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husbandhoshi · 8 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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Holy shit. You live like this?"

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

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

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

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

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

You tentatively nod before dropping the noodles in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What, too many dates to cover?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The table stops rocking.

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

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

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

"You asked."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Wh—"

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

"Get. Out."

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

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

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

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Celery. Red wine. Short rib.

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

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

Fingerling potatoes, the red ones. A Vidalia onion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Monday feels tilted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You wonder what you'll be:

10 Signs She Is Clinically Insane.

It's Not You, It's Them!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Ask Samuel!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Congrats."

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

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

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

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

"No need."

"What about Seungcheol? Does he know?"

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

"What?!"

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

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

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

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

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

Instead you stand motionless, waiting, emptied.

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

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

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

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

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

He gave up.

None of this should matter to you.

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

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

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

"You're an idiot, Seungcheol."

That does the trick.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"H-how?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Afternoon, boss."

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

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

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

"Friendly reminder we're at work."

"Everyone's at lunch, genius."

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

"You are the worst."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eat, Play, Love: A Guide.

Maybe you'd put it through. Maybe.

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#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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itsmaferart · 8 months

Text

Chapter 86 of the Spy x Family manga is so satisfying if you remember that in all the previous Twiyor scenes you had a very stressed, distrustful and frustrated Twilight for not being able to understand his wife and a very disappointed Yor with herself for not being help her husband. Watching Twilight thinking about:

"Oh no my wife may be an agent sent to trick me... I can't let my guard down!"

"Oh, my wife is mad at me for asking her to do the shopping, I'm incompetent!!… She's going to leave me!!

"I can't even cheer up my wife when she's upset! She only hates me more!"

"….Oh no. Isn't my wife madly in love with me? Did she goad me into my honey trap? She must be an agent sent to trick me??!"

"My wife has a problem with me?! Are you unhappy with our life?! Surely she is behind the door waiting for me adorably furious"

"Don't trust yourself, Twilight! Behind that smile there must be an irrepressible anger!! You're relaxing, Twilight!!"

While Yor's pretty head is a bundle of insecurities

"Loid is distant this morning, surely he must think that I am a terrible wife"

"I am a failure of a wife" …. "She will surely replace me"

"…They're a bunch of brute force…it's the only thing I'm good for"

"Hurry, I have to complain about my husband who is waiting for me to complain"

Among so many misunderstandings, it is the first time that we FINALLY see Loid and Yor talking formally about this problem, about their mutual and personal distrust and realizing that no problem between them is as big as they think (when you speak from the heart)

Yor mistrusts herself because she feels that she is a failure of a wife by not being able to take care of Loid anymore, because her wishes have never been to leave them, but rather to be there forever to receive them with a smile. She knows that she will always take care of Anya and will give her as many hugs as she asks for.

But until now, her husband, too serious, has never wanted to ask her for help, but on the contrary, fill himself with so much work that he makes her feel left out (accidentally). She just wishes that he would "trust her a little more, even if she's not as perfect as him."

Because Yor wants to be valued and loved by her family even if she burns a few shirts or serves an indigestible dinner... Because you just want to be there to take care of them

Because she knows that the world is very hard and in the end Loid (Twilight) is a man who is exhausted, with pain in his stomach and shaky legs because of how stressful it is to bring peace to the world, and take care of his daughter's smile. .

Trusting in Yor at the end of the day is the light at the end of so much darkness in his life, it is a relief after so much stress.

Even if for him his wife (and daughter) are (still) his biggest weakness. He may one day see that they are his greatest strength.

This talk in the privacy of their home may be a very small step for Loid and Yor, but a giant step for Twiyor.

#twiyor #spy x family #yor forger #loid forger #loid x yor #anya forger #yor briar #twilight #sxf #spyxfamily twilight

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kasagia · 1 year

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Heyyy! So I was wondering if it was possible for you to write something where klaus forces the reader to marry him and they have a daughter hope(she can be a baby or a kid) and the reader can kind of tolerate klaus for the sake of her daughter but actually hates him and over time she falls in love with elijah's nobility and confesses to him at a party or something and klaus overhears ending is up to you<3

Loved by them two

Pairing: Klaus Mikaelson x reader, Elijah Mikaelson x reader, Summary: After your parents (pack leaders) arranged your marriage to Klaus (with whom you accidentally had a one-night stand earlier), you tied your fate irrevocably to the Mikaelsons. Problem? 1. You hate your husband for tricking you into this marriage. 2. His noble brother is too alluring. 3. You find out the hard way that hate, love, and lust are a very explosive mixture. Especially when you add the two Mikaelsons to it. Warning(s): argument, fight, blood, love triangle, smut, the first time I wrote something bordering on smut, angst, fluff, the reader kisses Elijah and then goes to bed with Klaus; generally, the reader doesn't know what to do; but she has two hot brothers on her call; three in total because Kol is her best friend; I really like this one after all Nonsense from me: I combined these two requests because they seem to go together. Also sorry if I didn't include enough Elijah x reader (despite my huge crush for all the Mikaelsons, Klaus will always get somehow a girl 😅). I also took a gif from here, because... well it's good. Word count: 8,3k (it's pretty long, I admit, but I don't regret any minute of writing it.)

You hated Klaus Mikaelson with all your heart. Your abhorrent, psychotic husband. A man who somehow was the father (even though you've tried to disprove it many times) of your precious, sweet little daughter Hope.

If the devil could take human form, no doubt it would be your husband.

You met him by accident. You and your friends went out into the city to have fun. You met a hot, handsome blond guy in a bar, went to bed with him, and left his house the next day without a word, expecting never to see him again. You wouldn't think that when you get back to your pack of wolves, your parents - the alphas of the pack - will tell you that you're getting married in a month. And not just anyone. Klaus Mikaelson was going to be your husband. A 1,000-year-old werewolf and vampire hybrid.

You will remember for the rest of your life what they told you when they were destroying your chance for happiness.

"The pack must be strong. This marriage and your assumption of power will guarantee us a secure position in New Orleans. No witches, vampires, or other werewolves will stand in our way. This alliance with the originals will guarantee us power beyond our ancestors' imagination. The crescent wolf and other packs will succumb to our strength. It is your duty to do this for your people."

Of course, you objected to the idea as soon as they told you. But you weren't a leader yet, so your opinion didn't matter much. Especially when your first meeting with your fiancé was only a few minutes away. At least the first official meeting.

You thought the guy must look like a walking fossil. You were surprised when you met that hottie from last night.

And from then on, your whole life became hell.

You tried everything to back out of that engagement. Really everything. Even a fake pregnancy with another, which turned out not to be so fake after all. And unfortunately for you, the father of your child was HE. The curse of your existence.

So he sped up the wedding, and you became the wife of the most dangerous vampire in the world. Cool! At least you got lots of presents and access to his bank accounts all over the world. The pros of being an incubator for a miracle baby.

Then you met your guardian angel. Elijah Mikaelson - the older brother of your awful husband. Your only consolation (other than Hope) in this terrible situation. Your friend, soul mate, and the man of your dreams.

Fate liked to make fun of you, it forced you to marry the wrong brother.

Elijah was everything any woman could ask for. A tactful gentleman, respecting and supporting female feminism, always keeping his word, a walking ideal. The complete opposite of your cruel husband.

You were completely in love with him. So much so that when he held your beautiful one-year-old daughter in his arms, you imagined that he was her father. Your fantasy was almost always spoiled by your husband stepping on the three of you and taking the baby out of his hands.

You had no idea why Klaus had even chosen to make your life a nightmare. There were other ways he could have taken control of the city; he didn't have to become the leader of your pack and marry you.

But he always did and took what he wanted. You found out after being stuck in this happy swamp of being married to Klaus for a year. So you took great satisfaction in denying him the one thing he could never have and so desired - your love and affection.

It was another big mystery for you when it came to Klaus and his complicated personality. Yes, you had a child together, and you were stuck with him, but before that, you didn't know each other. So why did the mighty hybrid decide to find a mate and lead his own pack with them? And why was he strangely obsessed with creating a happy, loving family with you and Hope?

Worse, he turned out to be a good alpha to your pack and an even better father. You couldn't say a bad thing. You two ruled the werewolves, enhanced by your fusion, as equals. And Hope loved it when he sang her lullabies and tucked her in to sleep. Ironically, she calmed down better in the murderous original's arms than in yours.

Even your own child was against you.

Fortunately, in this cold, dark Mikaelson mansion, there was one soul who stood by your side no matter what. The only one you could trust implicitly without fear of ending up with a stake in your back.

Elijah was a gift from heaven to you.

During your pregnancy with Hope, he helped you in every possible way. He was always there for you, whether it was holding your hair as you returned all the breakfast he had prepared for you earlier or reading aloud to you as he massaged your aching ankles.

And when did you become a hybrid? He was the one who taught you self-control for the most part (while Klaus was busy doing something else and couldn't see the two of you, of course).

There was only one problem. Your terribly possessive husband.

As soon as Klaus came into your sight, Elijah had to move two meters away from you, or all hell would break loose.

And you're not exaggerating at all.

One day, when you were watching a movie and lying on the couch, leaning against each other and covered with one blanket, you didn't notice the hybrid enter the living room. You didn't even blink when your companion was dragged from his place and thrown to the other end of the house. A second later, a very angry and jealous vampire took his place, hugging you much closer than his brother and placing his hands on your growing belly.

You didn't react to his show of strength then.

Elijah and Rebekah taught you long ago to choose your battles with Niklaus. It wasn't worth arguing with him about everything he'd done. Especially since you were pregnant at that time - you didn't always have the strength to get into fights with him.

But now as a hybrid, queen of your pack and whole New Orleans? Oh no, you wouldn't let that man fucking rule you.

You tried to make his life hell. You defied him every step of the way, overthrowing his dark plans and bringing your own to life. Of course, you did it all with a sweet, stupid smile, occasionally showing him small acts of tenderness, such as hugging or kissing on the cheek or forehead (on exceptional, life-threatening occasions, you even sacrificed and kissed him), to lull his vigilance.

But Klaus wasn't stupid. He knew exactly what you were doing and was happy to let you change a couple of his plans if it meant a kiss from you.

And you thought it was what made him fall for you.

You were stubborn, always getting your way, going over the dead to achieve your goal if it was to protect your loved ones.

And Klaus loved it. You don't know if it was his weird fetish - the guy always got what he wanted and no one dared stand up to him, so he felt for the girl who didn't want to succumb to him. You were probably one of the few survivors of the rebellion against him. And the one who could do literally anything without any fear of the hybrid hurting you.

You get used to this life. Secret meetings with Elijah in the library, discussions in the living room while Hope played with her toys on the carpet and watched cartoons on TV, occasional shopping and girls' nights with Bekah and Freya, and even to Kol's pranks and tricks.

Even your relationship with Klaus has been better lately. You tried so openly not to show your hostility towards the hybrid. After all, he was your daughter's father and Hope deserved at least a semblance of normalcy - parents who don't want to kill each other every 5 minutes.

But tonight, everything was about to change.

~•♤♤♤•~

"So you want me to go with you to some weird party organized by your current archenemy Tristan, and Klaus gave you his permission to take me out of the house?" you asked the original who made the pancakes for you as you discussed another plan to outsmart the de Martel siblings while cradling Hope in your arms.

"I wouldn't call him an archenemy... just a minor inconvenience."

"Is that why you and Klaus tremble with anger every time I say his name?"

"No, it's because a beautiful lips as yours shouldn't be tainted by such a terrible name."

"So whose name should I keep saying, Elijah?" you asked with a teasing smirk, licking your lips.

The original leaned slightly towards you. The tension in the room was palpable between the two of you. You looked down from his captivating, mesmerizing eyes to those alluring lips you've dreamed of kissing ever since he turned out to be more than your asshole husband's brother to you. You were only a few centimeters apart... so little...

Hope's squirming in your arms reminded you of the baby's presence. And that you were standing so close to your husband's brother in broad daylight and in a place where anyone could easily walk in and see you two. Against your darkest, most hidden desire, you have moved away from the noble original. Elijah cleared his throat, going back to continuing your breakfast.

"I'll be ready at 8 p.m."

"The party starts at 7."

"So? Don't you think being fashionably late will be the perfect combination for the act of surprise when they see me hanging on your arm? We'll get their attention, so Klaus and Kol will do what they do the best."

"You know ladies don't usually talk about such… bloody things while holding babies in their arms?"

"Ladies, Elijah, but my wife is everything but that." the hybrid came out of nowhere with that arrogant smirk on his lips. "Hello, my queen. My little princess." Klaus smiled fondly and took Hope from you, making funny faces at the baby. The traitor started to giggle. You rolled your eyes but also smiled slightly upon hearing your daughter's cute laugh.

"Dada!" she screamed, grabbing his nose with her hands.

Yeah, this little traitor could already talk. No, the first word she said wasn't dad; it was mom. The problem is that her happy "dada" came out of her mouth too often compared to mama. Klaus was too pleased with this fact than you would have liked.

"Well, maybe if my loving husband was an exemplary gentleman, I could act like a lady."

"I love you too, sweetheart."

"How is Aurora? Did she let you out of her arms so quickly?" you asked sarcastically, trying to throw him off balance. You weren't in the mood to put up with that annoying asshole today.

"Did I just hear jealousy in your voice, love?"

"Haha, you wish. You have my full blessing to spend time with whoever wants you."

