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ellemj · 5 months

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Needs & Wants - Sex Pollen Trope Pt. 8

Bucky Barnes x Reader

**Read parts 1-7 first for the full effect.**

Summary: You and Bucky go on your first mission since the one where you were exposed to the sex pollen. Only this time, you have a professional babysitter observing you both and a game that neither of you is willing to stop playing.

Warnings: mentions of previous smut and prelude to upcoming smut, profanity, teasing, brief mention of drug use as an analogy, dry humping, slight exhibitionism, MINORS DNI, 18+!!!

Feel free to comment and let me know if this requires any other warnings.

Word Count: 6.3k

Author's Note: Special thanks to @littlemiss-yeehaw for giving this a read earlier today and convincing me not to scrap it, and for going back through my blog and listing out the warnings that I might've been missing. A true angel.

It’s been 7 days since your chemically-induced lust-filled night with Bucky in the safehouse. 7 days since he had his hands on you, since he was inside you, since he last kissed you. It’s been 4 days since your first partner talk session with Dr. Raynor. 4 days spent wondering what might happen if she comes to a sure conclusion that the two of you really did have sex that night. Will she suggest to Fury that your partnership be terminated? Will she spill the secret to the rest of the team? You don’t even know what you want the outcome to be, but thinking about it puts you on edge.

Meanwhile, you and Bucky have been playing a very dangerous game. After that tense moment in the gym showers on Monday evening, you had a fairly normal team dinner upstairs. Nothing was out of the ordinary. Until the dinner turned into everyone piling into the main living area to watch some movie that Sam insisted was an absolutely necessary nightcap. Somehow, you ended up seated next to Bucky on one end of the sectional. You did a great job keeping your focus on the movie for the first thirty minutes. It wasn’t until Bucky very intentionally manspread on the couch that you felt like you were going to be needing an emergency exit. He made sure that the side of his thigh was pressed against the side of yours for the next ten minutes, and that alone made your body temperature increase to an uncomfortable degree. You tried nudging him with your knee, to get him to scoot away from you, but it only encouraged him to be bolder. He did the typical relaxed-male thing and rested his arm along the back of the couch behind you. The movement enveloped you in his scent and it was too much to handle. You were quick to excuse yourself and not come back to finish the movie. No one questioned it though. You’d had a lot of early nights since you came back from the HYDRA facility mission. Everyone else chalked it up to you recovering from the chemical exposure or maybe jetlag, but Bucky knew what you were doing. Avoiding him. He was having so much fun playing your little game, waiting for you to cave and give into your desires. You were kind of cheating by keeping yourself away from him. That’s not how the game is supposed to be played.

You can’t avoid him today. Today, you’ve both been called in to be briefed on your first partner mission since the HYRDA facility one. Sam didn’t offer many details about it when he first asked you both to be in the conference room at noon today, so neither of you really know what you’re walking into. If it’s anything like your usual missions, it’ll be some breaking and entering or a smash-and-grab type situation. It’s what you and Bucky are best at. Getting in quietly, getting what you need, and getting out. And of course, you’re undeniably good at working together to take down any obstacles along the way.

You step out of the elevator and make your way down the hall to the conference room, arriving twenty minutes before noon so you won’t immediately be thrown into the bustle of a briefing. You always show up early enough to read any mission files that have already been set out on the table for the upcoming op. You don’t like to go into these meetings completely blind. As you scan your palm to gain access to the room, you hear the sound of a chair scraping across the floor as it’s pulled away from the table. Seems like you aren’t the only one who decided to show up early today. You don’t know who you were expecting to find behind the closed door, but it sure as hell wasn’t Dr. Raynor.

“Y/n, it’s nice to see you again.” Her voice is calm and collected, like she isn’t surprised at all that you’re standing right in front of her. You stare at her with a hint of confusion spreading across your face. Are you in the wrong conference room? No, there’s only one conference room on this floor of the compound. She must be in the wrong room. Dr. Raynor can see the wheels in your head turning as you try to figure out why she’s here. She decides to save you the trouble. “I’m observing your missions, remember?”

Ah, so this is the beginning of the babysitting.

---

Bucky wouldn’t say that he’s ever particularly nervous before going out in the field. If anything, he’s more calm than usual. He operates best when he’s under pressure, when he has tasks to complete. He can’t stand doing nothing for extended periods of time. He gets far too consumed with his thoughts when he lets his mind go idle. Yet, today he finds himself on edge. He doesn’t have to think too hard to figure out why, not with Dr. Raynor standing amongst the various SHIELD agents and analysts, watching as you both equip your in-ear monitors and get ready to make the drive to the gala that you’ll be attending undercover tonight. She puts him on edge, and not in a good way like you do. She makes him second-guess his decisions, she makes him more self-conscious. That can be a good thing at times, like when he’s being self-destructive. But in the field? He doesn’t need to be second-guessing himself when both of your lives are on the line.

As Sam drones on, reminding you both of the main tasks to be completed during the mission tonight, your mind is elsewhere. Bucky seems so distant. He’s standing right beside you but he isn’t quite himself. He’s a little too quiet, a little too unfocused. You can’t tell what’s eating at him but you fear it’s the stupid teasing game you’ve both been playing all week. Maybe he let it get to his head.

“Why do I feel like neither one of you are listening to me?” Sam suddenly asks, snapping his fingers around in the air to get your attention. You and Bucky both focus in on him.

“It’s a simple op, Sam. Get in, put on a show, slip into the elevator, plug the device into the computer in the home office upstairs, then slip back out.” Bucky reiterates the plan, proving he didn’t really need to be paying all that much attention. Sam rolls his eyes, holding out a device that looks like a little USB drive. Bucky takes it and drops it into one of the pockets of his suit jacket. He looks good tonight. Who are you kidding? He always looks good. But tonight, he’s dressed in a black suit, complete with a black button-up shirt underneath and a black tie. Of course, he’s wearing his black gloves as well. As Sam tells him how important it is that he not lose that tiny little device, you find your eyes lingering on Bucky’s thighs. His pants hug them just right, exemplifying the toned muscles there and reminding you of how good he looks without any clothing obstructing your view of him. Fuck. You keep forgetting that Dr. Raynor is just a few feet away, analyzing your every move.

It only takes a few more minutes of discussion before you and Bucky are climbing into a sleek black car and heading out of the garage of the compound. As soon as you’re out and onto the interstate, you let out a deep sigh, sinking back into your seat. You’re wearing the tiniest black dress that you own, it’s one of your favorites really. You don’t get many occasions to show it off, so you chose to put it on tonight. You don’t notice it at first, but when you lean back in the seat, your dress rides higher up your thigh and Bucky’s grip on the steering wheel tightens so much that his flesh knuckles turn white on one hand and his vibranium hand nearly leaves a dent. He needs to cool down.

Neither of you have your in-ear monitors on yet. You won’t turn them on until you’re nearing the gala, since it’s a forty-minute drive there. There’s no point in listening to Sam chat up whoever happens to be sitting near him, he’ll do that just fine without the two of you having to suffer through it. You love Sam like family, but the man likes to talk more than a teenage schoolgirl.

“Where are you tonight?” You ask, referring to the way Bucky seemed so out of focus and distant back in the garage.

“I’m here.” He says quietly, keeping his eyes on the road. You sigh and cross your legs. This time, you don’t miss the way Bucky’s gaze darts over to you, running up your legs as your dress slides impossibly higher up your thigh. Any higher and he might be able to tell what color panties you’re wearing tonight. He adjusts himself in his seat, shifting his hips a little and pressing his head back against the headrest. He looks uncomfortable, and when you let your eyes scan down his body, you quickly find out why. He’s hard. Not even slightly hard. Fully erect and clearly testing the strength of his pant seams. In a split second, you make a decision to continue the game. You were going to give it a rest tonight. With Dr. Raynor watching you both so closely and already thinking that you’ve had sex, you didn’t think it’d be smart to push your luck. But you got all dressed up. Why let it go to waste?

“Bucky…” You say, in a sultry tone. Bucky’s knuckles go white again at the sound of you saying his name. You notice it this time. He fucking hates how easy it is for you to get a rise out of him. It’s not even his own fault. You avoided him so much the last couple of days. Seeing you now, dressed like this? It’s like he’s an addict and he’s been without his drug of choice for too long. He’s in the beginning stages of withdrawal and his next fix is staring right at him, calling his fucking name. “What are the boundaries tonight?” You ask. Though the question itself sounds professional, the way you delivered it is anything but. You asked it in a way that implies you want to know so you can test whatever boundaries he lays out. You have all of the power in this moment and he can’t stand it. Do you think he doesn’t know what game you’re playing?

“We need boundaries?” He asks, flipping the script on you. You lose your wits for a moment, unsure of what the hell to say back to him. He was supposed to lay out a few boundaries like no kissing with tongue or hands below the belt, so then you could cross the lines anyway just to fuck with him. He wasn’t supposed to make it a free-for-all. You’re silent for a few seconds too long and he can’t stand it. “I asked you a question.”

Holy fuck. Where does he get off being so demanding with you? You hate it and love it all at the same time. It sends a raging heat straight to your core and you feel your panties dampening with arousal. Your mind follows your body’s cues and answers him the way he expects to be answered: promptly.

“Yes.” You muster the words up, but they come out soft. He zapped your confident demeanor away with one little phrase. He tsks now, relaxing in his seat. He’s gained control back and he’s relishing in it. He steers with only his left hand now, moving to rest his flesh hand over the gear shift between the two of you.

“What boundaries do you need tonight?” He questions. Your mind immediately goes back to the two rules you had in the safehouse that night, though you only ever said one of them out loud. No kissing, and no using his name. You broke both of those rules before the sun ever came up. Obviously your first rule won’t fly in this situation, given the nature of the mission. Your second rule could be useful, considering Bucky’s cover name is simply going to be his real first name: James.

“I don’t know.” You admit, after careful consideration.

“You’re not going to tell me not to kiss you this time?”

“I don’t think we could get away with not kissing when we’re supposed to be convincing everyone there that we want to fuck.” You point out. Bucky laughs lightly, moving the car into the left lane to pass a very slowly traveling Kia.

“We wanted to fuck last week but we didn’t kiss until it had already happened a few times.”

He really just said that.

“We wanted to or we needed to?” You ask, just to clarify. He chuckles under his breath as he moves the car back into the right lane.

“Wanted to, needed to, we can go with whichever makes you feel better.”

“You’re such an ass.” You scoff, crossing your arms. This small act pushes your breasts up a bit and Bucky can tell out of the corner of his eye. He doesn’t dare to peel his eyes away from the road and steal a look, because if he does, he’ll crash this damn car when he can’t stop looking at you.

“No kissing tonight.” He says. You raise an eyebrow at him, but he still doesn’t give you so much as a sideways glance.

“Bucky, there’s no way we can pull off an assignment like this without kissing.” It’s not that you want to kiss him, but how else will you make it obvious that you want to fuck? You can’t risk botching the mission as part of your stupid little side game.

“You can kiss anywhere except my lips.” He offers, acting like that’s some sort of compromise. As much as you want to argue with him, there is no fucking way you’re going to sit here in this car and plead for him to let you kiss his lips tonight. There isn’t a chance in hell.

The rest of the car ride went by fairly quickly. Bucky pulled the car into the dramatic gated entrance of a mansion and stopped at the valet. You knew he’d already gotten into character when he turned to you before getting out of the driver’s seat and told you to stay put. He then waved the valet away from your side of the car, before calmly walking over and opening the door for you himself. It was almost attractive. But you know that wasn’t something he normally would’ve done. He’s just playing the part.

Bucky holds out a gloved hand for you, which you accept, and then he helps you out of the car. Once you’re standing in front of him on your favorite black ankle-strap heels, he pushes the car door shut behind you and rests his left hand on your lower back. You tug the hem of your dress a little further down your thighs, since it rode up so much in the car, and surprisingly, Bucky appreciates that. Though he loved getting to see so much of your skin, he didn’t want everyone surveilling the mission to see it too. He also didn’t know if he could continue to think straight with how short your dress was becoming.

As he guides you up the front steps of the mansion and into the double doors, his hand slips a little lower so it’s resting just millimeters above your ass. You feel your cheeks warming and butterflies waking up within you, but you tamp them down fast. This isn’t real. Fake it, get the intel you’re here for, and then get home and get the hell away from Bucky. That’s what you keep telling yourself.

The only problem you were having was that Bucky was way too fucking good at faking it. He walked you right into the gala and wasted no time grabbing you a glass of champagne from a passing server. He found the two of you a nice corner to cozy up in, but made sure it was one that everyone could clearly see. He made sure that you weren’t hidden from plain sight. Then, as you took the first sip of champagne, he started in on step one.

