked, taking a sip. 

The last time he had come over to cook with you (for you) there had been a long discussion about different wines in which you'd explained that there was only one type of white that you liked. More accurately, one brand that made a chardonnay you didn't completely hate. 

"Yeah...they finally restocked!" You exclaimed, leaning against the counter, "the woman at the Wine and Spirits definitely thinks I'm an alcoholic though...I bought like, four bottles." 

Carmy shook his head, reaching a hand out for the bottle and splashing a little into the pan when you handed it to him. Kitchens were crowded and Carmy was more than used to working in an environment where people were constantly at each other's side or back or space but something about having you leaning there against the counter beside him was both extremely nerve-wracking and extremely comforting. 

He didn't say anything about it though, at least not until after you'd eaten dinner and were sitting on the couch avoiding the dishes. Then he blurted it out while you watched reruns of Murder, She Wrote with Rigoletto. "I always thought I would do stuff like this when I was younger."

"Watch 80's tv shows on a Tuesday night?" You asked.

"No," he laughed, "Just like...I don't know....you know, make dinner with someone. Or, I guess, not feel like my entire life was in a restaurant all the time."

"Well I'll always be happy to make dinner with you...or at least supply the wine while you make dinner." You replied, grinning at him.

"Yeah," he nodded his head slowly, as if convincing himself that what you were saying was true. 

"Yeah," you agreed.

#collecting stories imagine #carmy berzatto x reader #carmy berzatto x you #carmy berzatto fluff #carmy berzatto imagine #carmy x reader #carmy x you #carmy x y/n #the bear fanfiction #the bear imagine #the bear fanfic

[nobody7102]

The 4th

Pairing: Beau "Cyclone" Simpson x Pregnant!Reader

Warnings: Mentions of PTSD, Fireworks, Loud sounds

A/N: I told you I was running off of a big bong hit and lavender ices coffee, lol

Master-list

--------

As Beau stands in the kitchen, his hands hard at work covering ribs in marinade and dry rub for later on in the day, Y/N opens the front door, waddling her way into the kitchen with grocery backs and a package. 

Looking over his shoulder Beau smiles as Y/N enter’s the kitchen with her left arm carrying the package and her right holding the groceries. Hoisting the package and groceries onto the counter Beau starts to clean off his hands.

“Did the store have everything?”

Y/N nods and her hands move to start to take the groceries out of the bags. “We should have decided to have a baby sooner” she jokes “When I walked in, as soon as anyone saw the bump they let me grab whatever I needed” as soon as everything’s unpacking she turns to Beau placing a hand over her bump. “They had everything for the potatoes and the steaks”

“Well thank you for going all the way to the store for me Baby… you really didn’t have to” Walking over to Y/N he leans down and places a kiss upon her lips as his hands rest over her bump as well. “I after I get the ribs on the grill I should be able to get started on the steaks”

Y/N smiles as Beau runs his hands along her bump “Then I’ll probably do the potatoes when you start on the steaks” her hands rise up to push some of Beau’s hair out of his face “Ohh… by the way…” the corner of her mouth turns upward into a slight smirk “I got you a present… but you have to open it later” 

Beau raises his brow with a slightly surprised smirk upon his face “A present?... Baby you know you always scare me a little bit when you say that right?” He jokes.

Shaking her head, Y/N chuckles “No no no, I promise… its not a bad present like the paint color for the nursery” Her smile grows wider as she remember’s Beau’s surprise to see they were painting the nursery a sage green color. But to be fair Beau said that she could do whatever she wanted with it and he would be there to help.

__________________________

As the morning passes into the afternoon, Beau stands at the grill. Cooking away as Y/N relaxes in a chair on the patio watching Beau grill, every once and a while getting up to check on the potatoes as they cook inside the kitchen. 

As Y/N watches Beau, she can’t help but frown a bit at every firework people in their neighborhood decide to set off early, hating how Beau subtly jumps and gets startled every time a firework goes off. Acting as if it doesn't bother him in the slightest, but Y/N sees how he goes far off for a few seconds every time. 

Not long after the food is done and Beau and Y/N set the patio table for themselves, laying out paper plates and the food. Ribs, steaks, mashed potatoes, grilled veggies and garlic bread (as per Baby Simpsons request). 

They take their time as they eat, enjoying the weather, the food, and each other’s company and after a while Y/N notices how the sun starts to set and gets up.

Taking her and Beau’s plates as she stands. Beau starts to get up to help her, Y/N raises her finger. “Tsk Tsk Tsk, sit down” she hums and points to his chair.

Letting out a chuckle, Beau listens’ knowing better than to argue. 

Waddling her way back into the house, Y/N disposes of the paper plates and puts their utensils in the sink before grabbing a pair of scissors and the package from earlier and bringing them back outside with her.

She sets the box and scissors down in front of Beau before taking a seat back in her chair. “Tada!” she hums.

Beau raises his brow at the box before taking the scissors and opening it. Taking out the packaging on the inside, his brow furrows in slight confusion as he pulls out a box for wireless headphones. “Baby… what is this?” Letting out a sigh, Y/N’s eye’s soften as she gazes at Beau. “Do you remember how we were talking last year… about how you wanna watch the fireworks but you know you shouldn’t” she reaches her hands out and pushes back some of Beau’s hair.

“When you were talking earlier this month about how you can’t wait for Peanut to be here and how you think Peanut would love to watch the fireworks… it got me thinking about how you said you used to love watching fireworks before you enlisted… and so I went online… and I got you some soundproof wireless headphones” she gives a soft smile “You can download this app that pairs with the headphones and you can control how noise canceling they are… and since they’re wireless you could play music if you wanted to or watch something…. But i figured… now you could just watch the fireworks again and now worry”

As Y/N explains how the headphones work and why she got them, tears start to form in Beau’s eyes at how Y/N thought about him

“And if they don’t work then that’s totally fine but I figured you could try it out and if it works then great and if no-” Before Y/N has the chance to finish her sentence Beau gets up from his chair and leans down to Y/N as she sits and presses a kiss to her hips before pulling her into a hug, burying his face into her neck.

“Thank you baby…. Thank you so much..” he mumbles against her skin.

_____________

As the sun finally sets. Y/N and Beau sit in their driveway, looking out on the water. 

When they were looking at houses, the real estate agent talked about how you could see the city beach fireworks perfectly from the house and they were right. Every year they could watch the city fireworks from their living room window as Beau and Y/N snuggled on the couch with the music cranked loud enough to drown out the echoing booms from outside.

Holding Beau’s phone in her hand, Y/N connects the headphones and adjusts the soundproof to fully drown out any noise. Looking at the time Y/N looks over to Beau as he holds the headphones. “Two minutes till they start… Do you wanna put them on now?”

Beau nods and places the headphones on, before reaching out and taking Y/N’s hand in his, looking out at the water in the area where the fireworks will be. As they wait for the fireworks to start, Beau squeezes Y/N’s hand every few seconds. Anxious to see if the headphones will actually work.

And after a minute, Beau squeezes Y/N’s hand tightly as the first firework of the night goes up into the air, and Y/N’s attention focuses on Beau’s face. Ready to take him into the house and resume their usual Fourth of July night activities if her plan fails.

And just like that the loud BOOM of the fireworks goes off and Beau watches in awe as the green and blue fills the sky before he turns to Y/N with the most giddy smile on his face ever as it dawns on him that he can’t hear a thing.

Y/N smile grows as she leans over to Beau and plants a kiss on his cheek before both of them turn their attention back to the fireworks.

----------

Tagging: @sebsxphia @rhettabbotts @bobfloyds @auroralightsthesky @fanboygarcia @beachbabey @sarahsmi13s @writercole @topguncortez @topgun-imagines @lewmagoo @sailorscuttle @shawnsthighs @ohtobeleah @sweetlittlegingy @t-nd-rfoot @mothdruid

#top gun maverick #top gun #top gun imagine #top gun x reader #top gun maverick x reader #beau simpson #beau cyclone simpson #cyclone #cyclone simpson #jon hamm #beau cyclone simpson x reader #cyclone x reader #cyclone simpson x reader #jon hamm x reader #admiral beau cyclone simpson #admiral cyclone #admiral beau simpson #admiral cyclone simpson

[flamingtouya]

𝐜𝐚𝐭 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧 — 𝐝𝐚𝐛𝐢/𝐭𝐨𝐝𝐨𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐢 𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐲𝐚

word count: 1262

cw: none other than dabi's foul language

summary: dabi encounters a cat. i continue to spoon-feed this man happiness. based on this prompt by the lovely @scarlettcryptid ♡

Before he knows it, a quiet ‘Pss-pss-pss’ leaves his lips.

He tries it all.

Clicking his tongue, saying - whispering - “Here, stupid fucking kitty”, because god forbid someone hears. Slowly putting his hand out, some more ‘Pss-pss’-ing - anything that had worked on the neighbours’ cats when Fuyumi did it.

Here he sits; Todoroki Touya, a man stripped of all dignity at the sight of a fat cat.

The concrete is cold underneath his palm. Dabi welcomes April’s spring breeze, a strand of jet black hair tickling his cheek as he pulls the strings of his hoodie tighter. The dewy scent of the morning air is overtaken by the intense smell of steaming hot Yakitori, fresh off the grill, bought - not stolen - bought with his own, hard-earned cash money. (That, admittedly, he had stolen.)

You’ve got to indulge, the vendor had shouted, in the little pleasures! Treat yourself to life's delectable delights! Two plus two, Weekday special! Don’t miss out on-

“Screw you,” he’d told her, shoving the money on the little silver tray next to the register, scowling when she still served him with a bright smile, one that reminded him of Fuyumi’s excited grin every time she’d successfully pulled off a trick on her beautifully painted Kendama. Fuyumi would be so upset, he thinks, if she knew where he gets his food from these days.

He pulls the first skewer from the paper box, diligently inspecting a grain of Szechuan pepper. Dabi hasn’t laid eyes upon a spice in months - especially not one this pricey.

No, ever since he’s made a temporary home in the outer area of the city, it’s been nothing but dumpster diving and collecting restaurant leftovers for him. Stale bread. Expired cookies. Plain rice, cooked in an old bean can. Salted butter. Some Chili powder on top of his potatoes, if the old man at the soup kitchen was feeling generous.

Compared to the barely digestible nutrients his body runs on, the sight mere inches from his face is a divine gift.

After turning it over once more he finally takes a small bite, careful to pull the piece of chicken off the skewer with his front teeth. He’s become even more sensitive to temperature lately, and his teeth are the most annoying aspect. Not the sizzling of his flesh when he overuses his quirk, not the burn behind his eyes as they go dry. Those he’s gotten used to rather quickly. But when most of the food you eat is either cold or poorly reheated, the sensation of something hot is bound to cause major discomfort.

It’s not as bad as he expects. Neither the temperature sensitivity nor the taste. He begins to chew more boldly, savouring the harmonious balance between onion and garlic, sea salt and pepper, topped with tare sauce and just a hint of lemon. Say about the outskirt markets what you will, but those street food vendors do know how to grill a chicken.

Dabi doesn’t notice how quiet it’s gotten until something chirps behind him.

A cat.

A rather well-fed cat.

A cat that technically isn’t overweight, but its thick fur coat still makes it look a little fat.

Black with a white tummy and some spots of orange near its paws, sitting two arms’ lengths away. Its eyes follow the skewer as he moves it to one side, then the other, then dangles it upside down. Some grease drips onto the grass of the porch he’s sitting on. He finishes the remaining pieces of chicken and pulls out the second skewer, eyes shifting between his precious meal and the overly attentive cat.

Finally, he decides to pinch off a small piece, chewing at the spiced crust until it’s gone. He tosses the plain chicken towards the cat but to his surprise, it flinches and retreats behind a large flower pot.

The little fucker.

Wasted half a bite of perfectly good food.

Dabi turns his attention back towards his steaming Yakitori. Some time passes. He doesn’t know if it’s seconds or minutes that he zones out looking at the flowering apricot tree in the distance, but he’s pulled back to reality by soft chewing noises. Careful not to make another sudden movement he shifts a bit, just enough to look over his shoulder. Sure enough, the feline is greedily nibbling at the slice of meat. The two of them make brief eye contact before turning their attention back to their respective meals.

The sound behind him subsides shortly after and is replaced by a soft purring, one that he knows isn’t directed at him. He lets the cat have another piece from his third skewer nonetheless, this time giving it a gentle toss so it lands a few inches closer.

Still visibly tense, it takes a few steps forward and sniffs at the chicken before gulping it down in a few bites. Greedy shit, Dabi thinks, as he sacrifices yet another precious piece. He puts it down at his side, rubbing his fingers together. The cat’s attention is on the meat immediately, ears twitching as it courageously inches closer towards Dabi. He finishes the last of his Yakitori, never breaking eye contact with the cowardly little furball next to him.

Before he knows it, a quiet ‘Pss-pss-pss’ leaves his lips.

He tries it all.

Clicking his tongue, saying - whispering - “Here, stupid fucking kitty”, because god forbid someone hears. Slowly putting his hand out, some more ‘Pss-pss’-ing - anything that had worked on the neighbours’ cats when Fuyumi did it.

Here he sits; Todoroki Touya, a man stripped of all dignity at the sight of a fat cat.

After a thorough standoff, the cat’s curiosity gets the better of it. It keeps its stomach low as it sneaks across the ground, stretching its long neck to sniff at the finger that Dabi used to pull the Yakitori off the skewer earlier.

“If you bite me, I’m sending you to the coat factory.”

As if that theory was being tested, Dabi feels a sudden nip at his fingers. Cursing, he pulls back slightly, only to see the mischievous fucker’s pupils go wider. He wipes the bits of chicken grease off in the dewy grass and offers his palm again, checking both sides of the street to make sure nobody’s looking.

As if to taunt him, the little furball pounces and takes a swipe at Dabi’s hand before he can turn his attention back to the porch. It chatters in surprise when the man pulls away just in time.

Fucker, as Dabi decides to dub this newfound enemy of his, darts toward his other hand where he’s drawing lazy patterns on the concrete. With its claws half out and its tail puffed up, it races toward the wall, around the flower pot and jumps back onto the lawn to take another playful swing at Dabi’s limbs. Minutes later, he’s got the little menace chasing his fingers in circles, losing balance here and there and rolling over ever so often.

He’s focused, eagerly following the cat’s every move, trying to predict its attacks by the flick of its tail, an ear twitch, pupils that narrow ever so slightly before it leaps forward.

He’ll never admit it. That for once, there’s a sudden lack of grief in his heart.

Only when the first ray of sunshine hits the outer edge of the garden does he let himself fall backwards. The cat is but a purring weight on his thigh, stretching its paws across his lap with the softest ‘Meow’. Eyes closed and arms stretched out, he inhales slowly and holds his breath until he feels his pulse slow down. Dabi doesn’t care that his hair is getting a little wet, doesn’t care that the grass tickling his ears stings a little, doesn’t care that he’ll probably have red marks on his hands for a while.

If he shuts his eyes hard enough, he might still be able to convince himself that Touya is dead.

#the strength it took me to not turn this into a 5k word dabi x reader could move mountains. #dabi #todoroki touya #touya todoroki #bnha #bnha fluff #dabi x reader #< u cant blame me. this tag is what gets the clicks going and im a sucker for validation #touya x reader #dabi x you #almighty brainfarts it is currently 00:29. good night <3 #edgelord #my writing #x

[aveegrex]

ONE PIECE DATING HEADCANNONS

Monster trio + Smoker and Crocodile gn!reader, SFW cw: mentions of murder, mentions of blood (all metaphoric), PDA, jealousy

Sanji Vinsmoke:

At first he’s really incredulous, still shocked his feelings are mutual. So instead of his usual over the top antics, you get a smitten clumsy boyfriend who stumbles upon everything he does and says. 

“Bonjour appétit", “In this dress you look like a swamp, eh-... A SWAN! I MEANT A SWAN!!” - yeah, he’s a mess at first

In fact, he’s so anxious and nervous that the Strawhats suspect someone might have kidnapped him and they are sharing the deck with an imposter, because for a few weeks he undercooks, oversalts and burns every meal. You decide to step up and put an end to that chaos, sitting him down for a long reassuring talk. 

When he gets used to his new status as a taken man, it’s like watching a flower bloom: he’s confident, attentive, his strength grown tenfold. 

Expect a lot of touching. Kisses, hugs, cuddles: his head on your knees when you chat with Nami on the deck, his fingers interlaced with yours as you indulge in reading, his legs intertwined with yours as you both doze off at night. This boy has been touch starved for years and you’re the one to make up for all that hunger with. 

You’ll definitely be waking up to fresh flowers every morning, even in case the ship has been cruising for days without a speck of land in sight. Don’t ask him how he does that. There are secrets only to be shared between a gentleman and his fridge. 

He’ll be super inquisitive about EVERY detail of your daily routine. This precious baby needs to know everything, from the ways you do your hair to your toothpaste preferences and favorite islands in all the seas.

If you have dietary restrictions for whatever reason, throw those at him without hesitation. It’s no disadvantage, but a challenge to him. Lactose intolerance? Hell yeah, prepare your nipples, oats and almonds. Vegetarian? Eat up your steaming veggie stew. No garlic and onions? Fuck those, vampires are hot! 

Never misses a single important date or event. I personally hc him as someone who has a tiny notebook in his pocket at all times, so everything that matters is written down, ingrained in both his brain and paper. 

Zoro is grateful for your existence since now his quarrels with the cook die down way faster and cost him way less bruises and nerves than before. And he gets to nap longer. 

Which leads to an unexpected outcome: on yours and Sanji’s dates and outings you never get interrupted because the mosshead is secretly guarding your calamity from afar, keeping all possible troubles at bay. 

On a sadder note: I believe Sanji is a rather self-conscious guy around those he loves and values the most. So it’s hard for him to stand his ground and state his boundaries, since he’s scared of being “too much trouble for you” or “scaring you away”. You gotta be patient and weave the truth out of him. It does get better the longer you are together, but at first you should be on guard for the little tell-tales of his discomfort. 

His jealousy is not obvious, but it is there. It stems from the same fear of losing you, so you gotta be the one to initiate the talk in this regard too. Since his adoration and love are pure, and his respect to you is immense, it doesn’t take much explanation convincing that when you’re making Zoro laugh or talking to some other man you still love him and him only. 

His flirtiness towards other people dies down a lot when you start dating. He doesn’t turn into a stone-cold robot, of course, still treating women gallantly, but his heart eyes are for you only now. 

Most thoughtful gifts ever. He has a special compartment in his brain dedicated to information about you, and his imagination never runs empty on how to make you smile and kiss him in excitement. 

Overall score: absolute husband material. Even though he does have flaws, he’s open to growth and listens carefully when you express your discontent with something. 

Please treat this baby with patience and care, and don’t abuse his love. He deserves the world. 

Roronoa Zoro: 

It might seem like Mr Bushido doesn’t undergo any behavioral changes when you two start dating. It might seem so. He does though. 

He’s now more careful with his words, which only you, Nami and Usopp pick up on at first. He’s well aware he can be brash and rough around the edges, so even though he’s simply trying his best to be better for you, he perceives being more attentive to other people’s feelings as a way to train this new trait. Wrong route - correct destination. Whatever works, works. 

Since you prefer to take your naps on the actual bed and not just shove your body in the corner on the deck, he now does the same thing. Zoro is happy since he gets to sleep with you. You’re happy since he’s treating his body with more care. Chopper is happy since Zoro doesn’t get colds and sore back anymore. Win-win-win situation. 

Trains even more. He views himself as your main protector, and although he knows you can stand your ground just fine, he would never forgive himself if something happened to you. 

Might forget important dates and details, but does make up for that. It’s not for the lack of attention, but more so of his usual unawareness of temporal and geographical context.  

Absolute shit at giving gifts though. He’s not very materialistic, opting for asceticism in his belongings, and he subconsciously transfers the same thought process onto other people. If you need something, it’s better for you to get the thing yourself. If it’s not a necessity, why even buy it? 

Eventually (with Nami’s help, Sanji’s patience ran thin here) gets the concept of cute little nothings like flowers, candy and trinkets, but still opts for things of use. Lost a hairband - he’ll buy you the prettiest one. Need a clothing article - let’s go shopping. Your weapon broke down? He’s already at the blacksmith’s with the remains. 

He’s not a very touchy person, and absolutely not into PDA. All the signs of affection are happening in private, please and thank you. 

Being a pirate with a huge bounty over his head, he’s careful not to show his infatuation with you, since he doesn’t want his enemies to use you as a way to get to him. 

But being a loner, he surprises you with propositions to do things together all the time. Training, eating, hunting, picking up food and utilities for the trip - you name it. You’re doing it together. 

Even the crew doesn’t know you’re dating for the first couple of months. Luffy was just looking for Zoro once and barged in on two of you making out, quick to announce his discovery in his booming voice. Saving Luffy’s ass from drowning became Usopp’s responsibility for the next few weeks, your boyfriend just watching the captain sink with bloody revenge in his eyes. 

His jealousy is more of a “protect the territory” type. He sees outsiders as danger, and is quick to assume the worst intentions. Deep-rooted issue which he dutifully works on with your help. 

He spent most of his life alone, relying on no one and needing no one. Joining a crew was a huge step for him, and opening the deepest bottoms of his heart and soul to you is even bigger. He’ll be cautious, awkward at times, rough around the edges, but if he ever hurts you he’ll make it his life mission to make up for that and to never repeat the same mistake again. 

In the world where he’s not bound to any land, floating in chase of his dream around, you’re his little anchor that reminds him how precious here and now can be. 

Captain Smoker:

Absolutely horrified at the thought of doing something wrong and letting you get too close at first. 

Does eventually find great comfort in you, making it his priority to be as open about his feelings and hesitations as possible. 

Not very much into PDA, he has a reputation to uphold and begs you to understand that the “White chase Smoker” should stay a bloodhound with a foaming mouth to every single pirate out there. Bloodhounds don’t hold hands with beautiful angels like you. Please. PLEASE. 