"Niklaus. I believe we were supposed to have a meeting before we put this grand plan into action. Will you forgive us, Y/N?" Elijah interrupted you before you two broke the incredible peace between you that had lasted for 4 months and started to jump at each other's throats.

"Just take him wherever you want."

"Brother, shall we?"

Klaus muttered something under his breath. He handed our daughter over to me and planted a quick, wet kiss on my neck before stepping out of my personal space. I growled at him, showing my golden eyes. The man merely laughed, waving to the little one before leaving the kitchen.

"Enjoy your meal, Y/N."

"You can try to lose him on the way back!" you screamed after the retreating man in the suit.

"WON'T HAPPEN, LOVE!" your husband shouted back, ruining (as usual) all your dreams.

"It's always worth giving a shot." you murmured, knowing full well that he would be able to hear you. You smiled victoriously, hearing his irritable, grumpy voice as he snapped back at one of his vampire errands.

~•♤♤♤•~

"You look amazing, Y/N." Elijah greeted you with a delighted smile as he watched you descend the stairs in a long, tight black dress with gold embellishments at the waist and the ends of the sleeves.

With your little tiara in your hair and a gold snake necklace entwined around your neck, you felt like a fucking queen.

You're not going to lie—you went all out with your preparations, and Rebekah made sure she did your makeup for your first big, official outing since Hope was born.

It wasn't until you came downstairs that you noticed that Elijah wasn't the only person sitting in the candlelit room. Klaus was sitting right next to him, looking at you with the same fascination and admiration as his brother. You felt a little uncomfortable being watched by two originals with heart-shaped eyes.

"Maybe I should choose a dress with a higher neckline after all?" you wondered as you watched them almost drool over your looks. They were both 1,000 years old but acted like horny teenagers.

"So I guess I'm dressed well enough to be a distraction for tonight?" you asked, bringing their attention back to your face. They both decided to act nonchalant, as if they hadn't been staring at your ass a few seconds ago.

"Maybe even to well, love." Klaus' heavy, watchful gaze didn't let you down an inch. You felt an involuntary shiver run through you with each step you took closer to the originals.

"My brother may be right. No one will be able to take their eyes off you."

"Thank you, Elijah."

Klaus cleared his throat as he got up from his chair and faced you. He took your hand gently, and after softly caressing the wedding band and engagement ring from him, he shifted his attention to your wrist, suddenly stopping his movements.

You looked up at his eyes, catching his gaze. You felt enchanted by these calm, blue eyes, their beauty mostly made you went to bed with him a year ago. You felt like any little move could break that strange spell between you two.

At one point, you felt cold metal settling on your wrist. You turned your gaze to the charming bracelet that, surprisingly, matched your outfit.

"It's for protection. In case you need help and no one can find you."

"So you've always known where I am? What is this, some kind of dog collar with a tracker?"

"No. Freya enchanted it for me. It's supposed to sense when you're in danger and let me know." he rolled up his sleeve, showing you a new bracelet on his wrist. "I have a similar one."

"Oh." you groaned in shock, completely not expecting something like this from him.

"Exactly. Oh. I guess I'm not the bad guy all the time."

"I didn't mean..."

"Of course you didn't. Have fun with my brother, love."

For the first time since you've known Klaus, you felt sorry for him. Due to the growing guilt you were feeling, you kept an eye on his receding shape until he passed through the door. You sighed, turning to face Elijah, who had already approached you from behind in a moment of your inattention.

"Don't worry. He'll get over it. Niklaus can't blame you for being careful with him." he tried to comfort you, but deep down you knew it was your fault this time.

And you weren't going to act like your husband, so you decided to apologize to him at the next opportunity. Unlike some, you were able to admit when you were wrong. However, Elijah didn't need to know about your plan.

"Maybe you are right. Let's go to this party."

~•♤♤♤•~

You were talking to Elijah at the bar while sipping your drink. You entered as planned—late, attracting the attention of most people. Rumors quickly spread throughout the supernatural community. Your favorite was that during that year of your "absence," you divorced Klaus and married his brother, now parading proudly with him around the salons. Elijah seemed to like it too.

You were enjoying the party until one of the de Martel siblings showed up. Tristan.

"Famous Y/N Y/L/N Mikaelson. It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

"And you sir are…?"

"Tristan de Martel. You must have heard about me from dear Elijah."

"To be honest, not so much. I only know that you're the one who invited us, for which I want to thank you." you played a stupid, naive girl with joy while watching the frown on his forehead. To remember: He does not like to be diminished or underestimated in any way. Mr. big ego.

"So perhaps you would do me the honor and dance with me? We could get to know each other better."

"Actually, this lady promised me her first dance. If you'll excuse us, Tristan."

"Of course. Enjoy yourselves."

Elijah grabbed your hand and led you to the dance floor. He pulled you closer to him, rocking you to the beat of the song. The original wanted to cause even more rumors... you wonder if Klaus agreed to his actions.

"He's a slippery guy. Now I know why you wanted me to stay away from him and his sister."

"You just spoke to him, how do you know..."

"Well, starting with the extravagant look of the room, the fact that his suit and watch literally scream I'm rich, and ending with the fact that he carries himself as if he were the master of this world, I've noticed other manic behaviors as well. Besides, it's obvious at first glance that he's desperately trying to imitate you. I don't like him."

"Should I assume that you don't like me as well?"

"No! No. I like you. More than you know. I don't know how I would have dealt with vampirism and all of this without you. Thank you for being there for me. Always." you murmured, resting your head on his shoulder, inhaling the scent of his cologne.

"And forever." he said, placing a tender kiss on top of your head. "You're more to me than I could ever admit."

"Do we have to? Pretend and hide the truth?" during your conversation, you didn't even notice when he led you to a more desolate place. Nobody was looking at you. There was only him and you.

"Niklaus..."

"Have you ever, in your entire, very long life, done something just for yourself, without thinking about your brother or sibling? Have you ever acted selfishly?"

"I can't be selfish with you." he said, resting his forehead against yours. You were so close to each other, so close to getting what you both wanted.

"Why?"

"It will destroy us all."

"Then let the world burn... just for a moment."

Elijah, after a moment's hesitation, leaned closer to you, embracing your slightly trembling figure with anticipation even tighter. He cupped your right cheek with his hand and finally brought your lips together in the long-awaited kiss.

Your first kiss with the original was… completely different from what you imagined. His soft lips didn't match up with yours as well as they did with…

You froze in complete shock as you realized your subconscious was comparing Elijah to Klaus. And surprisingly, it was more sympathetic to your hated husband, from whom you wanted so much to be free. In spite of this strange feeling of guilt that you somehow betrayed Klaus, you returned the kiss with more passion than before, trying to feel that wonderful tingling and buzzing in your head.

But it never came.

Something was missing in this perfect, fabulous setting for the first kiss with the love of your life. And you had no idea what was wrong.

Maybe first kisses with someone new were so… awkward?

Your treacherous mind reminded you that there was NEVER such an awkwardness between you and Klaus. Only pure passion and desire.

What the fuck happened to you? Why didn't you feel anything special when all your wet dreams were coming true?

You moved away first under the pretense of taking a breath. Staring into Elijah's eyes, you could feel the same attraction that accompanied you every time you stole those furtive glances from each other.

"I love you, Y/N. I've loved you since the first day you gave me a lecture on how Pride and Prejudice is Jane Austen's best book; how cliché it wasn't." you hit him on the shoulder, making him giggle. "And if the circumstances were completely different, if it were someone completely different, I wouldn't hesitate to be selfish just this once and take something from my brother. But I will not allow any harm to come to you or Hope through my actions."

Before you could say anything, you two heard a howl.

Klaus and Kol.

Elijah nodded at you. You disentangled yourself from his arms and ran upstairs to fulfill your role in the Mikaelsons' plan. You just hoped the guys would distract them long enough for you to find what you were looking for.

You searched their house, wondering how Elijah's confession would affect your relationship now.

But little do you know that you weren't the only one who heard it.

~•♤♤♤•~

It was a really fucked up night.

The peaceful surveillance of the de Martel house turned into a bloody battle between the originals and the first vampires they turned. Klaus' therapist, Cami, barely escaped a jealous attack by Klaus' ex-Aurora. You wonder how Klaus managed to reach Cami in time and why the red-haired psycho didn't target you and your child. Klaus must have put on quite a show for her.

In all the chaos, you didn't get a second chance for a moment alone with Elijah. The subject of your feelings still remained the elephant in the room. And frankly, you've had enough of it all. All you wanted now was a warm bath and playing with Hope. No more family drama.

Without Klaus, everything would have gone to hell. And as much as you hated that he forgot to include you in his plans for today, you couldn't help but be grateful to him for helping you protect your pack from vampires today. He didn't have to. He could watch the de Martel vampires kill your people and attack them when they get tired of fighting werewolves. Another demonstration of him being more than a villain to you.

It amazed you how one minute he was an irritating, ignorant, disrespectful asshole and the next your savior, protector, and equal partner in crime you could rely on.

You guess that's what your husband was like. Full of contradictions and surprises. Your private pet of nature.

You sighed in relief as you finally walked to your home. You took another step towards the mansion when you saw Klaus and Elijah getting out of the car and heading for the entrance.

You were about to join the originals, but you stopped dead at the sound of Klaus' pretentious voice.

"So we're just going to pretend you didn't kiss my wife and confess your feelings to her, or maybe you have an explanation?" you hid, eavesdropping on their conversation. "Don't think that after all that's happened, I've forgotten that you went a little too far in distracting the de Martels. You may get Aurora away from her that way, but it was superfluous, and I know you enjoyed every bloody second too much for me to just walk away from this."

"I don't have to explain myself to you. If she wants me, it's none of your business, Niklaus. You only married her because you made up a plan - Y/N has never wanted to be your wife and you have never cared about her." Klaus stopped, watching his brother blankly. He looked like something had broken inside him.

The hybrid suddenly lunged at the other man with his fists.

They started punching each other and throwing things at each other within reach. At one point, they both pushed off each other, landing on opposite walls. (Creating another dent to patch.)

"SHE IS MY WIFE! My mate! My queen! MOTHER OF MY CHILD! You have no right to her, brother! So I'm warning you… If I ever hear the littlest rumours about her having the smallest crush on you, I'll put you back in that bloody coffin, and I will release you after our eighth child comes into this world. She will be so madly in love with me that she won't even spare you a second glance when you meet again."

"I didn't know you loved plans that take over a thousand years to complete, brother. I never thought you could be so patient."

Klaus growled, throwing himself at his brother with a scream. From your hiding place, you could hear the sounds of a fight and shattered furniture.

You decided to wait a little longer before stepping in and heroically separating the two combatants. You didn't want it to seem like you overheard their argument.

Only when there was a sudden outburst followed by a suspicious silence did you decide to run into the house. You wouldn't expect them to demolish the entire living room in minutes, and Klaus would be bleeding out dangerously while trying to patch up the wound and drive the dagger into his brother's heart.

The men didn't notice you as they tried to disable each other. You weren't going to come between them or stand on either side until Elijah, out of nowhere, pulled out Pappa Tunde's blade.

Your body reacted faster than your brain. You instinctively threw yourself between them, shielding Klaus from the blade.

They both froze when they saw you.

Time seemed to stop as both shocked and incredulous looks from the originals fell on you. To be honest, even you were surprised which side you were on. You blamed your stupid tendency to act instead of think in difficult situations. But you weren't going to show them that you were insecure about your actions. Not when they were both holding weapons harmful to the other one.

"Put it down." you said, looking straight at Elijah. "You too." you added, glancing over your shoulder at your husband, who was staring at you with a strange, unidentifiable look. Amazingly, he dropped the dagger to the ground first. Soon after, Elijah did the same. You quickly bent down to grab both weapons, putting them in your pockets. "Good. Are you calm now?" they nodded silently, waiting for your next move. "Great. So, WHAT THE BLOODY HELL YOU TWO WERE DOING?!"

Elijah took a breath, probably intending to give you some clever answer, but stopped as soon as you felt an unexpected weight fall down your back. You caught Klaus just in time before he slid to the floor. Holding him up, you noticed a wound on his right side. You reached out to touch his wound, but the hybrid's strong grip on your wrist stopped your hand.

"Don't. You'll get burned. Verbena and the wolfbane. Grenade."

"What the hell?! Elijah how could you throw a grenade at him?! Do you throw one back?!" you asked the man in your arms.

"I wanted. You stopped me."

"God, from now on, you're both grounded from being with Hope. Hell knows if that rage won't attack you in front of her! Come Klaus. I'll help you clean it up. Elijah, you can clean up here before Rebekah or Freya come." you said, casting a disappointed look at Elijah's outfit before helping the hybrid up the stairs.

"I would never..." Klaus tried to explain himself as you dragged him to his bedroom.

"Just shut up and sit down." you growled at him, pushing him onto the bed. You took the first aid kit from the bathroom and went back to him to disinfect his wound. "It'll hurt."

"Will you kiss it later? To ease the pain and speed up the healing process, of course."

"Don't try your luck any more today." you warned, rolling your eyes at his mischievous smirk.

He snorted, offended. He looked like a child who had been grounded for snacking on sweets. You sighed, trying not to laugh at his scowl. Unwittingly, you began to wonder what Hope would look like when she went through her rebellious period. Probably like her father when he did something wrong and got caught doing it. Well, at least you'll have some practice before she grows up.