“You’re staring.” You whisper, his blue eyes following your every move. He’s standing close in front of you, the glass of champagne in his hand looking almost miniature, and his breath fanning across your lips.

“I’m staring.” He agrees. Why is your heart racing? Jesus. This mission was a bad call. You turn away from him, taking the moment to scan the room. Nothing looks out of the ordinary. Everyone is dressed beautifully, drinking champagne and chatting away. Most of these guests probably have no idea that the owner of this house is the type of criminal that he is.

Dr. Raynor is watching the live surveillance footage of the mission play out before her from her seat in the conference room of the tower. She’s jotting down notes as she observes you and Bucky, thoroughly surprised by what she’s seeing. Bucky is excelling at feigning the attraction and making it seem like he wants you. You, however, look anxious. You’ve barely even spoken since entering the gala three minutes ago and she’s starting to wonder if you’re going to wash the entire op down the drain.

Bucky keeps his eyes focused on you as you now stand in front of him. He can tell how tense you are. What he can’t tell is if it’s because you don’t want to have to do this with him or if it’s because you do, and that makes you nervous as hell. Of course, the latter is right.

“Come on, you two. Let’s get things moving.” Sam speaks through your in-ear monitors. Bucky takes a step forward now, stepping so close to you that his chest brushes against your back and your cascading, softly curled hair tickles his chin. You smell like strawberries. It’s the same intoxicating scent that he had to wash off of his skin after your night together.

“It’s just me.” He breathes the words out next to your ear, trying to ease your nerves. You let yourself relax against him a little, taking another sip of champagne and closing your eyes for a moment. It’s just him. The guy that’s saved your ass in the field so many times that you’ve lost count. The guy that you’d trust above anyone else, even as you give him shit just for the hell of it. The guy that gave you the best sex of your life, not just once, but five fucking times in a row. It's just him.

“Okay…” You whisper, deciding that you can be as calm and level-headed as he’s being right now. This is going to be easy. You’re a professional, after all.

It’s not until you find yourself with your back against a wall and Bucky’s hands on your waist that you think you might be in over your head. It started out slow, light touches and seemingly innocent whispers in each other’s ears while standing at the very busy bar. After quite a few people started to give the two of you looks, Bucky led you over to an area where a handful of couples were gathered, chatting amongst themselves. That’s where he chose to make a display of grabbing your ass with his vibranium hand, making you gasp and lean into his chest. Trying to play off the gasp as being intentional, you immediately attached your lips to his neck. Kissing and sucking on the soft skin there. Even his skin tastes fucking good. You can’t help yourself when you start having flashbacks to the night you spent together. Once you start thinking about how good it felt with him that night, you begin chasing that feeling. You want him all over you, you want him inside you again. Though you know you can’t have that, you know you can get pretty damn close to it before this mission ends. So, you up your game. This time, you don’t have to hide any evidence of what you’re doing, because you were assigned to do this. You use that as your excuse for sucking a little mark on the side of Bucky’s neck, leaving him with something to find in the mirror later. As your lips leave his neck, one of his hands travels quickly up your back and he tangles his fingers in your hair at the back of your head. He tilts your head back until you’re looking up into his eyes. You can feel the stares of the couples around you, but you remind yourself that those stares are exactly why you’re doing what you’re both doing right now.

Bucky’s eyes dart from your eyes down to your lips. Your fucking lips. God, he wants to kiss you. He remembers how sweet your mouth tasted the first time you kissed him. Like he could ever forget that. He bites his bottom lip in restraint before leaning down and kissing your neck instead, licking and sucking along the curve of your jaw, making his way up to your ear.

“I think we’ve put on enough of a show, don’t you?” He asks softly, his lips tickling the shell of your ear. Your eyes flutter closed at the sound of his voice, hating that that he’s right. It’s time to make your way upstairs, which means that the touching and riling each other up is nearly over with. You nod your head, but Bucky doesn’t like that. He likes when you speak up and answer him. He likes hearing how breathy your voice sounds when you’re worked up like this. “Use your words, sweetheart.”

Shit. You feel a wave of heat spreading from where his lips are against your ear all the way down to your cunt. You take a deep breath, forcing your eyes open and looking over his shoulder. You see plenty of people in the crowded room taking their turns staring at the two of you.

“I think so.” You say quietly, placing a shaky hand on Bucky’s chest and pushing him back gently. You turn on your heel, reaching back and taking his hand in yours, before leading the way to the back of the large, open living area.

“Nice work. You’re going to find the opening to a big hallway at the back of the room. It’ll be dark, you’ll go all the way to the end and take the elevator to the fifth floor. Jesus, this place is huge. Why anyone needs to a home with five floors to themself is beyond you. You reach the hallway quickly, and Bucky holds onto your hand firmly, letting you guide him. The hallway itself has to be at least fifty-feet long, but eventually you reach the elevator. Bucky steps forward, letting his front press against your back as he presses the button to call the elevator with his free hand, his other hand still clasped in yours. Instead of stepping away from you after pressing the button, he stays flush against you. You feel his free hand land on your hip and pull you against him with such a slight movement that it’s almost unnoticeable.

You immediately feel it. His hard cock pressing into your ass.

“There’s one camera in the elevator, so keep up the show.” Sam instructs, just as the elevator is arriving and the doors are sliding open in front of you. The lights inside are dim and the walls are a shiny metal, but not fully reflective. Before you have a chance to step in, Bucky is pushing you forward with the hold he has on your hip. He wastes no time in turning you around. It’s exciting, the way he can so easily move you and handle you. It’s as if it takes little effort or thought for him to do exactly what he wants with you. He walks you backward until your ass hits the wall, and then he looks down into your eyes, sending a shiver down your spine.

“Don’t move.” He says lowly, before stepping away and hitting the button to carry you both up to the fifth floor. As the doors close, he positions himself back against you, tugging on your hair and kissing your neck once more. You sigh as you secretly enjoy his touch, praying that he doesn’t realize just how real your heavy breathing and soft whimpers are. But Bucky knows they’re real. He’s heard you just like this before…whimpering, panting underneath him as he fucked his cock into you. It’s what’s driving him to leave marks all along your collarbone right now. It’s what has his cock so fucking hard that he worries his suit pants won’t survive the mission.

Temporarily forgetting that this is supposed to be an act, Bucky presses his hips into you, nibbling on your earlobe as you take in the feeling of his hard cock resting against your stomach.

“James…” You breathe his name out and he freezes. You feel his cock twitch in his pants and a devious smile plays on your lips. You’re so damn lucky that they let him use his real first name for this mission. You don’t know it yet, but you can have anything you want when you say his name like that. Any. Damn. Thing. He’s about to say fuck it and shove his tongue into your mouth when the elevator dings and the doors open to the fifth floor, revealing a dark home office. You push his chest lightly and he gets moving, turning around and leading the way out of the elevator.

“Security does a sweep of every floor once every ten minutes. If our timing is right, you should have about eight minutes to finish this. Just plug the device into the laptop and leave it for three minutes. It has to be plugged in for at least three minutes to complete the download. Then you’re all clear and you guys can get out of there.” Torres reminds you both through your in-ears. Bucky makes a beeline for the desk at the far back wall of the room, reaching in his pocket for the device and quickly finding the USB port of the laptop. He plugs it in and it lights up with a pale green glow as the intel begins downloading. You both stand there in silence, watching the device as if that will make it download any faster. After about thirty seconds, Sam speaks up again, a slight panic rising in his tone.

“You’ve got company in thirty seconds, security decided to sweep early.”

“Shit.” You mumble, your mind suddenly moving at a hundred miles an hour. Bucky turns to you and meets your gaze, and you immediately know that you’re on the same wavelength. You reach beneath the hem of your dress, tugging your black panties down and holding onto the edge of the desk as you quickly step out of them. You drape them over the device to cover up the green glow of the light, and then turn to face Bucky.

“Sit on the edge of the desk.” He tells you in a hushed tone, as his eyes dart to the fabric of your panties beside the laptop. You find yourself listening without second-guessing his demand. He steps in between your legs and you can hear the whirring of the elevator as it’s called down to one of the lower floors, likely to pick up the security guards that will be sweeping the office any minute now. You’re running out of time. Bucky begins loosening his tie around his neck, and then unbuttons the top three buttons of his shirt in record time, as you reach your hands out and begin unbuckling his belt. Fuck, he’s enjoying this so much more than he should. When you unzip his pants, you nearly moan at the way you see his cock straining against the fabric of his boxers. You only get a peek though, because you don’t push his pants down even a little bit. Bucky looks you over quickly as he deftly slides the straps of your dress off of your shoulders. His eyes meet yours and you both know exactly what you need to do. You lay back on the desk and he pulls your thighs around his hips, leaving your dress in place so you’re still fully covered. Suddenly, you feel his clothed, hard cock pushing against your bare clit and you unintentionally arch your back off the cold desk, biting your lip and letting your eyes fall closed. Anyone seeing this on the SHIELD surveillance footage right now would think that you’re just really good at your job, really good at faking things undercover. Only Bucky knows that he just drew real pleasure from you.

“Get loud for me, we have to sell it.” He encourages you, bucking his hips into yours and leaving one hand on your right thigh while his other hand wraps gently around your throat.

“Fuck, James.” You moan loudly, hoping the security guards can already hear you from the elevator shaft. “Right there, baby, oh my god.” This earns a loud groan from Bucky and his grip on your thigh tightens so much that you think you might be left with a bruise in the shape of his hand. The friction of him rutting against you like this is so fucking good that you let out another very real moan right as the elevator dings and the doors slide open behind Bucky. You both pretend not to notice them, trying to give the device more time to do its job. Bucky continues to mimic the actions of a guy slamming his cock into his girl, moans falling from your lips and perfectly timed grunts mixed in with dirty praises falling from his.

“Hey!” A deep voice yells out, and you both gasp for show. You push yourself up on your elbows and look over Bucky’s shoulder. He keeps his body firmly planted where it is to shield you from the men who stand by the elevator. He’d be damned if he’d let them see you this way. “You two can’t be up here.” The man’s voice is serious and authoritative, but his security guard buddy has an amused smile on his face.

“Oh my god, James, you said we wouldn’t get caught.” Your voice is full of fake embarrassment as you cover your face with one hand. He laughs before looking over his shoulder at the guards.

“Just thirty more seconds.” Sam calls out.

“I’d apologize but I’m really not sorry about this.” Bucky says to the two guards, making the amused one laugh and the authoritative one shoot his partner a warning glance. “Can we just have a few seconds to get ourselves together?” Bucky asks kindly, tilting his head in your direction as if to remind them that you’re a lady. The security guards are silent for a second, assessing the situation and scanning the rest of the office for anything in disarray besides the two of you.

“You have thirty seconds to situate yourselves and get in the elevator.” The first guard barks, turning around to face away from you and gesturing for his buddy to do the same. Bucky steps back from you and you lower yourself to the floor, pulling your dress down and sliding the straps back onto your shoulders. Bucky quickly fixes his pants and belt before moving on to his tie and shirt buttons. You smooth down your hair a bit, leaving it at least a little messy for evidence.

“Got it, you’re good to go.” Sam gives the all clear to remove the device.

Bucky smirks at you and as the guards turn back around to face the both of you, he leans in close, reaching past you to grab your panties off of the desk. He skillfully grips the device within them, pulling it out of the laptop and shoving both the panties and device into his suit jacket pocket, making sure the guards witness his move.

“Alright you two, time to head out.” One of the guards calls out, waving you toward the elevator. Bucky takes your hand in his and leads the way, the cocky smile that you’ve become so familiar with never leaving his lips.

Though the guards would’ve allowed you to stay at the gala, it only made sense for you to leave, acting like you were heading out early to finish what you started in the home office upstairs. Bucky stands behind you, peppering kisses up and down the side of your neck while you wait for the valet to bring your car around. As the car comes into view, he cheekily slides his hand from your hip down to the slit in your dress, tracing the triangular outline with his index finger. You have to tell yourself a million times that this is just part of the job.

---

Of course, the mission couldn’t possibly go fully according to plan. Do they ever? When Bucky began to drive you both back to the compound, you soon realized that you were being tailed. Sam was quick to direct you to a hotel, arranging to have a team of SHIELD operatives nearby for protection in case of any kind of ambush. You were sure that the guards didn’t see the device, but that doesn’t mean that they didn’t want to check you out and make sure you were really just some lusty young couple.

