#And it didn’t…it changed into something new

[no-144444]

HI!!!! I am such a huge fan of your work, could i request something with charles where the reader is max verstappens sister but she's a pop star (think sabrina carpenter) and charles and her are dating on the dl but he goes to her concert and gets spotted and then everyone goes crazy with fan theories and they hard launch with the music video, and max is pissed because a, she's off limits to drivers. and b, why didn't they tell him.

anyways, that was just my thoughts, thank you girl!

don't dim your light- c.l

summary: you have a secret boyfriend and an album coming and you realise that hiding yourself and your life only makes you feel like shit.

pairing: charles leclerc x fem! verstappen! popstar! reader

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Being the sister of Max Verstappen meant two things: 

1: You were famous. 

2: You were off-limits to every single other driver.

Too bad that you’d fallen for your brother’s rival (/husband???). Charles was perfect, everything you’d ever wanted in a man. He was kind, caring, thoughtful, and most of all… fucking gorgeous. It had been months of sneaking around because, while Charles didn’t feel scared at all to drive a car around at top speed, actually risking his life, he was scared of your brother. Like, scared to death. 

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“Bebé,” he whined, holding you against him. “My love! Do not leave me here!”

You rolled your eyes, chuckling, as you pushed his hands off of you. “I have to catch my flight!”

“But if we don’t spend Christmas together I won’t see you until the summer!” he groaned. 

“The joys of dating a popstar, I guess,” you shrugged, grabbing your suitcase. You pressed a kiss to his cheek and smiled. “I’ll see you in Monaco, alright?” 

He frowned then pressed his lips to yours as hard as he possibly could. “I love you.”

“I love you too, you big sap,” you smirked. He rolled his eyes.

“You are so mean to me, you know that?” he huffed. 

“Bye Charles!” you called after yourself, leaving his Monaco apartment. 

It had been 7 whole months of bliss with Charles. Obviously, you’d met him prior to the first date, knowing him quite well from all the stories Max had told you, but shockingly, it took a Puma brand ambassadors dinner for him to make the first move. He was evidently very nervous, but you’d started to love his weird dorky qualities. He was sweet, and kind, and that’s all you really cared about. 

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“London, can we make some noise?!” you cheered. The stadium roared back to you. You had done it. You’d sold out the O2 for 4 whole nights. You were one of the biggest pop stars on the planet. “Are you guys ready for one last song tonight?” they screamed back at you. “Alright, this one is new, I hope you like it!”

The intro to Bed Chem started, and you knew everyone already knew it (it had been leaked a few months ago), but you danced and sang it exactly how it was meant to sound. One thing you loved about being on stage is how free you felt. All of those people were there to see you, which melted your heart. You loved every single fan you’d ever come across and appreciated every single one of them. They made you, they made your success. 

As the song finished, ‘new album out next week! xxx’ flashed behind you on the screen, and the crowd went wild. 

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You walked into your dressing room, exhausted from the night, and slightly hurt that despite offering to fly them out, none of your family came. You understood, Max’s career was important, and it was his last chance before the regulations changed to get the most out of the car. He wanted his fifth so badly, mostly because he wasn’t sure he was going to stay around from 2026 onwards. He had a family now. He had a baby and P to take care of. He didn’t like the media circus that F1 had turned into, or the fact that it was a popularity contest. Your entire family had been built around Max, and you knew why, but it didn’t make it hurt any less when you were reminded of the fact that you were just the second kid. 

“My love!” Charles cheered, wrapping you up in his arms, startling you. “You were incredible! You were amazing!” he pressed kiss after kiss to your neck and cheek as you hugged him back, ecstatic that he was here. 

He had taken the time out of his insanely busy schedule, on a race week, to come see you on the literal other side of the world. He truly was the best boyfriend in the world. 

“What are you doing here?” you chuckled, shocked by his presence. “You should be getting ready for Japan!”

He shrugged. “I’ll be fine in Japan, I wasn’t going to miss you performing!” 

You pulled him closer once again, pressing your lips against his. “I fucking love you,” you whispered, trying to make your voice sound steady. 

“I love you too,” you smiled, pulling back. The way he looked at you. All the love in the world. Like you hung the fucking stars just for him. He adored you, and you felt it. You felt  bathed in his light the second he walked near you, that’s how much he loved you. “Don’t cry,” he frowned, wiping the tears you hadn’t even noticed were falling, away. “I hope they’re happy tears,” he teased. 