Allows the crew to see how he kisses you hello and goodbye. Those fuckers should treat you like royalty and serve you tea the second you’re around. If anyone dares to look at you the wrong way, he’ll growl and bark till they piss their pants. 

Luffy knows about you. 

When in private, melts under your touch and looks at you with bloodpuppy eyes. He worships the ground you walk on, kisses your hands when you’re in his lap, nuzzles his face into your neck. The setting of his job is rough and brutal, cold and has no space for intimacy and love. Smoker gets every ounce of those he can from you. 

Let him vent to you about the higher-ups. There might be a lot of swearing, but after he’s done for the day, he’ll hug you tight and mumble sweet nothings into your chest. 

Might easily miss the important dates due to his line of work. Buys you a small snailphone and calls you the second he’s free to talk if he’s away on the job. If someone dares to disturb the call, they risk getting murdered, dried into thin paper and used as a filler for his cigars. 

The one to call you his husband or his wife the week after you start dating. 

Tashigi is now getting her degree as a marriage counselor by the way. Make sure to remind him to cut her a little slack from time to time, the poor girl was not expecting this when submitting her job application. 

He struggles with loving words or elaborate gifts and surprises, but when those happen, they stun you for life. 

To your surprise, not a jealous type. He’s confident in his partner and knows that you both value trust and loyalty in a relationship. Even if someone advances you romantically, Smoker won’t interfere, just watching from afar amused as you kindly reject. 

Sir Crocodile:

Big thick daddy 3000 gives no shit about someone finding out he has a significant other. He’s a fucking warlord, wealthy and powerful man, and it’s his whole damn right to parade you and show you off to everyone around. You’re his prized possession, his love, his one and only. 

In fact, he shows you off so openly many people find it straight up obscene and indecent. He has you on his lap in all his meetings, his huge hand resting on your hip or even on your ass. When he wants to highlight how little he thinks of his collocutors, he’ll purposefully feed you berries and fruit from his hand, not even looking at the person speaking, but listening intently. He does it so openly that it’s them who get flustered and embarrassed. 

Huge sugar daddy energy. He earned his wealth, he can allow himself to splurge on whatever it is you want. Clothes? He’ll have a separate warehouse built for your wardrobe. Jewelry? Baroque works get overtime to find the rarest pieces. You want to visit some new restaurant? It’s closed for other customers for the whole evening. And don’t even think of getting out of bed with him if you want to eat something, just snap your fingers and everything will be brought to you on a silver platter. 

If he misses an important date, no he doesn’t. He’ll only care about remembering your birthday though, other things like anniversaries and whatnot being moved around to fit his schedule. Sorry not sorry. 

Takes you with him on every trip. His big ass ship is a fortress, and is fit to accommodate any of your needs and desires. 

Does like venting into your neck about his day, please listen to him mumble and whine, it’s a rare sight. 

Is very rare to get vulnerable with you, but when he does you know it’s his earnest feelings and emotions being shown to you. Make sure to cup his face and look him in the eyes when he’s in that state, and he’ll go above and beyond to never lose you. 

The realization that he loves you dawns on him when he takes off his hook before joining you in bed. He never cared for such consideration before, but with you he just does it on autopilot. He then later extends the “no weapon” rule to any situations where he’s in your presence. 

It’s hard to make him jealous though. Like really really hard. What did you think, he’s a mature weathered man with a bottomless bank account, confident in himself and in your infatuation with him. So no, whatever advances someone might try on you won’t ever make his heart sting. 

Overall, being in a relationship with Sir Crocodile gives you a very clear sense of stability and security. He’s a lifetime partner. You two are mates for life. 

Monkey D. Luffy: 

He hasn’t changed a bit since you started dating. Well, of course some habits come and go, some new rules and skills are learnt, but overall Luffy stays the same old Luffy. 

He just announced it to the Strawhats one morning, casually chewing on Sanji’s artwork. “We’re together now. We love each other. Is Zoro still asleep?”. And that was it. You do in fact feel like you’ve always dated, because it feels only natural to have him wrapped around you at night, to have him holding your hand, to have him kissing you in the night. 

Spends a little more time with you, but since he always liked your company, it doesn’t feel like a change. Although again, if he’s off to do something stupid, he forgets about everyone, including you. That is something to work on, and he’s trying. 

Absolutely no jealousy. Like none, what’s that? When you’re chatting away with someone and Nami asks if he’s jealous, Luffy’s like “Huh? Why? We’re together, remember? ”. 

Doesn’t understand what PDA is because if he feels like kissing you, he’ll do that right away. What do you mean there are people around? They probably kiss too from time to time. 

Might easily say something stupid and hurt you. Needs a lot of explanation on why that was hurtful, but even if he fails to get it, he knows that “if it hurts it’s no go”. So just tell him it was not a nice thing to say and he won’t do that again. Baby’s clueless to social subtones. 

Also might easily forget the important date. Again, he’s really not aware of his surroundings, and that includes date, time, location. The guy fell asleep when chasing Crocodile and has thrown Zoro off the ship accidentally more times than anyone can count. He just is not aware. So in this regard, please tell him right in the morning that it’s actually your birthday or anniversary, and he’ll bring you the most unexpected and heartfelt present ever. 

Have beef jerky on you at all times and you’ll be best at finding him when he’s lost. 

Relationship with Luffy is a journey, an adventure, You’re in for a good time and you live today. Tomorrows mostly don’t exist. Carpe diem. 

He loves you with all his heart and soul. If something happens to you, the world is over. Everyone’s fucked. Villain Luffy arc ensues. 

MDNI, reblogs and comments are welcome, wish everyone finds their love

© 2022 AVEEGREX, all rights reserved. reposting and copying my works without my consent is forbidden.

#one piece fanfiction #one piece strawhats #one piece headcanons #one piece monster trio #one piece sanji #one piece sanji vinsmoke #one piece zoro #one piece roronoa zoro #op luffy #one piece luffy #one piece monkey d luffy #one piece smoker #one piece captain smoker #one piece crocodile #one piece sir crocodile #one piece vinsmoke sanji #one piece x reader #one piece x gn reader #one piece x you #one piece x y/n #op x reader #op x gn reader #zoro x y/n #zoro x reader #sanji x reader #sanji x y/n #luffy x reader #luffy x y/n #captain smoker x reader #smoker x reader

[lifesteal-headcanons]

there are a lot of players on lifesteal that aren't human. this shouldn't come as a shock to anyone. the thing is, with a lot of them, it's really not clear what they actually are. like, yeah, a lot of the time players don't fall neatly into nice categories, but usually there's something to go off of that's like, at least a little recognizable? anyway the point is rekrap [resident Boring Human] has taken it upon himself to commit investigative journalism to try and figure this out. the following are a few of his notes.

branzy:

-claims to be human

-unnaturally sharp teeth

-generally mildly uncanny

-saw his eyes glow in the dark a few times

-purple eyes + white hair (natural? contacts + dye? something else?)

theories:

vampire

>sharp teeth

>pale

>never seen him eat garlic

>has blood on his mouth weirdly often

shapeshifter

>general feeling of not quite being right

>i swear his tattoo's changed before

>catch-all explanation for physical traits

human

>he might just be messing with me and/or i might just be paranoid

ashswag:

-claims to actually be god. i doubt that.

-seems to have a far easier time manipulating code than other players do

-form sort of distorts? hard to describe

-hard to look at. hurts my eyes

-looks human when there's nothing weird going on

theories:

-??????? to be honest i'm kinda lost right now. i think he was human at some point but i'm pretty that's not still the case? need more information.

princezam:

-asked him; said he's not sure. then shrugged and said "i'm printer :D"

-skin + hair are BRIGHT yellow

-blood is black and smells like ink. dries red

-face can change? and melt? and become abstract shapes? and can open into a bunch of eyes?

-halo that keeps changing shape (glows in the dark)

theories:

angel

>halo

>lots of eyes

>generally looks fairly normal but occasional mild shape shifting

paper construct

>ink-like blood

>simplistic + fluid face

>unusual coloring

this investigation has led to some people having questions about him, though- apparently some people didn't think he was human? said that his eyes shined weirdly in the dark, which, okay, he can maybe believe that, but then some people said that they'd see flashes of antlers? and/or rabbit ears? plus the way he runs and jumps is apparently weirdly...animal like. so yeah, apparently there are rumors going around that he's a jakalope. which is absolutely ridiculous, because jakalopes, player or not, don't exist.

.

#ask #headcanon #lifesteal smp #branzy #ashswag #princezam #nix’s faves

[wheresarizona]

Learning to Live Part 14

summary: Javier gives you a tour of the ranch and introduces you to the animals. It’s no surprise when you end up mostly naked in the hayloft.

rating: E (18+!! No y/n, Dual POV, Soft Javier Peña, Rancher Javier Peña, romantic comedy, unprotected p in v (wrap it up!), creampie, oral sex (f receiving), rimming (f receiving), anal play, breeding kink, praise kink, some Papí’s, some spanks, multiple orgasms, so much fluff, feelings and emotions, (1) horse bite, (1) human bite, Chucho telling stories about Javi as a child, Javier being sweet with animals, Javier getting cockblocked, Javier looking like a whole ass meal in plaid flannel)

Pairing: Javier Peña/f!reader

word count: 16k+ (I’m sorry! But I promise it’s entertaining)

a/n: I’m alive! Sorry about how long this took. Life has been kicking me in the ass, but I’m hoping things are settling down. Thank you for your patience! This chapter got too long, so I have one more at the ranch to round out this arc, and then we’re going forward in time to hear some words we’ve been looking forward to. I hope you enjoy! Big thanks to @juletheghoul for being by my side through all of this and @invisibleismyname for betaing! I love you both.

Thank you for reading! Comments and reblogs are appreciated!

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They were sitting at his father’s dining room table, Javier forking another bite of pasta into his mouth, unable to stop the appreciative groan as the flavors hit his tongue. He’d never tire of Cielito’s cooking, she was too fucking talented, and he was positive she could do it professionally if she wanted. Honestly, there wasn’t anything she’d make that he wouldn’t eat, she could boil his leather shoes, and he’d happily eat them, because somehow she’d make them taste fucking incredible.

Cielito was a fantastic cook, and from how his father had gone for seconds with him, it was safe to say the older man agreed. It made him smile, watching her visibly relax, a beaming grin on her face when they’d served themselves another helping.

Chucho had told her repeatedly throughout the meal how good it was, easy conversation flowing between the three of them, his father getting to know his girlfriend better while also doing his best to embarrass the fuck out of Javier with stories of him growing up. Some of the shit he couldn’t even remember, feeling the flush on his cheeks, but it was all worth it when he saw the delight on her face.

“I should have made more garlic bread,” she said when both men reached for the last piece at the same time, Javier letting his dad have it.

“You made more than enough, baby,” he said, setting his fork down to squeeze the hand she had resting on the table beside him.

“Are you sure?” she asked with a smile. “I thought I made enough for your dad to have leftovers, but we demolished the baked ziti.”

It was true. There was hardly any pasta left in the casserole dish, and the side dishes of salad and garlic bread were also gone.

“My food has never been safe from Javi,” his dad mused, wiping his mouth with a paper napkin after swallowing his last bite, their attention turning to him. “Since he was muy pequeño (very tiny), he’s loved food—especially his mother’s. There was a dinner when he wasn’t even a year old. Antonia had made her special carne asada that she marinated for over a day and was always a special treat. She’d served up our plates, Javi sitting in my lap, drinking his bottle. We’d closed our eyes to say grace, and when I opened them, the little guy had the carne from my plate in his mouth—un pequeño ladrón (a little thief).” He chuckled. “Makes sense he’d steal my leftovers, too—un gran ladrón, ahora (a big thief, now).”

“Next time, I’ll make an extra dish just for you, Chucho,” Cielito said, leaning over to squeeze his dad’s arm.

“Thank you, mija.” His father looked delighted, patting her hand.

“Why does he get his own?” Javier asked, looking at her.

Her eyes met his, amusement etched on her features.

“I cannot believe you are jealous that I’m offering to make your dad food when you, sir,” she said, moving to poke his arm, “eat my food practically every day. Learn to share.” She glanced at his dad. “¿Cómo se dice ‘greedy’ (How do you say greedy)?”

“Codicioso,” Chucho answered with a grin.

She turned her attention back to him.

“Eres un ladrón y codicioso (You are a thief and greedy),” she said, poking him again, and he frowned. “Pero (But),” she added, eyes sparkling, leaning over to press her hand against his cheek, “me gustas mucho. Eres mi ladrón codicioso (I like you a lot. You’re my greedy thief).“

He couldn’t help but smile, turning his head to kiss her palm.

“Es que tu comida es tan deliciosa,” his words were muffled in her skin, his eyes locked on hers, “no me puedo controlar.” He kissed her palm once more before facing her again. “It’s just that your food is so good I can’t control myself,” he translated into English. “I never wanna fucking share, Cielito.”

“As the lovely lady said, codicioso, mijo (greedy, my son),” his dad said, shaking his head. “Dejar que un viejo pase hambre (Letting an old man go hungry).”

Javier raised an eyebrow at the other man.

“You don’t go hungry, Pop,” he said, picking his beer up and waving it a little as he spoke. “All the restaurants in town know your order without you having to ask, and we both know you can cook for yourself. Mamá made sure of that.” He raised the bottle towards his dad before bringing it to his lips, taking a long pull.

“That may be true,” Chucho said, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’d still deprive an old man of a delicious home-cooked meal? You have to learn to share, mijo. ¿Qué harás cuando tengas hijos (What will you do when you have children)?”

Javier’s eyes went wide as he choked on his drink, setting his bottle down as he sputtered, coughing into his arm while his other hand pounded on his chest, eyes watering.

Was his dad trying to kill him tonight? This was the second time he’d almost choked to death, and he was beginning to take it personally.

“Jesus, Javi,” Cielito said, looking concerned while leaning over to pat his back. “You’re just having the worst time drinking tonight. I need you alive, babe—think of the children,” she teased.

His heart clenched hard at her words, squashing down the inkling of hope that rose in his chest.

Javier wasn’t the kind of man who got the wife, white picket fence, and two and a half kids—he was already pressing his luck that he even found an amazingly beautiful woman who wanted to spend her life with him. Children? That seemed out of reach to him, a fever dream, something that popped into his head every once in a while that he immediately batted away, because who would want kids with someone like him? When he thought about Colombia, his past, the terrible fucking shit he’d done, there was no way he deserved the happiness of bringing children into this world, not when he thought about the innocent lives lost from his involvement with Los Pepes, or fuck, Helena and all that happened to her because she was trying to help him. Cielito could tell him every fucking day that he was a good man, but his mind made sure he remembered the pain he had caused, either directly or indirectly.

He wasn’t a good man. He had never been a good man. That was established before he’d even left for South America.

There was a moment when he saw Lorraine at Danny’s wedding, her picking up one of her kids, that he honest to god thought he’d made a mistake not marrying her—that maybe he could’ve learned to love her, and even though she treated him like shit, he could’ve had that American dream life everybody wants, with the house, wife, and kids. Again, his asshole of a brain had reminded him that wasn’t a life meant for him, that was never a life meant for him.

So, children weren’t in the cards for him, and he was just happy that Cielito even wanted to be with him to begin with, taking her comment as a joke because that’s all that it was.

He wiped the tears from his eyes with his hand, the coughing finally dissipating.

“Pop is trying to fucking murder me,” his voice was rough, finally looking at his dad. “Is this payback for all the shit I did growing up?”

“It was a valid question, mijo,” Chucho said, smiling and raising a hand in a placating gesture. “Lo siento (I’m sorry), I didn’t mean to make you choke. I’ll keep my future nietos (grandchildren) in mind before I speak.”

Javier’s jaw clenched, the tight feeling making itself known in his chest again.

“Yeah,” he said, grabbing his beer. “Keep dreamin’, Pop.” He took a swig, needing to do something.

“Speaking of things you did growing up,” his dad said, and Javier groaned, setting his bottle down. “Tu novia (Your girlfriend) would probably love to hear about that time you embarrassed your mother in church.”

Javier rested his elbows on the table, pressing his hands to his face.

“Which time?” he grumbled, thinking of a few different possibilities.

“When the air conditioning had gone out.” He was wracking his brain trying to remember. “You were maybe five or six, and it was during summer—mija, are you familiar with San Agustín downtown?” he asked Cielito.

“The cathedral with the bell tower?” she asked.

“Sí,” his father replied. “That’s the one. It’s been around since the 1800s—very old—they did major renovations in the 1940s, which included air conditioning, a blessing for the parish. One Sunday, Antonia, me, and Javi walked into the building, and it was warm, really warm—the air conditioning had gone out, and Javi said at the top of his lungs, ‘It’s hotter than hell in here!’” Chucho chuckled.

“That sounds like Javi,” Cielito said, laughing.

“Yes,” his dad nodded. “People laughed, but Antonia was madder than a wet hen.” His voice went a little higher, “‘Javier Jesús Peña López, donde aprendiste eso?’ Which means, ‘where did you learn that.’ Antonia dropped down to his level, and I’ll never forget his response, pointing his little finger at me, answering her with, ‘Papá! Cuando entró del trabajo!’ He threw me under the bus, telling her I’d said it when I came in from work!”

Cielito was giggling hard.

“Did you say it?” she asked.

“Well, yes,” Chucho answered. “It was summer and hotter than hell out here.” He laughed. “Mi amor always told me to watch what I said around Javi, but it must have slipped. She’d looked at me with fire in her eyes, and I knew I was in trouble.” His voice went up again, “‘¡Jesús Eduardo Peña Torres, debería darte vergüenza!’ ‘You should be ashamed of yourself!’” he translated. “I was shaking in my boots, mija.” Cielito was laughing at his tale. “Apologizing profusely, telling Javi that what I’d said was bad and not to repeat it. We’d both gotten in trouble that day—still makes me laugh how quickly he told on me, but he always loved his mom more.”

Javier’s eyebrows were in his hairline at his father’s last comment, his hands dropping as he looked at the other man across from him.

“Is Chucho your nickname?” Cielito asked, a bright smile on her face.

“Sí,” Chucho answered, nodding at her. “It’s what my family and friends have always called me—use it more than my birth name.” He shrugged. “My full name is Jesús Eduardo Peña Torres, but you can call me Chucho.” He smirked. “You’re practically family already.”

Javier’s brain was still focused on his dad saying that he loved his mom more, finding himself suddenly asking, “What?”

Chucho looked at him, eyebrows furrowing, the smile falling from his lips as he quickly started speaking in a severe tone, “¿Qué quieres decir (What do you mean)?” he asked. “Dijiste que ella era tu media naranja (You said she was your other half). Dijiste que querías casarte con ella (You said you wanted to marry her). Ella es familia y me cai bien, mijo (She is family, and I like her, my son).”

Javier’s mouth fell open, eyes widening at his dad’s words realizing his fuck up. He looked at the woman next to him, her gaze squinted as she looked forward like she was trying to put together the fast Spanish his father had said, clearly understanding it was about her. A knot was in his stomach, knowing that his delayed question and his father’s reaction probably had her feeling uneasy. Without a second thought, he grabbed her hand, watching her head snap to look in his direction to meet his eyes, seeing the trepidation, his heart clenching.

“I’m sorry for the confusion,” he said. “My brain had bad fucking timing. Everything Pop said was true.” Her head tilted in confusion, eyebrows dipping together. “You probably only caught half the shit he said with how he went off on me.” He humorlessly chuckled. “So, I’ll make sure you understand, Cielito,” he said, squeezing her hand. “You are a part of the family. You are my other half.” He watched her face slowly lighting up, making him smile. He swallowed hard before he spoke again. “And I really fucking hope you’ll marry me one day.”

“You don’t have anything to worry about, babe,” she said, smirking. “I’d be stupid to turn you down.”

He felt his cheek dimple when he grinned.

“Hopefully, you still feel that in the future, Cielito.”

“Oh, I will.”

“Come here,” he said, leaning over the corner of the table, her doing the same. His fingers slid along her cheek and into her hair, pressing his lips against hers in a tender kiss they were both smiling into.

They separated after a moment, his attention turning to his father, knowing his face was pinched in confusion.

“Pop, what did you mean that I loved mom more?” he asked.

There wasn’t a time that he’d ever thought he loved one parent more than the other. They were both so involved with his life growing up. He remembered riding horses for hours with his dad, talking about anything and everything, or sitting on the couch with his mother, learning to knit as she told him stories or helping her in the kitchen, her gentle voice walking him through what she was doing—they were there every step of the way through his childhood and teens, college, and even when he fucked off to Colombia he could count on them calling every Wednesday night.

At least until his mom got sick.

Javier found out about her illness in the summer of ‘90. He would’ve gone home, but his parents told him to stay, that he had a job to do, and at the time, things in Colombia were more fucked up than usual. He became the one to call them every Wednesday night and Friday, Sunday, too, practically calling them every other day to check up on his mom, not caring about his astronomical long-distance bill.

It caught him off guard when he got a call from his father on a Tuesday towards the end of January the following year telling him he needed to come home. He was there when she passed, he was there for her funeral, and not even two days after his mother had been laid to rest, Javier was back in South America trying to convince the Colombian government not to abolish extradition.

The Wednesday night calls ceased, neither man picking up the phone, be it from grief or guilt; the weekly calls became once-a-month calls just to check in.

The realization felt like a gut punch—he did love his mother more.

After her death, his quest for justice became personal. The desperation and grief had him making risky choices, doing things he would’ve never fathomed before, all because he had a vendetta against the people he’d spent years trying to take down.

He loved his dad a lot, and since he’d come back to Laredo, the two of them had gotten closer, having the same relationship they had when he was younger, but he missed his mom so fucking much.

His dad met his eyes from across the table, smiling softly.

“Oh, it’s okay, mijo,” Chucho said, waving away his question. “I understand. I loved your mamá a whole hell of a lot, too—still love her.” He held up his left hand, the silver band prominent on his ring finger. “I know we said, ‘til death do us part,’ but I’ll keep wearing this until the day I die, and even then, I’ll keep wearing it ‘cause I’ll finally be with her again,” he said with a sad smile.