That’s how you ended up where you are now: laying on your stomach, still in your dress and heels, on a very comfortable luxury bed while Bucky showers. You have to fight the dirty thoughts flooding your mind, which is really fucking hard to do when the man that you want to do dirty things with is naked just a few feet away in the bathroom. Forcing your mind to stay empty leads to you drifting off to sleep as you wait for him to finish showering so you can have your turn.

You’re startled out of your extremely light slumber by the feel of Bucky’s hands on one of your ankles. You realize that he’s undoing the straps of your heels as you lay on the bed.

“Do you have the device still?” You mumble the question, not moving from your position or trying to stop his movements.

“Mhm, I have your panties too.” He answers, sounding so pleased with himself. You think about kicking him, you could easily do it in the position that you’re currently in, but you’re secretly really glad that he’s taking your heels off for you so you let his teasing slide.

“Yeah, that was a nice move back there, grabbing them and the device the way you did.” He hmms in response, taking off your second heel and setting them both on the floor at the foot of the bed. You feel his hand softly pat the side of one of your thighs before he steps away from the bed and sits in the chair by the window. You roll onto your back and push yourself up into a sitting position, leaning back on your hands. You don’t know what you expected him to be wearing, but it sure as hell wasn’t only his boxers.

“Like what you see?” He asks, raising an eyebrow at you and flashing you a suggestive smile. He’s relaxed in the chair, a bit slouched with his arms on the arm rests and his legs spread apart. You do like what you see, but he doesn’t get the satisfaction of hearing you say it out loud. You roll your eyes and push yourself off of the bed, dragging yourself into the bathroom where you find his suit jacket laid across the counter. You reach into the right pocket and pull out your panties.

“They were wet.” He calls out, his voice carrying above the noise of the running water as you turn on the shower. You step back out of the bathroom and make eye contact with him, narrowing your eyes.

“What?”

“Your panties, they were wet.” He smirks. You feel your cheeks heating up and for a moment, you’re embarrassed. Meanwhile, he’s basically beaming with pride. Fuck him. Why are you even embarrassed? He was rock hard, that’s no different than you being wet. You let out a deep sigh and start sliding the straps of your dress down your arms. His eyes follow the movement of your hands and his smug smile falters when he realizes you’re not going back into the bathroom to undress. Honestly, you’re getting sick of this game.

“And your dick was hard.” You retort, staring at him. He shrugs his shoulders, acting nonchalant, but his gaze is still trained on your now bare shoulders.

“Occupational hazard.” He says calmly. He’s such a fucking ass.

“So, now that the job is over, you’re not hard anymore, right?” You question, letting your eyes travel down his tanned, muscular torso and settle on his lap, where he's most definitely still hard. He doesn’t respond but continues staring at you. For once, you’ve shut him up. His silence gives you a newfound boldness, and you start sauntering over to him. You see him stiffen in the chair and a small giggle leaves your lips. God, you’re so fucking pretty and you sound so innocent when you laugh like that. It almost makes him forget about the ways you let him destroy your body a few nights ago. Almost.

Next Part

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#bucky barnes #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #marvel #mcu #the winter soldier #winter soldier #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes smut

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minniesmutt · 14 days

Text

☾ ━━━━━━ 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫

☾ ━━━ PAIRING: OT8 X READER ☾ ━━━ CONTENT: FWB TO LOVERS, POSSESSIVE SKZ, COLLEGE AU, ORAL (F. + M. REC), UNPROTECTED SEX, CREAMPIES, ALCOHOL, DEGRADING/PRAISE, CLIT PLAY, GANGBANG, LIGHT CHOKING, FACE/THROAT FUCKING, PHOTO TAKEN, OVERSTIM, ALLUDES TO AFTERCARE, PET NAMES, ☾ ━━━ WC: 3.7K ☾ ━━━ 18+ work!! minors and ageless/blank blogs DNI! you will be blocked, put an indicator on your blog somewhere that you are 18+ before interacting with this work/blog

Frat parties were the norm for almost every college. Getting pissed drunk when you were supposed to be doing homework for Monday’s class. They were great, especially when you knew the fraternity— well, fucking the frat.

Y/n knew full well that when Hyunjin told her about their frat party, she would wind up crashing in one of their eight rooms by the night’s end. She texted them to ensure it would be alright and packed a little overnight bag after her last class on Friday. Making her way over to the fraternity building. There were still a good few hours before the party started since there were still classes.

She knocked on the door and waited for an answer. A few moments later, Jisung opened the door, “You’re early,” He said, letting her inside

“Figured I’d just come early and get ready here. Plus I can help you guys set up.” Y/n shrugged

“You can stash your stuff in my room,” Jisung offered as he closed the door behind her

“Thanks. Where are the others?”

“Chan, Minho, and Changbin went to pick up the alcohol. Hyunjin and Innie are still in class, Lix is up in his room gaming, and Seungmin’s at baseball practice,” Jisung explained as he led her up to his room.

“Okay,” Y/n nodded as they walked down the hall to his bedroom. Jisung let her inside the room before him, “What time does the party start again?” Y/n asked as she set her bag by his desk

“I honestly have no idea. Hyunjin and Changbin were in charge of telling everyone about it.”

“Damn, alright.” Y/n shrugged

“Movie before getting ready?” Jisung suggested

“Sure,” Y/n said.

The two lay back in the male's bed after he turned on a movie. Neither of them got far into the movie before Jisung had his face buried between her legs. Her legs were thrown over his shoulders as he held her thighs tightly around his head.

“Hannie,” Y/n moaned, tugging at his roots.

“Gonna lock you away from the party. Eat you out all night.” Jisung grumbled as his tongue flicked against the little bud.

Y/n moaned as he dipped two fingers into her. Gently, he curled them up into her walls, searching for the secret spot inside her. His pretty, plump lips wrapped around her clit, sucking on the bud like his life depended on it. Mumbling praise as his fingers worked her open. Y/n clenched around his fingers and tightened her legs around his head. Jisung moaned, sending a wave through her body.

“Ji,” Y/n moaned

“Gonna cum all over my face?” Jisung moaned as he slipped a third finger inside her

“Yes,” Y/n moaned

Jisung smiled to himself as he thrusted his fingers in and out of her. Rough tongue pressing against her clit and switching to sucking the bud between his lips. Her thighs acted as muffles for his ear, tightening around his head the closer she got till the knot snapped.

The music major switched his fingers for his tongue. He was pushing the muscle into her and thrusting it in and out of her. Cleaning her out, nose bumping against her sensitive clit before he was finally coming up for air. His chin covered in her arousal.

“Satisfied?” Y/n joked

“Never,” Jisung answered as he sat up on his knees. Y/n watched him quickly stripped himself of his sweats. Tossing the fabric to the ground. Hand wrapping around his hard cock and pushed one of her legs up.

Jisung guided the tip to her entrance and gently pushed in. Wrapping both her legs around his waist as he slid further into her. Letting her adjust to him once he was fully inside her.

“Move ji,” Y/n begged as he planted his hands on the pillow next to her head.

“Fuck,” Jisung moaned as he slowly pulled out and quickly rutted back into her.

“So warm and tight. Just for us, right?” Jisung asked

“Only for you guys,” Y/n moaned

Jisung moaned above her before dropping to his elbows. Mouthing at the skin her arms wrapped around him. Leaving kisses anywhere he could reach as his hips snapped into her. Y/n dug her nails into his back as he hit that one spot inside her.

“Fuck!” Y/n cried

Jisung sat up a bit and adjusted his hips. Aiming repeatedly towards the spot. Y/n grabbed onto him as her orgasm approached. One of his hands moved to her clit. Pressing his thumb to the little bud and drawing circles on it.

“‘m close ji,” Y/n whined

“Please. Cum all over my cock baby.”

Y/n’s legs tightened around his waist as she got closer and closer to the edge. Barely warning him when she came. Covering his member with her essence. Jisung wasn’t far behind, trying his hardest not to cum before her. Finally letting go, cum painting her walls white as they both rode out their highs before Jisung was laying on top of her.

“If you guys are done fucking, we need Ji to help bring kegs in,” Minho’s voice came through the door.

“Give me a minute,” Jisung yelled back at his friend

There was no reply except footsteps fading away from the door. Jisung took a deep breath before he sat up again. He pulled his softening dick out of her then picked up his boxers and sweats from the ground. “Gonna shower?” He asked

“Yeah. Start getting ready now,” Y/n said as Jisung handed her her clothes

“I’ll start the water for you,” he told her as he stood up

“Thank you,” Y/n smiled as she sat up to put on the clothes he had all but torn off her.

Jisung walked out of the bedroom as she gathered her toiletries and clothes for the party along with the makeup and styling tools she had packed. She made her way to the bathroom. Jisung walked out as she was walking up. “You’re towel is in there too.”

“Thank you,” Y/n smiled and kissed his cheek before she went inside. Closing the door behind her.

Y/n set her things on the counter pulling off her clothes before hopping into the shower with her products. Letting the warm water wash away all the sweat from the round she and one of her fuck buddies just had. Taking her time cleaning herself up before finally turning off the water and drying herself off.

Y/n got dressed and opened the door to let the steam out of the bathroom while she started her skincare and makeup.

“When did you get here?” Felix asked as he walked by the bathroom

“About an hour and a half ago,” Y/n answered as he stood behind her.

“Need any help?”

“Yes please.”

Felix helped her get ready, mostly doing her hair while she did her makeup before the blond got pulled away to help get the building ready for the party. By the time Y/n was done, only a few things were left to do. Y/n helped the boys set up the bottled alcohol and cups before the last few boys came home and got ready for the party.

Pretty soon Chan had turned on the music and the place was filling up with their classmates. Y/n said hi to all of her girlfriends before Hyunjin was standing behind her.

“Come dance with me,” he inquired as he held her hips. Gently swaying to the music.

“Don’t have to ask me twice,” Y/n answered, taking a sip of her drink as he dragged her to the makeshift dance floor in their living room.

Y/n smiled as Hyunjin pulled her in front of him. One of his hands landed on her lower back just above her ass. Trapping her against him with a smile. Y/n smiled and wrapped an arm around his neck. Swaying to the music with him.

Gradually more bodies joined the dancing till everyone was pressed against each other damn near.

“I’m gonna get another drink,” Y/n told her dance partner

“I’ll come with you,” Hyunjin offered and let her drag him to the kitchen. Finding Changbin and Seungmin pouring a couple of drinks for what Y/n assumed was the rest of the group.

“Refill please!” Y/n smiled as Changbin took her cup.

“Just expect the princess treatment now?” Seungmin teased

“What else am I supposed to expect?” Y/n asked

“It’s Changbin’s fault for the princess treatment,” Hyunjin added

“Hey!” Changbin defended

“It’s true,” Seungmin said

“Chan feeds it too,” Y/n giggled as Changbin handed her her drink

“I feel attacked,” Changbin pouted

“Want me to kiss it better?” Y/n asked

“You better.”

Y/n walked around the island to Changbin. He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her into his chest, attaching his lips to hers immediately. Y/n wrapped her arm around him as she moved her lips in sync with his.

“Get a room,” Seungmin scoffed after they pulled away

“Only if you join,” Y/n retorted before she walked away from the three men. “Tease,” Seungmin scoffed as he sipped his beer

Y/n disappeared into the crowd of people, quickly finding a couple of her other friends and hanging out with them for a moment before she was back on the dance floor with another guy from campus. Dancing against him for a few songs till she felt someone behind her.

“Mind if I steal her for a dance?” Y/n heard Minho behind her

“Sure,” the guy shrugged before disappearing into the crowd.

Y/n was about to turn to face the dancer when he pulled her right against his front, hands gripping her hips as he leaned into her ear. “What are you doing kitten?” Minho growled

“Dancing,” Y/n smiled

“With some random guy? We not giving you enough attention tonight?” Minho asked as he moved with her to the music, “Come on kitten. Think you need a little reminder of who you belong to.”

A chill down her spine as his hands gripped the fabric of her skirt. A gentle way of pulling her from the dance floor. Y/n followed him up to the second floor where the rooms were. Some people hanging around in the hallway and some rooms were occupied already— probably much to the boys’ dismay. Minho pulled her into his room— he’d made sure to lock it before the party so no one was inside. Quickly locking the door again and pushing her up against the wood.

His lips moved quickly over the expanse of her neck as his hands moved under her skirt. “Dressed like a whore for everyone to see?” He asked, moving one hand to cup her clothed pussy. “All soaked like one too.”

“Min,” Y/n whined as his fingers rubbed her clit through the fabric.

“Still sensitive from Hannie fucking you earlier. No one else fucks you like we do, huh?”

“No, only you guys.”