"Do you love my brother?" he burst out suddenly while you were cleaning his wound made by verbena and wolfsbane. Why they had pomegranates from these plants shouldn't shock you as much as it did.

"What?" you asked, shoving a water-soaked cotton ball into his wound, which made him groan in pain. You gave him an apologetic look as you continued working on his side.

"Don't act stupid, it's not like you at all. Do you love my brother?"

"Of course I do, he's my friend and Hope's uncle." you replied unfazed, continuing your work.

"Let me rephrase that. Are you IN LOVE with my nobel brother?"

You tried to pretend that his question had no effect on you. You put down the cotton balls and tried to avoid his gaze to give some answer, but Klaus grabbed your chin, forcing you to look into his eyes. Fuck. You couldn't lie now. He always knew when you were lying, and now that you were exposed to his watchful gaze, you only knew one way out of this fucked-up situation.

So you pulled him closer to you, kissing him passionately.

He moaned, surprised by the feeling of your soft, enticing lips on his own. He wasted no more time. He put you on his lap, wrapping an arm around your waist to pull you as close to him as possible.

The feeling of his warm skin against your clothed body reluctantly brought back memories of the night it all began.

Intoxicated by the feeling of his captivating lips on yours again (after so long), you didn't even notice when he threw you onto the bed, only momentarily breaking your kiss to let your hair down. He melted back into your mouth, hovering over you. The hybrid tangled his hand in your hair, tilting your head so he had better access to your equally eager mouth and tongue.

He moved to your neck, leaving wet kisses and gentle bites and rubbing every inch of your skin, effectively ruining any thought process in your head.

It was just you and him.

And after a very long time, you felt extraordinary pleasure and much-needed relief from the tension that your body had gone through today.

"Nik!" you moaned when he started sucking on the most sensitive spot on your neck, which he knew damn well existed and used every time to tease you.

But this time you moaned for him like a whore, too overwhelmed by the sensations his skilled hands and lips were giving you.

And this time, Klaus didn't hold back. His amber irises and possessive growl were the only warnings he gave you before he ripped your dress in half, revealing your dressed-in-lace-underwear body to him.

His wolf howled inside him.

He pressed his lips to yours greedily, caressing every inch of your newly exposed skin. You growled into his mouth as he bit your lip harder and dug your nails into his back. He reciprocated by squeezing your thigh tightly as he wrapped your leg around his waist, rubbing your most sensitive parts against each other. You both moaned in unison, pulling your lips apart for a moment. You decided to repay him and slid your fangs out to dig into his neck, drinking his sweet blood greedily. You've been dreaming about it since you became a hybrid. Only in your darkest, wildest dreams, after which you were ashamed to look into the eyes of the hated hybrid who probably drove you to Stockholm syndrome because you wanted him more every day—the man who was the cause of your misery.

It was impossible for you to love him. To love the man who tricked you into this marriage; who lied and killed and tortured so many people; who made you fall head over heels for him. Maybe that's why you fell in love with Elijah? He was his complete opposite. He was self-possessed, calm, reasonable, and kept his word.

But there you were, rubbing against him and moaning as his blood ran down your throat. Wanting him more than his brother—the man of every woman's dreams.

Maybe you were as fucked up as your husband.

Moments later, he copied your idea and dug himself into your neck. The moan coming from him sent shivers through your body all the way THERE. How could a man make you so desperate for him with just some kisses and the slightest touch?

You'd probably go all out and lose yourselves in each other's touch for the rest of the night (and possibly part of the morning) if Hope's cries hadn't come from the baby monitor on his nightstand. You broke apart, breathing heavily. Klaus licked off the rest of the blood dripping from your wound until it closed. He rested his head against your chest, inhaling your scent.

You unknowingly ran your hand through his curly hair, also closing your eyes and getting lost in this special, unique moment of tenderness between you two.

"I love you, Y/N." his soft whisper, combined with the gentle movement of his lips against the skin of your breasts, sent shivers down your spine. The realization of his confession left you completely still, holding his arms in a gentle embrace. "I know you don't feel the same way about me, but I promise you that one day you will. I will be worthy of your affection, my brave, wise, beautiful, merciful queen." he said, placing one last longing kiss on your lips before climbing off of you. He got dressed and left the room to soothe the crying Hope.

You closed your eyes, taking shaky breaths. You covered your mouth with your hand to drown out your silent sobs as you heard the familiar lullaby that Nik usually sings to Hope.

Klaus has really changed for the better since the first time you two met. And any other woman in your situation would surely fall in love with him in a heartbeat. But you've already given your heart to someone you'll never have. Or so you thought.

You felt an inexplicable attraction to Elijah, but with Klaus... everything just felt right - even though the hybrid drove you crazy and was the complete opposite of your dream prince on a white horse, in which Elijah fit perfectly. So maybe your Mr. Right wasn't someone you'd imagined in your head a long time ago…

And now, crying silently on your husband's bed, you realize what you should have done ages ago. But before you did the right thing, you could afford to pay a little attention to your troubled, lost heart.

So you cried until you got tired enough that all you did before falling asleep in Klaus' bedroom was to cover up any traces of your tears. You promised yourself a long time ago that no matter what, you would be the only witness to your tragedies. You'd rather be seen as a cold bitch than a weak, lost girl thrown into the fights the originals always fought.

Because in the end, it was only you (and Hope) against the whole world. Just like always.

~•♤♤♤•~

"I need you to do me a favor, Kol." you said as you walked into his room without knocking. The original was on the bed, flipping through something on his phone. He lazily shifted his gaze to you. You groaned internally. Bored Kol is a Kol who is very hard to work with. But—shame to admit it—he was your last and only resort.

"Hello to you too, Y/N. Thank you for knocking before storming into someone's room. How am I? I'm very glad you're asking; I'm fine. That's a very beautiful day, don't you think? Yes, indeed. Did marriage with my brother completely make you lose any manners and tact?" he teased as he drank the blood from the bag.

"I want you to compel me." he spat out his drink, choking and staining another carpet. "Rebekah will be mad at him." you thought as you watched how the original was coughing.

"What?!" he shouted, finally coming to himself. "Why?!" he asked, reaching for his half-full bag again.

"I want you to compel me to love Klaus." he spat out his drunken blood again, suffocating. He tossed the bag on the nightstand, deciding not to reach for it again in the face of new revelations. He probably thought you were completely out of your mind.

"What the bloody hell?! But I thought you and Lijah…" he began, confused, jumping out of bed to face you.

"We never gonna happen, Kol. I realized it very clearly yesterday. And I don't want to feel these stupid things around Elijah any more. He will never be mine, and I will never be his. I have Hope. I had to think about her future and happiness. And she deserves… everything. So if I can give her a happy, normal, loving family, I will do it. Even if it means falling for Klaus by your compel."

"Are you sure, darling? Do you even know what you're asking me for? Do you really want me to erase your memories of you and Elijah?"

"No. I don't want to forget. I want to remember all those stupid moments that led me to this fucking rollercoaster of emotions. I need you to convince me that... it was always meant to be Klaus. That my love for Elijah is just a fleeting fascination, and that Klaus is my fucking soulmate and partner, someone who will treat me as an equal and put me and our daughter above everything else. And that seeing him so close with Aurora and Camille made me realize that I only want to be with him."

"You know that these things aren't far from the truth, do you? My brothers love you. Both equally strong. Are you sure that…"

"Yes. I made my decision. I'm just asking you to help me sort out my emotions properly. I can't be the girl who sails between two brothers. I will not let Hope grow up in this mess my feelings have caused. My fate was sealed the day I met Klaus. Now it's time for me to finally accept it."

"I'll help you, darling. On one condition. I'm not going to keep you under my compel forever. I'll take it off someday. Are you then ready to face the consequences of your actions? Organize your feelings on your own? What if you really fall in love with Nik? What if you somehow fall in love with both of them? If Elijah finds someone else? Do you even think about what it will mean to you? You'll be living a lie, Y/N. Are you ready for it?"

"I'll do everything to give Hope the family she deserves. Besides, I'm Y/N Y/L/N-Mikaelson. I always know what to do. And for now, this is the perfect solution. I think I could be happy with Klaus after all. And after everything that happened recently... I just want to finally be happy, Kol. Without all the extra problems that being a Mikalson brings anyway."

"I only hope you're not going to regret this... Look at me, darling. Today you will feel something more than hostility or a little friendliness toward my brother Klaus. After seeing him, being a hero for your pack, and rescuing that human Camille from getting killed, you realized that you'd always had some feelings for him, but before today they were weaker than what you feel for Elijah. You realized that Klaus could be the man of your dreams, someone you want to spend the rest of your life with. You will never forget what you experienced with Elijah, but now you see him more like a brother and an uncle to your child than a life partner. You like Klaus; he's the only man you could be romantically interested in until Hope comes of age. After this time, my compulsion will cease to work. You will forget that I compel you. I told you to get that stupid idea out of your head and told you not to ask anyone else for such a favor. You will follow my command." you snapped out of your stupor, blinking as you tried to remember what the hell had just happened.

"Well, at least promise me you won't tell Klaus, Elijah, or anyone else."

"I hate to say it, but you have my word. Everything will stay between us."

"Good." you nodded your head and left his room. Kol's concerned gaze led you all the way to the door.

At least he circumvented your request and didn't force you to love Klaus directly, he just dulled your infatuation with Elijah. If you started to feel anything for his hybrid brother, it would be real. He only hoped that when Davina, Rebekah, or Nik found out, they wouldn't castrate him for it.

~•♤♤♤•~

You were pissed off. Incredible furious with your stupid husband and his older brother.

These two morons went with Kol on a solo quest against Lucien and Tristan, locking you (Freya, Davina, Rebekah and you) in the house.

You don't need to tell anyone that they came back with nothing and narrowly escaped death. As soon as the boundary spell was lifted by your witches, you ran out of the house with Hope and went straight to your pack. You left your daughter with your cousin Lily and her witch girlfriend while you went to get wood. You must have landed your rage on something. Trees were better than innocent people or your very guilty and stupid husband, whose face you didn't want to see right now because you knew you'd use it as a dartboard.

However, you forgot that your husband had no self-preservation instinct.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" you growled as you sensed his presence, continuing to chop wood. He really was asking to die today.

"You took our daughter and left the house, you think I won't follow you? Besides, we need to talk, love."

"Well, it's too fucking late now. Fuck off before I shove a branch up your ass."

"Where does such an aggression of yours come from, love?"

"You dare to fucking ask me?! After what you did?! You could all die or get caught! I know you don't care what happens to me, but have you thought about Hope? Your fucking daughter! What would happen if they came for us, for her, when we were closed in the cage, you made?! Tell me, honey, was it your brilliant idea? Or maybe Kol's?"

"It's fascinating that you have such faith in my noble elder brother that you don't even entertain the slightest possibility that it was his plan."

"Elijah wouldn't do something so stupid. He's better than you. Do you even know how it could..."

"Of course our dear Elijah would be a better husband for you!" his brain apparently focused only on that damn part, not the one where you scolded him for being so careless because you were worried about him.

"Don't you dare fucking bring him into this! He was the only goddamn person who cared about my fate after my transformation! He cares enough about me to let me know about his plans, Klaus!"

"I saw perfectly well how he cares for you - by shoving his tongue down your throat!"

"Maybe if you weren't acting like a fucking, arrogant, condescending dick who knows everything best, you'd be in his place!"

"Well, I went further with you than he did last night. You didn't even moan against his mouth as you did against mine. I guess being a dick pays off after all." he replied with a feisty, smug smile.

"You! Fucking! Disgusting! Pervent!" you growled, punching him in the chest each time, causing him to back away from you until you pinned him to a tree. "I fucking hate you. Every time I see the shadow of a man worth loving in you, you always screw it up! I hate you and despise both you and myself that despite all the damn things you've done against me, somehow I still fucking want to see in you someone worth my love!" you screamed, taking out your anger on him with every blow you landed on him.

It shocked you that he didn't do anything to stop you. He just took your punches, standing still in complete silence, until you got tired.

"Better?" he whispered, staring at your panting, disheveled figure as you both tried to calm down.

"A little."

"You tremble." he noticed, carefully touching your cold shoulder. "Let's go back to the camp. We need to warm you up." he said as he took off his leather jacket and tossed it over your shoulders. He grabbed your hand and started leading you through the dark forest.

You don't even remember when you got this far in your anger. It took you a good half silient hour of walking to get back to the sleeping pack.

You sat by the still-burning fire. Klaus added a few logs of wood to make sure it wouldn't go out. He then sat next to you and unrolled the blanket, draping it over your back, creating a warm cocoon around the two of you.

You sighed, leaning your head against his shoulder and staring into the fire. You blissfully absorbed the silence between the two of you, losing yourself in Klaus' warmth and scent.

"I'm sorry." he broke the long silence between you. "I should have let you know about my plans or not locked you in the house. You're right. You deserve someone better, love." he said, his voice slightly trembling as he spoke the last words.

"I could love you, you know?" you felt his piercing, surprised look as you played with one of the sticks, staring stubbornly at the fire to avoid his gaze. "A long time ago. If you hadn't acted like a condescending asshole and tried your best to lock me up in that damn house with Hope. If you'd let me in, help me get past that evil, cruel hybrid facade and see the real you, you would have what you so secretly desire."

"And what is that?"