You nodded, burying your head in his chest. “They are. They really are.”

He wrapped his arms around you and held you tight. “I’m glad.”

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y/nverstappen

liked by charlesleclerc, maxverstappen, and 8,983,837 others

y/nverstappen SHORT N SWEET OUT ON THE 6TH OF APRIL BITCHES!!!!!!! ROYAL COURT (with lady broski) OUT ON THE 8TH OF APRIL BITCHES!!!!

comments

user8: prepare to be SICK of me

brittanybroski: ROYAL COURT MENTIONED 💯💯💯💯💯💯 -> liked by y/nverstappen

user999: SHE'S GLOWING

user7: not the grinch picture 💀

maxverstappen: Congratulations Y/n! -> liked by y/nverstappen

user66: DID ANYONE ELSE SEE WHO WAS AT HER SHOW????? -> user92: LITERALLY! -> user933: charles what is you doing here loca?

calebhearon: SHE'S STUNNING -> liked by y/nverstappen

oliviarodrigo: and she's serving. as per usual. liked by y/nverstappen -> user88: LOCA WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE -> user22: THE GIRLS ARE HEALING.

user09: now i need to know who bed chem is about... -> user44: thick accent... (charles leclerc) -> user94: officer it's this one! -> user88: on MY cellular device? -> user21: me when i'm delusional.

user802: BED CHEM ATE SO FUCKING HARD OMFG

user213: where is her family? she sold out the O2 for 4 consecutive nights AND is releasing her second album, and they're nowhere to be seen? jos 'i support my daughter' verstappen my ASS. -> user2342: right? It's so unfair, her entire life has been built around max and he couldn't even go see her on the biggest night of her life while pierre gasly and charles leclerc can? It's bullshit.

user90: she's so hot i cannot do this anymore.

user87: charles lurking in the likes...? -> user36: tbf a lot of the drivers follow her, it could be a coincidence.

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f1gossip

liked by pierregasly, landonorris, and 890,848 others

f1gossip Drivers Charles LeClerc and Pierre Gasly were seen at a Y/n Verstappen concert in London this week! They seemed to be enjoying themselves, though there was no sign of Max anywhere!

comments

user88: pierre and lando are messy

user99: WHERE WAS MAX? THIS WAS Y/N'S BIG MOMENT???

user929023: OMFG BED CHEM IS ABOUT CHARLES WTF -> user97437: no it's not she can't steal my husband -> user4: she can, and she did

user772: he looks so drunk in the last photo lmao

user942: WHAT A SUPPORTIVE BOYFRIEND!

user847: Pierre's sunglasses are taking me out rn 💀 -> pierregasly: what's wrong with them? -> user88: ARE CHARLES AND Y/N TOGETHER??? -> pierregasly: 🤷🤷🤷

user92: they'd be so cute together!!!!

user902: omfg max would KILL him if they're together

user935841: do we all remember the interview where max said he'd fucking shove any of the drivers off the track if they went for his sister? like does charles have a death with? is he not despressed enough?

user91234: charles when i catch you

user7: if he stole my wife, i'm going to be pissed (i've never met her and she doesn't know i exist)

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"People saw you today," you yawned, laying in bed with Charles. The concert was over, and Charles had surprised you with his presence, though it was more than welcome. You were both lying in the luxurious hotel bed as you settled down for sleep, his arms wrapping around you.

He nodded. "I know. I just thought people would assume we're friends though."

You rolled your eyes. Bullshit. “You’re such a bad liar,” you chuckled as his jaw dropped at the accusation. 

“I am not lying!” he stressed, but his smirk gave him away. 

“Charles LeClerc, you wanted people to find out, didn’t you?” you gasped, hitting him with a pillow. 

“I did not!” he hit you back.

What ensued after was a pillow fight that ended with you holding him down against the bed, and his lips on yours. The amount of alcohol you'd both consumed meant that the kiss was messy, but amazing all the same. It was all teeth and tongue, all passion, all Charles.

“You were so pretty up there,” he whispered against your mouth, completely at your mercy. “Felt like you were singing just to me.”

You chuckled, pulling back. “Oh yeah?”

He nodded, biting his lip. “So perfect,” he sighed. 

“I still think you wanted people to find out,” you argued, getting off of him. 