“Knees.” Minho pulled his hand and is away from her and worked on unbuckling his belt.

Y/n dropped to her knees as he unbuttoned his pants and pushed them down just a bit, pulling his half-hard cock out of his boxers. He watched her jaw fall open in anticipation. Mingo tapped the tip of his dick on her bottom lip. Her mouth opened more.

“That's a good girl,” Minho said as he slipped the tip past her lips

Y/n wrapped her lips around his tip, sucking on the tip as she looked up at him. Minho grabbed the back of her head and smiled down at her. Pushing her further down his cock after a few moments. Y/n moaned around his length as she placed her hand on his thighs. Moving back and forth on his cock as she kept eye contact with him through her lash.

“Think we should invite the others up here?” Minho asked as he gripped her hair

Y/n nodded and hummed in response and watched him take his phone from his back pocket. Y/n moaned as she heard the click of the camera for the sound of a message being sent. Minho put his phone back in his pants before pushing his hips forward, holding her head steady as began fucking her throat. Y/n moaned and gagged around his, gripping the fabric of his jeans.

Minho tilted his head back and groaned as her tongue run along the underside of his cock. Minho pulled her back and pulled her back up onto her feet.

“Min,” Y/n whined as he pushed her skirt up and pulled her panties down her legs

“Gonna cum in this pretty cunt, not your mouth.” Minho pulled one of her legs up around his waist as she grabbed onto his shoulders.

He quickly pushed the tip of his cock into her as there was a rapid knock on the door. “Lee Minho,” Hyunjin’s voice came from the other side.

Minho sighed and pulled out of her before pulling her away from the door. He unlocked it and let the younger boy in. Hyunjin was quick to get inside the room and lock the door while Minho turned Y/n around. “Where are the others?” Minho asked as he finally slid himself into finally.

Y/n gasped as Hyunjin stood in front of her, cupping her cheeks in his hands. “On their way up. Chan and Changbin were with me but they got stopped by Hongjoong,” Hyunjin told him before pulling Y/n into a kiss.

Y/n moaned into his mouth while Minho started positioning his hips into her. Hyunjin wrapped one hand around her neck. Y/n snaked a hand down between her and Hyunjin, palming his erection over his jeans. Both of them now moaning as another knock came up from the door.

Hyunjin pulled away and opened up the door. Changbin joined the group of three. “Already started?” he asked

“Why would I wait?” Minho asked, delivering a hard thrust into the girl, making her mouth fall open.

Minho bent her down, holding her shoulders to keep her up. The two others shuck their pants down and gave her access to their dicks. Y/n opened her mouth as Hyunjin slid himself into her throat while Changbin grabbed her hand and wrapped her fingers around his cock.

All three men moaned as they used her body for their pleasure. Minho fucked into her faster and tightened his grip on her shoulders. Each thrust made her moan around Hyunjin even as three more boys filed in.

Chan, Felix, and Han all made their way into the room and Seungmin and Jeongin weren’t far behind them either. Minho gave one final push before he was cumming inside Y/n as the two youngest boys walked into the bedroom.

Y/n whined as Minho pulled out and Hyunjin came down her throat. Jeongin was quick to take Minho’s place when he pulled out. Pushing any cum that threatened to fall out back in.

Y/n whined as Hyunjin popped out of her mouth. She swallowed the load he left inside her mouth, the salty taste mixing with the alcohol she’d drunk as Changbin moved in front of her. His tip slid past her lips as Jeongin held onto her hips.

Y/n moaned around Changbin as he sank into her throat. Jeongin slowly started to thrust into her. Gripping her hips like a vice as he picked up his pace. She could see the rest of her boys standing around her, waiting for their turn. She could pick up bits of the conversation amongst the sounds of sex and thumping of the bass down below.

If it weren't for the two holding her right now, she knew her knees would buckle from the pleasure. Changbin grabbed the back of her head as he twitched inside her. Trying to ground himself before he was coming down her throat. Adding himself to the cum and alcohol mix that had started.

Changbin thrusted a few more times into her throat before pulling out of her mouth. Felix switched places with him, but instead pulled her upright. Y/n grabbed onto the blond's shoulders as his lips connected with hers while Jeongin delivered a hard thrust into her. Hitting he'd g-spot perfectly. Y/n moaned into Felix’s mouth as his hands slipped her shirt up over her chest, pulling her boobs out of her bra. His thumbs rolled over her nipples.

Y/n’s walls pulsed around Jeongin with each thrust and time Felix teased her nipples. Y/n whimpered into his mouth as the youngest boy came inside her. Adding his load to Minho’s inside her before pulling out. Felix helped keep her standing while Chan took Jeongin’s place. One hand went underneath her, resting on her stomach to keep her up while he guided himself into her.

Felix pulled away just in time for all of them to hear the high-pitched moan of Chan stretching her out. Y/n leaned down again and watched Felix pull himself from his pants. Red tip in front of her as she opened her mouth again. Felix pushed her head down onto his cock, holding the back of her head as Chan started thrusting into her. Both his hands squeezed her hips as her knees threatened to give way.

Both men were moving in sync in and out of her just as the other four had. Y/n’s hands had slipped down to Felix’s wrists, the blond pulled her hands into his, holding them as he fucked her face. Y/n moaned around him as her walls clenched around Chan, orgasm being built up little by little. Her legs shaking under her before her orgasm finally washed over her. She could barely hear Chan groaning behind her as he kept his pace. Fucking her through her high as Felix twitched in her throat.

A few more thrusts into her throat and Felix came. Gripping her hands tighter as he rode out the high before pulling out. Y/n swallowed the third load as Jisung switched with Felix, sliding himself into her mouth right when she opened her mouth again for a breath.

Y/n moaned as Chan picked up his pace. His grip on her hips got together till he buried himself inside her. Adding his cum to the mix inside her while Jisung thrusted into her mouth, moaning along with her. Chan kept a hold of her as Seungmin switched with him, taking hold of her hips before sliding inside her, cum starting to leak out with how filled she was. Y/n moaned around Jisung’s cock, whining from the overstimulation she was starting to feel amidst her fucked out state. She heard a faint “good whore” from one of them in the room as Seungmin and Jisung see-sawed in and out of her. Jisung had picked up his pace, thrusts getting more erratic whilst Seungmin picked up his rough pace right from the beginning.

The party sounded so far away amongst her boys using her body. Mind hazy with lust as she whined with each thrust into her mouth or cunt. Jisung whined in front of her as his erratic thrusting ended as he came down her throat. Pulling out of her mouth and standing her upright as Seungmin grabbed her throat. Holding her up as he pounded into her, Y/n grabbed onto his hand as he groaned behind her with each thrust.

It didn’t take much longer till Seungmin finished inside her. Giving her a few more thrusts before moving his hand from her neck to hold her up by her hips before he pulled out. Y/n slouched forward till she felt someone else’s hands on her

“I got you bunny,” Changbin’s voice came as she was lifted off her feet.

“Hmm,” Y/n groaned

“Who’s on aftercare duty?” Hyunjin asked

“Think it’s actually Changbin’s turn,” Felix said

“Sleepy,” Y/n whined, hiding away in Changbin’s shoulder, trying to hide from the bass as well.

“We’ll talk in the morning then,” Chan said

Jisung helped Minho clean up his room as the others made their way out. Changbin took Y/n to the bathroom and cleaned her up while Chan made sure his room was free from any partygoers. Standing guard till he got there with a sleepy Y/n. Changbin changed her out of her clothes after Jisung brought him her overnight bag and changed her into some pajamas. He climbed into bed with Y/n and wrapped his arms around her.

<3<3<3

Y/n groaned as she woke up in the morning, not grateful for the sun sneaking into the room she had fallen asleep in

“Morning bunny,” Changbin’s voice came

“Mmm,” Y/n groaned

“Minho’s making breakfast. All the drunks from last night went home. Can have a lazy day with us,” Changbin coaxed her.

“Carry me down.”

Changbin chuckled and got out of bed. Giving her a piggyback ride down to the kitchen where the other seven were talking.

“How you feeling princess?” Chan asked as Changbin had set her on a free bar stool.

“A little like jelly,” Y/n groaned

“Poor thing,” Seungmin teased

“You take eight dicks and see how you feel.”

Everyone laughed a bit and shared the food Minho had made. Letting the food cure any of their hangovers.

“So, princess,” Chan said as they started cleaning up, “We were all talking the other day.”

“About?” Y/n asked

“The whole fuck buddy agreement.”

“What about it?”

“Uhm, we want to change things up a bit with it…”

“If you can’t tell her we want her to be our girlfriend I’m stuffing tissues in your mouth this time,” Minho called, hearing Chan’s bit of hesitation

“I was trying to figure out how to phrase it,” Chan told him.

“All of you?” Y/n asked, a bit shocked

“It would be odd if only one of us was dating you after we’ve all been fucking for the last seven months,” Jeongin answered

“If you’re not comfortable—”

“I’d like that,” Y/n cut Chan off before he could offer any ultimatum

“That was easy,” Seungmin sighed

“So, it’s all official?” Hyunjin asked

Everyone nodded in agreement, deciding to figure out the whole new dynamic when they weren’t exhausted from partying. For now, enjoying the morning all together.

☾ ━━━━━━ M.LIST TIP JAR

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husbandhoshi · 9 months

Text

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.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Holy shit. You live like this?"

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

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

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

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

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

You tentatively nod before dropping the noodles in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What, too many dates to cover?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The table stops rocking.

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

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

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

"You asked."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Wh—"

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

"Get. Out."

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

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

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

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Celery. Red wine. Short rib.

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

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

Fingerling potatoes, the red ones. A Vidalia onion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Monday feels tilted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You wonder what you'll be:

10 Signs She Is Clinically Insane.

It's Not You, It's Them!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Ask Samuel!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Congrats."

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

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

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

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

"No need."

"What about Seungcheol? Does he know?"

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

"What?!"

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

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

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

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

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

Instead you stand motionless, waiting, emptied.

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

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

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

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

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

He gave up.

None of this should matter to you.

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

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

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

"You're an idiot, Seungcheol."

That does the trick.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"H-how?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Afternoon, boss."

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

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

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

"Friendly reminder we're at work."

"Everyone's at lunch, genius."

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

"You are the worst."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eat, Play, Love: A Guide.

Maybe you'd put it through. Maybe.

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#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

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french-goodbye · 8 months

Text

To Be Alone With You

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Fem!Reader

Summary: Steve’s parents are never home, until they are. You learn to deal with it.

Warnings: Kissing; fingering; oral (m receiving). MINORS DNI, 18+.

Notes: This all started because I kept thinking about giving Steve head. That’s it, that was my motivation. Part of the same universe as In The Low Lamplight, but can be read as a stand alone. Also title from the Hozier song To Be Alone. MINORS DNI, 18+.

Steve’s parents are not really nice people. It’s a fact of life, kinda like how the sky is blue or the trees are green, it’s something Steve himself has come to slowly accept over time and that he’s learned he’ll never be able to change.

One of the few good things about Steve’s parents, however, is how often they travel. Especially considering Steve’s dad is a husband who can’t be trusted not to cheat on his wife, Mrs. Harrington just accompanies him everywhere. Which basically leaves Steve with a huge house all to himself and no one to reinforce the “no sleeping over rule”.

The “no sleeping over” rule was established early on in your relationship with Steve, his dad dictating that you can’t sleep over at their house, ever. Apparently he’s afraid you’ll get pregnant as if you 1) aren’t on the pill; 2) can’t fuck his son literally anywhere else, any other time of the day. Alas, you both obey the rule - at least when Steve’s parents are around.

Despite the Harrington household rule, you have gotten pretty used to breaking it and regularly stay over at their house. Some of it has to do with how obsessed you are with your boyfriend, but also with how much Steve hated it, coming home to an empty house and cooking a meal for one, only to wake up to a silent house and do it all over again, until he met you. So now, instead of coming home to a ghost house, he comes home to find you sitting pretty on his couch as you wait for him or you in the kitchen badly singing along to the songs in the radio or you haunting his bedroom even when he isn’t there.

Sometimes though, out of sheer (bad) luck, his parents will come home to stay for a while, no trips in sight. They usually only stay in Hawkins for a week before they travel again, but this time it goes on for what seems like a long time. Forget about his parents’ nagging, Steve can handle that, has handled that his whole life, what Steve can’t handle is not being around you for that long.

Of course he’s seen you since his parents got home, you went on a movie date ast Saturday, you visited him at Family Video on Monday and the two of you even snuck in some alone time on Tuesday night near Lover’s Lake in his car. So it’s not that he misses you per se, it’s that he’s so used to being in your orbit that he just misses being around you. He misses the shared showers and the cooking together and the falling asleep together. He misses the domesticity of it, of knowing that even when he’s not home, you’re still in his space.