"Unconditional love from someone who isn't forced to give it to you. Unlimited trust and devotion-something you have not experienced in your very long life. You know one day you'll get it from our daughter, but it won't be the same. She will love you because you are her father, her love is conditioned by the bond you have shared since she was born. That's why you want me to love you so much. You want someone who cares about you for no reason."

"And could you? Love me just because you want to? After everything I have done?" he asked, pulling you away from him, not too far away, just enough to look you in the eye.

"You were never quite the villain in my story. I have to admit, I've hated you since I met you... but over time, I've seen that you've made me more than I could have imagined, someone much more powerful, someone whose opinion really matters. You always helped me, even when I thought it was some kind of sabotage against me and when I disagreed with your plan, like when you decided to stop Dalhia alone or play partners in crime with your bloodthirsty father. You take care of my pack like it's your own, and you're such a good father to Hope that sometimes I envy her. Maybe our beginnings weren't the best, and maybe along the way we'll start arguing and fighting like bitter enemies again, but I couldn't imagine anyone else to do it with."

"Even after I forced you into this marriage?"

"Well, if it weren't for you, my parents would've arranged one with a possibly stupid, self-centered werewolf anyway, so I didn't get the worst of it."

"Good to know I'm not the worst option."

"At least you're hot and handsome." you replied, nudging him with your arm. He did the same, making you both laugh.

You stared into his eyes as the firelight reflected in his beautiful irises, emphasizing sparks of amusement and... tenderness.

"I want to be the man who deserves your love."

"Can you let me in then?"

He did not answer. Instead, he pressed his lips to yours. If it had been any other man, you would have insisted on answering this important question. But you knew Klaus too well to know that this passionate, sultry, tender kiss is a silent promise he makes to you. A promise he intends to keep.

Klaus wasn't the perfect man of your dreams, and he often made hasty, sudden decisions without considering the opinions of others. But deep down, you knew there was no other man in the world who made you feel the way you did with Nik. Even Elijah couldn't make you feel half the way you did with his brother. His kiss, his touch, his smile, and his scent made you feel insane. And that (desire, passion, tenderness, warmth, and thristing for his little affection) was the type of love you want to lose yourself in.

Maybe it was Klaus who was supposed to be your Mr. Right after all.

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frogchiro · 11 months

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That Skyrim au thing you did a while back made me cream. But also, what if the reader is like betrothed and the guy she’s betrothed to is awful so the guys like kill him or something to keep the reader forever.

Im sorry this is probably so confusing but Im having a brain rot and I can’t think straight lmaoooo

Oh my god😭 i really didn't expect for my silly Skyrim thot to be so popular but I'm so happy ;;

Also I'm sorry in advance but I went with Graves on this bc kinda obsessive Lord!Graves is scratching an itch and I have many thoughts about him and tavern maid reader ;;

also if you desire so, it can be the same Lord Graves as the one here

fem!reader, not really nsfw but general perviness, obsessive Philip Graves (he's a lil delusional ;;), reader is implied to be chubby, gore & mentions of murder but nothing graphic really, creepy guy but dw, philip deals with him <3

OKAY SO as you can probably imagine, your arranged marriage to the local blacksmith was....anything than out of love or even affection, it was purely out of convenience on the insistence of your father. Your parents were getting older but you were still young and so beautiful, many men in the village would court you but according to your father the blacksmith was the best match; the fact that they were old buddies and often shared a drink together and the 'arrangement' was probably created during one of their drunken get togethers was an unspoken fact.

Another thing that displeased you greatly was the fact that not only was the blacksmith, Halvar was his name, your father's age but he was known to not be a pleasant man to be around. He was loud, crass, hot-tempered and terribly ill-mannered, not to mention a raging drunk so much that you wonder how did such a man keep up his workshop for so long. You knew about his drunken escapades very well, every server girl at the tavern knew about him and how terrible he got while drunk, and you were to be his wife? You felt defeated at best and simply humiliated and hopeless at worst.

You were dreaming and wondering about your wedding day and future spouse since you were a girl, would they be strong and handsome? Beautiful? Kind and caring and would take you away from this life of barely getting by? All those dreams quickly faded to nothingness when you came to terms with whom you'll be spending the rest of your life with and it was...miserable.

Little did you know about a certain someone who has been keeping his eyes on you for quite some time now. Someone who send his men, his 'Shadows' to spy on you and report back to him just to be sure that you're safe and okay and the last reports worried him greatly.

Because you see, Lord Commander Philip Graves was in love. He was in love with you and he had it bad. To him, everything about you was perfect; your clear glowing skin that looked so soft to touch, your hair flowing in the wind, your full breasts almost spilling out of the barmaid dress as you were giggling and serving him wine and dinner while he regularly visited the tavern you worked at just so he'd be able to watch you, gods he wanted to pull that annoying dress down and suckle on you tits, grope your full and soft body until you were mewling for him...

He was in love with your bubbly nature, your smile and with your full, plump body; he wanted to devour you and keep you as his, make you his Lady Wife and breed you full of his children. You'd be such a good momma Philip thought, with your caring nature you'd nurture your babies and you two would watch them grow into perfect lords and ladies. And while your marriage would probably spark a few controversies given his status as a lord and you a 'simple' villager but let's be honest, he wouldn't give two fucks about it. Let those little lordlings whine to him that he didn't chose one of their snotty daughters to marry, nobody would even listen to them and Philip would end up with a perfect little wifey.

The only problem was you 'betrothed', that old drunk blacksmith.

Philip scowled even at the thought of someone like that getting with someone like you. You were perfect in every sense and that poor excuse of a man was nothing compared to you...to him, Lord Graves.

The blonde drank deeply from his goblet, the spiced wine leaving a pleasant taste on his tongue and briefly he wondered whether you'd taste sweeter on his tongue...before his mind returned to the more unpleasant thoughts.

He was very well aware that the betrothal was an arrangement between your father and that man but it didn't lessen the burning anger in his veins, if anything it made it even worse. That old drunken bastard could barely make a straight sword nowadays so what would make anyone believe that he'd be able to actually take care of you? With him you'd have everything you'd ever ask for and more, maids and servants waiting on your command and Philip himself would tour the world if you asked for a specific kind of material for your dress or jewel.

Yeaaah, the blacksmith had to go immediately and Philip being a lord commander, basically owning all the villages around his castle, knew exactly what to do and how it'd happen.

He smiled to himself and brought the goblet back against his lips as he leaned on the windowsill to continue watching you take a bath in the lake, his keen blue eyes darkening with desire as he watched your naked body swimming in the body of water and giggling as some ducks swam by you. The blonde could already envision it; you, naked and flushed and panting, all warm and cozy among the luxurious furs and blankets of his bed with Philip panting above you getting down from his high and passionately kissing your swollen lips, growling and hugging you close to him and making sure to mark you up with lovebites and hickeys, rubbing his musky scent off on you to make sure everyone knows that you're his.

And while you'd be all smiley and cozy, drunk on your love and the warm glow from the hearth illuminating your skin, your ex-betrothed would be...less fortunate, rotting away in the deeper parts of the surrounding forest, half eaten away by nature, forgotten and completely eradicated from your mind.

#kin speaks #asks #interactions #i hope you like it ;;#cod x reader #philip graves x reader #philip graves x you #graves x reader #philip graves #call of duty modern warfare 2

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lovedreamer11 · 4 months

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A little about the “difficult” green childhood

I'm tired of reading posts that say that Aegon and Aemond became terrible people because they had "rough childhoods." What kind of nonsense is this?

Yes, Viserys did not love his sons very much, but he was not a monster. He did not insult or beat his sons. These boys are part of the ruling dynasty, they lived in luxury and comfort, had a good education, they got everything they wanted (except for the title of heir), they were forgiven almost everything, they had a mother next to them who loved them. How many boys in Westeros have this?

Aegon has nothing to complain about at all. The boy was a spoiled hedonist who got everything he wanted. His wife was his sister, the Targaryen princess and dragon rider, whom he knew well and he did not have to leave his home (Daemon, who at the age of sixteen was forced to leave the home in which he grew up and live with a strange woman, was not so lucky). And even if Aegon was not satisfied with Helaena as a wife, then since he was born a man, the prince could afford promiscuity with any woman he wanted. And it doesn't seem like anyone at court would be bothered by this. Re-read the book. All of Aegon's problems began from the moment he usurped his sister's throne.

The only thing Aemond could complain about was the loss of his eye. After all, even if Viserys had made Aegon his heir, Aemond would still not be very high in the line of succession, since Aegon had two sons by the age of twenty, and in the future there could be even more. As for losing an eye, yes, it's bad. But still, many things happen in life. I mean, in real life, injuries happen during children's games or fights.

At the same time, Rhaenyra lost her mother when she was a child, and after some time she was replaced by an embittered and full of hatred and envy woman, because of which she had to leave the house in which she grew up, and after her own father forbade her to leave Dragonstone, to protect the “beloved” daughter and wife from new conflicts.

I've written before about what I think of Viserys as a father and my opinion hasn't changed. Viserys's love brought Rhaenyra more harm than good. Viserys was a terrible father to all of his children, but at least his children from his second marriage had a mother. No matter how much I hated Alicent, she was there for her children and loved them in her own way. Rhaenyra has been alone since she was a child.

Rhaenyra was also forced to marry against her will to a man who would never love her as a woman. And when she allowed herself a relationship with someone else, she was certainly condemned and humiliated.

Every time I see posts about the "difficult childhood" of Alicent's children, I want to laugh. Rhaenyra grew up without a mother, her stepmother was an evil witch, and her father was a useless idiot. But of course, according to the greens, Rhaenyra was born evil in the flesh and her suffering does not matter and she deserves it.

#team black #anti team green #i mean only the book #not hotd #rhaenyra targaryen #aegon ii targaryen #aemond targaryen #asoiaf #fire and blood

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mymainwastoocluttered · 1 year

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When Vil Doesn’t Play The Villain (Vil)

Vil gets transmigrated into his favorite novel.

NOTE: I only write for female reader but everyone is welcome to read it!

Another indulgent, low effort thing to distract me from my allergies

— (⁠｡⁠•̀⁠ᴗ⁠-⁠)⁠✧

“Vil… no… I’m–ah! Mhn… I’m still married!”

“To a man who will never love you as you deserve.”

Vil blows on her sensitive neck, enjoying the shivers that shake her body, enjoying the knowledge that he’s the only man that has made her do that. After weeks, months trying to win her affections, he finally has her; her mind, her body, her heart are all his, and soon the band on her finger will be his too.

To think he’d die a terrible death, only to transmigrate into his favorite novel. Vil hadn’t known if it was good or bad luck, until he met his favorite character, and now he knows for sure that it is the best of luck. To be able to share an existence with her, to be able to see her hair dance with the wind and her skin be kissed by the sun, to be able to hear her sweet voice directed to him…

Vil had fallen fast and hard.

(Y/N) went from his favorite character to his favorite person faster than the chandelier that fell on him in his past life hit his head.

Now, if only she weren’t married to that repugnant male lead.

Princess (Y/N) Branco, the ultimate villainess of the novel named “Wishing By The Well”. The villainess who, contrary to most in the genre, actually keeps her role until the very bitter end thanks to her incredibly sharp mind and outstanding skills, a woman who needed to be killed off in her sleep for no legal means could ever touch her. A woman who could’ve ruled the world, but only wished for her husband to not disgrace her with a public affair.

Vil had loved her from the very beginning of the story, and only finished the novel because of her. (Y/N) had been raised to marry the prince from a very young age, being born in a ducal house. She never had any problems rising to the demands of the people around her, her diligence and hard work trampling any difficulties she encountered. And as a noble, she had long abandoned the sweet dreams of love and adventure.

She admitted multiple times through the book that she would not mind if her husband had a secret lover, or got himself a concubine. All she wanted was to be respected as the first and main wife, so she had less to worry when she rose to the throne with the prince—who undoubtedly needed a woman like her to reign in his stupidity. But that disgusting fool simply refused to do something so small like keeping his pants on.

He practically worshipped the ground the “Main Character” walked on, gifted her dresses and jewelry and many other luxuries. He went everywhere with her, and gave in to her silly commoner whims easily like a sheep follows a shepherd. And in the end, it all reflected terribly on the princess, who quickly got ridiculed for being “incapable of keeping her husband interested”. For every dress he gave the mistress that became a trend, it was a new designer that taunted the princess by trying to sell her the same design. For every jewelry he gave the mistress that blinded the passersby, it was a new jewelry store that told the princess her chosen piece wasn’t available anymore. For every gesture of love he showed towards the mistress, it was a new line of mockery thrown the princess’ way.

And despite all that, (Y/N) kept herself beautiful, and showed herself ruthless. Even cruel at points. It was glorious to read as she’d finally let go of the shackles she kept around herself so she could become the perfect princess, and showed the dangerous, poisonous black widow that hid behind a fan.

And it had been even more breathtaking to watch it with his own eyes.

Duke Vil—the original owner of the body, conveniently also named Vil—was supposed to be the second male lead, to follow the protagonist like a good little lap poodle; jumping and barking when she asked, and then obediently stepping back and whining in sadness while she threw herself at the arms of another man. Vil—the one who took over the body—had despised the character, thinking he’d be better off devoting himself to the villainess–

And now he can correct that plot hole with his own lips.

“Soon, my dear, everything will fall into place, and the ring on your finger will carry my name instead, and the crown you deserve will be yours,” he promises her in a feverish whisper, drunk on her presence.