“Well of course,  but that’s-”

“Charles!” you squealed.

"My love!" he chuckled, holding you closer. "How in the world, do you expect me to try and hide the fact that I love you-?"

He was interrupted by your phone ringing. You groaned, he groaned, yet you got up and sat up, grabbing it, answering without looking at the caller id.

"Are you dating Charles?" Max's voice sobered you up pretty quickly. You stuttered for a moment, then laughed.

"W-what?" you questioned. "No."

He huffed from the other side of the phone. "Are you sure? What was he doing at your show?"

You rolled your eyes. "I don't know, maybe he actually enjoys my music and wanted to come see me? Is that so outlandish?"

"You know that's not what I'm saying."

"Yeah, you're not even interested in my life enough to ask. The shows were great, thanks for asking dickhead," you scoffed before ending the call and blocking his number. He was so... self-involved. He'd stopped caring about you and your interests when you were only kids, too focused on the plan to notice that fact that you were there, and that you adored your big brother. Nevertheless, he didn't care, so you had to stop caring too.

"Are you alright?" Charles whispered, wrapping an arm around you.

You nodded, too fragile to answer. You knew you'd break down crying if you answered verbally, so that would have to do.

"I'm sorry," he pressed gentle but grounding kisses to your neck and back as you gave yourself a moment to soak it all in. "I know how hard this is on you. I'm sorry."

"I don't want you to apologise for loving me," you whispered, your voice breaking.

He chuckled. "I'll never apologise for that," he smiled against your skin. "I'm just sorry that your family are... difficult."

You nodded, leaning into him. "They are."

"You were radiant up on that stage tonight," he beamed. "Don't let them dim your light, please baby."

You nodded. "You're right. No more dimming lights."

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The song was simple and from your next album, it could be your second single of the album, and you knew it was catchy and good. It was a good plan, a great plan, even. You and Charles would hard launch your relationship to the world with a music video appearance. Not only would it show the world your relationship, it would also be a great way to generate buzz for your upcoming album. Win-win. The idea was sexy and cool, and shooting it was as much fun as you'd imagined (aka, a lot of kisses, a lot of him touching you, and a lot of retakes), and by the end of the shoot you were convinced it was your best video yet.

You weren't going to tell Max before the video came out. You weren't interested in getting two different lectures, so you decided you'd prefer one long one. Charles supported your decision, and didn't tell anyone shit until the night the video came out.

By then, it was fair game.

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charlesleclerc & y/nverstappen

liked by pierregasly, arthurleclerc, oscarpiastri and 6,893,234 others

charlesleclerc isn't she lovely? please, please, please mv out now.

comments

user92: YOU'RE JOKING

user23: WHAT A PERFECT COUPLE

user9535: stood up and applauded.

user76: this is my niche and i'm so here for it.

brittanybroski: MY WOMAN, NOOOOOOOOO

user024: she's perfect. she is so perfect.

user924084208: can i be her when I grow up? (i'm 34)

user3: she's kind of a slut... -> user9: please please please for the love of god shut the fuck up

user45: idk who I want to be more -> user83: charles. -> user82: charles. -> user08424: charles. -> user36824: charles. -> user24: charles. -> user1: charles. -> user56: charles. -> user75: charles.

pierregasly: KNEW IT FROM THE START ->charlesleclerc: is that because we told you or...? -> pierregasly: trying to steal my thunder rn is CRAZY -> charlesleclerc: trying to make this about yourself rn is CRAZY -> y/nverstappen: BOTH of you are acting like idiots, please refrain

y/nverstappen: ilysm -> charlesleclerc: i adore you -> user923: sleeping on the highway tonight!

lewishamilton: :) -> charlesleclerc: thanks bud :)

user834: what does he see in her?

user2: what does she see in him?

user5: is she aware of his cheating scandals in the past? -> user34: it's almost like people can grow and change! hope this helps xxx

user645: she is about to get her heart broken

user2321: she couldn't have picked someone more... suited to her? -> user8: mate she's a popstar and the sister of Max Verstappen, what about Charles LeClerc isn't 'suited' to her?

francocolapinto: 😍😍😍 -> user830: what is blud doing?