All that being said, he manages to get by just getting glimpses of you in the meantime. Sometimes he’ll give you a ride to and from work, or you’ll sneak to Family video so you can have lunch together and he cherishes these moment like a man starved, like he haven’t been waking up and falling asleep next to you every day and night,

He’s getting through it until he realizes it’s been a whole month since his parents got home and they have absolutely no plans of leaving. That’s when he gives up on trying to at least pretend to follow his dad’s stupid rules and sneaks you in through the back door after his parents go to sleep. He’ll sneak you outside again the next morning and pretend you’ve just arrived or something, it’s not like his parents are that attentive or concerned about what he does.

You’re both giggling like teenagers by the time you slip into his bedroom, unnoticed. He’s barely locked the door behind himself and you’re all over him, pushing him into bed and climbing on top of him to kiss him silly.

“God, I’ve missed you” he says when you finally pull away, his lips red and spit wet. You start pressing kisses to his neck, like a girl starved, your hand tugging his hair to tilt his head to the right to grant you more access.

“Missed you too” you mumble against the skin of his neck, pressing open mouthed kisses there and sucking a pretty little mark at the spot where his neck meets his shoulders, next to one of his many freckles.

Your hands start to wander then, letting go of his hair to sneak down his chest and lower and lower. You’re about to slip your hand into his sweatpants when he stops you, his hand tangling with yours midway there.

“Come on, Stevie. Do you not want this?” You pull away until you’re sitting up, still straddling his hips and watching his mussed hair and red lips, a familiar heat climbing up your stomach at the sight.

“It’s not that I don’t want it” he explains, making his hair more of a mess when he runs his fingers through it.

“Then what is it?”

“My parents are totally gonna hear us”

“Their room is on the other side of the house, there’s no way they can hear us”

“I don’t think you realize how loud you can be” you huff on top of him, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Are you serious? Why did you sneak me in then?”

“I told you… I missed my girl” he says softly, his sweetness chipping away at your annoyance over not getting laid. Just a little bit.

“You’re too sweet on me” you laugh happily, cradling his face in your hands. You lean down again and he pulls you closer by the waist to kiss you, kiss you, kiss you until you’re lost on the feeling of it again, his tongue in your mouth and his fingers in your hair and his half hard cock rubbing against you through your jeans. You’re moving before you can stop yourself, slowly grinding your hips against his when he stops you again, digging his fingers on your waist through the fabric of your top.

“Babe…”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry” you drop your head dramatically against his chest, shaking slightly on top of him when he laughs underneath you and hides his face on your neck. You can feel the warmth on his cheeks as he hugs you tightly to his chest and you gently card your fingers through his hair.

“Fine” you sigh, gently pushing him away and getting up and away from him.

“Where are you going?” He asks with a frown as you start digging through his drawers until you find one of his t-shirts you can put on.

“I’m changing” you answer as you pull off your own top and jeans. His eyes travel the length of your torso to your legs, not being particularly subtle in his staring.

“Why are you so far away?” He whines in complaint, rubbing his hands across his face.

“Because you said you don’t wanna have sex with me?” You say like a question, throwing him a confused look over the collar of the shirt you’re pulling through your head.

“I didn’t say that”

You throw your balled up clothes onto the floor next to his dresser, instantly making a mess of his otherwise organized room. He can’t even be bothered to complain about it, missing even the mess you leave in room, as you crawl towards him and balance on top of his thighs again.

“You kinda did,” you interrupt him before he can argue. “But that’s okay. I’m a big girl, I’ll get over it”

“We could make out a little bit” he suggests, his hand creeping up your now bare thigh.

And that you do, until both your lips are swollen and his neck is bruised and his hard cock is pressing against the thin material of your now wet underwear.

“We should stop” you breathe out when he’s sucking your earlobe between his teeth, hands on ass and definitely coping a feel in the meantime.

“Why?” He asks, still not stopping.

“Because I really wanna fuck you and we can’t” you complain, not exactly pulling away, but just tugging on his hair to keep his mouth on your neck.

“Wanna fuck you too. Missed feeling this pussy around my cock” he groans against your neck, and you can feel yourself clench around nothing, wishing it was his cock instead.

“Okay, we’re done” you push on his chest until you’re sitting up again.

“We don’t have to stop” he complains, still gripping on your thighs to keep you on top of him.

You press a kiss to his cheek and he tries to chase after you to kiss your lips again. You push him away giggly and climb off of him, laying next to him and looking at his pretty face as he lays on his back, face turned to watch you.

“We do have to stop because you’re a tease and I have no self control”

“Fine, we’ll stop. But when my parents are gone again…”

“You’ll have me all to yourself, handsome” you assure him confidently. He presses a quick peck to your lips before you can complain again, pulling away smugly.

“It’s a deal”

“Now come on, I haven’t been sleeping well without you” you tell him, turning your back to him and tugging on his hand until his chest is pressed to your back. He tries to keep his hips away from yours, as if you weren’t literally straddling his lap seconds ago.

“You haven’t?” When you shake your head in reply, more concerned with wrapping his arm around waist, he continues. “Shit, I’m sorry, sweetheart. I wish you could stay here without having to sneak in like a teenager but-“

“Hey, I know. I don’t you to get in trouble because of me” you link his hand with yours and brings his knuckles to your lips.

“I really missed you” he says in a sweet and sticky voice, his face sinking in your hair.

“I missed you too”

“Goodnight, sweetheart”

“Goodnight, Stevie”

Despite the recent late nights reaching through empty cold sheets for your boyfriend who isn’t there, you can’t fall asleep. Steve’s hips are pressed against yours, his hard cock wedged between your bodies and you can feel he’s still awake too, his breathing still too quick behind you.

You take a deep breath and squirm a little as you try to get comfortable, his arms almost too tight around you. When you’re finally settled, you close your eyes and just will yourself to fall asleep, despite the uncomfortable wetness pooling in your underwear and your boyfriend’s hard cock on the curve of your ass.

Barely five minutes have passed when you feel Steve sigh loudly against the back of your neck.

“Fuck”

You huff out a laugh, “what’s wrong?”

“I’m hard” he complains, adjusting behind you and accidentally making his cock drag through your ass and both of you sigh at the feeling.

“It’s your fault”

“How’s it my fault?”

“You were the one saying we should make out”

He huffs this time, pulling you closer to him.

“Not my fault you’re irresistible” he mumbles, hiding his face between your shoulder blades.

You can’t help but laugh again, despite the sigh of pleasure that escapes you and turn your head slightly to see his big brown eyes watching you over your shoulder.

“You’re horny, pretty boy?”

He leans over you, almost squishing you to the mattress to press his face to your neck, “don’t say it like that”.

You giggle and place your hand on top of his, moving your ass against his cock deliberately, all bad intentions. You feel his breath hitch in his throat and his fingertips dig on your hips to guide your movements.

“What did you say before? How I’m too loud?”

“You are” he mumbles against your neck, biting you there almost too hard and rutting against your ass.

“Doesn’t seem to bother you when you’re telling you love the sounds I make”

“I do love the sounds you make, just not when- fuck” he groans quietly against your ear when you hold tightly to his hair.

You keep moving your hips backwards, both of you trying your hardest to keep quiet. One of his arms wrap around your body, and the other start slipping underneath his borrowed t-shirt to move teasingly through your tummy, skimming the edge of your underwear.

“Steve…” you sigh when his hand hand starts creeping lower and lower to mess with the elastic band of your underwear.

“You gotta keep quiet, pretty girl. Can you do that for me?” He whispers near you ear, his lips barely leaving your skin as he speaks.

“Yes, just please touch me” you beg, clinging to the arm holding you and digging your nails there.

His hand finally slips through your mound and finds you, soaking wet and so, so warm, his cock twitching between your ass cheeks at finding you so ready for him. He slides his fingers through the wetness in your entrance spreading it all the way to your clit and you have to hide your face in the pillow under your head to keep from moaning too loud.

“Right there?” He asks unnecessarily, because he has fucked you enough times to know by heart the way you like it, just to tease you and feel you nod against him.

“Right there, baby. Keep going” you plead quietly, moving your hips to feel his cock behind you and his whole body surrounding yours.

He swirls his fingers around and you keen underneath him, sinking your nails on the arm of the hand touching you to get him to move faster. He keeps going, rubbing small circles in your clit in a dance you’re both so familiar it’s almost painful to imagine being away from it for so long. Suddenly he stops and you whine, he shushes you and dips his fingers lower until you they catch on your entrance. You moan against the pillow when he finally slips his finger inside and his hand leaves your waist to roughly grab the inside of your thigh and spread you open.

“Fuck, you feel so good” you mumble against the pillowcase, following the movement of his finger with your hips. “Missed your fingers”

He finally slips a second finger and you jut your spine, his cock digging between your ass cheeks.

“Gonna fuck you so good when we’re alone,” he murmurs somewhere around your ear, so quietly it’s almost like he’s talking to himself. “Gonna fill this pussy up the way she deserves, just the way you like it. You want that, baby?”

You nod dumbly, clenching around his fingers at his words. “Can I have another finger? I’ll be quiet, I promise”

He slips a third finger in and even if it’s not the same as his cock, you feel it stretching you open. It’s all you can think of as he fingers you, you imagine how his cock would be stretching you out in this position, how fucking full you’d feel, how he’d fill you up with his cum.

His thumb shifts to flick against your clit and that’s all you need to get there, hurling to your orgasm in a way only Steve’s ever been able to give to you. You release a particularly loud moan before you can stop yourself and Steve’s free hand’s there, quick to clamp over your mouth, his other hand still fucking you and rubbing your clit through your orgasm.

You moan loudly against his hand one more time, the sound distant and muffled before you gently touch his arm to signal him to stop. His hand slips from your underwear and from over your mouth and he fixes your panties for you as you calmly try to catch your breath, his cock still digging on your lower back.

“Oh my god” you pant, feeling a gust of air on your neck when he laughs. “You’re amazing, Steve Harrington. I can’t believe I still haven’t gotten used to that”

You turn in his arms to see his face, his wet hand digging on the knobs of your spine. He’s still laughing, almost smugly so.

“You wouldn’t say I’m amazing if you ever saw yourself cum”

You’re giggly as you slip off your underwear, now sticky and wet against you and climb on top of him. You pick up his hand and bring his still wet fingers to your mouth to suck on them, tasting yourself on his skin. His eyes darken almost instantly, watching you avidly as you suck it and pull away with a wet lewd sound.

He’s pulling you in before you can tease him or say anything, his hand cradling your face in his hands, his spit wet fingers on your cheek as he kisses you deeply, tasting you on his tongue. You pull away when you notice he’s getting too into it, his hips jerking underneath you, rippling off his t-shirt.

“Babe, we can’t fuck. They’ll-“

“Yeah, yeah…” you wave him off, now proceeding to get rid of his sweatpants and underwear all in one go, his cock bouncing up and hitting his belly button. You eye it sinfully, almost drooling in your desire to get your mouth on him. “We’re not fucking. I’m gonna go down on you and you’re gonna be quiet for me, is that okay with you?”

“Babe-“

“You never let me go down on you” you complain with a whine, resting your hands on your own thighs.

“Because I always blow my load like a teenager when you blow me and it’s fucking embarrassing” he complains, gripping your hips and pulling you until you’re laying on top of him.

“Well, I think it’s hot” you pout, resting your hand on his cheek and giving him a lingering kiss. “Let me go down you,” you kiss him one more time, “please, handsome?”

“Fine” he sighs dramatically, like you’re ask him a huge favor.

“You know, a lot of guys would die for a girl who likes to blow them” You complain matter-of-factly, sliding down his body to straddle his thighs as his cock prods your stomach.

“Well, I like it a little too much” he answer shakily, as you press open mouthed kisses to his chest, his ribs, the spot above his bellybutton. His hands rest in your head, to pet your head lovingly and you manage to find it in you to forgive him.

“You look so hot like this” you comment against the skin of his hip, sucking a mark there and thumbing it gently. “Gonna make you feel so fucking good”

“Jesus, just… go slow okay? It’s been a while” he stammers, still petting your hair softly. You glance at him skeptically, raising your eyebrows.

“You’re telling me you didn’t jerk off once this whole time? We were literally on the phone the other day-”

“I didn’t say that…”

You snort and spit on your palm, getting it wet and watching the pre cum pooling at the slit of his cock. “You’re so full of shit”

“Hey-“ he cuts himself off with a groan when you lick the pearly liquid on his tip, one of your hands wrapping around the base to jerk him off slowly.