“Won’t royalty be too burdensome to you?” (Y/N) asks, meeting his searing kisses with her own. To be the one to see this monument of a woman soften and relax, that’s why Vil got his second life.

“My dear, I’m already killing a future monarch, nothing can burden me if I have you.”

“How villainous~”

“If anything, we’re saving this country.”

She laughs, resting fully against him, giving him the permission to pick her up and take her to his room, and Vil does so quickly, not one second to waste when he has her in his arms.

The one time he isn’t a villain, he’s usurping a throne for his beloved.

Maybe there was some rhyme to those castings back in his first life.

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twst imagines #twst x reader #x fem reader #vil schoenheit #vil schoenheit x reader

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blossom-hwa · 2 years

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if you’ll have me (i) | c.yj

here’s (finally) the first part of the monster yeonjun fic I wrote in august, right in time for his birthday! happy birthday to the terrible wonderful human being who has given me the worst brainrot I've experienced in a while (second only to the rot brought on by one kang taehyun), and I hope you all enjoy this <3

Pairing: Yeonjun x fem!reader

Genre: fluff, angst, regency era!au, nobility!au

Warnings: mentions of past death, mentions of period-typical misogyny

Word Count: 11.3k

Yeonjun Choi, Duke of Hastings, is in want of a wife. Boxed in from all directions by the overbearing mamas of the ton, he begins his arduous search this season for not fortune, not love, but merely the perfect woman to succeed his mother's place. None of the daughters of high society manage to catch his eye, however, or fit his overwhelming list of standards—at least until he meets Miss Y/N L/N, the queen's diamond of the season, newly arrived in town from abroad and said to be one of the most accomplished women to grace the ton in a generation.

You, the eldest daughter and only child of the L/N family, just want stability. With your father dead and the estate passed to a cousin, leaving only your dowry and a small pittance from the inheritance left intact, you begin your search for a husband with money enough to keep you and your mother afloat. It seems like a miracle when, after being crowned the queen's diamond, the Duke of Hastings himself asks for your hand—but as you learn of his complete indifference to the concept of love, you begin to doubt yourself. Perhaps money is not enough to keep your hand—maybe you desired a true love match more than you thought.

Trapped in a marriage of convenience that everyone believes is a love story, you and Yeonjun find yourselves forced to reevaluate what you want out of this match. Between balls and promenades, dances and poetry, you begin to view each other beyond the pithy conversations allowed in the courting stages, learning to see one another not just as business partners, but perhaps friends as well. And as you begin to reconcile your needs and wants, your goals and desires, maybe, just maybe—

The ton's belief that you are a love match can find some truth, too.

Part 1 >> Part 2

TXT Masterlist

The minute Yeonjun enters the club, he makes a beeline for the corner where Soobin is sitting, two small glasses set on the table in front of him. He flops into a chair and downs one of them immediately. “I am so sick of debutante season.”

Soobin raises an eyebrow. “The season hasn't even started,” he points out.

“Exactly,” Yeonjun groans. “If it's this bad even before they've been presented to the queen, how much worse will it get when all the balls and courtships start?”

“It's kind of your fault,” Soobin says, picking up the other glass. “Maybe you shouldn't have announced your intention to find a wife so early on.”

“I didn't mention it,” Yeonjun hisses. “That rat bastard Wooyoung let it out before I was ready to say it publicly—”

“That's on you for letting Wooyoung hear you,” Soobin interjects calmly. And Yeonjun can't even argue with that—he loves Wooyoung, loves his friend dearly, but Wooyoung's loose tongue is arguably his worst trait—so all he does is slump back into his chair and raise a finger for another drink. “You're supposed to be comforting me,” he sulks. “Some best friend you are.”

“Well, I've made my opinions about your ways of getting a wife very clear, and you've elected to ignore every single one of them.” Soobin smiles. “Some best friend you are.”

“What's wrong with a list?” Yeonjun frowns, crossing his arms. “Every man—no, every person—has to have ideas about who their future partner might be, I've just written it out.”

“It's not the list that's the problem. Though I'm pretty sure not a lot of people would actually write a list, either.” Soobin finishes the rest of his drink just as Yeonjun's second one comes. “It's your requirements for the people on that list that is the issue.”

“What's wrong with my requirements?”

“They're so demanding.” Soobin places his empty glass down with a loud clack. “How many people, men and women of all ages included, do you think are actually fluent in all those languages you require? All those instruments? All that dancing? Impeccable decorum too, and on top of that, to have a proper, pretty visage of some sort—”

“That's not even a requirement,” Yeonjun argues. “My main goal is to try and find someone with a sound and clever mind to help me run the estate since my mother wants to retire to the country—”

“And that's well and fine, Yeonjun.” Soobin sighs. “My point is, your requirements are so stringent as to alienate every lady in this society from the prospect of marrying you.”

“Soobin, I hate to sound egotistic—” Soobin snorts, which Yeonjun staunchly ignores— “but they're literally leaping for my hand.”

“And you've turned away every single one who has dared to approach, as well as every single one you've invited for one of your little... interviews.” Soobin's nose scrunches, and it's not the nice nose scrunch. It's the annoyed one. Maybe even disgusted. “That's not how you get to know your life partner.”

Yeonjun rolls his eyes. “I'm not looking for love,” he snaps. “I'm looking for someone who will do her job as duchess. That's what I need right now, not love.”

“You won't be able to live well with someone you hate, regardless of how good she is at managing estate affairs.”

“I know. That's why a pleasant demeanor is also something I'm looking for.” Yeonjun snorts. “It's also why I won't be considering Mary Kim at all, no matter how much money her family might have.”

They both have to laugh at that. Mary Kim is a menace upon the ton's society—accomplished, perhaps, but completely unbearable in conversation. Yeonjun remembers saying before that he would rather cut off his hand than brave more than one dance with her. It wasn't a joke then, and it still isn't now.

“I just wish I was married already.” Yeonjun sips at his second drink, relishing the slight burn as it slides down his throat. “It would appease everyone—my mother wouldn't be hounding me anymore, Beomgyu would stop teasing me, and all the ton's mamas would stop trying to throw their daughters at me, too.”

“It's not that hard to get married,” Soobin replies. His eyes turn faraway, a little lovesick smile playing on his lips.

Yeonjun fixes his best friend with a deadpan glare. “Not everyone can have a fairy tale romance with a good, sweet, capable girl you've known since birth, Soobin.”

Soobin blushes, which Yeonjun counts as a win, but he doesn't relent. “You could really just loosen your list of requirements,” he says. “You're a duke, not a god.”

“I never claimed to be a god, nor do I think I want to be one.” He wrinkles his nose. “All those people who want to find the secret to immortality are idiots. Who wants to stay on earth forever?”

“I forgot how philosophical you get when you're tipsy,” Soobin mutters.

“I'm not tipsy,” Yeonjun protests. “I’ve only had two, and I hold my alcohol better than you. Anyway, it's not like my requirements are completely unreasonable. My mother could do all of this, and it's why my father decided to court her.”

“Oh, so it wasn't because of the fact that they fell in love, and your father would have no one else but her regardless of whether or not she was fluent in Latin and Greek?”

Yeonjun scowls. “Look, the point is, these skills gave my mother the ability to both be a competent duchess and be seen as one, as well. My future wife will have to maintain her image, and having these skills will only aid her in that endeavor.”

Soobin sighs. “You're not going to let up, are you?”

“No.”

“Well, you might have one stroke of luck left.” Soobin smiles. “I hear that the L/Ns are coming back into town. And that the eldest daughter of the family might be one of the most accomplished women to grace the ton in a generation.”

“The L/Ns?” Yeonjun frowns. “Why did they leave town, again?”

“The late lord died suddenly without a male heir, and in the wake of his death, the rest of the family went abroad.” Soobin accepts a refill of his small glass. “Some more gossipy people will say that it was because he spent too lavishly and left the family in a dire financial situation, but I don't think that's true.”

“Then what happened?” Yeonjun asks.

“My mother knew them somewhat well, I think. She said that around the time he died, his mother, who lived abroad, fell ill, so the family moved to take care of her.”

“Who took over the estate?”

“Some distant cousin. I don't think you've met him, and I don't know him very well either—he spends most of his time in the country and seems to keep to himself even when he is in town.” Soobin purses his lips. “I don't think he's necessarily hostile to the late lord's family, but they aren't close.”

“So will they be staying at the estate for the season, then?” Yeonjun presses. “And why are they coming back?”

“The late lord's mother died,” Soobin says. “There was no reason for them to remain abroad, so they should be returning just in time for the season. And I don't know for sure, Yeonjun, considering I'm not exactly privy to all of their plans, but I don’t see any reason why they wouldn’t be staying at the estate. Not when there isn’t any obvious hostility towards the lord.”

Yeonjun cocks his head. Sips his drink. “I haven't met the daughter yet, have I?”

“Not closely, I don't think.” Soobin shrugs. “We were both at boarding school during the time she would have been growing up in town. I only know this much because my mother was close with them and has been in some contact with them since they decided to return.”

Yeonjun downs the rest of his glass. “And you say she has the ability to meet all of my oh-so-stringent requirements?”

“If what I've heard is correct, then I think she's the one who will ever come the closest.”

“Well.” Yeonjun smiles, standing up. “I think I've found my next target. I've got to go, but do inform me if you hear anything else about her, will you?”

“You haven't even asked for her name,” Soobin snorts.

“Well?” Yeonjun crosses his arms. “Then what is it?”

“Y/N.” Soobin's eyes glint. “Her name is Y/N L/N.”

. . . . .

Someday, when you die, you are going to scour heaven and hell to find the person who invented these ridiculous traditions for poor debutantes such as you and kill them again. In the afterlife. Just because they deserve it.

Which is not to say everything is wrong with the tradition. You don't mind the white dress, nor the tasteful jewelry Sakura helped clasp around your neck and wrists. The gloves aren't too bad—you've gotten used to how slippery they feel when you try to grasp things—and the shoes are manageable.

But the feathers.

The feathers.

As you step out of the carriage, all you can think of beyond not tripping over your feet right then and there is keeping your balance enough that the ridiculous headdress topped with a plume of long, white feathers doesn't fall. Once on the ground, you raise a hand to try and steady it—

“Don't touch it,” your mother hisses, batting your hand away. “It looks fine.”

You groan. “It doesn't feel right, Mother.”

“It never feels right.” She gives you a sympathetic glance. “But I promise you, dear, it looks fine. Trust me.”

“All right, Mother.” You sigh, resisting the urge to touch the feathers again.

“Good girl.” She smiles taking your arm. “Come now—let’s go see you off.”

All around you, girls in varying shades of white and gold and all those ridiculous feathered headdresses have begun heading into the palace. You follow the crowd, trying not to get swept up in it—your mother plays an important role in this, expertly chivvying the two of you between the families clamoring to reach the hall—all the while trying to catch a glimpse of the palace finery that seems to float past your eyes too fast for you to process anything.

“Now remember, Y/N,” your mother whispers when you finally reach the room where you will wait to walk. “Remember—stand tall, step proudly, keep your balance—”

“I know, Mother,” you hiss, clenching your fingers so they don't go up to try and rearrange the headdress that you're absolutely certain is starting to fall. “Are the feathers still in place?”

“Yes they are, darling,” she replies patiently.

A twinge of shame ripples through your chest—she's trying her best, you know, trying her best to help you in every way she knows how, and you just keep fretting about the stupid feathers on top of your stupid head.

Well, if the feathers weren't part of this tradition, they wouldn't be a problem, the nastier part of you sniffs.

“You look wonderful.” Your mother clasps her hands together, and—oh, dear, you can see tears welling up in her eyes and now you feel like you're going to cry too. “No, dearest, don't cry,” she says, visibly holding back her own tears as she pulls a handkerchief seemingly out of nowhere and dabs at her eyes, then at yours. “Don't ruin your makeup for this big day, yes?”

“I won't.” You laugh, choking back your own tears. “I won't, Mother.”

“You look wonderful,” she repeats, lowering the handkerchief. “Not even the diamond of my season looked quite as well as you. You’ve grown to be so beautiful and capable—your father would be so proud to see you here, now.”

“Mother, please.” You laugh again but it comes out a little wet, with the lump in your throat and the tears beginning to brim anew in your eyes. “You're really going to make me cry, now.”

“We can't have that.” She dabs at your eyes again before looking over your shoulder. “Oh, my—they're about to start!”

Sure enough, not a minute after your mother speaks does the footman at the entrance clear his throat. The crowd of debutantes and mothers and siblings falls quiet, the silence broken only by a periodic shuffle or whisper.

You try hard not to think about the feathers that feel like they're about to slip off the top of your head.

“Mary Kim”, comes the first announcement, “presented by her mother, the Right Honorable Lady Kim.”

You swallow hard.

And so it begins.

. . .

The room has nearly emptied halfway of debutantes, and still you have not been called.

You take back everything you thought about your outfit earlier. The feathers are still atrocious and you want to rip the headdress off right here and now, debut be damned, but your hands have grown sweaty under the gloves, the light makeup Sakura helped you apply feels like it's suffocating your face, and the dress that you absolutely cannot fidget with no matter what has started to dig into your skin. You take a deep breath, standing up straight in the hopes that the fabric will stop itching if you try to touch as little of it as possible—

“We're next,” your mother hisses into your ear.