Javier’s eyes felt like they were burning, a lump forming in his throat.

“I’m sorry if I, fuck.” He looked away, pushing his fingers through his hair. Javier sighed deeply. “I’m sorry if I ever made you feel like you were less.”

Cielito reached over to squeeze his hand near her, still resting on the table.

“I’ve never felt like that at all,” his dad said. “I know you love me, and I love you, Javi.”

“I love you, too.”

“Well,”—Chucho clapped his hands together—“This has been the best meal I’ve had in years. You’re very talented, mija. There’s just enough left for me to have a nice light lunch tomorrow. Hopefully, next time my son won’t be so codicioso and share with su papá (his dad).”

“I told you her cooking was really fucking good,” Javier said, looking at his dad again.

Cielito was smiling brightly, Chucho meeting his gaze.

“And I meant what I said when you made me that sandwich from her recipe,” he said with a smirk. “Si no te casas con ella, será el gran error de tu vida,” he spoke the words clearly and slowly before looking over at Cielito. “Would you like me to translate, mija?”

“If you wouldn’t mind,” she replied, giggling.

“I told him”—he pointed at Javier with his thumb—“that if he doesn’t marry you, it will be the biggest mistake of his life.”

“Thanks, Chucho,” she said, laughing. “You’re sweet. We should have dinner every week.”

His father looked excited.

“I’d love that!” He met Javier’s eyes. “Can you stand to have dinner with your dear old father once a week, mijo?”

“Sí, Pop. Of course.”

“It’s a date!” His dad clapped his hands together again. “Now, since the two of you made dinner, I will clean up—”

Cielito interrupted, “Oh, you don’t have—”

His dad put up a hand, stopping her words. “I insist, mija.”

“I can clean up, Pop,” Javier said.

“No, mijo.” Chucho shook his head. “You gave her a tour of the inside of the house. Go show her the outside. I’m sure she’d love to see the calves.”

“There are baby cows?” she asked excitedly.

“Yes,” his dad answered with a grin. “Calving season was a couple of months ago.”

She turned to him.

“Please show me the babies.”

“Of course,” Javier replied, smiling and pushing back his chair to stand up. He held his hand out to her. “Come on, baby, I’ll introduce you to the animals.”

She squealed happily as she took his hand, getting up from her chair, and he chuckled, leading her from the kitchen and through the back hall, stopping before he opened the back door.

“I’m gonna put on my boots,” he said, releasing her hand as he toed off his shoes.

Lined on the floor against the wall below the coat hooks were two pairs of cowboy boots, the leather aged and worn, and some of his dad’s tennis shoes.

“Oh my god, you’re going to wear cowboy boots?” she asked. He could see the excitement on her face, and it made him smirk.

“Yeah,” he answered.

His were handmade in Mexico, the tobacco-colored leather embroidered in a very subtle design with the hand-laid cording, and not very showy, unlike his father’s pair that were two-toned with the long shaft a bluish-grey, while the heel and toe were a golden brown made from shark skin. Javier had scoffed when he’d seen the boots upon returning to Laredo, his dad claiming they were stronger than traditional leather and water resistant, but he knew his father just thought they were cool.

Stepping into one of his, he leaned down to hold the pull straps at the top and pushed his sock-covered foot all the way in, his jeans sliding up before he pulled the denim over the leather.

“Is one of these yours?” she asked.

He looked up to see her pointing at the two cowboy hats hanging over rain jackets—one black and one white.

“Yeah, the dark one,” he answered, getting his other boot on.

Cielito grabbed his and put it on her head.

“You wear the boots but not this amazing hat?”

He stood back up, standing in front of her, his thumb rubbing over his lip while taking in the way the hat was slightly too big for her head, the brim at her eyebrow line and making her look adorable.

Smiling, he tipped up the front with his finger. “I don’t like how fucking hot it makes my head.”

“You’re always hot,” she said with a wink, smiling.

He moved into her space, his fingers tilting her chin to look at him.

“I like how you look in it,” he rasped, ducking his head under the brim to speak near her ear. “I’d like how you’d look in only it.” His brain was conjuring up images of her riding him in nothing but the felt hat atop her head, her tits bouncing in his face. He wet his bottom lip, his jeans feeling tighter with the blood rushing to his dick.

“Javi,” she gasped softly, the visible skin on her shoulder and arms erupting in goosebumps.

He kissed her cheek, moving his face to slant his lips against hers, the hat pushing up more to accommodate him beneath it. His hands came up to cradle her cheeks, licking along her lip, and she opened for him, Javier deepening the kiss, tangling his tongue with hers in the way he knew drove her crazy. He was delighted when he heard the softest moan, kissing her harder, feeling her fingers gripping the front of his shirt.

Fuck, he loved kissing her.

Her mouth fit so perfectly with his, one of his hands moving down the front of her body to palm her breast, earning him a louder moan that had electricity shooting through his body, his cock twitching in his pants.

“I’m still here!” his dad called from the kitchen, hearing the sound of running water and the clatter of dishes.

Javier broke the kiss with a groan, resting his forehead against hers.

“This is why we stay at your apartment,” he mused with a sigh. “No one to interrupt us.”

She giggled, rubbing her hands over his chest and probably feeling his pounding heart.

“I mean, Mrs. Hernandez did bang on the wall last Saturday,” she said.

A crooked smile curled on his lips at the reminder of how they’d spent their day in bed, with Javier determined to beat his record of how many times he could get her to come before she passed out.

It happened at fifteen.

Number twelve was when he had her face down, ass up, her hands clutched in the sheets while she screamed his name. He’d been pounding into that one spot he knew made her drool, his fingers on her clit, and she was so loud when he made her squirt—her voice hoarse, his lap drenched, and Mrs. Hernandez was banging against the wall to tell them to quiet down.

It had been a really fucking good day.

He was knocked from his thoughts, air leaving his lungs in a hiss, when a hand pressed into the front of his jeans, knowing he was half-hard.

“Fucking knew it,” she whispered for only him to hear, palming him. “You’re thinking about it.”

He pulled back to look her in the eyes, seeing the knowing look on her face.

“Of course I am,” he said just as quietly, squeezing her tit. “Fucking can’t stop thinking about my dick being inside you.”

“God, that sounds good,” her voice had that huskiness to it where he knew she was imagining the same things as him, and it was making him harder. “Can’t fucking wait to get home.”

He had to keep himself from laughing, an amused snort leaving his nose.

There was no fucking way they were making it back to her apartment without her wanting him to fuck her. There was no fucking way they were making it back into this house without her wanting him to fuck her.

With narrowed eyes, she asked, “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing, baby,” he said, quickly kissing her lips. “Let me show you around the ranch, and then we can get the fuck out of here.”

She didn’t look like she believed him.

“Sounds like a plan,” she said slowly.

He pulled back from her, adjusting his dick in his jeans, seeing her amused look, he grabbed her hand to put it back on his bulge.

“This is all you,” he husked, loving how her eyes got darker, her mouth falling open. It was taking everything in his power not to kiss her again.

“We’re leaving, Pop!” he yelled.

“Have fun!” his dad answered, still doing dishes from the sounds in the kitchen.

Javier took the hat off her head, putting it back on the hook, and grabbed her hand still on him, “Come on, Cielito,” he said, pulling her behind him as he got the back door open.

The back of the house featured a concrete patio where his father’s fancy grill was set up, along with a glass dining table surrounded by six outdoor cushioned chairs.

Many family gatherings had been held in the backyard, a large patch of green grass that had an ample amount of seating for their large family. A picnic table was in the yard, plastic chairs surrounded a large fire pit, and other seats scattered about that had probably been brought over by people and simply left.

Javier could almost picture his tíos and tías and all the primos running around while music played.

He led Cielito away from the house and along the dirt path towards the barns.

The chicken coop was their first stop, the wooden structure with windows to look inside and a large enclosed chicken run that was fenced in with chain link and small mesh wire, a roof overtop to keep the animals cool during the summer months.

“The chickens,” he said, pointing at the clucking red-feathered creatures moving around their space—there were only about a dozen in their flock.

“For fresh eggs?” Cielito asked.

“Yeah,” he answered, chuckling, “and the occasional meal.” She made a face, and he laughed. “They used to roam free”—he waved his hand—“but my mom got tired of chasing them down and made Pop and me build this.” He patted the fence.

“It looks very nice and sturdy. I’m sure it protects them from predators, too.”

“Yes,” he replied with a nod. “That too. Come on.” He grasped her hand, taking her down the path and walking beside a large paddock that was currently empty. “We let the horses roam in here.” He pointed to the open space surrounded by metal rail fencing.

“To let them relax after working so hard.” She nodded. “That’s good.”

“Yeah, before we stable them for the night—which, speaking of stables.” They were approaching the new barn, the big doors already open.

They entered the building, a center aisle with a row of stalls on each side. Just inside, to the right was storage where they kept food and supplies, and to the left was the tack room with the saddles and equipment. There was a hum of fans running and noises of the horses huffing out breaths and moving about their spaces.

“Pop just had this built—the old one was fucking old and falling apart.” He took her into the storage area, pulling open a burlap sack. “Sombra will be pissed if we visit without bringing her una manzana (an apple),” he said, grabbing two apples with his hand. “Will you hold some of these?” he asked, looking over at Cielito.

“Gimme,” she answered, smiling and holding out her hands.

He returned her smile, handing her apples until she had four carefully tucked against her body with one arm, leaving one of her hands empty. Javier got four apples, fitting three easily in his palm, the fourth stacked on top.

When his attention turned back to Cielito, her eyes were locked on the fruit he was holding, but it was the way she was looking at his hand that had his chest puffing out a little. He knew that look, when her pupils went wide, lips slightly parted, her breathing heavier.

“See something you like?” he asked, smirking when he saw her gulp.

She met his gaze, her eyes narrowing, “You’re seducing me again,” she accused, poking her finger into his chest.

“I’m holding apples. How am I seducing you, Cielito?” he asked in an amused tone.

“You have the audacity to dress like something out of a cowboy romance novel!” She pointed at his shirt. “The plaid, with the pushed-up sleeves and those buttons undone so I can see your chest, and my god, you know how wet your neck makes me. The fucking cowboy boots and your big ass hand is holding three fucking apples. Three!” She held up three fingers for emphasis. “Javier, you are well aware of how horny your hands make me, and you’re just taunting me, teasing me, with this display.” She waved her hand at his body. “Ugh, you’ve ruined my panties again”—she poked him in the chest again—“and now I have to deal with being so fucking wet until we get home.”

His cock was throbbing in his jeans at her frustration, swallowing hard.

“I’m sorry for making you horny,” he didn’t mean for the words to come out so husky, but all of his self-control was going into not tossing the fruit and fucking her against a wall.

“You’re not sorry—not even the slightest bit,” she said, pouting. “It’s fine.” She sighed. “Just gotta stop thinking about you with a hand on my boob and your fingers inside me. God, they’re so thick,” she whined, his dick twitching. She shook her head like she was trying to make the thoughts go away. “Make me stop thinking about horny things, babe.”

That was going to be a real fucking challenge with the fact his brain was running through all of the available surfaces he could fuck her on. She looked so fucking amazing in her dress, but Javier was leaning towards stripping it off of her, sitting her on a nearby table, and fucking her while he sucked on her gorgeous tits.

There was a long pause before he realized she was waiting for him to speak, “Enrique bites,” he said dumbly.

“Enrique?” her head tilted as she asked the question.

“A big asshole of a horse,” he said, getting his wits back. “The rest are fine, but watch out for him—he’s the last stall on the right. Follow me.” He was ignoring the fact his dick was straining against his zipper, knowing she was behind him as they walked down the aisle with four occupied stalls on each side, stopping at the first one on the right. “This is Dulce. She’s my cousin’s.” The chestnut-colored horse noticed them and walked over, sticking her head out over the door, and huffing out a breath. “Hola, Dulce,” he greeted. Cielito looked hesitant. “Hold out the apple in your palm. Keep it flat.” He watched as she did as he instructed. “Pop always told me growing up, ‘feed the lips, not the teeth.’” Dulce took the apple in one bite, hearing her teeth work as she chewed it.

“Can I pet her?” Cielito asked, looking at him with big eyes.

“Yeah.” He smiled. “Her name is fitting, and she likes her ears scratched.”

“Dulce means ‘sweet,’ right?” she asked, moving her free hand up to scratch behind the horse’s ears.

“Sí,” he replied, his free hand raising to rub Dulce’s neck. “She’s a sweetheart. Isn’t that right, cariño?” He patted her, hearing her nicker happily, the sound low in pitch from her nose, making him grin.

They moved from Dulce across the aisle to Fuego, a sorrel-colored Belgian draft horse, her coat a bright copper with white feet. Cielito knew what to do, the horse happily accepting the offered fruit and pets before they moved to the next stall.

Aside from Sombra and his dad’s horse, the rest belonged to his cousins who worked at the ranch, Enrique only letting his tío, Ángel, ride him. Javier introduced her to a blonde mare named Lucía; There was Churro, who had a chestnut coat with a white stripe down her face (his primo’s daughter named her); In the stall next to Enrique was Armand, a gray gelding who butted at Cielito’s hand trying to get more apples.

“Eres codicioso (you’re greedy),” she said, giggling and scratching under Armand’s chin, the horse nickering at her. “I’m sorry, buddy, Javi only brought enough apples for each of you to have one, but it was nice meeting you.”

Javier was holding the three remaining apples, allowing Cielito to use both of her hands to pet the animal.

“Geldings fucking love food. They get distracted easily,” he said.

“Well, if you couldn’t fuck, wouldn’t you be obsessed with food?” she asked with a smirk, giving Armand one last scritch under his chin before moving with Javier to the stall across from them.

“I guess so,” he said, handing her an apple.

“If geldings are neutered and obsessed with food, I’m assuming stallions are obsessed with food and sex?”

“Yeah.” Javier nodded. “That’s right. Stallions just wanna eat and fuck.”

“That sounds awfully familiar,” she purred, moving into his space, and looking up at him through her lashes. She slid a finger along the skin he had exposed from his open shirt, starting at the base of his throat and moving down, making a tingle move down his spine. “All you wanna do,” she said, her hand moving lower over his shirt, “is eat and fuck.” He swallowed thickly when her hand made it to the front of his jeans, licking his lips when she palmed his cock which was still hard. “Makes sense, with a dick like this”—she squeezed him, and he groaned, eyes closing for a moment, lips parting as he focused on breathing—“you could have any woman you wanted.” His heart was pounding in his chest, his cock throbbing under her hand—he was under her spell, watching as she leaned into him to hover her lips near his ear, speaking in a sultry tone, “But you don’t want just any woman. Isn’t that right?”

His self-control left his body as quickly as the apples fell from his hand, making Cielito gasp in surprise when he lightly grasped under her chin, moving her face to crush his mouth against hers. His other arm wrapped around her back, walking her backward, kissing her needily. His tongue pressed hungrily into her mouth, swallowing her moans as he backed her into the wooden stall wall, caging her in, the kiss a mess of tongues, lips, and teeth, unable to get enough.

He was so worked up, drunk on everything about her—feeling her, smelling her, tasting her, drowning in her, his only thought was that he needed to be inside her. She was just as ravenous, matching his energy, her fingers tangled in his hair, his hand grabbing the meat of her thigh to hike it up on his hip, the other moving between their bodies and under the front of her dress, sliding his palm over her panty-covered pussy, feeling her wetness seeping through the material.

“You,” he murmured against her lips. “Only fucking want you—need you. Let me have you, baby, please.” He sounded desperate, his cock painfully hard in his jeans.

“Yes,” she answered.

He groaned into her mouth, her answer making his dick throb. She was offering him nirvana, and Javier couldn’t move quickly enough, needing to feel her, needing to be inside her and to make her come, wanting to have her feeling as good as she made him feel.

His fingers started pushing under the waistband of her underwear—a snout nudged hard against Javier’s cheek, the horse blowing out a huff of hot air through its nostrils and making a low snorting sound, causing him to stop all of his movements, Cielito giggling into his mouth. He couldn’t help the whine of frustration as he pulled back from her to glare at the interloper vying for his attention.

“¡Por Dios, yo estoy ocupado (For God's sake, I am busy)!” He rubbed the horse’s head affectionately, it nickering in response. “¡Mierda, eres peor que mi papá (Shit, you’re worse than my dad)!”

“I have never been cockblocked by a horse before,” Cielito laughed.

Javier sighed. “Well, it makes fucking sense it's Caramelo,” he said, pointing at the golden horse, her mane white. “She’s Pop’s and a cockblock like her fucking owner.” He scratched Caramelo’s ear.

“A very cute cockblock, though,” Cielito said, holding up the apple in her palm and Caramelo taking it with a happy sound as she chewed the fruit.

“I’m gonna have fucking blue balls,” he complained, frowning.

She smoothed her hands down her dress before pressing her palms to his cheeks.

“Oh, pobrecito (you poor thing)!” she cooed, leaning in to kiss his mouth. He held her closer, a smile creeping up on his lips as she smothered his face in kisses, moving her hands to get his cheeks and low on his chin.

“I am un pobrecito (a poor thing),” he said, her mouth landing on his once more and making him moan.

Caramelo nudged against his head again.

“¡Ay!” he exclaimed, breaking the kiss to narrow his eyes at the horse. “Mala, Caramelo (Bad, Caramelo). ¿Por qué me odias (Why do you hate me)?” He stomped his foot, Caramelo whinnying in response. Cielito was laughing, and he looked back at her with a frown, sighing as he removed his arms from around her.

“I think she wants attention,” she giggled.

“Yeah.” He rubbed his hand through his hair before moving to stand in front of the stall door, the horse moving her head to follow him. Javier slid a hand along her cheek, the other scratching at her ear. “¿Estás celosa (Are you jealous)?” he murmured. “¿Es eso (Is that it)? We brought you an apple—that’s not enough, though, huh?” He got under her chin, Caramelo huffing out a happy breath.

“Well, that’s a new one,” Cielito mused.

He looked over at her, still continuing to give the horse attention.

“Huh?” he asked.

“New turn-on unlocked,” she smirked, walking up next to him. She rubbed her hand over his bicep, looking at him through her eyelashes and making him gulp. “You being sweet with the animals is really doing it for me. Honestly, if there wasn’t a risk of being interrupted, I’d let you finish what you started.”

“Baby,” he groaned, eyes closing for a second. He gave Caramelo one last pat before having to adjust his hard dick in his jeans, cursing the fact he liked them so fucking tight.

“Better show me the other animals so we can get going,” she purred, moving to kiss his cheek.

She was driving him crazy, but he had a plan in the back of his mind.

He turned his head to kiss her quickly, then moved past her to lean down and pick up the apples he’d dropped, groaning when he stood back up.

“It was nice meeting you, Caramelo,” Cielito said, giving said horse a scratch under her chin.

He had both apples held easily in one hand, grabbing one of hers in his other, and practically dragged her to the next stall wanting to get the animal introductions done as quickly as possible.

You couldn’t help but giggle at the way Javi was rushing you to the next horse.

“Hola, Sombra,” Javi said, using that calming tone he seemed to take when speaking to the animals. You thought it was sweet, all of the horses seeming to like him quite a bit, which showed that this was how he always treated them.

A big all-black horse stuck their head out over the door, welcoming Javi’s rubs to its nose as he spoke quickly in Spanish, your brain only recognizing some of the words.

“What did you say to them?” you asked, watching him seem to have a moment with the animal.

He looked at you with a soft smile.

“I told her, ‘quiero que conozcas mi media naranja,’” he said, speaking the words clearly, “I’d like you to meet my other half. ‘Ella es muy importante para mi,’ she is very important to me. ‘Porta te bien, por favor,’ behave yourself, please.”

A snort left your nose at the last bit, feeling like you were melting from the softness. You weren’t lying when you said it was a turn-on, how good he was with the animals. It revved your engines and showed you he was nurturing, compassionate, and caring, all things you already knew but seeing them displayed with these creatures did something to you. Loving him more seemed impossible, yet here you were, your body feeling all warm and fuzzy because your boyfriend was an animal lover.

Moving to stand beside Javi, he handed you an apple, and you focused on the horse because if you didn’t, you’d end up making out with your boyfriend again. Holding the fruit out in your palm, you smiled when Sombra took it immediately.

“Hola, Sombra,” you greeted. “Mucho gusto (Nice to meet you).”

She had kind, big brown eyes, the horse happily chewing the apple. You admired her shiny black coat and large ears; she’d finished eating, Javi chuckling and petting her head when she made that happy sound through her nose.

“What does ‘Sombra’ mean?” you asked, glancing at him.

“Shadow. Mi mamá named her.”

You felt your eyes widen, knowing his mom had passed over seven years prior. You figured Javi got Sombra when he returned to Laredo, but now you wondered how old she was—some horses could live to be well over thirty. “Oh, did your mom name Caramelo, too?” You pointed at the other horse next door.

He shook his head. “No, Pop named her, but he did name her after mom’s flan—you know, the sweet custard dessert with caramel sauce on top?” You nodded. “Pop loved my mom’s. His favorite dessert and a big fucking surprise he’d even share with us,” he said with a chuckle. “So, Caramelo, caramel.”

“That’s sweet,” you replied, reaching out to rub Sombra’s ear. “And your mom also named your horse?”

He gave said horse one last pat before rubbing his hand through his hair, his other holding the remaining apple and resting on his hip. His throat bobbed, Javi gulping before he spoke.

“Uh”—He scratched at his mustache—“Sombra wasn’t always my horse,” he said slowly.

Your eyebrows knit together, your fingers scratching under her chin.

“Okay?”

“She was my mom’s.”

Your hand stopped, eyes focusing on Sombra, feeling her breaths on your arm, those big brown eyes of hers watching you. She was a gorgeous horse, and much larger than the rest—even bigger than Caramelo. She nudged your hand, demanding more pets, and you smiled, continuing to rub over her cheek.

“How old is she?” you asked.