His fingers tighten their grip on your hair as you lick around around his tip and continue to move your hands around him, reaching his base and going all the way up again. Your free hand rubs against his upper thigh, occasionally scratching him lovingly.

You spit on it and lick along his length, following a vein back to his tip, trying to him as wet as you can, just the way he likes it.

“Fuck” he pants when you finally take him into your mouth, widening your lips so you can reach the middle of his cock as you work the rest of him with your hand. You gulp around him, breathing through your nose as you progressively take more of him, working your way up his cock so you can reach his base with your mouth.

You’re starting to get into the rhythm of it, the way his cock feels in your mouth and the slightly salty taste when he gently pulls a strand of your hair to catch your attention.

“H-hey, slow down or I’m gonna cum” he warns.

You pull away from his cock heaving, still stroking him in your hands slowly. “Isn’t that the point?”

“Wanna enjoy this” his hand finds your cheek, rubbing the skin with his thumb and you press a kiss to his palm. The gesture’s almost too soft for the moment, but it’s always been like this with him.

“Whatever you say, handsome” you agree, pressing a single kiss to his tip. Your hand still stroking him slowly as you lean down to press kisses to his thigh and suck another mark there.

You keep jerking him off as your free hand slides down to fondle his balls and you spit on them too, for good mesure. You finally suck one of this balls into your mouth, your hand still massaging the other one.

He groans loudly above you and you pull away with a muffled moan of your own, reluctantly pulling away.

“Remember what we talked about, handsome?” you remind him, stroking him torturously slow now. He nods absent-mindedly, eyes still focused on the movement of your hand. “You have to be quiet or I’ll stop”

“Baby, please don’t stop, please” he begs, his hand gripping your head to keep you close to him.

“Don’t be loud and I won’t” you promise.

“I promise, I promise”

You go back to sucking on his balls and his hand meets yours where it rests on his hip, squeezing your fingers tightly between his. He looks like a mess above you, hair sticking to all side from running his hands through it, cheeks red and his eyes so sharply focused on you it’d embarrass you if you hadn’t done this before.

You lick around his tip one more time, sinking your mouth to the middle of his cock and working the rest of him with your hand until you finally manage to reach the base of his cock, the trimmed hair surrounding the base tickling your face.

He releases a muffled groan above you and glance up to see he’s biting his fist. His eyes meet yours and his hand finally forces you to gag around his length, a moan of your own leaving your throat.

It doesn’t take long for him to come after that, between gasps and muffled moans and random babbling, he warns you he’s gonna come and you keep your mouth around him, gagging around him until you feel his cum shoot into your throat, salty and not particularly good but so Steve, you swallow it eagerly.

You keep your mouth around him until he’s too sensitive and pulling you away by the arm almost roughly. You let him and he guides you to lay on top of him, kissing you forcefully.

He tastes himself in your mouth and you both groan at the feeling. He keeps kissing, kissing, kissing you until you’re breathless and pliant on top of him and he’s all loose limbs underneath you.

“I’m never going that long without seeing you ever again” he pants, his fingers massaging your scalp where your head rests on his chest.

You huff a breathless laugh as you draw nonsense shapes on his skin, “no complaints from me.”

“Good, you’re totally staying over tomorrow night” he decides, still relaxed underneath you.

“We can try your shower,” you point at the closed door of the bathroom connected to his room. “They’ll definitely not gonna be able to hear over the running water”

He freezes beneath you for a second, and then he starts laughing. “Can’t believe we didn’t think of that until now”

“Add that to list” you mumble tiredly against his chest, finally slipping into the best sleep you’ve had in weeks.

#steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington #steve harrington x y/n #steve stranger things #steve harrington smut #steve harrington fic #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington x you #steve harrington imagine #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things #stranger things fic #stranger things fanfic #stranger things x reader #i wrote this instead of working on my thesis 😃#mine

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norrizzandpia · 8 months

Note

I have one need and it is smut with Oscar so I was thinking something with Reader being lando's little sister and she's staying in Monaco with him but he has to go back to London for like 2 days which means she has the house all to herself and she invites Oscar over (who is her secret boyfriend) and they spend the night together (full of love and cuteness) but Lando comes home early and when he goes to her room to wake her up he finds her all cuddle up and cute with Oscar and he pretends he hasn't see anything because he just can't get over the fact that his little sister and teammate are together in that way

I LOVE THIS 👹👹👹👹👹👹

The Quiet Night and the Loud Morning (OP81)

Summary: It was bound to happen at some point.

Warnings: smut 🤭 CUTENESS OVERLOAD WITH BABY OSCAR 🤧🤧

Note: I JUST LOVE THIS IDEA

“Y/n?” Lando chirped from the other room.

“Yeah?” She answered, putting down the book she was reading to stare at the wall in concentration for his next words.

His footsteps filled the boring silence before he came into the living room, plopping down on the couch beside her, “I have to go to London for work for the weekend. I imagine you don’t want to come with because you just unpacked all of your stuff here, but, if you do, you can.”

She pondered the idea for a minute before Oscar’s smiling face was popping into her head and visions of an intimate weekend alone together flashed in her mind. At that, she looked up at her brother, feigning distaste, “No, I’m good. Thank you though.”

He nodded curtly as he got up from the couch, “Alrighty, no problem. I leave tonight, so I can be there tomorrow morning for the Saturday meeting. You’ll be okay alone here until Monday morning?”

Alone, her mind laughed, but her face told a different story, “Yeah. I’ll just watch a bunch of movies and live out my lazy life.”

Laughing, Lando retreated back to his room to pack, “No surprise there.”

—

“Osc!” Y/n yelped into her phone a few minutes after Lando’s car had left.

“Yes, baby?” He responded in his usual soft tone.

Her smile, though he couldn’t see it, made him smile as she said, “Lando had to go away for the weekend, so the house is completely empty. COME OVER!” She exclaimed, squealing loudly as she walked in circles around the kitchen island.

His laugh and rummaging of, what she could infer, was his bag and keys was what she was met with on the other side of the phone, “Okay, okay! I’m leaving as we speak. Should I bring a change of clothes?”

Her eyebrows furrowed, “Mmm, yeah, I would. I don’t plan on having you leave until the very last moment.”

Wishing he was already there to kiss her, Oscar threw a pair of pajamas and a random outfit into a duffel, “Sounds like a great plan, my love.”

—

Opening the door, Y/n flung her arms around her boyfriend. He stumbled back, laughing and kissing her forehead lightly with his arm around her waist as he took in his favorite scent.

“I missed you,” She whispered into his neck whilst he dropped his bag down so he could fully envelope her in his warm embrace.

“I missed you too, Y/n,” He whispered back before walking them into the house, leaving her for only a moment to grab his bag and throw it through the threshold.

Once the door was closed and they were truly alone, the couple went back to their previous position. It had been weeks since they were able to see each other, that is alone. They had seen each other a few days before, but with engineers and Lando around, stolen glances and lingering stares were all they could take.

“What do you want to do first?” He asked her, pulling back to take in the beautiful face which he had only been able to visit in his dreams for the past time.

His adoring smile made her blush and the way his hands pushed back her hair made her fall in love with him even more, “Movie? Did you have dinner?”

He nodded slowly, “I did, yeah. Did you?”

She shrugged, “Yeah, sort of. Lando leaving meant that we didn’t end up getting dinner and it threw me off, so I just had a granola bar.”

His eyebrows shot up, “Alright, so first thing’s first. We get you some dinner.”

“Oscar,” She whined, “You don’t even know how to cook.”

He shot her a look over his shoulder as he traveled toward the kitchen, “I can make you boxed pasta, Y/n.”

“Are you sure?”

—

Forty minutes later and Oscar was pushing a bowl of buttered noodles with cut up tomatoes and sausage toward Y/n who was sat sluggishly at the counter.

“You’re positive this is edible?” She asked hesitantly, eyeing the bowl as if it had just threatened her life.

His nodding head came into view as he sat beside her, one hand on her back and the other laying on the island, “Yes, baby. I’ve made it so many times before. Just eat please.”

One last glance toward him and she was nodding, allowing the hunger she felt to motivate her actions. Her big smile at the first taste told Oscar he hadn’t actually fucked up the recipe he had tried to execute without a sheet of paper telling him what to do.

Their conversation flowed as it always did, with loving comments and suggestive jokes. Y/n fell all over again for Oscar’s smile and Oscar fell all over again for Y/n’s character.

After she ate the last noodle, she smiled at him as he picked up her dish whilst laying a kiss on her forehead. He washed the bowl and put it in the dishwasher without evening flinching, as if it was his own home. Y/n couldn’t help, but dream of a time when it was really his home. His and hers.

Nevertheless, her wishing halted when he turned around and leaned against the sink, “Now, movie?”

His question was answered with Y/n whirling around in her chair to hop off and run toward the living room. He chuckled before following her, finding his girlfriend already curled up in all the blankets on the couch and sifting through all the streaming platforms to find something for them to watch.

“How about Minions?” She laughed, clearly amused with the movie choice.

However, what she thought would be a disgusted veto from Oscar was a warm smile and nod.

She stared at him, “You actually want to watch Minions?”

He shrugged, “I’ll watch whatever you want to watch.”

—

An hour later and the two had around thirty minutes left of Minions. Their bodies connected, legs tangled with his hands firmly placed around her torso as he pulled her flesh against him. She wasn’t even watching the movie, too comfortable on Oscar’s chest to move her head. He seemed to notice, laying his head on top of hers as he murmured, “We can go to bed?”

She shook her head as she lifted it from her comfortable place on him, “No, it’s okay.”

He smiled at her, a lazy smile that she knew was only meant for her, “Okay, love.”

His hands guided her back down, however, this time, he laid fully on the couch, so she could lay her entire body on his. With his hands in her hair then trailing up and down her back, Y/n whispered, “Ever think about a time when we could just do this without having to hide?”

He glanced down at her, “Yeah, sometimes, but we decided keeping it a secret was the best thing.” After seeing her hesitation, he added, “Right?”

Her hands pushed against his chest as she sat up, her thighs on each side of him as her hair fell down toward him, “Yeah, but…” When she bit her lip in nerves, he started rubbing her thighs, “I love you, Osc. I want to be with you outside of a room.”

He tilted his head on the pillow he laid against, a small smile evident on his features, “I love you too. Of course, I want to be with you in public too, but I always thought you were uncomfortable with it because of Lando.”

She nodded, “At first, yeah, but that was before I fell in love with you and realized I really saw you as the rest of my life. Honestly, I’m more uncomfortable being a secret with you than telling Lando.”

Oscar nodded eagerly, “Well, if that’s your perspective. I’m all in. I’ve always been all in with you. If you’re okay with telling everyone then let’s do it.”

Her face broke out into a grin, “Really?”

His nodding continued as he tucked her hair behind her ears and cupped her face, “Of course, baby.”

Whether it was Oscar who pulled her down first or Y/n leaning in on her own, the two never knew. All they knew was that their lips met and the realization that they were putting their entire beings into the hands of the other was evident. The thought made every touch and graze of hands gentler, softer. His hands lightly explored her hips before resting on her waist, pulling her closer to him as he slipped his tongue passed her lips.

Y/n moaned, a sound he had already committed to memory, and lightly rolled her hips against his.

He pulled back, “You sure? In your brother’s house?”

She giggled, the blush a deep red on her cheeks and nose, “I have a room we could go to.”

He nodded, lifting her up so swiftly off the couch and maneuvering through the directions she gave him to get where they needed to be. Through giggles and miscommunicated instructions, the two were lovesick by the time they reached her room and closed the door.

Usually, Oscar would stalk toward her, take what he wanted and be as rough as he knew they both wanted. Although, as he stood in front of her door, he gazed upon her as if she was the most beautiful sunset he had ever laid his eyes on.

A gorgeous view that he realized was the most perfect part of Earth.

He wasn’t quick to get her on the mattress, in fact, he took his time getting there. Through kisses and slow removals of clothes, he walked them back to her white duvet, laying her down and being so struck by her beauty even Y/n couldn’t deny it herself.

She watched as his eyes trailed from her shoulders, down to her boobs, then to her stomach, back up to go over her arms, then slowly down again to take in her thighs and the clothed space between them, her shins, and then back up to meet her eyes.

With a light smile, he whispered into the quietness of the moment, “You’re so incredibly beautiful, my love.”

She was halfway to tears when he leaned forward and kissed her so intensely, she felt it in her toes. With Oscar, it never felt casual and she never felt as if she was some random person he was bedding to fulfill fleeting urges.

It was always about the love he had for her.