You nearly choke. “What—”

The crowd of debutantes parts for your path as your mother forcefully guides you to the front. You stare at the doors that will open in seconds, praying, praying, praying you don't trip on the hem of your skirts or on some pebble on the floor or, heaven forbid, the air itself—

“Y/N L/N,” intones the footman, “presented by her mother, the Right Honorable Lady L/N.”

Your mother takes your arm, and as the doors begin to open, you force yourself to breathe.

Your body moves automatically, hours of practice showing their worth in your memory. Posture straight, head level, chin tipped up just enough to suggest pride, but not so much as to indicate haughtiness. Your feet step sedately, one after another, small, light steps to accommodate the dress, and the hand not taken by your mother lies against your side, uncurling from the fist it was in before. Your gloves still feel like they're about to slip off your fingers from sweat and the headdress still feels like it's going to fall off your head, but you continue forward even after your mother stops, one step, then two. Then you halt.

And begin to curtsy.

Balance, your mother's voice rings in your head. Grace will follow. First and foremost, keep your balance.

And you do.

You lower your head into the curtsy, eyes fluttering shut for one moment as you try to calm your breath. Behind you, your mother remains bowed and you take that as your cue to do the same, praying your legs don't begin aching so much that you fall.

For one moment, two, three, you simply stand there, breathing, counting the breaths, the moments until the queen will dismiss you. She has done nothing else yet, you're sure—according to your mother, you would've heard the gasp and perhaps applause if she'd crowned her diamond, and it doesn't seem as though anything untoward such as a lady fainting in her dress has happened either. You haven't tripped, you haven't fallen, and you can hear no giggles or whispers that indicate anything about your dress or feathers being in some sort of disarray, there’s no reason to think you won’t be dismissed without fanfare just as the other ladies have been so far, which is all you need in the moment, just a proper dismissal without embarrassment—

Footsteps sound on the long carpet, coming from the front. Where the queen was sitting as you walked down the hall.

A greater hush falls over the already quiet crowd. You don't dare to lift your eyes at all to see what you are beginning to suspect might be the case.

The footsteps come closer. Closer. You squeeze your eyes shut and open them again, just in time to see a dazzling pair of shoes and the hem of an opulent skirt enter your vision—

A finger touches your chin. Lifts it. Begins to pull you up.

And you meet eyes with the queen herself, staring at you with a benevolent smile on her lips.

Your breath catches in your throat. The eyes of everyone in the room must be on you, you're sure, but your mind is swimming and everything feels like a blur and the queen is in front of you, the queen is really in front of you, smiling at you like you might just be her diamond of the season.

Her finger falls away, but the smile stays. Your heart pounds against your chest, so loud you're sure she must be able to hear it as her mouth opens and she says—

"Flawless, my dear."

Whispers and gasps fill the room, punctuated by a squeal or two—you don't dare look towards crowd to see who it was—and it doesn't matter because you couldn't, anyway, not when the queen has taken your face between her two gloved hands and is now pressing a soft, dry kiss to the top of your forehead.

She rises. Turns. Walks back to her seat at the far end of the hall. Dimly, you remember that that must be your cue to rise as well and you do, taking the two steps backward to reach your mother, head still lowered. Next to you, she rises, and you lift your chin to see every eye in the hall still fixated upon you.

“Did that—” you breathe, forcing your lips not to move— “Mother, did that truly just happen?”

“Keep smiling, dearest,” she whispers, expertly taking your arm once more. One glance to the side shows you a brilliant smile upon her face, joyful yet not gloating, wide yet still gentle, but you can feel her trembling against you even as she steadily turns you around. Putting on a mask, you remember, forcing yourself to breathe once, twice—you need to do that too. Keep smiling, keep smiling, keep smiling. Because everyone's eyes are on you, now.

Y/N L/N, the season's diamond.

. . . . .

In another universe, Yeonjun thinks he could actually enjoy balls as a sort of fun event. There's good food, if not very filling, there's alcohol and lemonade, and usually he can find a few people with whom he is friendly and to whom he can speak. And even if there aren't, as his mother will say, he was blessed with a friendly exterior and an extroverted personality. Beomgyu once said he could make friends with a tree if he charmed it the right way.

Of course, coming out of Beomgyu's mouth, it sounded more like an insult than a compliment, but Yeonjun has long since learned not to give in to his cousin's backhanded mockery.

Put this way, balls could be pleasant. Fun, even. Yeonjun doesn't even mind dancing at all the way some of his peers do—in fact, with the right person, it can even be relaxing. But the problem is, balls are not simply social get-togethers with people his age.

They're marriage contracts. Or at least attempts at them.

The second Yeonjun steps into the Kims' grand home, immediately the lady of the house assaults him with her painted smiles and sickly voice. “Your Grace!” she simpers, taking him by the arm. “I've heard you have chosen to be active this season, is this true?”

Inwardly, Yeonjun spits all the curses he can at an imaginary Wooyoung dancing around in his head. Outwardly, he smiles back. “Your sources are indeed credible, my lady,” he says, laughing as he gently tugs his arm away. “What you have said is true.”

“Oh!” The feigned surprise on Lady Kim's face will always make his stomach churn no matter how many times he sees it. “Well, in that case, I must introduce you to my daughter, Mary—she just debuted this season, I'm sure—”

“Your Grace!” Another mother appears—Mrs. Jung, Yeonjun remembers just as she parks herself firmly by his side, cutting Lady Kim off. He has exactly one second to wonder whether it is a blessing to be torn away from Lady Kim and a potential conversation with Mary or a curse to be thrown into another determined mama's path before Mrs. Jung thrusts her poor daughter in front of him. “My daughter, you'll know, she just debuted this season—she's a wonderful dancer, anyone would be lucky to have her hand—”

A split second glance around the large entrance hall tells him no one he knows is nearby enough to save him from the madness. Already other mothers have spotted him, are snatching their daughters' wrists to come and bombard him with heavy hints at a dance and a possible marriage, so he quickly signs Mrs. Jung's daughter's dance card—he doesn't even know her name, she wasn't on his shortlist of possible future spouses and between all the hubbub he didn't hear Mrs. Jung introduce her if she even did—and then disappears into the crowd with a beatific smile in her direction, only breathing a sigh of relief when he reaches the open ballroom.

“Yeonjun!” Wooyoung comes bounding up to him in seconds, one glass of something in each hand. He hands one to Yeonjun. “How are you faring so far?”

“Not well, and no thanks to you,” Yeonjun hisses, taking a hefty gulp of the drink. There are more beady-eyed mamas and daughters glancing his way here, some who followed him from the entryway and others who have just noticed him. “Why did you have to open your big mouth about me seeking a wife?”

“Well, it seemed like something the ton should know.” Wooyoung shrugs, shameless as ever. “You're now the most eligible bachelor in the room, don't you feel popular?”

Yeonjun rolls his eyes, ready to snap back something sharp that Wooyoung will take in stride and laugh off, eventually making Yeonjun laugh too, but then his eyes are drawn to a crowd of people in another corner of the ballroom, almost exactly mirroring the scene on his side. Only there, it's a horde of men dressed dashingly in their black and white instead of women in their vivid colors, crowding around someone who can only be—

“The season's diamond,” Wooyoung chirps, following Yeonjun's gaze. “Miss L/N.”

Yeonjun blinks. “You know her?”

“Not well, of course.” Mischief glints in Wooyoung's eyes, and Yeonjun can already sense he's in for a bout of relentless teasing. “Are you interested?”

“Of course I am.” He sniffs. “Who wouldn't be interested in the season's diamond? Especially after she's been away for several years?”

“Well, if you are, I would go and try to corner a dance right now.” Wooyoung jerks his head toward the crowd of men. “Before I am forced to leave—hey, don't give me that look, I can't stay with you forever—and the other mamas manage to ambush. Or, heaven forbid—” He leans in close. “Her dance card is full by the time you find the courage to approach.”

Internally, Yeonjun groans. This is why he hates balls—it's always a chase of some sort, him chasing a wife or everyone else trying to chase a husband—but he has to do it. His mother has done her job as dowager after his father's death, and she deserves her retirement. It's his turn to step up and take charge of the estate.

And he'll need a duchess at his side for that.

Quickly he downs the rest of his drink, placing it on an empty tray nearby. “Wish me luck,” he mutters to Wooyoung before heading straight into the throng.

. . . . .

Before this night, your mother grilled you on what to expect as an accomplished debutante, as well as what to expect as a diamond of the first water (for that is what they're calling you, apparently, those who saw you walk down the hall toward the queen).

It still did not prepare you for this.

The second you step into the ballroom, having successfully dodged the worst of Lady Kim's simpering compliments that felt more like backhanded insults than anything else, too many eyes turn towards you. You can feel them raking over your entire body, studying your makeup, your jewelry, every stitch of your clothing, and even though the attention makes you want to shrivel up and curl into a ball, you have to keep smiling.

Remember, dearest, every eye is now on you. Your mother's words ring through your mind once more.

You stand on a pedestal now, after having gained the queen's approval. It is an honor to have been chosen, but that just means there is only a greater distance to fall.

Your fingers itch for a pen and paper, preferably your favorite pencil and worn leather notebook. There's poetry here in the irony of your situation, but between the flurry of teas and fittings and brief outings between your debut and this first ball, you have had no chance to let your thoughts out onto paper for several days. Just little bits of writing here and there, on scraps of parchment and scribbled onto your hands...

But you can't focus on that tonight, not on the words whisking into poetry and prose in your mind. You swallow. Your goal is to find a husband, to secure financial stability for your family no matter what it takes.

And from what you've gathered over the short course of your lifespan, most men don't exactly appreciate poetry from the women they seek to marry.

So you lift your head, taking care not to gawk in any direction (because for all you think the Kim family is a menace to society, they do have good taste in decoration), and paste your practiced sweet smile to your lips. Like any good debutante should.

Like any diamond of the first water should.

Your mother stays with you, thank the heavens, as the men begin to approach. She did not exaggerate, you think dizzily as one request after another comes for a dance on your card—they are clamoring for your hand despite not having seen you anywhere in society for several years. It doesn't matter to them that you've been abroad, taking care of your ill grandmother. It doesn't matter to them that beyond your dowry you don't have that much money to speak of, most of it having gone towards her care. All that matters are rumors—rumors of your intelligence, rumors of your beauty—and the fact that the queen has named you her diamond.

There's poetry there too, scathing and elegant and itching to flow from your fingers, but you will just have to hold it back for tonight.

You do your best to look through the suitors, politely making conversation with those you allow to catch your eye, carefully passing your gaze over those you do not know or those you have heard will not treat you well. Your dance card fills rapidly even before the orchestra’s preludes are over and you've had too many offers of lemonade to count, and you're about to look at your mother—who's been patiently guiding you through the crowd, thank goodness—for some sort of excuse to clear your mind before the dancing starts, but just as you turn your head, a pair of eyes catches yours.

Your mother's grip tightens on your arm. You don't even need her frantic whisper to understand just who has come to seek a dance.

Yeonjun Choi. Duke of Hastings. The most eligible bachelor in this room, in status and in wealth.

Newly seeking a wife this season.

He comes forth, moving through the crowd with surprising ease. The other suitors seem to part for him, though you can see a few throwing him annoyed glances. He's handsome, ridiculously handsome—tall, with lush dark hair and captivating eyes. Your heart skips a beat.

No poetry there. Just a cliche, and an overused one at that.

But so very accurate in this moment.

“Miss L/N.” The duke stops in front of you, a brilliant smile on his face. “I don't believe we've met.”

“Your Grace.” You dip into the curtsy that has now become second nature to you and your legs. “I don't believe we have. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Modest, I see.” The smile grows wider. “I have heard tales of your beauty and wit, Miss L/N. I see your beauty has not been exaggerated—” you have to try hard not to topple over right then and there— “and had hoped to experience the pleasure of your conversation for myself, if it so delights you.” He dips his head in acquiescence. “That is, assuming your dance card isn't already full.”

Oh, he's good. Knows exactly how to flatter just enough that it seems genuine, but not so much that it becomes overkill. Your knees feel slightly weak—if it weren't for your mother holding you up, you think you might have fallen in between his compliments and smooth words, and if he had, you're pretty sure the duke would have caught you in some suave, gentlemanly way—and that is absolutely not something you should be imagining because your face already feels too hot just from his stare and you have words that you need to say.

“You are too kind, Your Grace.” You bow your head in acknowledgement of the praise, thankful for the practiced smile that never falls from your lips. “I believe I still have a few dances left on my card, if you should wish to take one. Perhaps the quadrille?”

“That sounds perfect,” he agrees readily, lifting the card around your wrist and quickly signing his name. When he drops the card, you go to pull your hand away but he catches it before you can, grip gentle but unrelenting as you look up in surprise.

Your entire body seems to freeze as he gazes into your eyes, that gentle smile still present on his lips.

“Your dance card is quite full, Miss L/N,” he says, still not letting go. “Take care not to tire or injure yourself by the end of the night.”

You nod slowly, not trusting your voice to speak at all. If you did, you might squeak, or something equally embarrassing.

His smile widen. “Until our dance then, my lady,” he says.

And presses a kiss to your fingertips.

. . . . .

Straightening his cravat, Yeonjun looks in the mirror one last time before meeting his mother in the estate's entryway. “Shall we?” he asks, holding out his arm.