“About seventeen.”

“So, when you came back, you took her over?”

“I needed a horse, and Pop had always taken good care of her. I was lucky she seemed to like me and didn’t just buck my ass off the first time I tried to ride her,” he chuckled, reaching over to scratch her ear. “Te gusto (You like me),” he cooed. “¿No es así (Isn’t that right)?”

Sombra whinnied in response, and you saw Javi smiling when you looked over at him, your hand still petting the horse.

“I think all of the horses like you,” you said. “You’re like the horse whisperer.”

“The power of treats,” he smirked. “It’s more they want the food than like me.” He shrugged.

“I’m not too sure about that. Caramelo seemed to really want your attention.”

“Caramelo just wanted to make sure I didn’t get laid.”

“How rude of her.”

“Very.”

“Sombra seems like a very good horse.”

“She is,” he agreed. You watched as his free hand went to pull his wallet out of his back pocket, him having to do some maneuvering while holding the apple to open the worn black leather to get something out. It was a small photograph, Javi holding it out to you. “This was maybe a year or two after they got her. Mom really liked her.”

In the color photo were Antonia and Chucho on top of their horses beside each other, both smiling to the camera, Sombra taller than Caramelo, and Antonia looking so small on the back of her horse. They were both much older than they looked in the black and white photo you saw in the house, their hair beginning to grey and more lines on their faces. You couldn’t help but smile at how happy they both looked, holding their reins.

“How did your mom even get on top of Sombra?” you asked, meeting his eyes. She was a smaller woman.

“In the stable?” Javi grinned. “She’d use a mounting block, or Pop would help her. While out riding? She’d just lower the stirrups, or Pop would help her.”

You eyed the horse for a second.

“I would definitely need help.”

There was no way you could get up onto a saddle directly from the ground. She was tall; you’d need a boost. Javi carefully put the photograph back into his wallet and away into his pocket.

“Would you like to go for a ride later?” he asked.

Your head was turning towards him quickly, eyes wide.

“Like, riding the horse alone? I’ve only ridden ponies as a kid, where someone was leading. These horses are all huge—I’d fall off and crack my head open.”

“I’d never let anything happen to you,” he said, frowning. “You wouldn’t be riding alone. We can ride together, and” —he leaned in close like he was about to tell you a secret—”I’ll help you up… and down.” He ended the sentence by kissing your cheek.

Your eyebrow rose, “You do love helping me up and down, but usually it’s on your dick,” you teased, making Javi chuckle and kiss your cheek again. “If I’m with you, I’d love to go for a ride, but you have to promise that I won’t fall.”

“I promise, baby,” he said, moving his mouth to softly kiss your lips. His hand smoothed down your back to grab a handful of your ass. “You wanna meet Enrique or get out of here?”

You could hear the promise in his words, and it made your core clench smiling into his mouth.

“Mmm,” you hummed, pulling back to look at him. “I’m intrigued by this asshole horse, and it’d be mean to leave without giving him an apple.”

He sighed.

“With how many fucking times he’s bitten me, I’m not too inclined to give him one.”

You turned your body to face him, moving your hands up to cradle his cheeks.

“Did Enrique hurt your feelings?” you cooed.

Javi frowned, and you smiled.

“No,” he sniffed. “He’s just a dick.”

“Well, let’s go give him an apple quickly, and then we can look at the calves. After that, we can go for the ride, then say goodbye to your dad, and”—you trailed a hand down his front, until you were grabbing his bulge—”we can finally fuck without interruptions at my apartment.”

“Fuck, Cielito,” he groaned, leaning in to kiss you hard. “Want you so fucking bad,” he murmured against your lips.

“Same.”

His free hand was still on your ass, and he gave it a squeeze.

“Let’s get going,” he said as he separated from you. He gave Sombra scratches on her ear. “Adíos, Sombra. Nosotros volveremos (We will be back).” She snorted happily in answer.

Smiling, you petted the horse.

“Mucho gusto, Sombra (It was nice meeting you, Sombra). Eres muy bonita (You’re very pretty). We’ll be back.”

Javi led you across the aisle to the other stall, pausing before you got to it.

“Do you want to feed him?” he asked, holding up the apple in question. “Or do you want me to do it since he’s a biter?”

Thinking about it for a second, you put your hand out, wanting to be brave.

“I will feed the asshole horse.”

“Keep your hand flat,” he said in a serious tone, as he set the fruit in your palm.

“Yes, Javi. ‘Feed the lips, not the teeth,’” you repeated his earlier words.

“Exactly, and once he takes it, step out of his reach.”

“You make him sound like a dangerous prisoner who will murder me if I get too close.”

His eyebrows furrowed as he frowned.

“He’s fucking opportunistic—will bite without hesitation, and it hurts like hell,” he said. “I don’t want anything happening to you. So, stay out of his way.”

“Okay, babe,” you nodded. “It’s very sweet of you being so protective. I’ll do everything you’ve said, but I’m sure I’ll be okay.”

He didn’t look convinced, nodding his head once.

Facing the stall, you could see the horse milling about, your eyes widening at just how big he was. You’d thought Sombra was big, but Enrique was bigger—a tall black mass with white markings, who, upon your approach, came to investigate. Nerves were swirling in your belly as he stuck his large head out over the door, huffing out air through his nose, almost sounding annoyed, dark eyes boring into you.

“Hi, Enrique,” you said. “You’re not gonna bite me, right?” Holding the apple in your palm, you extended your arm, and slowly moved toward him until he quickly snatched it out of your hand, causing you to jump a little. You took a step back, like Javi asked, and sure the horse was a bit aggressive, but he didn’t seem all that bad.

Enrique had finished eating and was nodding his head up and down, wanting more treats, breathing loudly mixed with high-pitched neighing.

“No más (No more),” Javi said, moving to stand beside you, with his arms crossed over his chest. “Tienes suerte de tener una manzana (You’re lucky to be getting one apple).” You could hear the horse stomping its front hooves as it squealed. Javi turned his head towards you, “We should go so he’ll calm down.”

“Okay,” you nodded.

He stepped in front of you, his body blocking Enrique while he placed a comforting hand on your back to lead you away, the other pointing towards the door. “Let’s go, ba—FUCK!’ he shouted, suddenly stumbling into you and making you step backward and away from the stall, Javi following.

“What?!” you asked, confused, grabbing hold of his biceps to steady yourself, his body pressed into yours, a pained expression on his face.

“He bit my ass!” he growled, rubbing his free hand over his injury while he glared over his shoulder at the horse. “Pinche caballo loco (Crazy fucking horse)!” Enrique whinnied proudly in response.

“Okay, so not all of the horses like you,” you said. Javi faced you again, his face pinched, clearly upset. “Why does he hate you so much?” you asked.

“He hates everyone,” he seethed. “Barely tolerates my uncle, who is the only person he’ll let ride him.”

“So, he’s just a grump.”

“A fucking asshole,” Javi corrected.

“A grumpy asshole. At least the other horses were nice.”

That made his face relax a little, a small smile turning up on his lips.

“You liked them?” he asked.

“I did,” you answered with a nod. “Very beautiful, and so friendly, except He Who Shall Not Be Named. How’s your ass, babe?”

“Fucking hurts,” he grimaced, moving his hand to rub it again.

“Need me to kiss it better?”

He looked at you with round, puppy dog eyes, pouting.

“Yes,” he said with a nod.

“Will a kiss on the lips tide you over until I can get you naked?”

He let out a long sigh, “Yes,” he replied, nodding again.

You tried to fight the smile, but your lips still lifted up.

“Oh, mi pobrecito (my poor thing),” you cooed, cupping his cheeks as you leaned in to kiss him. “That enough?” you asked after kissing him once.

“No,” he said into your lips, his hands coming up to cradle your face, kissing you harder. You let him take what he needed to make himself feel better, losing himself in your kiss until you were both breathing heavily, Javi pulling back to nudge his nose against yours as you smiled.

“Better?” you asked.

“A little.” Enrique started making noise again and rattling the door to his stall, making Javi sigh. He turned his head to look over his shoulder. “Nosotros nos vamos (We’re leaving)!” he shouted at the horse. He faced you again. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.” Without another word, he took your hand as he pulled you behind him and out of the stable.

Outside was brighter, causing you to squint as you exited the building, the temperature still warm. There were still a couple of hours before sunset, Javi leading you down the dirt path to the neighboring barn. There was another paddock, the space surrounded by a metal fence, and inside, you could see a handful of cows eating from a trough, their babies close to their sides, others spread out in the space.

The two of you approached the fence, Javi leaning against it and resting a booted foot on a lower rail, an almost perfect picture of a cowboy if he’d just been wearing his hat. The image made you grin, taking up the space at his side as you looked at the cattle, seeing that some were black and others red.

“I know you’re a rancher,” you started, glancing over at him. “I know it’s a cattle ranch, but I’m going to be real, babe. I have no idea what the fuck you do for a living.”

He met your eyes as he laughed, his eyes crinkling at the edges.

“We’re a cow-calf ranch—we breed cows to sell.”

“Oh, okay. Tell me about it.”

His arms were crossed over the railing, his shoulders relaxed as he explained.

Their operation wasn’t too big, more quality over quantity, and the majority of their herd was made up of adult female cows and their calves, along with heifers - female cows who hadn’t reached breeding age yet. They only had a few bulls, Javi pointing behind you both at a fenced-in pasture where you could see them out grazing, used for mating. The calves were born during late spring, and once weaned, they were raised until the age they could be sold.

“Are these all the calves from this year?” you asked, pointing into the paddock.

“No,” he answered with a shake of his head. “Most are out on the land.” He pointed out in the distance. “These ones like being close to food.” He stepped away from the railing, putting his hand out to you. “Come with me. Let me show you something,” he said, smiling.

“Okay,” you replied, accepting his hand. He led you to the barn, Javi pushing the door open, hearing it squeal from age as it moved.

The ceilings were lower than you were expecting, with a good layer of hay on the floor, cushioning your steps, him taking you into a room where the floor was relatively clean. It had to be a supply room, spotting feed bags, and other things needed to take care of animals, along with a kitchen setup complete with a fridge. You watched as Javi got into the refrigerator and pulled out two large bottles, already filled with what you assumed was milk.

Realization hit you, “Oh my god, are we going to feed calves?” you asked.

Excitement was bubbling in your belly over the idea of getting close to some of the babies.

“We are,” he answered, smiling at you as he walked over to the sink and turned it on. He tested the temperature with his fingers for a minute before putting one of the bottles under the tap, twisting it in his hand, and making the milk swirl. “You don’t want it to be too hot,” he said.

“Do you feed them cow’s milk?”

“No, it’s a milk replacement—more nutritious, which is needed when they can’t get it directly from their mother.”

Your mind went to when you both were watching the cattle a little bit ago, many of the little ones happily drinking from their mothers.

“Are there other calves that aren’t outside with the rest?” you asked slowly, feeling your brows knit together.

“Yeah,” Javi replied. “Two.”

“Did… did something happen to their moms?” you asked softly, unable to help thinking the worst.

He glanced over his shoulder at you, “Their moms are fine,” he reassured. “Sometimes calves are abandoned or rejected by their mothers. In this case, they were abandoned.” He frowned, turning his attention back to what he was doing.

You matched his look as you spoke, “Oh, that’s really fucking sad.”

“It is.” You saw his head nod. “When cows have twins, it’s common for the mother to forget about one of them, and as fucked up as it is, sometimes the mothers just lose interest. We did a count, and we’re pretty sure one of them is a twin.”

He turned off the water, and you watched as he squirted some of the milk onto his inner wrist, nodding to himself that it wasn’t too hot before wiping it off with a nearby towel. Setting the warmed bottle on the counter, he put the other under the faucet, going through the same motions to get it ready.

“Luckily,” he said, “these two were found on the same day, so they’ve been together. Bottle-fed calves get lonely by themselves.”

He went through testing the temperature of the milk and, once satisfied, turned to face you, holding out the bottle, and you took it, the plastic warm under your fingers.

“Every season,” he continued, “a couple of calves have to be bottle-fed for one reason or another—it’s common. You ready to meet them?” He had the fondest smile on his face, and it made you feel like you were going to melt.

“Javier, you just told me these sweet baby cows were abandoned by their mothers. Yes, I am ready to meet them. I’m this close”—you held up your free hand, pinching your fingers close together—“to figuring out a way to take them home. I’m sure Mrs. Hernandez wouldn’t mind some cow neighbors.”

His eyebrow quirked, “Mrs. Hernandez barely tolerates human neighbors. I wouldn’t push your luck, baby.”

“Mrs. Hernandez loves me, thank you very much. She’s just not fond of the guy who makes me sound like a fucking porn star.” You paused as you thought about it. “Jesus, the noises you get out of me.” Heat started creeping up your neck, feeling hot.

Before Javi, there wasn’t a single partner you’d been with who made you scream their name. Hell, you thought loud moaning was just played up for porn, but apparently, if someone fucked you good enough, the sounds were a reality—a very loud reality.

He was smirking now, looking a little too proud of himself, as he closed the distance, his hands pulling your hips into him, Javi leaning in to kiss you.

“Love the sounds you make,” he murmured against your lips.

Kissing him one last time, you moved your head back to look at him.

“I know you do. You love them so much you never quiet me down, so really, you only have yourself to blame for Mrs. Hernandez not liking you.”

He seemed to think about it for a second.

“Yeah,” he said, nodding, “It’s worth it.”

That made you laugh.

“God, you’re ridiculous,” you said, playfully hitting his chest. “I would like to see the babies.”

“Follow me, Cielito,” he said, moving to grab the other bottle before taking your free hand and leading you out of the room.

Like the stable, the barn had a center aisle with stalls on each side, except where the others were fenced in with wood to make sure the horses couldn’t bother each other, the cow stalls were all separated with metal rail fencing similar to what was around the paddocks. Lights were hanging from the ceiling, and holes that you assumed hay was pushed down from, if the strands dangling from them were anything to go by. Fans were built into the walls for circulation, humming loudly as Javi took you to the first stall on the left.

Immediately, the two calves were bounding quickly toward the gate, making Javi chuckle.

“¡Hola, mis preciosas (Hello, my lovelies)!” His voice took on that sweet tone again that had you grinning. “¿Me extrañaste?” He turned his head toward you, smiling, “I asked if they missed me.”

“With how excited they are to see you, I think they did,” you laughed.

“Yeah, don’t worry if they come out. They’ll follow us back in.”

“Okay,” you replied.

He opened the door, and the calves were at his legs like giant puppies begging for attention and following you both back inside.

One was black, and the other red, neither paying you any attention, clearly over the moon to be seeing Javi—it was evident they were familiar with him.

Standing at his side, you started petting the back of the black one, and she seemed to realize there was another person, rubbing her head against your leg. “Do they have names?” you asked with a glance to the man next to you.

“Uh,” Javi leaned down, grabbing the red calf's ear tag. “Eight-Seventeen,” he answered. He looked at the other, his eyes squinting as he read, “and Eight-thirty-three.”

Your eyebrows had risen. “I’m sorry, they don’t have names?” You could hear the surprise in your voice.

Straightening up, he gave you a sheepish look.

“No? Just endearments?”

“Unacceptable,” you replied. “They need names! Look at how cute they are.”

He huffed out an amused breath, smiling.

“We can name them. Lower the bottle down. She’ll drink it.”

Doing as he said, the calf was eagerly latching onto the long red nipple of the bottle, hearing her suckling loudly.

“Both girls?” you asked him.

“Yeah.” He was feeding the other, bending slightly for the calf to easily drink.

“Is it normal for cows to be so friendly?”

“They’re just used to humans and associate us with food,” he shrugged.

“That seems to be a common thing—feed the animals, and suddenly they’re your best friend. The power of food.”

“It’s powerful shit. Have you decided on names?”

“Did you watch Saturday morning cartoons growing up?” you asked. “The Flintstones, The Jetsons, Bugs Bunny—sitting in front of the tv with your bowl of cereal?”

“My mom usually made breakfast, but yeah, I’d watch cartoons. There was one, fuck, what was it called.” His eyebrows furrowed while he wracked his brain. “It had a kid who went on adventures with his dad and a special agent. He had a dog named Bandit. I think it was Jonny, Jonny something.” He was frowning at not being able to remember the title.

“Jonny Quest!”

“Yes!” he said with a smile. “I liked that one.”

“I liked that one, too. My favorite was The Flintstones, but did you ever see Scooby-Doo?”

“Yeah,” he nodded.

“Okay, hear me out.” Pointing at the red calf, you spoke, “Daphne, and this one’s Velma,” you said, rubbing her ear while she fed.

“Daphne and Velma,” Javi said with a nod. “I like them.” He turned his attention to Daphne, petting her head as he spoke softly, “¿Entonces es así (So, it’s like that)? Te llamas Daphne (Your name is Daphne)? Sí, ese es el nombre de mi preciosa y es el nombre perfecto, porque mi Cielito es perfecta y demasiada buena para mí (Yes, that is my precious’ name and it’s the perfect name, because my Cielito is perfect and too good for me).”

It took you a second to process what he’d said, your lips tipping down.

“Javier, no soy demasiada buena para ti (I am not too good for you),” you said. “And I’m not perfect either, so stop lying to our cow children.”

A choking sound came from his throat, Javi going into a coughing fit.

“Sorry!” you exclaimed, patting his back.

The topic of kids hadn’t been brought up since that time in the truck after going to the farmers market, and from his reactions tonight with his dad and you teasing him, it was safe to assume that he wasn’t too inclined to the prospect. It was a shame, really. From the way you’d seen him interacting with animals—the care, the gentleness, the sweet affections—Javier would be an excellent father, and he already knew how to make a bottle, which was a plus. Seeing him being so affectionate and loving to the creatures had you all hot and bothered, the cavewoman part of your brain alerting you that he was the perfect partner to procreate with.

God, you’d have his babies in a heartbeat, but like you told him that afternoon on the drive back to your apartment, kids were a big decision you wanted to make with your partner, and you were happy to be with Javi with or without them. Though the thought of tiny Peña’s, with his big brown eyes and messy hair, made you yearn.

“I’m okay,” he wheezed.

The calves had finished their bottles and were now crowding at his legs.

“I’m okay,” he said again to the cows, leaning down to pet each of them with his free hand. “A real fucking shock to find out I have bovine children.” He turned his head to smile at you.

“Obviously, they’re adopted,” you replied with a grin. “I don’t know why you’re surprised.” You pointed at them, “They clearly know you’re their father.”

He snorted.

“I’m their source of food,” he said, standing back up. “It’s either me or Pop taking care of them. My mornings start by coming in here, opening their gate, and the two of them following me around while I make their bottles and clean their stall. They’ll even follow me around while I do other chores—it’s cute. They do the same with Pop. Last week he was grilling himself dinner in the backyard, and they just played in the grass.”

A big smile was on your face as you moved to pet Daphne.

“They really are just giant puppies.”

“Basically,” he nodded. “You ready to go? There’s one last place I want to show you before we go for a ride.”

“Yes. Thank you for letting me feed her,” you said, holding up the empty bottle. “They’re both so ridiculously adorable.”

“Anytime, Cielito,” Javi said, leaning in to kiss you. As he pulled back, he smacked your ass, making you squeak in surprise. “Say goodbye to our hijas (daughters).”

Laughing, you gave each of them some pets, telling them goodbye before following Javi back to the supply room. He took the bottle from you, and you stood near him at the sink, watching as he washed each of them before putting them on a drying rack and cleaning his hands.

“Will we be petting any more animals?” you asked as he dried his hands on a nearby towel.

“No,” he answered with a shake of his head.

Nodding at his answer, you moved into the space he’d vacated at the sink to wash your hands, smiling happily when you dried them and turned your attention back to him.

“So,” you started, clapping your hands together. “What did you want to show me?”

“You’ll see,” he said with a mischievous smile that had you curious.

His hand was warm when it grabbed onto your own, engulfing yours easily as you followed him out of the barn and around the side, where there was a set of stairs. Butterflies started flying rapidly in your tummy, suddenly having an idea as to where he was taking you, your bottom lip pulled between your teeth.

It wasn’t a surprise when you found yourself in the hayloft, hay bales stacked all over at various heights. The place was secluded, that was for sure, the hay basically soundproofing the noises from outside, but did it work for the ones inside, too? The thought had your skin heating, remembering Javi telling you how he used to fuck in here. It was safe to say your panties were ruined, feeling as more arousal pooled in them.

There was a window high up on the front wall, causing daylight to spill through, while a lone light bulb hung at the center of the space from a wooden beam.

Standing in the middle of the room, hay surrounding you on three sides, Javi turned to face you, his eyes darkening in the low light.

“The hayloft,” Javi said, the words coming out deeper, raspier, causing a shiver to move down your spine.

“Where the magic happens,” you replied breathily.

He crowded into you then, taking up the space at your front with his eyes locked on yours while his big hands moved up your arms, leaving goosebumps in their wake as they rose, skating along your shoulders, and the taut skin of your neck until his fingers were sliding along the sides of your jaw to cup your face.

“Yes,” he said it like a promise, that if you said the word, he would make the magic happen, and it had your thighs rubbing together to try and ease the growing ache.

His face was inching closer to yours, his eyes dropping down to your lips and back up to meet yours, seeing the pink of his tongue wet his bottom lip. Your heart was pounding in your chest, Javi close enough now you could feel his breaths ghosting over your lips, his hovering over your own, the tip of his perfect nose nudging against yours.

“You want me?” he rasped.

“God, yes,” you answered desperately.

The words barely left your mouth before he kissed you hard, swallowing your surprised moan. You welcomed his tongue, feeling his hunger, his need, hearing his groans as he kissed you all full of passion and desperation. Your fingers were tangled in the front of his shirt, needing something to hang onto as he plundered your mouth.

That ache had grown substantially, need burning brightly in your belly, wanting him so fucking badly, moaning as he tasted every inch of your mouth. His hands moved down your body, palming your breasts before they were zeroing in on the ties that held your wrap dress closed, undoing them while his mouth stayed on yours, getting them worked open so quickly and the fabric off your body so fast, you were making a surprised sound when his hands touched your bare skin.