Oscar’s hand grazed the length of her body as it traveled down and disappeared below her panties, his lips never stopping on hers. With precision and thought, he began to gently circle her clit, easing her into the pleasure as he always did. His other hand held himself up above her as she moaned into his mouth, a sign that he could speed up.

Her hand on his bicep and the other around his waist, Oscar replaced the finger on her clit with his thumb and slid his digit into her.

She had tried to keep kissing him, but he could tell she needed to have the space and air to be vocal. So, he pulled away slightly, a small gap between them large enough that he could admire her blissed out face while also being impossibly close to her.

Her eyes closed and her moans continued as Oscar added another finger and sped up. Quiet whimpers made Oscar whisper, “I love how you sound, baby. Always do.”

At that, she moaned louder, chanting his name as he continued to increase his rhythm before the coil in her stomach was snapping and she was coming around all over his hand. His toothy, lopsided grin was the first thing she saw when she opened her eyes again, an innocent, adoring smile on his face as if he hadn’t just made her cum.

“I’ve never seen someone so beautiful.” He whispered into her mouth before kissing her, trying to allow her a breath before they went to the next level.

Her nervous smile told him he needed to continue, “I’m serious, Y/n. You are the most gorgeous woman I have ever laid my eyes on. I’m not just being this way because I feel romantic. No, I’m doing this because, while sometimes I can contain myself, right now I can’t. You’re so pretty to me. Every time I look at you, I notice a new thing to fall in love with. Whether that’s the faint freckles on your nose or the mole right at the top of your leg, I’ve never loved every inch of someone the way I do with you. I’m so hellbent on kissing every part of you, physically loving you as a whole. I love how I can remember the way you smell and whenever I come across it I think of you and how much I love you. I love how soft and warm your hugs are after a hard day or a bad race. I never want to let you go because I know I’ll never find anything, anyone, as beautiful as you.”

Her teary eyes were remedied with a long kiss at the end of his speech as he slowly took off her panties and slipped off his after. His eyes boring into hers and whispering how much she meant to him, Oscar pushed into her.

His building pace made her eyes roll back into her head and his groaning into her neck.

A chant of “You’re the only one I want to ever do this with” leaving his lips as his hips rocked against hers.

“Oscar,” She moaned, nails digging into his back as he continued to go faster.

“Y/n, so good. So so perfect for me.” He moaned, pulling back to look her in the eyes and throughly communicate how much she meant to him.

Her hands tangled in his hair and he moaned loudly, “Fuck, Y/n, just like that.”

Her moaning continued, body going limp at the consistent pleasure surging through her body. When Oscar’s hand came to cup her cheek and pull her to his lips, kissing her with all his might and letting her know she wasn’t the only one so obsessively consumed by the connection they shared, she lost it.

Her moans turned into screams as he snapped his hips faster, chasing his high, but, most importantly, hers.

Looking her in the eyes, Oscar’s soft ones encouraged her, “My love, let go. I’m right here with you. Always.”

With that, she came hard around him, yelling out his name as he came right after her.

When, during times with other boyfriends, she would feel used and filthy, with Oscar, as he laid slightly on top of her, she felt special. She felt like she was the only person to have ever understood him for who he truly was.

She felt cherished.

She felt protected.

She felt wanted.

And, yes, she felt loved.

Turning over, her eyes met his and she smiled.

“Thank you,” She murmured as his eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“Y/n, you don’t need to thank me for an orga-” He began.

“No,” She interrupted, looking into his eyes and making him understand, “Thank you for showing my what love is.”

His eyes softened, his hands immediately pulling her into him again and drawing the blankets over their naked bodies, “Baby, you mean everything to me.”

She nodded, smiling back at him, “I think I’m starting to see that.”

—

Lando’s confused face appeared again when his sister didn’t answer her phone. Irritatingly, he had only needed to go into one meeting, so he was off the hook by the morning. He didn’t want to stay in London, choosing the option of hanging out with his sister as the more important one, so he had caught the next flight out of Heathrow.

Private jet be damned.

Although, when he pulled up to his house and she still hadn’t answered, he thought it was bit strange. It was eleven am and she was usually up at this time, tired, but up.

Nevertheless, he figured she had stayed up late last night and slept in way late. That inference was confirmed when he walked through the door and it was dead silent.

However.

What he didn’t expect to see was an all too familiar duffel bag sitting on the floor of his foyer. The orange letters that spelled out ‘Oscar Piastri’ accompanied with the McLaren logo gave him whiplash.

There had to be some reasonable explanation, he thought, there was absolutely no way his teammate was here. Alone. With his sister.

Being the nosy person he is, Lando opened the bag and peered in to see the belongings, wanting to confirm it held Y/n’s things. Maybe he leant it to her, he tried, but when he saw men’s underwear and a box of condoms, his jaw fell agape.

Standing up abruptly, Lando made his way to his sister’s room. When his hand met the coolness of the door handle, he said a silent prayer to any supernatural being out there that could stop the inevitable from meeting his eyes. Per usual, that plead went unheard when he pushed the door open quietly and saw Y/n, his sister, asleep in bed with Oscar’s, his teammate, arms holding her strongly to his chest. His little sister’s face was toward him as it laid on the bare chest of Oscar, giving him the ability to see how peaceful she looked, more peaceful than she usually looked when unconscious.

Suddenly feeling like he was intruding on an intimate moment, Lando shut the door.

His brain reeling, he sat himself on the living room couch, no clue what had taken place on that very sitting area not even twenty four hours before. He sat with his thoughts for an hour or two before he heard the door to his sister’s room jostle and, finally, open. Out stepped a giggling Oscar and a smiling Y/n, a sight to see in Lando’s mind, as they failed to see the other person in the room.

“I think that might’ve been the best sex we’ve ever ha-” Oscar’s face went pale when he turned to walk toward the kitchen only to meet the face of Lando, the last person he wanted to hear that sentence come out of his mouth.

At his abrupt stop, Y/n turned around as well, jaw agape as she screeched, “LANDO?!”

His hands rested on his knees as he looked at the two of them. What a good couple they would make, he thought, seeing how Y/n was more comfortable in herself around him.

“I got let off early so, I came home. Didn’t expect this though.” His eyebrows wiggled as Y/n approached him, a paralyzed in fear Oscar behind her, “Lan, I am so so sorry you found out this way. We wanted to tell you on our own-”

The brother shook his head, “No, I get it. I’m not mad. Shocked, yes, but, not mad at all. I’m just happy you found someone as good as him.”

Her entire demeanor softened as she glanced back to Oscar, his mind slowly coming back to him, before turning back around and smiling, “Me too.”

1K notes · View notes

supernovafics · 2 months

Text

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐇 𝐖𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐅𝐎𝐑

"i'll be there for you" universe masterlist

pairing: bestfriend!roommate!steve harrington x fem!reader

word count: 4.2k words

warnings: explicit language, fluff, smut (minors dni), fingering (f receiving), protected sex

summary: in which after a long drive back from denver, you and steve are back in your apartment and can finally lean into the fact that everything has changed

author's note: i told myself that i was gonna take at least a little break after the last thing i posted for this series/universe, but then i got this idea and i had to run with it because i have no self control lmao Anyways! hope yall enjoy this!<3333

general note: everything in this universe/series can be read as standalone oneshots but to understand the full “lore” it would prob be best to read the other stuff too<333

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Winter 1986

The first thing you noticed was that his hair was damp from his shower, and the first thing he noticed was the pajamas you changed into after your own shower; a simple black tank top and a pair of shorts because it was really warm in the apartment for some reason.

You had initially come out of your bedroom to say a quick goodnight to him. It was almost eleven and after driving back home from Denver— a drive that actually felt a lot longer than the initial one— all you wanted to do was sleep for at least the next ten hours. You had especially been craving your bed at home during the final hour of the seventeen-hour car ride.

However, now you were looking at Steve and he was looking at you, and it seemed as if the current set of circumstances you were in hit you both all at once.

You were completely alone for the first time since things changed, since you both jumped into being something more with each other. You hadn’t even kissed since that first night— although you both had desperately wanted to— because the timing was never right. A movie night led to all of you falling asleep in the living room Saturday night, and then Sunday night mainly consisted of you all trying to get as much sleep as possible to prepare for the long drive back home.

Now it was Monday night and there was absolutely nothing bad about this timing. Even the exhaustion you’d felt before you took your shower and washed the entirety of the day away was long gone.

You joined Steve in the kitchen where he was drinking a glass of water. “Hi.”

“Hi,” He said as he set the glass down next to him and you leaned back against the counter across from him.

That short exchange was the extent of the conversation at that moment. You could’ve shifted it in absolutely any direction right then— mention picking Harold up from Dustin’s house tomorrow since he’d been taking care of the hamster for the past few days, or even randomly talk about how you two would be back in your Film & TV history class tomorrow and you’d forgotten to do the reading— but you didn’t want to say any of that.

After these last few days of pretending that everything was normal between you two around Robin and Eddie, it felt almost unbearably obvious what you both wanted to happen right here in this moment. But neither of you made any move to do it; maybe it was a little game of “who’d do something first?” that you two were unspokenly playing right then.

Your eyes flickered down to his lips for the briefest of moments and you could feel your cheeks warm at him taking in the entirety of your form; the simple tank top and pajama shorts you put on with the initial thought that you’d be going to sleep soon after you did— now sleep was the last thing on your mind. You suddenly felt so exposed, but at the same time, you didn’t really feel that shy under Steve’s gaze.

Still, though, you were feet away from each other, and neither of you took the plunge into finally acting on everything you’d wanted to for the last couple of days.

“This feels kinda weird, right?” You abruptly asked. “It’s the first time we’re entirely alone. And we actually don’t have to pretend that nothing has changed between us.”

“A little weird, yeah,” Steve answered as he finally stepped closer to you. “But, also, not really.”

He closed the entirety of the distance between you two and his hands found your hips. You could only smile up at him at first. The warmth from his touch made you inwardly sigh in contentment, and it made you want more.

“Actually, you’re right. This isn’t weird,” You decided with a quick shake of your head. “Just different. Good different.”

“Good different,” He agreed with a nod, smiling back at you.

One of his hands came up to softly cup your cheek and you instinctively leaned into him, letting your eyes slip shut as he dipped his head down toward you. Your noses brushed and his lips ghosted over yours just for a second. It was slow and teasing, and you knew that he was doing it on purpose, dragging out the moment that you both had been craving since the first time it happened in your bed at the cabin. And at first, you didn’t mind it— his lips pressing against the corner of your mouth and then against your other cheek and then your nose— you could see yourself wanting every single kiss you shared with him to be as drawn out and as sweet as this felt.

But then the anticipation became too much, and you were desperate to have his mouth against yours, so after his lips landed on your forehead, you whispered a soft and pleading, “Kiss me, Steve,” and you didn’t need to say it twice.

From there it was as if a flip was switched and there was no longer anything slow about this moment. His mouth was against yours and you hurriedly kissed him back, already reaching up to thread your fingers through the damp hair at the nape of his neck.

Just like it had that first night, this kiss felt so right and damn near perfect. You inwardly smiled and let out a happy hum against his lips, not wanting to pull away just yet although you could already feel yourself getting lightheaded.

You pushed yourself up on the countertop with the help of Steve’s hands on your waist, only detaching your lips from his for the briefest of moments to do so, and then you gripped the sides of his t-shirt to tug him closer to you. He was standing right in between your parted legs and your chests were flush against each other, but that still didn’t feel close enough to you.

There were probably a thousand things you wanted to say to him right then, mainly statements that would’ve started and ended with quietly muttered I love you’s. But, Steve fucking Harrington was a phenomenal kisser, and every thought you had in that moment seemed to vanish as soon as it came. He so easily turned you into a pile of want and need.

You were able to catch your breath when he pulled away from your lips and tilted your head upward so that he could kiss along your jaw and then move down to your neck. When he pressed his lips against a particularly sensitive part of your neck, it elicited a soft whimper from you, and you could feel him smile against your skin in response.

Steve pulled back to look at you, searching your face and seeing through you completely, he could probably easily read your current incoherent thoughts.

Even though he was the one pretty much doing everything right then, he still looked just as fucked out as you felt; flushed face and disheveled hair, you couldn’t even remember running your hands through it or pulling at it that much in the past few minutes. It felt nice to see the effect you had on him too.

One of his hands moved to your hip and started teasingly playing with the thin waistband of your shorts before slowly snaking its way inside of them. You sucked in a quick breath when his fingers made contact with the small wet patch at the front of your underwear.

You were absolutely soaked, that didn’t surprise you in the slightest, but you still couldn’t help but shyly turn your head and look away from him.