“Not so fast.” She pushes the arm away, levels a scrutinizing eye over every piece of his outfit, from his styled hair to the tips of his shoes. “Acceptable,” she finally says, though Yeonjun can see the pleased glint in her eye.

“Only acceptable?” he teases back, pouting his lips heavily. “Am I not the most handsome son a woman could ask for?”

“Of course you are.” The mock crotchety look on her face melts away, replaced with fondness that makes Yeonjun's heart ache as she reaches up to touch his cheek. “I'm so proud of you, my son. Look at you—you've grown up so well, and now you're on your way to finding a wife, too.” She sniffs, bringing out the handkerchief she always carries in her sleeve. “Your father would be so proud to see you now.”

“I hope so, Mother.” Yeonjun smiles, holding out his arm once more. “Shall we go now? We should take care not to be late.”

The carriage ride to the park takes place mostly in silence, his mother quietly speaking with her attendant on one side while Yeonjun stares out the window on his. Streets flash by and he takes note as they approach the park where the two of you are to promenade today.

Some part of him is relieved that you agreed to his invitation. Though Wooyoung was right—he was the most eligible bachelor through and through that night at the ball—it was hard not to feel the sting of competition as he watched you dancing throughout the night, seemingly never tiring even once as you stepped gracefully across the ballroom in the arms of so many men. Just by watching, he could tell you were an incredible dancer, and when it came his turn to spin you in the quadrille, his opinion of you only increased tenfold.

Yeonjun knows he's a good dancer. He enjoys it, really, in a way not many of his friends do—it's fun to whirl about the ballroom in these practiced movements—calming, even, when he doesn't have to worry about beady-eyed mamas trying to hunt him down every second. But you—you floated about the ballroom as though you were made of air, your dress rippling in the light as though it was made of water. Not once did you stumble, which Yeonjun could have forgiven once or twice given that you'd never danced together before, and not once did you falter in the conversation he kept up even though you'd been dancing for at least an hour already.

The praise heaped upon your dancing and demeanor were not exaggerated, not in the slightest. So he wasn't exactly surprised when he arrived at your estate the next day and found a clamoring of suitors lined up outside of the calling room, flowers in hand and sweet words on their lips. When it was his turn to meet you, all the blooms scattered about the room made something strangely akin to jealousy twitch in his chest.

But it was a good opportunity to observe you after having accepted so many calls. You were as fresh-faced as ever as you greeted him, took the flowers from his hands and gave him appropriate thanks before settling them carefully in a vase before you. Several servants were arranging flowers in other areas of the room, but you took his personally, and there were no other bouquets he could see that had been given the same treatment as his.

“Blue is my favorite color,” you had told him as you bade him sit. “Did you know this?”

No, he didn't. He'd admitted as much. “A stroke of luck,” he'd smiled, and the morning call went on much as he'd planned.

Perhaps he will truly be lucky in this, he thinks as the carriage pulls up to the park. Perhaps you truly will be the epitome of a duchess that his mother was, the perfect woman to stand by his side as his partner in marriage as he oversees the estate his father left him. Because just from your first two meetings, Yeonjun has already formed quite a good opinion of you that many of the other ladies this season haven't managed to reach despite him having known them, or at least known of them, for several years. You are polite, you are reserved, you dance well, you speak well, and most importantly, you know how to act. Though, to be fair, he's basing this last conjecture on the fact that you didn't react to him kissing your hand—physically, at least—after he'd asked you for a dance.

Which was a blow to his ego. Somewhat. Yeonjun does take pride in his ability to fluster people—not even just women, but sometimes his friends as well—but it's a good thing, in this case. It means that no matter what you feel on the inside, you are not easily swayed on the outside. You can hide your feelings, an essential skill for a member of the ton—especially for one of the duchy.

All this is assuming, of course, that she felt anything at all when you kissed her hand, an annoying voice that sounds a lot like Beomgyu reminds him in the back of his head.

Yeonjun shoves the Beomgyu-esque voice away. That's a thought he doesn't really want to consider.

He helps his mother down from the carriage when they arrive and begins scanning the park for you and your mother. To his luck, you're standing not far away, and he gladly leads his mother up to the two of you. “Miss L/N!” he calls, letting his usual smile fall quickly over his lips. “I hope we have not kept you waiting.”

“No, you're right on time, Your Graces.” You smile, bobbing a shallow curtsy. “We merely thought it prudent to arrive a few minutes early, as we didn't want to make you wait.”

“Allow me to make introductions,” Yeonjun says. “This is my mother, the Dowager Duchess of Hastings. Mother, this is Miss L/N and her esteemed mother, the Right Honorable Lady L/N.”

“Your Grace.” Both you and your mother dip into deeper curtsies, easy and graceful. “It's a pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine. I see my son's praise of your manners has not been exaggerated in the slightest.” His mother smiles, walking up to yours. “Come, Lady L/N. Let's let the young ones go ahead—I don't think I'll quite be able to keep up with them on these old bones.”

“Mother,” Yeonjun protests. “Your bones are hardly old.”

“You don't know what you're saying,” she sniffs, winking at your mother. At her side you're stifling a laugh, and despite himself, Yeonjun can't help but feel a fond smile widening his lips. “Go on, you two.”

Taking his cue, Yeonjun offers you his arm, making sure to direct that fond smile at you. “Shall we?”

. . . . .

A week later, you stand in the same park, again waiting for the duke to join you on a promenade. He's not late, you're just early, but as your mother waits anxiously by your side, you take the few moments of silence to think.

The duke—he's never been anything but kind or pleasant in any of your meetings. He's a far cry from many of the more obnoxious suitors you've had to endure in the calling room, those whose advances you've declined while still trying to be as gracious as possible. And he is far and beyond the best option you have at the moment, and probably the best option you're ever going to get. He's a duke, for heaven's sake—the only way you could go higher than him would be if you married a prince, and you're not even sure you’d ever want to go that far. Living in the palace sounds like a dream, but there are already so many rules you need to follow as a mere member of the ton—life as royalty would be even more restricting.

But while there's nothing obviously off-putting about the duke, you can't help but want to pause a little, reevaluate this situation without him nearby to put your thoughts into a spin. He's handsome, he's kind, he's clearly intelligent, and you're sure that he will respect you even in marriage. Sakura has told you of some rumors of him being a rake, but those mostly seem to have died down around the time his father died, when he would have been assuming the role of a duke. Which means he has a sense of responsibility. But even then, it's just...

Some part of you, even though you know it's kind of ridiculous, still hoped for a love match. One like your parents had, the relationship you saw when your father was still alive. While you've often listened to your mind over your heart, your heart still has a voice, and it wants to love and be loved in return.

Perhaps the duke might give you love. You don't know. But it doesn't seem like a priority for him at all, based on your conversations at the now three balls where you've danced with him, as well as the one promenade you've been on so far. While your words flowed well and there was never a moment of truly uncomfortable silence, it didn't seem like he was interested in getting to know you. It was more like he wanted to... interview you for a job, or something.

Which is fair, you suppose. Being a duchess is a job, that much is clear. But you still hadn't expected to spend an hour detailing every piece of your studies, your knowledge of current languages and the classics, the tutors you had for music and dance and mathematics.

Love shouldn't be a priority for you. It isn't, not according to the list of requirements you have for a husband sitting in your brain. Money comes first, followed closely by a pleasant demeanor that you could live with, even if you could not eventually come to love. Yeonjun fits both. If he were to propose marriage, you are sure would respond affirmatively.

But some part of you would still scream to say no.

“Miss L/N!”

Yeonjun comes walking jauntily up, that unflappable smile still on his face. Time to stop thinking.

You force yourself out of your thoughts, dipping into a little curtsy as he comes to a stop in front of you. Your mothers immediately draw towards each other—they've become great friends as far as you can see, which is one good thing that has come out of this—and so you take Yeonjun's proffered arm with a smile and allow him to lead you onto the pathway.

He asks you the usual questions—how are you, how is your mother, nothing untoward has happened since we last met, has it? You respond in kind, mouth moving automatically through the pleasantries, and then a short silence falls.

It's hard not to fall back into your previous thoughts, with the duke right on your arm. Everything about your recent meetings suggests he will propose by the end of the season, and you should be glad for it. This was what you wanted, was it not? Financial stability, and a husband who would be kind, at the very least.

Maybe you didn't expect how clinical this would all feel. Or maybe you underestimated how much you really wanted a love match.

“You seem preoccupied, my lady.” Yeonjun looks over, eyebrows furrowed in concern. “Is something the matter, Miss L/N?”

You press your lips together. You've honed the art of conversation for years, but right now, you're not sure if you should broach the subject of your feelings. It might not be the best idea—you don't want to turn Yeonjun away, not at all—but he seems like a straightforward person, generally. His little interview-conversation during your last walk only affirms that.

“During our last promenade,” you say quietly, nodding at a few girls who pass by. “I will be honest. It sounded more like a job interview, Your Grace—or at least what I imagine a job interview would be like. Not quite the conversation one would have on a simple walk.”

Yeonjun looks at you long and hard. For one nerve-wracking moment, he says nothing.

“Was it displeasing to you?” he finally asks. “If so, I apologize.”

“Not at all.” The dismissal falls easily from your lips, easily enough that you can almost believe it wasn't a full lie. “I suppose I was simply not expecting to be quizzed on my knowledge of Latin and Greek for an hour.”

The duke reddens slightly at that. “Surely I did not only speak of the classics for so long.”

“You didn't, Your Grace. I exaggerate.” You laugh a little. “I only wondered what exactly you were looking for in me during that time.”

“Would you like the truthful answer?” the duke asks, suddenly serious.

You blink. “If I were to say no, what answer would you give?”

He smiles a little. “Something flowery, perhaps. Something that would avoid the question and leave both of us unsatisfied. But you wouldn't want that, I think.”

“You're right.” He is. “I wouldn't want that.”

“Then I will be honest with you.” Yeonjun sighs. “I am a duke, and whomever I marry will be duchess. It is not a title to be taken lightly—we would be responsible not just for the estate, but also for the people of whom we are charged to take care. It is not the same as, perhaps, being the lord and lady of a manor. There are greater responsibilities.”

“I see.”

“There are two important things to being one of the duchy,” Yeonjun continues. “One is to be a good duchess—being able to run the household as well as assist me in any affairs that might need another hand, which in all honesty are many. The other is to be perceived as a good duchess. And that is where most of my questions come in hand.”

“I... see.” You slowly nod your head.

“My mother was one of the most accomplished women of her generation.” The two of you glance back at the duchess, who's still talking animatedly with your mother. “She knew all the languages that you do, could play the pianoforte well and even the violin, somewhat. Beyond the fact that my father loved her, she was also well suited to taking care of the estate, and she partnered with him well. She was seen as a duchess who was capable, and she proved it as well.”

Yeonjun turns back to you. “Miss L/N, forgive me for being frank—I have heard of your family situation. Correct me if any of this is wrong, but I believe that beyond your dowry, there is not much money left to take care of all of you without relying on others.”

You swallow. It was blunt, but he isn't wrong.

“But I am not looking for money. Heavens, my family has enough of that.” He laughs a little. “I am looking for someone who can be that partner for me, and based on our meetings so far, I think you are the only one of the eligible ladies this year—possibly in several years—to be able to handle all of this.”

Your head is starting to spin a little. Everything he's said so far makes sense, and you understand where he's coming from, but it's starting to sound—it's starting to sound like he's proposing to you right now—

“I will be honest in that I am not looking for love. If that is an expectation of yours, I will not be offended if you choose to seek someone else.” He pauses on the pathway, fixing you with his gaze. “But you are, I believe, a partner with whom I could be satisfied in navigating the rest of my life.”

He said so much. You took in everything that he said. But for some reason, the only words that continue to bounce around in your head are I am not looking for love.

Which is—ridiculous. You aren't looking for love either—at least, you shouldn't be. Your first priority is to secure financial stability for your family. Anything beyond that would be a plus. But you can't deny the slight sinking of your heart, the way you can feel all of your childish, sappy little daydreams sinking to the bottom of your skull...

You take a deep breath, force a lightness to remain in your tone. “Your Grace, this is beginning to sound like a marriage proposal.”

The duke's gaze doesn't waver. “If you'd like it to be, then it is.”

You're still holding his arm. It's all you can do to keep from clenching his elbow with a vice grip because you really think you might fall. You've gotten a marriage proposal—from a duke—in a matter of days—

“Allow me to be honest as well, Your Grace.” You swallow hard. “I am not looking for love either. My primary interest is securing a source of financial stability for my family, now that we no longer own our estate. It is not to look for love.” It's not a lie, you tell yourself even as the words burn slightly on your tongue. At least not completely. “However, while our values do seem to align, and I am extremely flattered by your proposal, I will ask that you wait a little longer for me to give you an answer. We have only known each other for the best part of three weeks. I would simply like some time to get to know you more.”

“That is a fair request.” Yeonjun inclines his head. “Don't worry—we do not have to treat today's conversation as a proposal at all, Miss L/N. If it so pleases you, I will ask again in a few weeks' time. Until then, please only think of our words today as a suggestion or an explanation of my thoughts, not as anything concrete. Your answer when I ask again will be the only one I consider.”

It's a better reply than you expected. He doesn't seem offended at all by your hesitance, and he was honest. There isn't much more you could want, not from a man such as he.