“Fucking need you, baby,” he groaned into your lips, his palms greedily roving over your newly exposed flesh.

“I need you, too,” you replied, your fingers threading into the thick strands of his hair.

His mouth trailed messily along your jaw, making you moan when he sucked at your pulse point while his hands squeezed your covered breasts, weighing them in his palms until he tugged down the cups of your bra. His mouth went lower, bending down to wrap his lips around a pebbled nipple, gasping as pleasure shot straight to your cunt.

“Fuck, Javi,” you moaned, his hot tongue laving at your sensitive peak.

He moved to your other breast to give it the same attention, your fingers tightening in his hair, feeling the vibrations as he groaned against your skin.

Your body was thrumming, gasping his name as he worshipped your breasts with his lips and tongue, moving from one to the other, your skin slick with his spit. His head came up abruptly to kiss you again, the force causing you to take a step back, him following, his hands gripping your hips as he continued to walk you backward until a surprised gasp was pulled from your throat when he spun you around, pushing you forward to bend at the waist over a stack of hay bales.

The new position wasn’t wholly unwelcome, the hay a bit scratchy, but you didn’t care, not when Javi blanketed himself over your back, feeling the material of his flannel shirt and the rough denim of his jeans, his hard cock pressing into the roundness of your ass.

His head was beside yours, his breath tickling your ear, feeling as he spoke, “Is this okay?” he asked.

“It’s more than okay,” you replied. “Touch me.”

“Gonna do more than touch you, Cielito.” He ended the sentence with a nip to your earlobe.

The heat of his body left yours, making you gasp when his lips touched your spine, his fingers getting under the band of your panties. His kisses went lower as he pulled down your underwear until he was kneeling behind you, and your panties pooled at your ankles.

Anticipation was swelling inside of you, wanting, no, needing to feel his touch, something to ease the burning ache between your legs.

“Need you to spread open for me, baby,” he husked, those large hands of his finally touching you, grabbing your thighs and opening them wider, your feet shuffling apart to give him more space.

His fingers dug into the globes of your ass, squeezing the plump flesh appreciatively.

“So fucking pretty,” he murmured. The sharp sting of his palm hitting your bare ass had you moaning, Javi quickly smoothing it over to soothe the pain, and you giggled when his lips pressed a wet smacking kiss into an asscheek, turning your head to try and see him behind you.

“I thought I was supposed to be kissing your ass?” you teased. “You’re the one that got bit.”

“Mmm, I did get bit—should level the playing field.”

“What—?” Your question answered when his teeth sank into the plush skin he’d kissed, causing you to shout, “Javier!” It wasn’t a hard bite; it was just unexpected, following it with another wet smack of his lips, kissing your ass one more time.

His head moved into view to meet your eyes, grinning boyishly, his cute dimple on display.

“We’re even,” he said.

Your eyebrow rose. “Does that make you feel better?” you asked.

The smile fell from his face, his eyes rounding.

“A little,” he answered.

“But you’re still upset about getting bit?”

“Yeah.” He squeezed your ass. “You make me feel better.”

“Yeah? Well,” you purred. “I am fucking dripping for you. Would it make you feel even better if I gave you free rein to do whatever you want to me?”

His hands tightened on your flesh, seeing his throat bob.

“Anything?” The word came out deeper, a flush licking up his neck.

“Anything,” you promised with a nod.

His eyes were locked on yours as he moved his hand between your legs, dipping his fingers through your wetness to get them wet. Closing your eyes, you gasped his name when he languidly swirled his digits around your clit, the sparks of pleasure making your pussy flutter.

“Look at me,” he rasped.

Doing as he asked, your gazes were locked as his fingers moved back through your folds, moaning when he teased your entrance, barely pushing in, feeling how fucking soaked you were for him before he moved further up to a place you knew he’d been dying to touch. You sucked in a breath when he circled your tight ring of muscle, the sensation new and pleasant, something you thought you might even quite enjoy.

His eyes had glazed over with want, barely any brown remaining.

“Anything?” he asked again.

“Anything.”

He growled, hands spreading you open and pulling a loud moan from you when his tongue pressed eagerly into your cunt, making you face forward again as your eyes rolled back in your head. Your fingers were digging into the hay bale, Javi groaning into your skin as he tasted every bit of slick coating the lips of your sex like a man starved, igniting a spark in your belly that was growing rapidly.

His tongue dipped in to swirl around your clit, the pleasure having you gasping his name while the tension built in your core, ratcheting up when he pulled the sensitive bundle between his lips and sucked.

The man was ravenous, licking, sucking, fucking his tongue inside you, devouring your pussy, and you were in heaven, so pent up from all of the almosts that you knew you were going to fall apart fast, the noises doing you in—hearing Javi’s hunger, his want, how fucking much he was enjoying eating you out. You shattered with a cry of his name as pleasure washed through your system, his moans muffled against your soaked entrance as he drank down every drop of your release from the source.

He didn’t wait for you to fully come down before he was working you back up again—your cunt still fluttering in the aftershocks as his tongue teased around your sensitive little clit, over and over again, until you honest to god whined, the sound turning into a moan when he gave it the attention you wanted with laps of his tongue, the oversensitivity making you keen.

You clawed at the hay, your body overcome with pleasure, chanting his name as he worked you over, his tongue fucking into you, before greedily laving back over you like he wanted to taste every last drop of your need for him. His fingers were digging into the skin of your ass, feeling as he started licking higher, moving over your entrance and continuing up, your eyes flying open at the realization of his intended destination.

“Oh my god,” you moaned as the flat of his tongue moved over your tight hole.

Oh yes, this was something you definitely liked.

You could hear and feel his groans, his pace languid as he licked all around and over before applying more pressure to gently prod at the tight ring of muscle. The pleasure was surprising, feeling it in your clit with the beginnings of an orgasm taking shape, sounds coming out of your mouth you weren’t entirely sure were human.

“You like this?” he asked, words muffled in your spit-soaked skin.

“Yes. Don’t stop,” you answered, unable to control yourself from squirming to try and get his mouth on you again.

“My dirty fucking girl,” he said, slapping your asscheek before gripping it with his big hand.

He dove back in, and this time he was relentless.

It felt like every nerve in your body was alight, his tongue all wet and warm, swiping and prodding, making you tingle all over, and driving you wild. Your forehead was pressed into the hay bale, moaning loudly as you felt the familiar heat at the base of your spine. His mouth moved, licking back down to your clit, before he went back up again, making sure he left no part of you untouched, the muscles in your belly beginning to tighten.

His face was buried in your ass, and the knowledge that Javi wanted every part of you—that you could hear just how much he wanted every part of you had you reeling and so fucking turned on you thought you’d combust. Your pussy was weeping, your slick dripping out of you, and the feeling of Javi’s fingertips pressing against your clit had you crying out his name.

That was your undoing—his fingers, his mouth, the act itself had you rocketing towards your release, it crashing over you with a silent scream. Euphoria coursed through your veins, limbs tingling as your body slumped into the hay bale like he’d wrung out every last bit of pleasure he could get, panting hard.

He helped you ride out your high this time, letting you fully come back to earth before he was standing up, his hands rubbing up your sides.

“How you feeling, baby?” he asked, his hand moving your hair away from your neck as he leaned down to kiss your nape.

“Fucking incredible,” you slurred.

His lips moved to your shoulder, his body pressed against you feeling the hard line of his cock digging into your ass.

“Yeah?” he asked, kissing your skin.

“Oh, yeah.”

You felt the breadth of his hands on your hips, his thumbs rubbing circles into your softness.

“Want me to fuck you?”

“Need you to fuck me,” you answered. “Your tongue and fingers are fantastic. The ass stuff? Fucking steller, a wonderful remix to a classic, but we both know I won’t be satisfied until I’m your stuffed little creampuff.”

Javi snorted, moving to kiss the side of your head, feeling him smiling.

His lips were at your ear, “Yeah, Cielito?” The deep timbre of his voice had you shivering. “Need me to fill you up? Want me to fuck you full of me? Make you drip, baby? You want my come?”

You felt your heartbeat in your cunt, arousal stirring in your belly, suddenly feeling empty.

“Yes, Papí,” you moaned. Javi’s groan was so rumbly it bordered on a growl. “I need it.”

His hand lightly grabbed your chin, turning your head to look at him, seeing your slick glistening on the bottom half of his face and mustache, your eyes meeting—his lust-filled and wanting, the adoration still evident in the dark pools.

“You can have it,” he rasped. “You can have whatever you fucking want, mi amor. Gonna pump you so full of me I’ll be inside you for days.”

And there was no doubt in your mind he’d be true to his word, your pussy throbbing in anticipation.

Javier wanted to kiss her, but he was at the end of his rope with his self-control, gently running the pad of his thumb across the plush of her lower lip before moving off of her to stand, his knees aching from being on the ground.

Fuck, he was old.

He couldn’t remember the last girl he had in here—didn’t even care to remember—all he knew was he’d been in much better shape back then than he was now.

Didn’t have sore joints and muscles.

Definitely didn’t have a horse bite on his ass.

Fucking Enrique, the asshole.

None of that mattered, though, not with the way Cielito was so perfectly on display for him, her ass begging to be touched, her pussy shiny from his spit, and her come, looking so inviting—beckoning him—and it was like he was under some kind of fucking spell, or maybe he was just so fucking hard he was running on autopilot because in the seconds his eyes were locked on her, he’d worked open his belt and pants.

A hiss slid through his teeth when he took himself in hand, pulling his throbbing cock out and eclipsing every other thought that didn’t involve getting inside her as soon as possible, the need taking over, consuming him. Quickly, he spat on his fingers, wetting his dick, getting it nice and slick with a mix of saliva and leaking precum, before pushing himself through her soaking folds.

Javier groaned, the sound bubbling up deep in his chest and rumbling out of him at the feel of her warmth.

“Fuck, baby,” his voice was rough, his free hand squeezing the soft flesh of her ass. “Are you ready for me? Or do you want me to loosen you up?”

He didn’t think he could wait any longer, feeling like he was going to explode.

“Put your dick in me,” she whined, her desperation sending sharp spikes of heat down his spine. “Please.”

His hand landed on her ass with a loud smack, hearing her moan as he started pushing inside her entrance, not needing to be told twice. He was groaning loudly, watching as he fed himself into the tight hug of her pussy inch by inch, thinking how it was impossible how hot and wet she was, her velvet walls pulling him deeper, welcoming him in its embrace until his hips were flush against her ass.

His head fell back, eyes shutting closed with a moan as her warmth soothed something deep inside him.

He couldn’t move.

He was so fucking worked up, barely hanging on by a thread, and dangerously close to blowing his load like some two-pump chump, which would be fucking embarrassing.

Javier took steadying breaths to try to calm and get himself under control.

“Fucking love being inside you,” he groaned when he could finally speak.

She clenched around him, and air left his lungs in a wheeze like he’d been punched.

“Fuck,” he panted, swallowing hard. “Baby, shit, gimme a second, or you’re gonna have this ending before it’s even started.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah, more than okay. Fucking needed this—been on my mind all fucking day, and you feel so fucking good. Fuck, I can’t get enough of you—will never get enough of you.”

He’d calmed down to the point he could start thrusting shallowly, loving the little noises she made.

“Javi,” she said his name in that breathy gasp he loved, the sound that told him she was just as needy as him, and it had a sting of pleasure shooting through him.

Tilting his head down, he watched as he pulled almost all the way out, seeing his cock glistening with her arousal, Javier groaning at the sight.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he rasped, sinking back into her again, and setting a steady pace, soft sounds falling from her lips as he fucked into her.

She had taken up all of his thoughts—how she was making him feel, how she felt, how he needed to make her feel good. Losing himself in her hot depths and her sweet noises spurring him on, her pussy hugging him so tightly he thought she might keep him inside her forever, and how he wanted to stay there, to live within her, their bodies melding into one and never parting.

He sped up, his brows furrowing, mouth going slack in concentration, panting as his thrusts became faster, hearing the slap of their bodies connecting and the wet suck of her pussy taking him, over and over again, while she mewled under him, chanting his name.

Admiring her under him, he took in the lines of her back, the sheen of perspiration on her skin, and how she was resting her cheek on her arms, giving him a glimpse of her face, seeing it screwed up in pleasure, her lips parted.

Fuck, she was gorgeous.

He’d never tire of her sounds or how fucking perfectly they fit together, the snug fit of her cunt always welcoming, her softness complementing his hardness, taking all he had to give.

It was never just sex with her, never just scratching an itch or working out stress—it was never transactional; it was something more, something that intoxicated him and made him feel things he’d never felt before. She was practically naked under him, and yet Javier felt just as bare when he was still fully clothed, her tapping into another part of him he normally kept hidden—he could be vulnerable with her, be himself, fucking relax.

“Feels so fucking good,” she gasped, taking him from his thoughts as pride filled his chest. “You fuck me so good.”

The praise shot straight to his dick, making him shudder.

“You like how I fuck you, Cielito?” The question came out deeper, breathier.

“Yes—fucking love it,” her answer ending in a moan.

His hands gripped her cheeks, spreading her open, his eyes locked on where they were connected, marveling at how well she took him. There was something else, though, some other want that had been kept locked away until today—a desire, a need to have every single part of her. Getting to be the first to fuck her ass was a dream of his, her revealing to him one night after a few drinks that she’d never let anyone touch her there, making him think it wasn’t something she was interested in. But she let him eat it, and from those sweet sounds she’d made, she loved it and gave him hope one day she’d let him have it—have all of her.

She’d offered him free rein to do whatever he wanted to her, and without wasting another second, he spat on her tight hole, his thumb moving to stroke over it. She loudly moaned his name, her cunt clenching hard around him, feeling her get wetter. It fueled him to keep going, Javier grunting as he continued thrusting hard, his thumb breaching her tight ring of muscle.

“Yes,” she gasped. “Oh, fuck, that feels so fucking good,” she whined. “Gonna come.”

“Shit,” he hissed, his rhythm stuttering, almost coming himself.

Her body seized up as she came undone, crying out his name, her pussy gripping him so tight, the feeling was almost overwhelming, his pace slowing. It took a few seconds before he sped back up, fucking into her desperately to extend her high, panting from exertion, sweat on his brow, her body trembling beneath him through the aftershocks of her orgasm.

“My good fucking girl,” he groaned, grinding his hips into her. “You fucking love that.” He removed his thumb, gently smoothing it over her puckered hole. “Fucking love it when I play with your ass.”

“Yes,” she moaned.

“You’d probably even let me fuck it.” His cock twitched at the thought. “You’d like that wouldn’t you, Cielito? My dick in your ass, filling you up.”

“Yes, Papi, you can have me however you want,” she sounded wrecked, a spike of adrenaline hitting his system, a groan reverberating from his chest as he leaned over her to get his arm under her chest to haul her up to stand with her back pressed to his front.

He lightly tugged on her chin to get her to turn her head, Javier angling to look at her face and see her fucked out expression.

“You love when I fill you up,” he rasped, her eyes squeezing shut as she whimpered. “Love when I’m inside you.” He had an arm braced at her waist to hold her against him, his other hand moving to her breast, rolling her hardened nipple between his fingers as he started thrusting into her slowly, the wet glide of his cock sliding in and out of her smoothly. “Love when I touch you.” Javier was rambling in a haze of lust, so fucking drunk on her that the feelings were overtaking him. “Love a lot about me.” He swallowed hard.

“Yes, everything,” she gasped.

He pressed his face into the crook of her neck, quickening his pace. His arm moved to lock over her chest, the weight of her breast held in his hand, keeping her up, while his other dipped between her legs to circle her swollen clit. He mumbled into her skin, the question swimming at the front of his mind, “¿Pero me amas a mi (But, do you love me)?”

Her hand came up, sliding her fingers into his sweat-damp hair, “What did you say, baby?” The words coming out slightly slurred.

He kissed her neck, “Need you to come again,” he answered, having a moment of clarity that this wasn’t the time or place to bare his soul, the doubt making him too chickenshit to hear her answer.

Her tight walls started spasming around him, and pleasure curled in his gut, his body feeling hot all over, Javier cursing his decision to keep his clothes on with the sweat soaking his shirt. He fucked into her harder, her moans stuttering, the breath pushing from her lungs from his cock punching its way into her over and over again.

He could tell she was close, her hand gripping his brown waves tightly, murmuring his name like a prayer.

“Come on, baby,” he said through gritted teeth, breathing hard. “Give me one more. Come for me, soak my dick, and you can have my come.”

With a handful of thrusts more, she was coming with a gasping moan, choking his dick as her body went boneless in his arms.

“So good to me,” he said, rocking his hips into her, kissing her neck. “So fucking good to me. Such a good girl.”

He wasn’t gonna last, the heat building in his belly, feeling so fucking close.

“Come inside me,” she breathed. “Let me have it. Please, Javi, I want it—want it so bad. Fill me up, Papi.”

The groan that came out of him was guttural, feeling it vibrate in his chest as he started fucking into her hard, hearing their skin colliding and the slick sounds of her pussy being worked by his cock.

There was something deep in the recesses of his mind that made him need to come inside her, quelling some dumb primal instinct when he pumped her full of himself, wanting to fill her until she leaked and have her keep him inside. He thought it was so she’d have him with her, a reminder, but it made him so fucking hard thinking about filling her over and over again, stuffing her full of his come, and keeping her full.

His balls started tightening up at the thought, the muscles in his belly coiling, his cock thickening. Pushing into her deep, he came with a loud moan, his spend gushing into her and filling her, rolling his hips to work it deeper inside her depths to fill every crevice and soothe that need of his.

He heard her sigh happily, Javier slumping into her body when he was fully spent, feeling euphoric and so relaxed he wasn’t sure if there were bones left in his body.

Nothing else in the entire fucking world mattered except for her. He wanted to stay in her warmth forever, bask in it, live in it. His nose was pressed into her neck, inhaling her scent that was comforting and smelled like home. Hugging her close to him, her body fitting perfectly against his like they were made for each other—two halves of a whole.

Mi media naranja (My soulmate).

The fucking chemicals rolling through his body had him feeling sappy as fuck, and he should feel embarrassed, but it was all true.

He kissed her skin, nosing up to press his lips against the shell of her ear to whisper, “Te adoro y me haces el hombre más feliz del planeta. Gracias por estar conmigo, mi Cielito.”

Her hand pressed against his cheek.

“‘I adore you, and you make me the very happy man on the planet,’” she translated slowly. ”’Thank you for being with me, my Cielito.’ Did I get that right?”

He smiled, kissing her ear.

“Close. I adore you, and you make me the happiest man on the planet. Thank you for being with me, my Cielito.”

“I adore you, too,” she said, “and you make me the happiest woman on the planet. Thank you for being with me, baby.”

Warmth was radiating in his chest, his heart constricting from feeling so fucking happy. He tightened his arms around her, hugging her harder.

“I really fucking like you, Cielito,” he said.

“I really fucking like you, too, Javi.”

He frowned, sighing, “We should go get cleaned up so I can kiss you how I want.”

“What a gentleman,” she replied, and he could hear her smiling, her hand lightly patting his cheek. “Eats ass like a fucking champ, then cleans himself up so he can make out with me. This is why I like you.”

Pride had his chest puffing out. “Like a champ? You liked it that much?”

“Oh, babe. That’s happening again—all the ass stuff is definitely happening again.”

“Fuck,” he groaned, his cock twitching inside her. “So, you’d wanna try…”

“You can have me however you want, Papi,” she purred.

“Shit, baby, you’re gonna get me hard again.”

“Sorry.”

He huffed out a breath, “No, you’re not.”

“No, I’m not.”

As much as it pained him, he slowly pulled out of her heat with a hiss, his hand finding its way between her legs, feeling his come beginning to leak out, two of his fingers pushing it back inside.

“Javi,” she gasped.

“Don’t wanna lose any—gotta keep it inside, baby,” he said, pressing a kiss to her shoulder.

“Yes,” she moaned.

Her answer made something inside his brain purr happily.

“My good girl.”

He slipped his fingers out, sucking them clean with a groan, enjoying their taste on his tongue.

Stepping away from her, he moved to pick up her discarded dress, and she turned to face him, bending down to pull up her panties, his eyes raking over her body appreciatively, loving every curve and dip, his hands itching to touch her soft skin.

Handing her the dress when she straightened, he helped right her bra, frowning as he picked off stray bits of hay.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

She looked down at what he was doing.

“What are you sorry about?”

“Bending you over the hay bales.”

He thought he’d gotten it all off, eyes finally meeting hers.

She had an eyebrow quirked.

“It was sexy,” she replied, putting her clothes back on. “And a great fucking time.” Her attention was on tying the dress, so it stayed closed. “Don’t be sorry. I loved it.”

“Are you sure?”

In the past, there was always a blanket to ensure his partner was comfortable when he fucked in here.

“Positive, babe,” she said, finally finished and looking at him again with a bright smile. “Would fuck on a hay bale again. Honestly, I’d let you fuck me anywhere because, one, you always make it really good, and two, I trust you—I know you’d make sure I was safe. So, don’t stress. It was really fucking good. Now, let’s go get cleaned up. I really wanna kiss that pretty face of yours.”

He could see the earnestness in her gaze, that everything she said was true, and it had him feeling soft, his body relaxing—three words stuck to the tip of his tongue and dying to come out, him having to swallow them down with a bob of his throat.

Just a little more time, that’s all he needed to make sure this wasn’t all a fluke. But he knew in his gut it wasn’t. He knew this was real and that by some fucking miracle, he found the person he was supposed to spend his life with—the one who completed him and made him want to be a better man.

He found his person.

His media naranja.

His soulmate.

His Cielito.

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Thank you for reading! If you’d like to be tagged in my fics, please fill out the form in my bio, on my masterlist, or just let me know!