“You’re cute when you’re shy.”

You rolled your eyes and still avoided his gaze. “Shut up.”

Steve laughed at that. “Very, very cute, actually.”

You didn’t get a chance to say any sort of playful comeback to him because he started lightly teasing your clit through your underwear, which made everything you were about to say become lost on the tip of your tongue. His other hand moved to push the thin strap of your tank top off of your shoulder so that he could press a soft kiss against the skin there. Your brain was very close to completely short-circuiting, and you knew that he could tell that.

You were barely able to keep your eyes open, but you finally met his gaze again. Instead of looking even the slightest bit smug about how easily he was making you fold with everything that he was doing, even with the subtlest of touches, there was only the sweetest look written across his face and it made you want to combust. It still felt a bit insane to you that any of this was finally happening in the first place.

Steve’s hands hooked themselves into the waistband of your shorts and underwear. “Can I?”

“Please.” You were quick to nod at his question and were already lifting your hips a bit so that he could pull your bottoms off of you.

Your shorts and underwear were gone in one quick movement, hanging off your right ankle for barely a second before falling to the floor.

Steve gave you a look that was so full of lust and adoration that it made you feel flustered all over again. It was a look that had never been reserved for you. But, now, it was, and you knew that it always would be if everything stayed this way.

His fingers worked their way through your folds and teasingly traced up your slit. Your nervousness was immediately washed away when his middle finger slowly pushed into your entrance. The only thing falling from your lips was a quiet moan, and your hands found the edge of the counter and gripped tightly. Your eyes squeezed shut and you let out a louder moan when he added another finger inside of you.

It all too suddenly hit you that it was him doing this to you right then— way too easily turning you into an absolute mess on his fingers.

Your best friend. Your Steve.

The softest laugh fell from your lips at the abrupt thought.

“You okay?” He asked, and your eyes met his as you nodded because it was pretty much the only coherent thing you could do at that moment.

You leaned in to press a quick kiss against his lips, but then your brain was once again reminding you of what was happening and you abruptly let out another little giggle.

Steve gave you a curious look. “You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m okay, I’m good. And this is good too. Really, really good,” You assured him, somehow able to find your voice, even as his fingers continued their slow and steady movements inside of you. You let out a quick breath. “It’s just my mind keeps randomly reminding me that it’s you doing this right now, and that just seems so fucking surreal. Like, in a way, I kinda can’t believe this is happening. And none of what I just said probably even makes sense.” You let out another breath that turned into a moan. “Ah, but, anyway, I promise I’m so good right now. Really good.”

Steve only laughed at your rambling and then pressed a soft kiss against your lips.

His free hand found your hip again and he guided you to the edge of the counter so that he could hit a deeper angle with his fingers.

“Shit, fuck,” You breathed out at the new feeling. You couldn’t even feel embarrassed at how quickly he was bringing you to the precipice and how quickly you were about to fall over the cliff because you just felt so fucking good.

One of your hands let go of the counter and moved to find your clit; you just needed that little bit of extra pressure against the sensitive nub to fully send you over the edge. But, Steve was nudging your hand away before you could touch yourself so that he could do it instead. The pad of his thumb started stroking your clit almost too perfectly in quick circles and you had to bite your lip to keep from immediately screaming.

“M’gonna come,” You were probably moaning too loud at this point, but you didn’t care.

He kissed your cheek and then his mouth was right against your ear. “Go ahead. Come all over my fingers.”

His voice was low and could barely be heard over your moans and whimpers, but you still heard him perfectly. And with one particularly rough brush against your clit, you were squeezing tightly around his fingers and coming hard; heart pounding in your chest, ready to burst out of it completely, and seeing something equivalent to stars behind your shut eyes.

“Fuck, fuck, Steve,” You whispered, head tilting upward as he continued fingering you through your orgasm, trying to prolong it for as long as possible.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” He was smiling at you as you came down from your high and your bleary-eyed gaze met his.

In that moment, you could only smile back and slightly shake your head at him in response. Your brain was now a complete pile of mush, to say the least.

You let out a soft breath and leaned back, abruptly hitting your head against the cabinet behind you with a hard thud in the process. “Ouch.”

“Shit. Are you okay?” Steve asked as his hand came up to rub the back of your head and you leaned into his touch.

“Yeah,” You laughed a little. “I’m fine. It doesn’t really hurt.”

“You sure?”

“Mhm,” You nodded as your eyes traveled downward and you saw how noticeably hard he was beneath the navy blue basketball shorts he was wearing.

“Are you okay?” You asked, meeting his eyes again and smiling. You didn’t give him a chance to respond before you were reaching into his shorts and pushing past his boxers so that you could immediately wrap your hand around his length.

“Jesus Christ,” He muttered as his eyes slipped shut and you leaned in to kiss his neck. You stroked his cock in a soft and teasing way and could only smile at the strained “Fuck” he let out.

“Is that okay?” You asked, lips right against his ear.

“Perfect. Fucking perfect,” He answered in the quietest whisper before he dropped his forehead against your bare shoulder and then let out a soft chuckle against your skin.

“What?” You asked as you continued your slow movements.

“You were right,” He said, letting out a quick breath. “This does feel so surreal. But, really, really good.”

You laughed a bit. “Told you.”

After just a second, he pulled away from your shoulder and stopped your strokes by placing a hand on your wrist.

You tilted your head at him. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t wanna cum in my boxers. I need to be inside of you,” He said, and you immediately nodded at his words because there was actually nothing more you wanted than that too.

The next few moments moved in a quick kind of blur, and when you would later look back on this entire night, it would feel as if simply fingers were snapped and one moment was switched to the next. Steve was lifting you off of the counter and bringing you to his bedroom after your soft words of, “We can’t do it here because we’ve ruined the kitchen enough for one night.” You were simultaneously laughing and kissing his face as he led you to his room, arms circling the back of his neck to keep you steady.

He set you down at the foot of his bed and you moved upward. It wasn’t until your head was against his pillows and you were looking at him standing a few feet away from you that you noticed the difference between you two right then— he was still fully clothed, and all you had left on was your black tank top.

“This isn’t fair.”

“What?”

You propped yourself up on your elbows. “I’m basically naked, and you still have all of your clothes on.”

He nodded at your words and then peeled off his t-shirt and slipped out of his shorts so that he was just in his boxers. “Is that better?”

You nodded and smiled at him. “Mhm, much.”

Your head fell back against the pillows again and he simply stared at you for a few moments, eyes traveling from your bare legs all the way up to the small smile on your face.

“This slightly reminds me of that one game night we had at your house when we were sixteen.”

All you could do was laugh at the randomness of his words at first. “How can you possibly be reminded of Monopoly right now?”

“Not that night,” Steve said, laughing a little as he shook his head. He stepped into the bed and leaned over you, one hand brushing your side before settling on your bare hip. “The night when you invited some people from your school over too and someone suggested we all play strip poker.”

“Oh, that night,” You responded, quietly sighing in contentment at the feel of him tracing circles against your skin. You thought about the memory he was referring to. “That was the first time I saw you shirtless in a non-swimming or beach setting.”

He dipped down, nose brushing over yours before softly pecking your lips. “And that was the first time I ever saw you in just your bra and underwear.”

You playfully smiled up at him as you pushed a hand through his hair. “We really suck at poker.”

“Yeah,” He said, smiling back at you.

“And we both ended up making out with someone that wasn’t each other that night.” You weren’t entirely sure why you decided to bring that up when Steve was on top of you, settled between your parted legs with his boxer-covered hard-on pressing perfectly against your inner thigh.

You almost regretted saying it for fear of ruining “the mood,” but then he was laughing and kissing you again.

“And look at us now; finally making out with each other. Full circle moment.”

You smiled again. “I think we’re doing a lot more than just making out, but yes, very full circle.”

You started playing with the hem of your tank top and Steve helped pull it up and off of you. He tossed it somewhere on the floor and one of your hands found the back of his neck to bring him toward you in a needy kiss. He pulled away after a second and started kissing along your jaw and then moved down to your neck, leaving deep red marks against your skin that you knew would probably be annoying to attempt and hide from your friends later, but you couldn’t really find it in you to care about that right then. You were tugging harshly at his hair, which elicited the softest sounds from him, as you let out your own contented hums because of how much you adored having his mouth against you.

Everything felt so good right then, but it wasn’t enough.

“I need you. Please,” You told him, hips bucking upward so that you could feel something more and Steve groaned in your ear.

Your hands went to the waistband of his boxers, hurriedly trying to push them off of him. He moved away from you for a second, completely ridding himself of his boxers and then he started rummaging around in his nightstand drawer for a condom.

Before this moment— Steve seconds away from being inside of you— things felt unreal and in some ways a little funny because of how surreal it all was, but now it didn’t feel that way at all. He was the one person that knew almost everything about you and now you two were doing one of the few things that you actually didn’t know about each other. Surprisingly, that didn’t worry you in the slightest or make you feel scared, and maybe that said everything you needed it to. Things felt so real and so fucking right, and that made you smile.

“What are you thinking about?” He asked as he settled back on top of you.

“Nothing, really. I’m just so happy this is happening right now.”

“Me too,” He whispered before softly kissing your lips.

When he slowly entered you, every thought was wiped from your mind and all you could do was moan at the feeling of him filling you up so completely.

It was soft and sweet and everything in between. Steve moved slowly, pulling his length out of your dripping core until only the tip of him was inside of you before gently pushing back in.

He swallowed your moans and gasps with his lips, and you couldn’t help but close your eyes, savoring everything you were feeling at that moment, even though you wanted to hold his gaze.

“I love you,” He muttered against your warm cheek in between deep thrusts. He linked his fingers with yours and brought your intertwined hands over your head.

At first, all you could do was nod in response because your mind was so far gone, but then you were finding your voice and whispering the softest, “I love you too,” in the darkness of his bedroom.

Coherent words became lost from there, but with every haphazard and messy kiss that was shared between you two, everything was still conveyed.

The nearly pornographic sounds of skin slapping against skin along with your moans and his groans filled the quiet. You both were probably being way too loud, and maybe now was when your neighbors would start hating you two, but it was hard to feel bad about it right then.

Steve’s other hand suddenly firmly grabbed your hip so that he could push into you deeper, harder, which nearly sent you tumbling over the edge.

“I’m so close,” You heard yourself whispering, and you weren’t sure how the three words were even able to form on your tongue.

Steve’s hand moved away from your hip and started playing with your clit instead.

“Shit, yeah. Right there,” You said and he continued his steady movements, not letting up in the slightest.

Your orgasm hit you so abruptly, and you were coming around him with a loud cry before you could even realize it. How tightly you were squeezing his cock as you came only spurred on his own release. His forehead dropped against yours as he pushed as deep as he could inside of you and spilled into the condom.

Chest against chest, you found his lips in a slow kiss as you both came down from your highs and your collective breathing returned somewhat to normal.

The exhaustion from the day was finally catching up to you and you were close to falling asleep, eyes already falling shut, but Steve’s warmth leaving your body woke you up. He was slipping out of you with a low groan and then getting out of the bed to toss the condom in the garbage can that sat in the corner of his room. As he did that, you maneuvered around so that you were underneath the covers and he joined you.

Limbs became tangled beneath the blanket; his arms circling your waist to hold you close, your arms around his back and tracing mindless circles on his skin, and legs entangled. It was comfortable and perfect, and you were about to fall asleep just like that, but then an idea hit you.

Your eyes were shut and your face was buried in his neck. “We need to go on a first date.”

You felt Steve’s soft chuckle against the side of your head. “We’ve already said I love you and had sex. I think we’re far past the first date.”

“We have to do it,” You told him. “And we should make it super cheesy and dumb.”

“Fancy restaurant?” Steve asked, deciding to go along with the idea.

“Yes. And a movie too! Preferably, a very, very bad romcom,” You smiled into his neck. “Or, wait, actually I think a horror movie is much more first date appropriate.”

“Ah, yes, so I can put an arm around you and protect you from all of the scary scenes.”

“Yeah, exactly. Even though it will probably be me doing most of the protecting because I know how you get with scary movies,” You said, and then let out a laugh when he playfully poked your bare side. “Oh, and we should dress up really nice for it too. I expect to see you in a suit, Harrington.”

“Okay, well, in that case, you have to wear your prom dress,” He joked back.

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Okay, deal.”

Steve held you tighter against him, pressing the softest kiss against your forehead, and you fell asleep to the feel of his steady breaths fanning against the tip of your ear.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

let me know ur thoughts<333

(requests are open for stuff you wanna see in the universe/series!🫶🏾)

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