Part of you knows that if he'd demanded an answer right now, you would have said yes. That same part of you knows that your answer isn't likely to change even with a few weeks—this is the best offer you will receive, from a man who is both respectful and handsome and doesn't care about your relative wealth status compared to his. But it's fast, you think, too fast—you can't sign your life away after only knowing him for less than three weeks.

It has absolutely nothing to do with the twinge in your chest whenever you remember he has no intention of marrying you for love.

“You are very kind, Your Grace.” You smile at him. “Thank you for understanding.”

“Of course, Miss L/N.” He smiles back, oblivious to the thoughts still spinning around your mind. “Shall we continue our walk, then?”

. . . . . When Yeonjun wakes up, there's a sense of urgency in his chest that doesn't match the lazy light beginning to filter through the curtains against his window, a slight nervousness that doesn't quite make sense. His eyes blink blearily, searching for the clock—it's only eight. He hasn't missed anything important. His first engagement won't even be for three more hours, he can close his eyes and sleep for a little longer—

Engagement.

His eyes snap wide open.

Today is the day he's going to propose to you.

Heart hammering, he sits up in bed, shaking loose strands of hair out of his eyes. Quickly he dresses, all the while trying to think of everything he'll need for tonight and coming up with absolutely nothing except for the ring, which is snug in the pocket of his pants. He pulls it out, holds it up to the light.

Polished gold, a set of pearls laid into the metal surrounding a single small diamond. It has been in his family for generations—his mother had worn it until a few years ago, when she had decided that Yeonjun needed the reminder that he was to choose a wife soon. He stares at it, watches it shine in the early morning light, before sliding it safely back into his pocket. Nothing will happen to it, he tries to reassure himself. Absolutely nothing.

And nothing does happen to it throughout the day, thankfully, not during his meeting with the solicitor, not while he flips through finance sheets at his desk, not while he dresses once more for the dinner your mother has invited him to tonight. He'd spoken with her a few days ago, called on her in private while he knew you would be busy at the modiste, and asked for her permission to formally propose. She was the one who'd suggested the dinner as a way for him to ask the question to you in a somewhat private setting.

There should be no problem. All through the carriage ride to your estate, Yeonjun tries to calm his beating heart as his mother gazes at him amusedly from the other side. “Stop looking at me like that,” he finally says. “Mother.”

“I can't stop looking at my only son right now,” she scolds. “Not when he looks so handsome and ready to propose to his future duchess.”

Future duchess. Yeonjun takes a breath. Yes, you're to be his future wife and his duchess. The thought is surprisingly nerve-wracking.

It shouldn't be, though. He's had his mind set on you since that first conversation with Soobin at the club, since he met you at the first ball of the season. He's done everything this season with you in mind—he should be used to the idea of standing by you as your husband, you as his wife. Him as your duke, and you as his duchess.

His heart begins to calm. Yes, there's no reason to be nervous. The only reason you put off the question when he first suggested it was because you felt it was too early, and that's understandable, given it had only been three weeks and Yeonjun hadn't even meant to propose, really—it had just sounded like it, and you, ever perceptive, had picked up on it. It's been four weeks now since then, and he's danced with you at seven more balls, promenaded with you five more times, and you've already dined once at his estate with some of his extended family. He's asked your mother for permission. Everything will fall into place.

“Do you think she'll like the way I look?” he asks, winking obnoxiously at his mother.

She laughs. “There is no way she could refuse you. Why, if she isn't already in love, she'll have fallen for you by the end of tonight.”

The smile freezes on Yeonjun's face. Love, yes. The very thing he hasn't been focusing on at all when it comes to you.

You'd agreed with that. He'd suspected you would, given your tenuous finances—not dire, not yet, but still not stable. Besides, love is rare. You are practical. You know that. Most marriages are of convenience. You didn't express any sort of hurt or abandon when he'd given you his honest thoughts.

But his mother... maybe she wants him to be in love.

“Yeonjun?” She leans forward slightly, eyes narrowing. “Is everything all right?”

He blinks. “Of course,” he replies. And just then, the carriage rattles to a stop in front of an estate that has by now grown familiar, giving him the perfect excuse to avoid any other questions she might ask. As soon as he can, Yeonjun hops down from the carriage and holds out a hand for his mother to take. “Let's go, Mother.”

. . .

The dinner goes well. Your mother placed him next to you, and the two of you speak amicably through the evening as your mothers chatter at the end of the table. With every word that comes out of your mouth, every little laugh and witty jab, Yeonjun only grows even more sure that you are the one who should share the duchy with him.

When the dessert has finished and the last plate cleared away, your mother coughs subtly at the end of the table. Yeonjun takes the hint as they all rise from the table, turning toward her with his sweetest smile. “Lady L/N, I was wondering if you would allow me to solicit a private audience with your daughter. Just for a few moments.”

Her eyes sparkle. Yeonjun really wouldn't mind having her as a mother in law—she's dutiful, patient, and truly loves you in a way that is rare in this society today. “Of course, Your Grace,” she says, inclining her head. “Come, Your Grace—we will have some entertainment for ourselves in the sitting room. Please, the two of you, do join us when you are ready.”

Everyone else filters from the room, leaving it empty save for you and Yeonjun. Even the servants have gone from their silent posts around the table.

You look at Yeonjun quietly. Not a word passes from your lips, though there is a question in your eyes. Actually, perhaps not really a question—there's no way you don't know what is to happen in a moment. It's an invitation in your gaze instead, an expectation of what will come.

Yeonjun takes a deep breath. “A few weeks ago, I suppose I... unintentionally proposed to you on our second promenade.” He smiles and so do you, your eyes crinkling at his choice of words. He internally pats himself on the back for it. “You asked me for time, and I have given it. I suppose what I would say now is much of what I said then—I am looking for a duchess, a wife who can stand by my side as a partner in this marriage, who will help me in my affairs with ensuring the people of my land are treated well.”

You nod. “I understand, Your Grace.”

“It has been over a month since we met, nearly two.” Yeonjun swallows. “In that time, I have truly determined you are one of the most gracious, capable women I have ever had the pleasure of meeting, and I believe you will be the most able partner I could have in my journey of dukedom.” He pulls out the ring, letting the gems sparkle in the candlelight as he holds it out to you. “Will you do me the honor of being that partner, of becoming my wife and the Duchess of Hastings?”

For a long, long moment, you don't respond. Yeonjun counts the moments, counts the breaths—one, two, three, four—his heart beginning to thud the longer you go without speaking.

Finally, your gaze lifts from the ring to his eyes. “I have one stipulation in this proposal, Your Grace,” you say. “My mother—she believes... she believes we are in love.”

Yeonjun tilts his head. “I see.”

“She wants a love match for me. Always has, just like her and my father.” You heave a small sigh. “I am impartial, Your Grace. Love matches such as my mother's are rare, and I am more interested in securing the practicalities of my marriage. As we discussed before, I do not expect love from any relationship we have, but I will ask that... we pretend. In front of her.” You swallow visibly. “I don't want to deceive her, but I would rather do that than upset her.”

Yeonjun pauses. Thinks. Your mother won't live on your estate—nor will she be over often enough for acting to become a full time ordeal. You have a small home in the country, you have said, one your distant cousin has said you are allowed to live in, and while it is not far from his lands, it is not close, either. This stipulation shouldn't be an issue.

“I understand,” he says, smiling easily. “I will agree to this... act. Truth be told,” he continues, “I think my mother would like it if I were in a love match, too. Perhaps it will not just be your mother that we should act around.”

You nod once, slowly. Your throat bobs. For a moment it looks as though you have something else to say, but your expression clears so quickly that Yeonjun is sure he imagined it.

“So will you do me the honor, Miss L/N?” he asks again, taking your hand. The gold of the ring sparkles against the silk of your gloves, shimmering and pristine. “Of being my partner for life?”

You take a breath. Yeonjun watches your chest rise and fall once, twice.

“Yes, Your Grace.” You nod, and relief cracks deep and full in Yeonjun's chest, warmth rippling through his body as you smile. “I will.”

. . . . .

It hits you, exactly what you’re about to do to your future, when it's already too late.

The morning has been going—by all accounts of the situation—fine. You woke up early. Washed. Stared at your notebook that you haven't written in for two weeks, not since poetry stopped flowing from your fingertips in elegant lines and became stilted, choked, singular words instead. Tore your eyes from the leather cover and the pencil still lodged between its pages—it's easier not to question everything when you can't write about it—and left the room for a bite of breakfast before being whisked back to your room to dress.

Everything is—fine. It's fine. Everything is perfectly fine. Sakura helps you put on your wedding attire, settles the dress against your body, the gloves on your fingers, the jewelry around your wrists and neck. Light makeup dusts your face, reminiscent of what you wore to the first ball, and an elegant little flower crown adorns the top of your head. In the mirror, you look beautiful.

Or you would, if not for the fear you can see rooted deep in your eyes.

Your mother exclaims when you enter the room, hands gripping your arms as she looks you up and down. The servants stare in wide-eyed awe as you walk down to the entryway. You try hard to hide that fear from yourself and everyone else, settling into the carriage with only a wide smile on your face, and you force yourself to wear that smile the entire way to the venue as though pretending pure happiness will make it true.

You're whisked away immediately to freshen up once more. Sakura touches up the makeup, straightens the flower crown on your brow. You avoid looking at yourself in the mirror for fear of anyone—most of all yourself—seeing the truth in your eyes. Someone hands you a bouquet of flowers that compliments your gown and you thank them as best you can without losing your mind completely. Time passes, somehow, and then someone has dragged you behind the doors at the entrance of the hall where you wait for your cue.

It starts. Music begins to play. You stand behind the closed doors, fighting for breath. Yeonjun will already be at the altar, you know, his family and friends on his side of the pews. Next to you, your mother counts down the seconds, dabbing tears from her eyes when she thinks you aren't looking until she gets to one and the doors begin to swing open.

One foot in front of the other. The muscle memory that you drilled into yourself for your debut—was that just three months ago? Really only three? It feels like it's been years and at the same time it feels like it's been days—returns, and your chin lifts slightly (just enough to suggest pride, but not so much as to indicate haughtiness) as your eyes settle on the man you are to marry at the end of the hall.

The man you are to marry.

Your foot falters. You almost trip. Your mother tightens her grip on your arm and you can see her glance at you worriedly but you force yourself not to look, to keep stepping forward—it wasn't much. It didn't show. It doesn't matter, it doesn't mean anything—

Yeonjun gazes back at you from the altar, that sweet, charming smile on his face. He looks like the epitome of the perfect husband—handsome, gentle, loving.

Loving.

If only.

Your mother lets go of your arm. You both curtsy to the dowager duchess on her side, who smiles widely, and then she steps back to take her seat, leaving you to make the rest of the journey alone.

One step, two steps. The short distance up to the altar feels like it takes an eternity but once you're there, you wish it had taken longer. Heaving a silent, shaky breath, you turn to face Yeonjun.

The smile is still on your face.

Someone begins to read something, onerous and steady and sounding like utterly nothing as it passes through your head. Your fingers are sweaty and your gloves aren’t absorbent—you can feel the silk sliding against your palms as you try to readjust your grip on the bouquet, all the while staring into Yeonjun's eyes. His smile never falters.

Neither, you hope, does yours.

There's a pause in the reading. Someone appears with rings. You take one and Yeonjun takes the other. The words continue, pounding through your head, and try as you might, you can't understand a single one even though you can speak four languages—

“Do you, His Grace Yeonjun Choi, promise to take Y/N L/N to be your wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until parted by death?”

Your heart stops. That part you can understand.

“I do.” Yeonjun's voice rings loud and clear, not a note of uncertainty in his tones. The two words echo in your ears long after he has slipped the ring onto your finger, even as the priest turns to you next.

“Do you, Miss L/N L/N, promise to take Yeonjun Choi to be your husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until parted by death?”

Every eye in the room turns to you. It's like you're in the queen's hall again, about to step backward and ask your mother if that really just happened, if the queen really just named you her diamond, but where that happiness filled your heart in that moment, you can't name what you feel now.

Or maybe you just don't want to name it, for fear that you know what it is.

And that's when you realize.

You don't want this at all.

You don't want to marry Yeonjun. You don't want to tie yourself down to someone who can't promise to love you. You don't want to be married to someone who can't even promise to care for you in the way your father did your mother, the way your mother cared for your father—you don't want it, you don't want it, you don't want any of it at all—

But you promised. Even now you wear the ancestral engagement ring on your finger, pearls and diamonds that glint in the sunlight through the windows. You are engaged. You promised yourself to Yeonjun. You told him you wanted it, that you agreed with his opinions, that you wouldn't expect anything more of him when it came to your partnership.

You blink once, twice. Picture your mother and Sakura sitting in the pews. The two of them want this for you. The two of them need this from you.

And you know you would give your life for them, light yourself on fire for them, burn to ashes for them. It's why you studied for so many years, burnt the midnight oil hours after everyone had gone to bed to make yourself the best debutante who would ever grace society—it was for them. Always for them.

Slowly, even as it gets harder and harder to breathe, you swallow. Stand up straighter. Glance down at the flowers between your sweaty hands, then back up at the man to whom you're about to sign your life away.

Your voice rings out, clear and sweet, the way a diamond of the first water should speak. It doesn't tremble once. Doesn't falter at all.

“I do.”

If you enjoyed, please don’t forget to reblog and leave a comment to tell me what you thought! Thank you for reading and have a lovely day <3

(1 reblog = 1 hug for mc. she’s kinda going through it)

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