Tagging: @theorganasolo @nicolethered @lola766 @nessamc @vanemando15 @fiscinthirst @melancholyy-hill @hnt-escape @sherala007 @jadesabre83 @rainbeaubrightchild @blub-senpai @pedrohoe04 @theherothesavior @captain-creampuff @javiersjeans @zetasaturno99 @amb11 @lovedbyth3sun @siidereeus @marvelousmermaid @themarcusmoreno @woomen23 @ms-loverman-066 @star-wars-fan-2005 @kissing-stars @chloeinpink @notyourlovemonkey @unofficialavenger90 @fictionismyreality @sheetsof-lennon @damnyoupedro @daddydindjarin @absurdthirst @kirsteng42 @littlemisspascal @athalien @thevoiceinyourheadx @elegantduckturtle @harriedandharassed @girlofchaos @mswarriorbabe80 @iamskyereads @katareyoudrilling @kulicny @enjoyourlattebitch @guess-my-next-obsession @pedropascalsx

#pedro pascal #javier peña #javier peña x reader #javier peña/reader #javier peña smut #wheresarizona writes #learning to live series

[cybertron-after-dark]

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays, here's how I think the tfa Decepticons would handle a Human Error incident (suddenly turned human with zero logical explanation)

-Megatron ain't doing great. God dammit he's fucking TINY. Just when he's gotten his body back after god knows how long of being a severed head on the floor, he's vulnerable AGAIN. He's still up and functional, doing whatever needs to be done and not letting his present weakness interfere with his goals, but he's in full on paranoia mode. He trusts nobody and he's not going outside if he doesn't have to. Too many things that could go terribly wrong while he's a pathetic creature of flesh with no fucking armor plating and no rotors to fly with. Doesn't give a fuck about trying anything he could only do as a human, he's too busy trying not to die. He'll only eat the nightmare that is organic food if he's in a human body long enough to nearly starve. He'll never admit that it actually tastes better than energon. His pride would never allow it.

-Starscream is miserable and will LOUDLY bitch to everyone present whether they care or not. Unlike Megs, however, it's less in a "I have no armor plating, anything could crush me" way and more in a "EW EW EW WHY IM I SQUISHY GET IT OFF GET IT OFF GET IT OFF OH PRIMUS IM HIDEOUS" way. He's grabbing the nearest paper bag and putting it over his head. He's not risking ANYONE taking pictures of this little incident to blackmail him. He's especially angry that he can't fly. What do you mean he has to walk everywhere like some kind of monoformer??? What the fuck??? He'd normally try to off Megatron while he's vulnerable, but slag that, he's vulnerable too, and he doesn't even have his null rays to slag him with anyway. Convinced human food is going to be disgusting, pleasantly surprised when it's not. Gets a little obsessed with garlic bread, but we've all been there.

-Blitzwing has lost not one altmode, but two, and given how reflexive his transformation is, he's going a bit stir crazy. Doesn't help that he's lost his wings either. To try and cope, he's got the zoomies something awful, and tries running around the mountain base, jumping off whatever high surfaces he thinks won't kill him for a taste of altitude again, laughing his ass off as Random when he hits the bottom (very uncomfortable for him that he only has one face, too). However, in spite of his physical discomfort, and how generally overwhelming the situation is, he is at least a little excited that he can partake in human culture without consequences. He gets swept up in an arcade for a couple hours and has the time of his life, and tries as much earth food as he can. He's generally the only reason his teammates haven't starved yet because he's the only one willing to go out and get it. He has decided he really likes pizza, beer and chocolate. Genuinely a little sad he won't be able to eat it in his normal form.

-Lugnut is a bit disappointed that he's been given such an unworthy form incapable of serving his liege. How can he aid the GLORY of Megatron and the Decepticon cause when he is so small, so weak, so... Organic? But, he picks himself up and vows to do everything in his power to remain useful. And that starts with testing his limits to see how much use he can be. When he sees Blitzwing jumping off cliffs, he's certain his comrade's had the same idea and joins in, determined to find the threshold for his new body's pain tolerance. It is not as high as he would like. He can't really see as well now that he has one eye instead of his usual five, so he kinda keeps falling off high places anyway even after he's done doing it intentionally. Eventually tries organic food because he needs to fuel up to be of any use, but still loudly condemns it as inferior to energon. He kinda gets a kick out of knowing it's made from organic beings, though. He feels like he's turning some of the life on this useless planet towards a good cause by using its energy.

-Shockwave was already having a really weird day, falling through the space bridge and ending up on earth of all places. But as nice as it was to eschew his cover for a bit and catch up with his true comrades, it was kind of undercut by being suddenly even tinier than his usual disguise and significantly less durable. Not too fond of losing his extendable reach, either. Though he may not be too thrilled, he's still determined to make himself useful. More useful than the two idiots launching themselves off a cliff, anyway. He does a bit of research into basic self care and how to not die in general, as well as trying to figure out what did this to them and how to reverse it. Not opposed to trying earth food, he admits he's curious, if a bit intimidated by how varied it is. Learns he's got a bit of a sweet tooth, ends up mildly addicted to baked goods. Especially cheesecake. Once this whole humanity business is over, he starts a small side project on an internal filter that makes some organic matter edible just so he can keep eating it.

-Nobody takes their newfound humanity worse than Blackarachnia. She already hated being partially organic, but now the detestable, disgusting side of her makes up 100% of her frame. It feels like the final nail in the coffin. She's completely shut down, she just can't take what she's become, unsure whether this nightmare will ever end. She's not holding out on Shockwave being able to fix the issue. It never got magically resolved the first time it happened, why would it now? Her only cold comfort is the other cons have to suffer with her. She's not eating human food. If she starves, she starves, but she's not stooping to that level. She didn't before, and she sure as hell won't now.

#maccadam #transformers #tfa #megatron #starscream #blitzwing #lugnut #shockwave #blackarachnia

[idontplaytrack]

good problem to have

Janis ‘Imi’ike x physically disabled fem!reader

Warnings: kind of a vent writing, descriptions of chronic health & physical conditions + symptoms. Light smut, fluff, Janis being soft for reader. This oneshot took a few turns at the end- I didn’t intend on ending it the way I did😂

The following depicts the worst side of reader’s experience with a physical disability and its chain of effects. Reader discretion is advised.

Janis looks at the clock on the wall as though she was having a staring contest with it. You’d been in the shower for nearly thirty minutes and the girl had half a mind to just walk in there to keep an eye on you instead. But she held back, she stays on the other side of the door as she hears the water running.

Half an hour ago, you angrily decided to sit in the shower - a warm, no- hot shower in hopes that the heat would alleviate the squeezing pain in your ribcage caused by your rather newly diagnosed condition of Costochondritis.

Janis was with you the night you ended up in the ER because of it. She watched everything went down and it shattered her heart seeing you so helpless. You didn’t exactly remember what happened because of the amount of pain that you were in- she tells you it was better that way since the doctor practically tried to gaslight you into giving you over-the-counter pain meds and sending you right back home. That was a month ago- and this, was technically flareup number one since that night. She fought for you, because you couldn’t. You actually couldn’t even take in a full breath, let alone open your mouth and form a coherent sentence. Janis’ Mom has been a big help throughout all of this as well, seeing that she even noticed something was wrong unlike your own who barely believed you. “Is she still in there?” Damian arrives at Janis’ with their favourite pizza. And both your homework for the day that you two’d missed

“Ya think?” Janis huffs.

“Is she���”

“She didn’t pass out. I knocked and she responded but she doesn’t want to let me in there.” Janis was just ever so slightly horrified by his assumption.

“Okay, good. Well, eat first.” He shrugs, unfazed by her glare.

As Janis refused to eat first, saying you weren’t back out yet, you opened the bathroom door and walked out. “Fuck this.” You remarked as you shut the door to the bathroom. “My back already hurts because my legs are not the same length, I have fucking scoliosis and now this added on to it? Does the universe want to torture me till I die or something?” Janis seemed unfazed on the outside, but inside she was actually so worried (she wouldn’t admit it to anyone). This never was a good sign, and the damage control needed to be fast. To top it all off, Damian’s never been around to witness such ‘episodes’.

Janis knew you didn’t really mean what you said, it was more so in the moment of anger, frustration and more importantly, the constant nagging pain then random weeks in the year where you would get heightened levels of the pain due to a ‘flareup’. How does it happen? You would have usually have done something to push yourself too much- whether or not either of you have realised it. And full disclosure, a big risk to take would be bedroom activities. You usually did not care until it was too late and end up pushing through the next few days with what feels like your whole body aching.

“Shit, I did not see you here, Damian.” You let out a soft gasp, a hand clutching at your chest.

“I wanted pizza. I sent him a text, and here he is.” Janis grins, “Sit down, lovey.” You did, eyeing the box Damian’s placed on the coffee table.

“I bought our favourite- trust me, me need this.” He joked, “They even gave us free garlic knots.”

“Oh, hell yes.” Janis rummages through the paper bag for some of that bread first while you reached for a slice of the pepperoni and sausage pizza.

“Hey, guys.” Janis’ mom was home. They greet her almost in unison, while you gave her a wave without saying a thing. “How are you feeling, y/n? Any better?”

“Barely.” You revealed.

“You came home to grab your lunch, didn’t ya?” Janis chuckled.

“Yeah.” Her Mom laughs, “Forgot it this morning. You guys need anything before I go?”

“I think we’re good.” Janis answers after pondering for a second, observing you and Damian as well.

“Alright. If your Ma calls the home phone, please pick up and let me know. Some guy at the coffee shop spilled his coffee on her and the phone’s a goner.” Janis’ Mom informed.

“Alright, well- did she back up her stuff?” Janis’ eyes widened for a beat.

“Yeah, but it’s just that she doesn’t have time right now to get a new phone.”

“Oh, okay. Get back to work, I wouldn’t want you to be late.” Janis shrugs, one of her hands on your back as you ate.

Her Mom flashes a smile, nodding, “I’ll pick up Ma on my way back from work, we’ll be buying dinner too. You guys are welcome to join us.” After Damian says he couldn’t— since he’d already promised his family that he’d be home by dinner, Janis’ Mom leaves with her lunch to go back to work.

————

Janis and Damian were engaged in a conversation over lunch, you on the other hand were more focused on whether or not you could make it through more of the day without relying on pain meds. They tasted foul and made you feel even worse- yes, even with the pain gone, the Tramadol gave you pretty bad nausea even after taking an anti-emetic. And you, having emetophobia would rather not go through that.

You were fine- you weren’t gonna collapse or anything, you were just in a lot of pain and physically uncomfortable. It was pretty much all you could feel, especially every time you took in a breath even slightly deeper. “Stay with me till this flareup is over.” Janis announced to you, “Your parents aren’t in town, and your sisters…I don’t trust them to be accountable for you. Don’t fight me on this.”

“Alright.” You agreed curtly, putting your plate containing a half-eaten slice on the coffee table, then you just curled up in a corner. “I’ll finish it later.”

“Yeah, sure, baby.” Janis smiled briefly, mouth full of food. Damian chuckled at her talking with her mouth full, earning a playful shove from the ravenette. You managed to fall asleep with their company, thank god. But when you woke up, it was just Janis alone.

“I made you some tea, y/n. Should help your chest pain some.” She hands you a mug, which you gladly took a few sips out of before putting down. “Thanks.” A warm beverage always alleviates your chest pain- the heat from it helps once you’d consumed it. Since it goes down your throat, it basically kinda just, spreads to your chest. “No problem, lovey.” She sits down beside you, putting the TV remote nearer to you in case you felt like watching something.

Here’s how it was: You couldn’t close a door behind yourself, you couldn’t wear a seatbelt on your own, you couldn’t stretch in any way because it would trigger a sharp pain in your chest. The condition was by definition, an inflammation of the cartilage of the ribcage. Thus, causing the pain. Even a cough or a sneeze would have you cursing and swearing, if not on the verge of tears. Little every day tasks are a huge challenge for you now, and it would be like this at every flare up. You hated that had to rely on her or someone else for such minuscule things. It made you feel useless.

While you finished up the tea, she was eating a bag of chips. It was evident to her that you were still in pain. When you first started experiencing it, you had it for a full week before it got unbearable and you had ended up in the ER. The worst part? Probably the physical exam where the doctor pressed down on your ribs and quite literally made you cry. But it did however, confirm your diagnosis. So you were glad you weren’t just seemed as ‘dramatic’(like the ER initially thought you were) and it made your Mom shut up about those remarks after Janis’ mother handed her the memo from the doctor. “I’m…really sorry. I just feel like shit and very unlike myself.”

“It’s okay.”

“No it’s not, I’ve been such a bitch.”

“Look who you’re talking to.” She exhales, “I don’t care if you’re ‘ruder than usual’, you’re in a lot of pain right now, and you’re someone who’s already dealing with chronic pain from your legs and your scoliosis, whatever else…I get it. I see you going through every day and I don’t care if you’re sometimes gonna be a little snappy. A little grouchy. Or if you’re gonna wanna cry. It’s fair- seeing that I myself, and other people who don’t have to deal with chronic illnesses or pain.”

You quietly listen, closing your eyes while taking some shallow breaths. “I actually feel like dying. If this is what the rest of my life will be like, I’d just be a burden. Well, more of it.”

“Baby, you- oh my God, every day. You’re dealing with symptoms that would send regular people straight to the ER. So whatever you need, let me know. Take your anger out on me, I don’t care. I already told you I would do anything for you.” Janis continues.

“You’re so sweet.” You sniffled, a little too hard.

“Only for you, baby.” She winked, her hand on your knee, “You know, I got my period while I was in the shower.”

“Which would explain the extra pain.” Janis scoffs, her hand stops at your lower back, giving you the needed warmth. “More hormones…more pain, which sucks, but in the meantime…you wanna watch some TV?”

You declined, “I just…wanna sit here with you.”

“Anything you want.” She kisses you softly on the cheek.

“My whole life, I’ve been the sick child. And now things just got worse.” You said to her while you feel her arm gently wrap around your waist, “I guess some days I just let the worst thoughts get the best of me. When I say I want…to die, it’s just that I want to stop suffering. I can’t focus or do anything when I’m in pain in makes me feel like nothing.”

“I hear you and I got you, okay?” Janis cups your cheeks with both hands, “I don’t understand fully, what you’re going through but I see how hard things get for you and I will always be here to help you- with anything. Okay? And Damian. He cares, I care. We love you. Hm? Don’t ever feel like you’re bothering people - we all need help sometimes and I just fucking love you and would do anything if I could make it better.”

You were already emotional, being on your period, hearing her say all that just made you feel like crying even more. “Honestly, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Here’s one thing you need to remember in times like these- I will be here for you, no matter the time of day. Call me, or text me. Whatever. But I will always, always have time for you.” Janis had her hands in your own, kissing them.

————

Now it was after dinner, so her Moms were in their room. And you, were in Janis’ room with her. You were laying down, your head in her lap as she massaged your aching head. “Janis.” You looked up at her. She glances at you, “Yeah?”

“You know they say sex would help with cramps?”

“I heard.” She responded nonchalantly.

“Can you help me?” You asked straightforwardly.

“I can, if that’s what you want. But you’d definitely be in quite a bit of pain afterwards, everywhere else.” She raised a brow, a hand on your torso.

“I’m already in pain. Might as well make myself…feel good.” You sigh.

“You’ve got a point.” She hums, “I can definitely help you out. Just gotta go grab some towels.”

“You really don’t mind?” You asked her cautiously.

“Yeah.” Janis confirmed, “I have hands, I have vibrators…some blood’s not gonna scare me.”

You chuckled, “Okay. Ah, shit. That hurt.”

“Just…lay down and look pretty for me.” She winks, slowly shifting you onto the mattress fully so she could get off the bed and retrieve the towels.

After locking the doors and washing her hands, Janis lays the towel beneath you, carefully leaning down to kiss you while holding herself up on her palms. “You can stop me at anytime, alright?”

You nod, kissing her back. She began stripping each article of clothing off of you, carefully, watching your face to make sure she doesn’t hurt you. You kiss her this time, starting to feel your need for her grow rapidly. It really does not take you long when you were on your period. She stuck her tongue in your mouth, it exploring every little bit of it eagerly. You moaned into the kiss soon enough, and she takes it as her cue to do more. The back of her hand brushes over your nipples, the whimper you let out and expression on your face tells her they were way too sensitive. She leaves them alone, choosing to attack the known sensitive spots on your neck instead. She elicits the sounds of approval out of you extremely easily, as you feel the familiar rush between your legs. Reaching for a small bullet-shaped vibrator, she turns it on and presses it to your clit gently. You gasp, eyes nearly rolling to the back of your head as you got giddy with pleasure.

“You’re okay?”

“Still good.” You let out a strained reply. She breaks away from you completely, getting off of her bed. Then, she pulls you down to near the edge of the mattress, along with the towel. Grabbing your ankles, she was knelt on a rug, pushing them up as gently as she could, mindful about your hurting right hip. She’s never done this before, but you trusted her with your life. So you went with it. You feel her fingers tracing the stretch marks on your thighs, making you squirm because you were ticklish. She kisses you on your inner thighs several times before you felt her fingers teasing your folds. You whimpered, feeling her so close to where you needed her the most. She held your ankles together for a bit as she slid two fingers into you without trouble, pumping them in and out as her thumb rubbed circles on your clit. You were like a melted puddle under her touch, you wanted to moan, but you remembered her parents were only a couple doors down so you had a fist on your mouth to keep yourself quiet,

“It’s okay. You don’t have to do that.” She tells you, looking at you right in the eye. Her voice, it was so gentle and sweet…like honey, or a lullaby.

“Your Moms are home.” You reminded.

“They don’t care.” She stated, all this while her hands don’t stop. Your legs, now sloppily laid on her shoulders as she held the vibrator with that hand and returned it to its spot on your clit, adding on to the stimulation. And with her also curling her fingers upward to hit your g-spot, your release was even closer. “I want to hear you, my love.” She requested as she turned the small vibrator off and put it aside on the towel. Her fingers still hard at work as her free hand reached over to a draw in her nightstand to locate a thicker vibrator. She doesn’t turn it on, but instead she asks if she could use that in place of her fingers. You agreed, desperately wanting to get your release. The stretch you felt caused you to give her a throaty moan, but it didn’t hurt a bit, thanks to the extra lubrication. With every thrust, the more high-pitched your whimpers became. Until, they became actual moans that just couldn’t stop. You could feel her twisting it in between thrusts, it made you feel insanely good. It was never that easy until this time every month, especially not with this minimal foreplay. Her thrusts became harsher at the end as you felt the coil in your core, it felt so intense- it actually kind of ached. As you unraveled, she removes the vibrator and her fingers took over again, helping you down from your high.

When she helped you get up and into the shower, you caught a look of the aftermath, which wasn’t as horrific as you thought it would be. “I’ll be in with you in a minute, okay. Just be careful.”

“I’ll be fine.” You assured, sitting down on a ledge in the bathroom where her bottles of shampoo, conditioner and body wash usually sat. She dumps the towels in a pail filled with hot water. You couldn’t actually see anything on them because they were black coloured towels so that saved you from overthinking how the mess looked.

————

She returns to the bathroom with two sets of clothes for the both of you, leaving them on the countertop of the sink. Janis closes the door. “Hi, pretty girl.” She cooed, hopping into the shower with you.

“Hi.” You smiled in return.

You reached for the body wash, but she stops you, saying she’d do it for you. Well, and every other step of the shower. Suddenly, you got an idea. She’s helped you out, so you thought it was time for her turn. As she stood before you, her chest barely above your eye-line, your hand finds its way to her hip. “What ya doin’?” She asks you with a chuckle as she squeezes some of the body wash onto a loofah. The smell of lavender and camomile feels the air of the steamy shower. You took a careful breath- you loved this fragrance. “Do you want me to…y’know You ask, “You helped me out, I think it’s fair if I help you out now.”

She smirked. “I’m gonna say yes to that.”

Your pointer and middle fingers slide down her folds, you let out a quiet gasp feeling that she was wet. You had it down to a science, how to make her come. It did not take you more than fifteen minutes to have her be asking to come. You let her, without resistance, since she’d make it so easy for you earlier.

She lets out a giddy little laugh, helping you stand up from your seat on the ledge, “I love you.” Janis captures your lips into her own, giving you a lingering kiss as she presses her forehead against your own.

You fell asleep much, much easier that night. She wore you out- that, coupled with your typical tiredness you felt on your period. Before you could feel your pain in a plethora of locations amp up its intensity, you’d succumbed to slumber, feeling Janis doodle circles and other silly shapes on your back with her fingers. “I love you, Janis.” You mumbled sleepily as your eyelids drooped shut.

“I love you so much, baby.” She said wholeheartedly, that being the last thing you heard before falling asleep. Janis doesn’t stop tracing random shapes on your clothed back as for a few minutes, but she mentally ran through a checklist of the stuff she’d left on her desk- stuff that you’d need just in case: water, your medications, some snacks in case you needed to take the meds, plastic bags, heat packs and even the medicated pain relief plasters her Mom got you. You grumbled that it was a lot of work for her but she said it was no trouble. You felt bad, but she tells you not to. She always won. Whenever you were ill or brought down by cramps before this new condition took over and gave sick days a whole new meaning, she’d always make the time to take care of you. Even in school, she’d make the day go by easier for you by subtly doing whatever she could think of…sneaking you little individually wrapped pieces of your favourite chocolate or candy, bringing Advil or Tylenol in her bag with her for the week, even just by asking if you were okay so you knew that she cared and that she was aware that you were sick or having your monthly cycle so you could ask her for help if needed. You never did openly ask her for help, per se. But instead she’d ask if you needed anything because she just knew. Janis could read you like a book after having started off as best friends. She knew just how you behaved whenever you had something on your mind or whenever you weren’t at 100%.

Your Mother’s warned her that you were a big problem to deal with, as though you weren’t a human being with feelings. She bluntly told your Mother that even if you had problems, she didn’t give a shit the way your Mom did. She’d actually make sure you were treated with care. The night Janis got into it with your Mom, she made you a promise to always be looking after you and you told her you’d do the same for her. Neither of you have once broke that promise, which surprised your Mother to no end but slowly caused her to back off. Very unwillingly. Especially since you’ve learnt that, the lesser time you spent at home, the better it was for you. If being with Janis taught you one thing, it was to be unapologetically yourself and always standing up to the people who would treat you badly — that’s two, technically. But you get it. You were not a plaything for others to manipulate for their own enjoyment or benefit.

Everyone you passed in your life since knowing Janis, called her a danger, a problem, or just… ‘bad’, but you disagreed. To you, she was the opposite of those terms. Even when she had her little moments where she’d threatened to rip the head off of a school bully or break their jaw for each mean passing remark. That was her way of caring for people that mattered to her, because she knew that if she just let it go, those bullies kept going day after day. She had to show them that she meant what she said. And you loved her for that. And many other reasons, like how happy she made you, but yeah. You were her problem, and she was yours. As she said, playing along with your Mother’s words. Her wit - your Mother was no match to her. Janis will always have a comeback and Damian always enjoys witnessing such a situation. While you were soundly asleep, Janis stayed up thinking about the night your Mom called you a problem. She could not let that shit go as hard as she tried. Those words were as good as tattooed on her mind and she detested that.

‘You made her a problem. You caused her to have anxiety and depression. None of this is her fault. How could you treat your daughter like that? You didn’t even call or text to check on her once.’ Janis thought.

She watches you sleep as her thoughts ran through her mind. Feeling the anger bubbling up, she takes a few deep breaths to calm herself down, scooting closer to you quietly to hold you in her arms.

‘You want to call her a problem? Fine. So be it. She’s a good problem to have. Screw you.’ Janis thought again.

“Nothing will ever make me mad at you.” She mumbles to herself, brushing the hair out of your face, “Good night, sweet girl.”

#lgbtqia #queer #wlw #x reader #reader insert #auli’i cravalho #janis ‘imi’ike #mean girls 2024 #disabled reader #vent #idk but janis has two moms in my head #SoundCloud

[iliveforyouilongforyouvesuvia]

How do you think the M6 would react to a lying MC? Whether it’s to them or some one else is up to you or how extreme the lie is. Thank you, Arcana Headcannon Jesus <3

The Arcana HCs: M6 and the lies MC tries to tell them

~ oh boy, i did not expect being called Arcana Headcannon Jesus to hit my religious trauma like that, that was a vibe check lol

considering how in the stories MC tends to omit the truth at worst and be painfully blunt at best, i'm going to write them as a terrible liar just as a personal design choice. and also because it makes me laugh. thanks for the prompt, anon, i hope it makes you smile! - brainrot ~

Julian

You can totally read his handwriting

You love it when he writes you love letters, they warm your heart, but truthfully you can only make out maybe a quarter of the words on the page

But you can't tell him that because you don't want him to feel like all that beautiful poetry went to waste

At least you think it was poetry

You're running some errands, does he need anything?

Ah, a list of obscure medical devices. Which may or may not be available. And he wrote it down for you, how sweet!

You're so busy trying to decipher the ink blotches that you don't notice his smirk

He totally believes you can read his writing, and all the words on the paper are totally not made up medical jargon

He never says anything because he lives for the moment he can bend over your shoulder and murmur the words he wrote into your quickly reddening ear

Asra

You don't mind the questionable objects they bring into the shop without warning at all

Nope, not the bidet-shaped flamethrower

Or the screeching rattle he replaced the shop's front door bell with that makes every incoming customer jump

Or their favorite painting containing colors that the human eye was not intended to see, prominently hung on your kitchen wall

Or the jar of kool-aid pickled garlic, which he still can't open even though it's been slowly emitting a toxic stench for the last month, and which he refuses to part with because he hasn't been able to try it yet

They love you, but they love pranking you too, and seeing your reactions makes them giggle

He would never cause you any harm though

Which is why their collection of poison spitting cacti stays in a pocket realm, next to the void that wouldn't stop teaching the stove salamander explosive curse words

Nadia

You know royal etiquette like it's second nature

You know all the titles there are, you never get things like pontifex and praetor and procurator mixed up

The table place settings make total sense, who wouldn't use a slightly different type of fork to eat every kind of dish?

And nothing entertains you more than petty politics, nothing at all

In fact, you don't even find Nadia's highly accomplished family remotely intimidating

They're perfectly normal people, just like you, and you are just like them, every move is graceful and your clothes are always pristine

Nadia adores your spirited approach and will happily move purposefully slowly at the dinner table so you know which fork to grab and how to eat the complicated dishes that get served

According to her, you know what you're doing better than anyone else does

Muriel

You can reach and lift anything he can, no problem

You just need a little more time, but you'll get it

You can get the fallen tree split up for firewood and carted into storage, no biggie

Okay so the sun is setting now and you started before lunch and it never takes him longer than half an hour, but you took a lot of breaks okay

But if he wants to spend time with you that badly, he can help a little

Now you just need to lift those bowls down to eat, you've got this, you're a good climber

You never develop any suspicions around why daily necessities always end up on the top shelves, or why Muriel is so open to you helping with outside chores

He likes being needed

The face you make when you're frustrated is adorable

And he loves that you will never admit it

Portia

Please, you can absolutely keep up with her energy levels

Walking to the palace to get a shopping list

And trekking down into the city and through the floating market, the center marketplace, and the south end market to get everything

All to climb back up countless stairs with all your purchases

And walk through all the hallways to give everything to the multitude of requesters

And then back to the cottage for the evening

So you can cook the big evening meal and sweep and mop the floors and spend a few hours weeding the garden

And then all the way back out to the Rowdy Raven for a night of drinking and dancing

And then all the way back home so you can go to bed

She never pressures you to join her, but she always invites you

Hey, she likes spending time with you and you're cute when you're flushed

Lucio

You believe all his tall tales, they're so realistic

Dove to the depths of the ocean and defeated a giant minnow? Totally

Took out a thousand trained killers with one swipe of his mighty gauntlet? Mmmhm

Climbed to the top of the highest mountain to pluck some stars from the sky, which is how he got these diamonds? Of course

He can go days without eating or drinking and never crave sustenance? That tracks, he doesn't have a gluttonous bone in his body

He knows he can be narcissistic sometimes, but he's not *that* delusional

But he likes seeing your little smile as you indulge his fantasies, because you do it out of love and not mockery

And maybe he likes pretending just for a minute that what he's saying is true

#ask arcana brainrot #the arcana headcanons #the arcana hc #the arcana #asra the arcana #julian the arcana #nadia the arcana #muriel the arcana #portia the arcana #lucio the arcana #the arcana shitpost #the arcana game #asra alnazar #julian devorak #nadia satrinava #muriel of the kokhuri #portia devorak #lucio morgasson

[pimosworld]

oh how I love a good drabble, Pimsy!

💌

Frankie Morales (who else? lol)

Thank you for the tag, friendo!

I-was-made-for-loving-you-baby regards,

Beefro 👌🥩💜

I couldn’t help myself, I hope you don’t mind @beefrobeefcal but I made this an installment for Catfish and Mouse because I love them so much.

Pairing-Chubby Frankie Morales x OC Mouse

Summary-You give Frankie a special Valentine’s Day dessert and he cooks you dinner.

CW- Fluff Fluff and more Fluff, some suggestive content

Not beta read

Thats amore

I hope you’re hungry 

  That was all the warning you had during your work day from Frankie. No follow up text and no explanation as you racked your brain for hours for what that could mean. It was impossible to focus on anything else while trying to concentrate on your latest proposal. 

  Frankie told you not to make a big deal of Valentine’s Day like you usually did, since it was in the middle of your busy work week and he knew you always loved spoiling him in any way you possibly could. In the kitchen, in the bedroom, in public spaces, in front of his friends…you wanted to show people how much you loved and cared for him. He was insistent that you not plan anything for this day so that’s (sort of )what you did. 

  You couldn’t help yourself…you had to do a little something to show him how much he meant to you. How every waking moment of your day had thoughts of him. 

  You stare at the small pink paper bag in the passenger seat of your car and smile to yourself. Frankie was going to lose his mind over your special Valentine’s Day gift. 

  ****

  Your mouth is watering as you enter your shared home. The sight of Frankie in the kitchen, your apron stretched comically across his belly and the smell of baked dough and garlic permeating your senses. 

  He forgoes a spoon as he dips his fingers in the sauce, licking them with a loud pop as it drips down his wrist. He smirks at you as you try not to trip over your own feet, setting down your work bag on the chair as you round the kitchen island. 

  “Have a seat baby.” His husky tone seeps into your bones as you slide into the seat at the table. 

  You can’t help but rub your thighs together for some friction as you watch him cook for you. The thing you always do for him, the thing he loves so much and you would do a thousand times over so you could watch him moan and his eyes roll in the back of his head as he eats to his heart's content. 

  He brings a spoonful over carefully holding his hand underneath so as to not spill a drop. “I made my famous spaghetti.” 

  You can see his eyes widen as the sauce hits your lips. Perhaps the same look you give him when he indulges in one of the many meals you make. It’s a whirlwind being on the receiving end of this kind of attention. It may be a while before he relinquishes this kind of control back to you. He finally has a taste of how you feel when he’s helpless to your witchcraft. It’s the only way he can describe how you can reduce him to a puddle of mush after stuffing him full of your love. 

  “I’ve never heard of this ‘famous’ dish.” You smile at him as you unbutton your blouse. His eyes flit to your chest briefly as he serves you up a plate. 

  “Ask Benny…it’s notoriously famous.” He winks at you and you’re unsure of what exactly that means but it can’t be good. 

  “Did I tell you how much I loved you today?” You say with a mouthful of food. 

  “I was made for lovin you baby.” He leans in kissing your cheek, leaving a smudge of sauce behind. 

  You can feel his eyes practically burning a hole through your clothing as you moan at the taste of his food. He’s made a mental note to cook for you now at least once a week if you’ll let him, just for his own personal enjoyment. 

  You’re just about to tell him to stop ogling you and eat when you see his eyes on your pink bag. 

  “Mouse?” He juts his chin. “What’s in the bag?” 

  “Oh…that’s just dessert.” You feign innocence and resume your meal as he leans back in the chair. Arms crossed over his large frame while he studies you. 

  “Let’s have it then.” He growled at you as he reached across the table for the bag. You swiftly pulled it away chuckling to yourself at the warning look he gives you. “Mouse I’m serious…let me see it.” 

  “I just don’t want you to ruin your appetite on dessert.” You tease as you reach in the bag revealing your new lingerie set. 

  He audibly gulps and his eyes are comically wide. “Is that…is that candy?” 

  “Mhm…the top is watermelon and the bottoms are-“

  You shriek when he cuts you off as he yanks your chair back and throws you over his shoulder. 

  “I’m having my dessert now.” 

Comments and reblogs are much appreciated

#frankie morales x reader #frankie catfish morales #mouse #pimosfollowercelebration #valentinesparty #valentines celebration #francisco morales x reader smut #triple frontier #triple frontier drabble #the catfish and the mouse #francisco “catfish” morales

[linaselandbasil]

HAHA, nerds! (Working title)

CHAPTER 2

(Bloodweave University au)

AO3 link, link to chapter 1

...

"Ugh, my nail broke! How does that even happen!" Astarion complained to Shadowheart literally immediately as she got into his car.

"I have no clue. I have never seen you work. Ever." She threw her backpack on the backseat and buckled up. "So, your place?"

"Yeah." He pulled out of the parking lot of the comic parlor and drove towards the nearest Wc Deepalds. "What do we order?"

"Fries, bunches. And a milkshake. And ice cream."

"We have ice cream at home."

"It's not the same, I assure you!" Shart said, crossing her arms. "Whatever, It's not like papa Caz is letting you eat any of it."

"Yeah, it's for guests, and you are a guest, so eat the fucking ice cream at home!" Astarion drove a little faster, unintentionally of course, he's a lawyer by trade, he's not a fan of being sued. Not a good look.

"You're unbearable!"

"So are you. But we're friends, so I'll forgive you." Astarion said with no hint of theatrics in his voice. A rare occurrence.

"Likewise."

After a bit of silence they arrived at the drive through and Astarion rolled his window down.

"Welcome to Wc Deepalds, what can I get you?"

"Can I get a ummmmmmm iced coffee and two large fries, annddddd ummmm... Shart what do you want?"

"Ice cream with caramel sauce, an oreo shake and garlic sauce... For the fries." She, of course, crawled into Astarions lap to lean out the window, even though she really didn't need to.

"Alright, is that all?"

"Yes, thank you." The pale elf said, shoving his worstie back into the passanger seat and driving to the next window where they spent a few minutes waiting. "Of course a little goblin like you would know the menu of this... mistakenly popular establishment. I congratulate you on your VIP ticket to heart failure."

"Thank you, I appreciate it." The window opened and Astarion was handed a warm, delicious smelling paper bag of fatty liver disease. He paid with his papa Cazador money and drove away.

Shadowheart said "Gimme that." And took the bag of fast food. She dug right into her ice cream.

"Bon appetit, my friend."

"Thanks."

"Youre very welcome." He took a sip of his coffee.

"Hey what's up with that bearded guy you asked out? D'he text you yet?"

"Yes. About 30 minutes after I left the store. Eager." Astarions apartment is not far from them by now, they can see it in the distance. A sad beige building with several floors full of annoying neighbors.

"You like them when they're enthusiastic, don't you."

"I do, and what about it? I prefer to know that my partners enjoy themselves!"

Shart sighed. "Such a politically correct gentleman you are."

He nearly choked on his coffee trying to speak his next words. "I AM! And beautiful! Not enough people mention that." He parked his car, got out and began marching to the enterance without waiting for his esteemed guest.

She managed, carrying her gym bag and the Wc Deepalds goodies in her hands of holding. Astarion climbed the stairs with her following not far behind, he took out his keychain, which had about a dozen charms and was attached to one of those things that let you put it around your neck.

"Make yourself at home, darling."

"I will." She took her shoes off at the entrance before the pale elf put her head on a stick for it. "So, I was thinking dark makeu-"

"SAVE. IT. FOR. THE. CAMERA." He put his coffee down on the counter.

"Sheesh, okay." She plopped down on the couch. "Ugh, I don't know how long I can take working at that place."

"What was it this time."

"Just the usual neckbeard business. If we banned the customers that 'flirted' with me we'd be going out of business unfortunately. Can I have a drink?"

"But of course, dear." He opened the fridge and poured her a tall glass of delicious orange juice. Yummy.

"I was thinking of a more age restricted substance."

"We can drink after filming."

"Good... You know what, I'm taking a nap, you go ahead and do the camera things."

"Yeah, good idea. Sweet dreams!" She curled up on the couch and began lightly snoring in about 6 minutes. Astarion could never, he has horrible things to remember and he only finds a gap in his schedule for them right before bedtime.

He quietly went to his bedroom to get started setting everything up.

...

"Do you think this one's better?" Asked Gale, showing a picture on his phone to Wyll. "Or this one." He swiped left.

"I'm not sure, they're both very elegant. Is there a specific dress code? Like, a color scheme?" Wyll was not the best person to ask about this sort of thing, but he is the only person Gale was willing to talk to about it.

"I'm not sure, I can ask him tho."

"Do that, but don't tell him about what your outfit will be, trust me he'll love a surprise!" He tried to reassure the wizard with a smile but it went unnoticed, since the man in question was ferociously typing a message to his future husband and possibly father to their children.

The cafeteria was not busy, people are cooped up in their dorms studying and eating takeout. A shame, honestly, they're serving pizza today.

"Oh my weave he texted back!"

"What did he say?"

"Dark colors, preferably, but I won't get kicked out unless I look underdressed."

"Good thing you have no shortage of wizardly robes."

"True that.... I think I'll wear the purple one."

"Robe of summer? Good choice." He said, glass of water in hand. "I'm almost jealous, I do miss balls, but I don't miss the kids of people who attend them."

"Right, I forgot you were once a well coiffed little noblemanlet! You blend right in with the rest of us common folk!" He put his phone in his pocket but right as he was about to forget about it, he received another message. "It's him...."

"What is it about?" Gale read it, and turned a little red.

'It matters to me very little what wrappings are on a gift, all I care about is what's underneath.'

"Well, it could be interpreted in two different ways, I'm not sure what he really meant.." Gale showed his friend the text.

"I think... If you were to take offense to his boldness, he'd say he didn't mean it like that to not make you uncomfortable, but he definitely meant it like that!" He took a bite of his pizza, it's growing cold.

"That's smart." Gale took a deep breath and started typing. He then changed his mind and deleted all the letters, he could do better. He then literally typed out the exact same sentence.

'Well, it's quite impolite to give a gift without wrapping isn't it? Unwrapping is part of the fun!'

"Wyll my heart is pounding, I don't know how people do this whole dating thing casually..."

"I believe in you, you will persevere!"

"I hope you're correct." He got another notification.

"ITS A P-" He realized he was yelling and stopped, he calmly began anew. "He sent me a picture..."

"Open it." Wyll was very invested in this love story that he was merely an observer of. Gale opened the message, it was a picture of a camera setup.

"I was worried it would be a more anatomical image." Said Wyll.

"I doubt he'd do that. He seems more refined." Gale remembered he had pizza so he took a big bite as he thought of something to write. Another message came in the meantime.

'I neglected to mention but I do have an adorable side hustle of doing makeup on youtube~'

'No need, I recognized you.'

'That's cute. But I am going to be quite busy for the next few hours, you go ahead and enjoy your night darling'

'I will, thank you!'

Gale put his phone down. "Dear gods..." He breathed deep. "Wyll I think he put a spell on me!"

"I thought an evocation major would have noticed by now." Wylls pizza was long devoured, so he took to eating the suspiciously healthy looking salad they gave him.

"Or maybe I- He's just- hmmgh..." He bit into his slice of pizza once again. "I don't know, but he did something to me for certain!"

"You know, I think maybe you should worry less about it. He asked you out so he's clearly interested!"

"Stellar advice... I'm going back to dorm. Bye!" He took his tray to the tray receptacle (whatever it may be I hadn't been in a school cafeteria in a while) and dramatically went back to his building.

...

"Shart..." Poke. "Shaaart." Poke. Poke. "Jenevelle Hallowleaf, you wake up immediately or face my fury!"

"It's been at most 3 minutes, stop it!" He kept poking her. "Cease!" She sat up and grabbed Astarion.

"AGH! UNHAND ME YOU BASTARD!" She gave him the full sibling experience and slapped him with his own hand. "Stop hitting me!"

"Stop hitting yourself!" She chuckled and let go of him. He immediately stood up and smoothed his clothes out. "You changed?"

"Surely you didn't think I'd be recording the video in pajamas."

"You're right, going to the street in them was nowhere near as embarrassing." She said, stretching. "Let's get this done, I want to drink already."

"Yes, let's."

...

Gale tried on every fancy wizardly robe he has, the blue one, the yellow one, the other blue one, the purple one, he can't decide. He never even wears these, he's been living in sweats ever since he moved out of his mom's magic tower!

"I think you look quite dashing in this one Mr. Dekarios!"

"I don't feel very dashing." He admitted, looking at himself in the mirror he hexed to float.

"Maybe shaving would help."

"I'm certain it wouldn't. Maybe I ought to brush my hair." He held his hand out and a comb flew to him. He ran it through his glorious mane.

"Wash it." Tara jumped on the desk to see better. "You live like you're invisible, I'm surprised that this Asterion noticed you!"

"Ah-STAR-ion."

"Yes him, he has an eye for fixer uppers." She laid down on his laptop, sprawling out like it was the nicest pillow she ever touched. "Put your earring on too. And cologne!"

"Great idea... When Mystra-"

"I don't want to hear her name from your mouth." She headbutted him. "When is he picking you up?"

"Tomorrow at 8 i think, ill have to check."

"Then you have time until tomorrow to get yourself into shape, you will be fine. OH, why don't you put your hat on?"

"You said it would ruin my hair." He snapped his fingers and it appeared in the air above him.

"Well, I changed my mind, I think it goes very nicely with these robes!"

"Very well." The hat floated down to his head, crowning him the king of rizzards. "It does look good, thank you for the suggestion."

"Great, now that the outfit is decided on, go rest! Tomorrow is a big day."

#fanfiction #bloodweave #gale of waterdeep #astarion ancunin #astarion #baldur's gate #baldurs gate 3 #bg3

[silent-raven13]

You're my Habichuelas to my Beans on Toast! 😘 2

(Part 1)

Miles woke up from his boyfriend's bed feeling his lower back aching a bit. "Mmm," He could smell garlic and onions in the air with a slight hint of tomatoes. The nineteen year old got up from his partner's bed going to the restroom to brush his teeth and wash up his face.

It's a few days since dinner with his boyfriend and his family had. This time Miles was able to sleepover at his boo, letting his mom know he won't be able to come home till the next day around noon. Luckily his mom allow him to spend time with his boyfriend, unlike his dad.

Miles is in Earth 138b, so his new upgraded watch had him fit into the world's reality. He had fonts over him with tired symbols being gloomy. "Weird." He always looks amazed by the way he looks in Hobie's world. The weird word would pop out of him with a bold italic font and ripped paper, somehow he is the only that sort of noticed this.

Every time he mentions it to Hobie about these things, being a bit surprised about it. Apparently in his boyfriend world not many noticed or would play along to these weird fonts or images of ripped magazines, newspaper like it was apart of them. Hobie never realized until he got the watch that he was able to have very expressive imagery all around him. Even when he turns pink or any color, he doesn't noticed until Gwen pointed it out when he came to her world.

When the nineteen year old came out of the bathroom, he saw his boyfriend stirring something on the pan. Hobie's eyes look over to find his cute Sunflower in his blue and red boxer shorts walking barefoot. "Morning, luv. Had a good sleep?" He asked having to stir their breakfast with a metal spatula.

"Mmm, morning, baby!" Miles went over to slouch on his boyfriend to give him a kiss. Hobie is in his boxer briefs being shirtless too. Their lips entwine for the moment as he went back to cooking. "Smells good."

His boyfriend holds onto his punker while taking a peak at the pan, "Beans?"

"Yes, luv. Today you'll be trying Beans on Toast. A classic British breakfast!" Hobie hums, "I got tea on the kettle. You prefer Earl's?"

"Yeah, that's fine, baby. I'm willing to try anything." Miles nodded being ready for it. The two had talked about trying more of Hobie's cultural foods, since Miles always share his Puerto Rican meals. It's only fair.

Then, a loud boat horn out loud on the docks, "Looks like, the old geezer is doing his morning salute." Hobie rolled his eyes, as the two hear Hobie's neighbor blowing his morning horn.

"He still thinks there's another World War coming." Miles set up two cups to put in tea bags waiting for the kettle to be ready. The young man met Hobie's neighbors a couple of times, a crazy old man that likes to salute his country's flag.

"There always is, darling." Hobie said having to toast some bread slices with butter.

Miles sat on the small round booth dinning table by the window to see the London's river and other houseboats. Hobie's is much larger boathouse than everyones, he calls her his beautiful Poly Styrene. His boat was abandon, and extremely used with a lot of wear and tear, but for the punker it was love at first sight. He put so much love and soul to his beautiful Poly.

Heck, he even decorated with his own punk aesthetics with a lot of spray paint, and Miles happily wrote Poly on it for class. "Here you go luv." Hobie placed their cups filled with tea on the table, "Best tea in London, eh?"

"Always, baby." Miles chuckles knowing his boyfriend always buy store bought tea bags, he sips a bit knowing its burning hot, "Mmm, delicious."

"You need sugar and cream, Sunflower?" Hobie asked having to look at his boyfriend's chest covered in his love bites and hickeys, a beautiful sight.

"Nah, I'm good for now." Miles giggles, "Breakfast almost ready?"

"Yeah, luv. Just wanted to ask you if you care for some scramble eggs on it or the yolk?"

"Give it to me the way you eat it, baby."

"Alright. It's very simple, darling."

"It's alright, mi flor de Luna." Miles hums feeling a bit cold, he rub his hands together underneath the table. He spoke Hobie turning bright pink with red heart patterns around. "Hehehe, you like that?"

"I do, Sunflower."

"I know, Moonflower." Miles smiles happily, he knows Hobie loves it when he speaks Spanish to him.

Soon Hobie placed their plates of two beans on toasts. "Sometimes my siblings like it with cheese on top."

"And you eat it with cheese?" Miles asked noticing his boyfriend took a bag of shredded cheese on the table.

Hobie shrugs, "Sometimes." He placed knives and forks just to be fancy for his boyfriend. "I'm always a fan like this or plain. The butter is to give it that flare."

"So you're impressing me, huh!" Miles flirted back, "Fancy with the butter and toast?"

"Only for you, Sunflower." He sat next to his partner to show the plate, "I overfilled on the beans since that's how I like it."

"Hmm,' Miles looks at the beans noticing onions, garlic and fresh tomatoes, "You added some?"

"Yeah, this is how I made it for my siblings. Gotta add that Jamaican seasoning, luv." Hobie kisses his boyfriend's cheek, "Hope you like it."

His boyfriend took a knife and forks trying get some toast with the beans, "I'll add the cheese once I try it like this."

"Some of my sisters like adding ketchup with the cheese." Hobie casually said which got Miles looking at him.

"What? Ketchup? Con frijoles?" There's that Rio's resemblance on his Sunflower's facial expression. "I mean... I know some Americans like adding kitchen while making chili..." Miles stood quiet as he took a bit of English Heinz bake beans with toast and butter.

Hobie's smile widen watching his boyfriend chewing very slowly trying to understand the flavor, it's really funny to see. Miles wasn't sure if his food palette was so used to Boricua flavors, or he's not into Heinz baked beans. He always ate Goya Red Kidney Beans- It's always a staple in his family's house. That's how his mom make their Habchuelas Guisado!

"Mmm," Miles could taste a bit of Jamaican seasoning which did help the plain tomato canned beans. He nodded, "Not bad. I need to try the can to know what's better."

Hobie went on the counter to show him the canned he used, "There's some sauce in here, luv? You don't like it?"

"It's not bad. I'm just not used to it, baby." Miles use his fork to pick a bit from the canned to try it, he smacks his lips taking a moment to see if he likes it or not. "Okay, I like your way more. This is a bit... plain?"

"It's that Puerto Rican that's hating on the lack of flavor, luv?"

"Yeah," Miles took a bit of cheese to sprinkle on the toast, "I feel like I have to eat it fast so it won't get soggy." Using his knife and fork to cute another piece with the cheese on it.

"Luv, that's the best part! When it gets all soggy and mushy, MMM. Lovely." Hobie said out loud, that's why he didn't start eating his breakfast yet. Taking his fork, he started to cut in the middle to see if the toast is a bit soggy to his liking, "Look at that, darling. beautiful."

"Nah, bae. That looks like it's gonna fall apart!" Miles said out loud seeing his boyfriend taking a piece for him to try, "Baby, nuuu!"

"Come on, one itty bitty bite for me?" Hobie's body turns with cute confetti, cute puppy images turning a soft yellow with pink. His eyes formed the cute begging look.

"Ugh, fine!" Miles took a bite making his body shivers with disgust. Somehow Miles' body images turns to many Yucky emojis expressions and images of modern font that said Ew! His skin turned a grossed green.

This made Hobie noticed causing him to laugh out loud, "My older sister thinks it's disgusting too, darling."

"I hate soggy bread!" Miles swallows having to chug it down with his tea, with Japanese Emoticons like '(￣ ￣|||)' or '(⇀‸↼‶)'. Hobie closes closer seeing more Japanese icons and slangs.

"How did you get those?" Hobie asked being surprised.

Miles look at his skin, "I'm not so sure..."

"You're too cute, darling." Hobie plant a kiss on his boyfriend's cheek with his arm around Miles' neck to pull him closer.

"Mmm, trying to get out of trouble! Giving me that nasty ass soggy bread." Miles angrily pucker his lips still being upset about it. "I'm going to finish my beans on toast!"

Hobie laughs seeing the slight red color with Kaomojis around his boyfriend's body. '⁽⁽(੭ꐦ •̀Д•́ )੭*⁾⁾, [ •̀ ^ •́ ], (˚ ˃̣̣̥⌓˂̣̣̥)' patterns all over with a slight of muted red. "Darling, it's delicious that way."

"No, it's not!" Miles argues, he dig his fork into the toast trying to eat it before it gets soggy. "Also, with cheese it's good, too."

"Wanna try it with ketchup?"

"No, I wanna play it safe." Miles admits, "Have you try this with my mom's beans?"

"I have and it's delicious that way too, darling." Hobie chews his beans on toast, his body beaming yellow with satisfying imagery around him, "Mmm, perfection."

"Heh, you really like this, huh? You grew up eating this a lot."

"It's one of the only things me and my siblings could eat."

Hearing this made Miles stop for the moment, "What? Your mom didn't cook?"

"Nah, she's a drunk. Never cared to cook anything for us. My older sister had taught herself how to cook. One of the things she knew was this, so we all learned to eat this." Hobie casually said. "Sometimes we only had a few cans and bread for breakfast, lunch and dinner."

"You never got sick of it?"

"You couldn't or else you don't eat, luv." Hobie finally looks at his partner, "And eating this is way better than starving three times in a row."

"Baby..."

"Don't give me that look, luv." Hobie sighs turning back to finished eating.

"What look?"

"That look like you feel bad for me."

"Baby," His boyfriend wrapped his arms around Hobie's arms, "you never told me your childhood was this bad."

"Because I don't want to be view some poor boy getting pity on bollocks! My mum was a fucking drunk that didn't give a shit about me and my brothers and sisters! It was bad enough we got looks for being black, but a poor black family?" He scoffs.

"Bae, I just want to know more so we can talk about it. I didn't know your mom was this neglectful! hey, look at me, Hobie. Come on, baby," The nineteen year old caress his boyfriend's hand noticing he's upset. When Hobie gets upset about his childhood, he tends to shut down or avoid the conversation all together, it's better that way. "Hobie, it's okay to get upset. Look, I'm surprised because you rarely talk about. I'm sorry if I did anything to hurt you. I promise I won't bring it up, again."

"Nah, luv. It's my fault. I know you want to know more about me, but I'm afraid..."

"Why?"

"Because you might see me a bit too damage." Hobie rested his head into his boyfriend's arms. "Like ripped old jeans."

"Getting a bit poetic there, bae."

"Sunflower!" He frowns then chuckles. "I'm too damage, darling. Got some terrible demons in me."

"So?" Miles scoffs having his arms wrapped around his boyfriend's upper chest, then giving him kisses on the forehead feeling his thick wicks rubbing against his collar bones. "I love you, baby."

"But you only know a part of me."

"Then show it. I love all of you, Hobart Brown. Your flaws are beautiful to me, mi amor." Miles kisses his boyfriend's plump lips. "Your my Poly."

"Poly?" Hobie looked confused for the moment.

"Your houseboat, baby! You told me you found her looking like shit, all broken and one part was about to crack open and sink the boat," Miles began, "You always found something special about this place and look how fucking cool this place came out! You're my Poly, bae."

"You can fix me, bae?"

"I'm saying people saw this boat as damage and shitty, but you found her to be special. Just like I found you to be special to me, bae."

"You're saying I'm shit?" Hobie jokes.

Miles pouts, "Your not listening to me, mi amor. So mean!" His body turning into angry Kaomojis and fonts. "You ass!"

"Hahaha, I'm joking, Sunflower. I get you." Hobie pucker his lips, "Kiss?"

Miles kisses him again. "Take your time talking about your past, baby. We got all the time in the world."

"Yeah, I will. Say, should we let your parents try this." Hobie have a sly grin on his face.

"Yeah, we should! I wanna see their reaction!" Miles could picture his dad's reaction. Hobie laughs along with him.

A week passed since the two sleepover, they were super busy with being Spider-man and their own personal life been so busy. So to their relief they were able to hang out.

Hobie came by to Miles' world as they walks together on the streets to a Bodega after bodega to find the beans. Of course, it wouldn't be sold in stores where they specially sold Latins or Black products. Miles wanted to make Beans on Toast for his parents to try, so he looked at his phone to find a store that sells the brand Hobie used.

"Man, I can't believe we have to go all the way to Manhattan to find a can of beans!" Miles sighs, they walk together into a store where it sells special International items, sometimes trendy snacks and meals.

Hobie casually said, "Luv, I didn't know this was a mission. I should've brought my own."

"Nah, it's fine." Miles wrap his boyfriend's arms, "Besides, I like spending time with you."

"Me too, Sunflower." The two went inside the store to finally found the Heinz Baked Beans, only thing was... they come with flavors.

Miles saw the original canned took a pack just so Hobie can eat it at his place if he craves for it. "Luv, look... they have it with curry!" Hobie's eyes lit up seeing the baked beans with curry, "Can we get it?"

"Sure, bae!" Miles took a canned beans with curry flavor, "I can't wait to see them try this. I wonder how Billie will do."

"She'll probably give you the side eye, darling." Hobie hums as he wraps his around his lover's waist as they went to pay and leave out of the place. "Shall we take a scroll or Spider-man it?"

"Spider-man it, bae. I rather get home so we can snuggle." Miles said with his cute eyes on him

"Alright, luv." The two went into an alley with their masks on having to be Spider-men. They swing, jump and do all sorts of tricks till they reach Miles' home.

At the Morales' place, Jeff had a pink hat on having to playing with Billie. The little girl wanted her dad to be a princess playing tea party, "Mas?" She holds the tea pot asking her dad.

Rio watches in amusement seeing her big masculine husband dressed in a pink dress, anything to keep his daughter happy. "No, thank you! I have a full cup." Jeff said in a high pitch voice.

"No, more!" Billie scowls having to pour more into his cup. "Gluk. Glue!" Mimicking the sound of water being pour into her dad's tea.

"No, it's already full, Miss!"

Billie ignores him as she took a plastic cake toy, "Cake?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Hehe. Oh, how's the weather, Madame Sprinkles?" Billie asked her dad playing the role.

"Lovely!" Jeff sounded like an old British lady.

Rio chuckles, "Your into it, huh Papi?"

"Only to make Princess Billie happy!" Jeff stay in his role.

Then, Miles and Hobie walks into the front door. "Hey!" Miles said out loud, "Hobie is here."

Jeff was about to quickly take off the outfit, but saw Billie giving him a warning look. He sighs staying in his role. Hobie greeted the parents, "Hola, Mrs. Morales," Giving her a hug, his eyes look at Jeff with a big grin.

"Hola, mijo! How you been? Did you eat all the food I gave you?" Rio asked having her hand touch his arm to check.

"Yes, ma'am." He saw Miles going to the kitchen to prepare the families' lunch. Then he turn his head at Jeff, and grins widely, "What's going on here, pops? Got your fancy dress and hat looking like the Queen?"

"No! That's not daddy it's Miss Sprinkles!" Billie spoke up in her British accent, "And we're having a lovely cup of tea!"

"Yea." Jeff put his normal voice on.

"NO! Do the voice!" Billie scowls at her dad.

"Yes." Jeff quickly did the voice which got the punker laughing.

Miles turns to Hobie, "Bae, should I heat it up in the microwave?"

"If you want. I always like cooking on the pan, darling."

Rio looks over her shoulder being nosy, "Qué estás haciendo?" She asked out loud to her son.

"Making Beans on Toast!" Miles grins widely seeing his mom looking at him, "Hobie wants you guys to try it."

"Oh lord." Jeff mumbles, "Do we have to?"

"PAPÀ!" Billie shouted at him for not paying attention to her game.

"Oh, sorry, dear." Her dad did the old lady voice.

Hobie said, "A classic English meal, dad." He went over to the small round table to sit in an empty spot, "Can I play along, Billie Boo?"

The two year took a moment before giving a slight nod, she went to her box to pull out a crown and dress. "You be Mrs. Dotting!"

"Darling, orange isn't my color." Hobie took the crown to put on, then looks at Jeff's dress, "I want something similar to Miss... what was your name, dearie?" Already into character.

Rio just laugh out loud. Billie took the dress to get a magenta one, "Dis?"

"Perfect, darling. This color matches with my starlit eyes, don't you think?" Hobie asked being dramatic.

Billie giggles, "Yus!" Rio watches at Jeff being lost making her giggle.

Hobie took the plastic tea up and sips, "Oh, darling... it seems my tea is a bit cold."

"Oh!" Billie pours more tea into the cup, "Gulk. Gulk. Gulk!" She said in her weak British accent, "Is that better?"

"Mmm, perfect. Best tea in all London." Hobie pretended to sip the empty cup, "Is that a good Earl's Grey or a lovely cup of Black tea?"

Jeff tilted his head, "What?"

"Ummm...Ummm, tea!" Billie said out loud. Heck, how should she know there's different types of tea?

Rio cracking up on her husband's and daughter's reaction, hearing sounds from her son in the kitchen, her curiosity got the best of her. She sat up to look over to find Miles cooking on a pan. "Miles, are you using lata de Goya?

"No, mamí. This one is special from Inglaterra." Miles hums already heating up some beans with onion and garlic, just the way his boyfriend makes it.

"Habichuelas de inglaterra?" His mom asked being a bit worried and surprised. "Guau."

"Mamî, hay mantecaditos?" Miles asked looking in the fridge.

"Shortening or Butter?" Rio asked.

"Butter!"

"Should be in the fridge!" His mom got up to help him look in the fridge. "Aquí," She took a butter container to find it filled with Sofrito, "Oy, hmmm, let me see the back." Rio looks at the pan, "te vas a quemar los habichuelas."

"Oh!" Miles put the heat on low as he stirs it with a wooden spoon, "Found it?"

"Yeah, here." Rio took the right container filled with butter, "Butter with beans?" She looked a bit confused.

"Butter for the toast." Miles explained, "You guys wanna try with egg yolk?"

"Oy, no! No-no, let's try it the way your novio eats it." His mom shook her head, unsure what's to come.

When Miles was finished, he gathered his parents and Billie to their spots. Placing their plates in front of them only to see them arching their eyebrows and tilting their heads together. Hobie saw his own plate, "Ugh, thanks, luv." He happily ate his plate, "Mmm, is this the curry one?"

"Yeah, I added a bit more curry since the flavor was light from the can." Miles put the can in front so his boyfriend can try it.

Hobie chews the beans from the canned and nodded, "That's light alright. Mmm, still heavenly, darling."

"So this is what you eat?" Jeff got his fork to poke at it.

"Ay, Jeff. Don't start, that's rude!" Rio gently smack his hand from being rude to Hobie's English meal.

"What! You were thinking it too!"

Billie stood on a chair as she leans over to pick the toast seeing it soggy, and the beans not like her mom's way. "Ewww..." She lets it go knowing she won't like it.

"Come on, guys. it's not that bad! Look." Miles took a piece and chews it. "And I made it better than the canned." He offer Billie a piece from his fork.

"No!" Billie turned her head away.

"Come on, Boo-Boo. You'll like it." Miles cooed, he got close for Billie to try it, "Please."

"Mmm," His little sister stood hesitant for the moment, slowly she tries it. Smacking her lips, she wasn't sure if she did like it.

"Well, I'll be happy to try it." Rio took a fork to dig in, and her husband follows her.

Hobie watches the two slowly chewing it, their unsure expression got him laughing out loud. Billie still smacking her lips still confused by the beans, "Jugo!" She called for her juice.

"Okay, I'll get you some." Miles went into the the kitchen to get her sippy cup filled with juice.

"Me too, son!" Jeff finally said, he kindly push back the plate, "Nope. Sorry, Brown. This is a no for me."

"It's not bad, but not like mines." Rio took another bite trying to be respectful.

Miles came in with a sippy cup and glass of juice for her dad and sister. Billie happily took her juice to sip then open her mouth at her mom, "Ah!"

"Quieres más, mi amor?" Rio asked seeing her toddler standing on the chair.

Billie nodded, "Huh uh. Mas!"

"Not you, Boo-boo!" Jeff said to his little girl.

Billie shrugs, "Good with juice!" She took another bite from her mom's spoon.

"Jeff it's not bad."

"I don't like it. It's too plain for me." Jeff sips his glass of juice.

Miles arched his eyebrows, "Dad, I added a good amount of salt. Besides, you can add cheese on top of it or scramble eggs."

"Or if you're feeling a bit daring some hot sauce or ketchup." Hobie chews having the biggest grin on his face, he finds it hilarious that Miles' Jeff didn't like his favorite meal.

"Ketchup?" Jeff asked out loud with his eyes wide from a mix of disgust and shock.

Rio pressed her lips together, "Like this?"

"Nonono!" Billie shook her head, "No, kes-up!"

"Cheese taste good." Miles said.

"Lord, my stomach already bubblin'." His dad shook his head, "I'm too old for trying this stuff."

"Cheese, I understand, but ketchup?" Rio asked Hobie.

"It gives a bit of sweetness." Hobie finished his plate up all clean, "Luv, that was amazing. Is there more?"

"You're lucky I bought the second can." Miles giggles, "I'll make more for you, bae."

"He can have my plate. I'm order pizza." Jeff huffed.

"Ohh, pizza!" Billie chews.

"You want pizza, bebé?" Rio said to her daughter.

The little girl nodded, "Cheese pizza!"

"Some good New York pizza will satisfy me." The middle age man got up to make an order over the phone.

Miles came with a second plate for Hobie using the curry beans canned. "Here you go, baby."

"Thanks luv, this beats pizza any day." Hobie happily eats his meal being extremely happy.

"Don't British people like Fish with fries?" Jeff asked out loud.

"Ahhh, now that's better than pizza." Hobie said out loud, "Battered fish with chips with a good ale on a Friday night! Ah, the best!"

"Hahaha, there's some places around here that makes Fish n' Chips, bae. Maybe you'll like them." Miles chuckles.

"Me and my big mouth." Jeff grunts, "I'm fine with pizza on a Friday night."

Rio said, "You always like a filet fish from McDonalds with a hot cup of coffee."

"That's different, baby! That's for lunch during work! Pizza is great for Friday night!" He responded back.

Hobie said, "Nah, pops! Fish n' Chips."

"Chips?" Billie asked.

"He means french fries," Miles kisses his little sister's cheek. "I learned that the hard way."

"Well, fried fish is always good." Rio said thinking about her recipes.

"Chips covered in gravy and a bit of vinegar with a dash of salt is great too." Hobie said out loud.

Miles giggles, "Bae, I think your just hungry."

"I guess, so. You know, I could go for Mrs. Morales' habichuelas guisado with rice after this!" Hobie finished his second plate.

Rio's eyes gleamed with a big smile on her face, "I have a big pot in the stove, mijo! Don't worry I'll get the rice cooking!" Being so happy Hobie likes her habichuelas guisado.

Billie bounced happily, "Oh! Me too!" She loves her rice and beans.

Miles sat on Hobie's lap having to chuckle in his bae's ear, his dad being busy ordering pizza. "Hahaha, bae. You made my mom so happy!"

"Darling, I love her cooking."

"I know, and mines?"

"Your's came out great. Maybe I have to ask you to make me some." Hobie kisses his cheek.

"Well, your the Beans on Toast to my Habichuelas, bae." Miles teased.

"Using my line, huh! I like it." Hobie playfully kissing his boyfriend's cheeks.

"Hey, six feet away, Miles!" Jeff caught the two being lovey dovey before going back on the phone.

"No! Nonono! Me!" Billie got on the table to walk over to her older brother. "My bro-der!" Her brother quickly pick her up seeing her being protective.

"No, he's mine." Hobie teased the little one.

"No, mine!"

"No, mine!"

Miles merely sighs seeing how his family is all over the place, then he smiles at his man. Hobie looks a lot happier than the first time they met, he's glad he can give his boyfriend the family he needs.

#punkflower #hobie x miles #miles morales #hobie brown #spider verse #across the spider verse #spiderman #miles x hobie #miles morales 1610 #spiderverse #spider man #atspv #atsv #punk flower fanfic #flowerpunk #fanfic