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y/nverstappen

liked by charlesleclerc, landonorris, pierregasly, and 4,873,933 others

y/nverstappen just 2 days until the album, here's so photos of yours truly to hold you over 💋

comments

user935: anyone notice how max has been MIA and angry since her London shows?? -> user5684: i'm employed what does this mean? -> user33: stop trying to stir shit up bro

charlesleclerc: beautiful girl liked by y/nverstappen

user88: max looked like he was ready to kill charles today lmao

user93940924: she's glowing

user6: not mentioning charles i see... -> user9: girl fuck off -> user4: they've been publicly dating for 2 days, calm down.

user09: sigh... i could treat you better y/n... -> charlesleclerc: no you could not. -> pierregasly: let's reel it in buddy ffs -> charlesleclerc: what??? is defending my honour cringe now? -> pierregasly: not just now, it always was.

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When the album launched, you were nestled in your apartment, alone. You were so excited for a night nice in, but of course, your plans were foiled by a knock on the door, and an outpour of dutch from your brother's lips.

"Fuck off Max," you shouted from your side of the door. "I don't want to talk to you."

"I'm missing a race for this," he sighed, his voice softer than you'd heard it.

You opened the door, and he did something unexpected. He hugged you. A full-blown tight hug, the kind he hadn't given you since you were a kid.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "Why didn't you tell me?"

You shrugged, pulling out of the hug. "I wasn't interested in the lecture."

"But I know Charles, I could've... I don't know, helped?" he paced around your kitchen. "I just... I don't understand why you felt like you couldn't tell me."

"Max, you said you'd shove anyone off track if they went for me, so I don't understand your disconnect. I'm happy with Charles, like really fucking happy. He makes me feel great, and he cares about me. He loves me. And I'm so sick of trying to make myself smaller so that i can fit into your life. I adore you Max, genuinely, I do. You're my big brother and I love you, and you should be celebrated for your incredible accomplishments, but so should I. I'm not going to sit here and make myself any more unhappy just because it'll make your life easier. I-I won't do it. I want to be able to post my boyfriend, go support him at races, and everything else all the other girlfriends can do. I'm not going to hide him or myself to make you more comfortable," you pushed through the tears building behind your eyes, and stared him right in the eyes. He needed to hear that your life wasn't just about him.

He was quiet for a moment. "I'm happy for you, and I'm sorry that I'm not very good at... being there for you."

He looked uncomfortable. He'd never been very good with his emotions, so that was probably the best you were going to get.

"Thank you," you smiled. "And you really didn't have to miss a race for me, but thank you anyways."

He nodded. "I care about you. I want you to be happy," he explained, looking down.

You were both silent for a few seconds.

"Do you want to watch a movie?" you offered.

He looked up and smiled. Same old Max. Same old you.

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y/nverstappen

liked by landonorris, charlesleclerc, maxverstappen, and 6,243, 563 others

y/nverstappen: and she's out! thank you all so much for the love, mwah!

comments on this post have been limited

maxverstappen: Very proud!

charlesleclerc: i love you so much you're so pretty (please please please let me come over tonight)

landonorris: SHARPEST TOOL IS SUCH A BANGER liked by y/nverstappen

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navigation for my blog :)

ferrari masterlist

[xazse]

Female!Reader × HybridPuppy!Yuji

The reader produces breast milk , which she expresses and donates to a shelter for small hybrids. HybridPuppy!Yuji often hugs her and presses himself against her chest to inhale the smell of milk, which makes his mouth water and his cock hard. In the end, he can't resist and begs his mistress to let him suck her milk. Or he sneaks into her bedroom at night and drinks her milk while she sleeps.

Instead of Yuji, you can have Satoru if you want to change the character

Notes: I love this so fucking much, I made a few changes I hope you don’t mind and I’m using Satoru btw because I don’t write for minors.

Pairings: PuppyHybrid!Satoru x LactatingFem!Reader

Warnings: I’m sorry but I’m warning ya now this is some nasty shit but a good nasty if ur into this! + Smut + Lactation + hybrids + reader has big boobs + possessive!Satoru + perv!Satoru + porn with plot + notproofread + bathroom sex + I think I spent too much time on plot and not enough porn sorry!

You love visiting the shelter near your house, it’s just a ten minute walk of you enjoying the scenery and speaking to the townspeople, they always greet you with the warmest smiles because they know you, they’ve known you for years.

In fact everyone here knows you: a widowed mother and wife, a mother whose children have been moved on to pursue their own hopes and dreams so in your little warm house it’s just you. You’ve noticed for a while a void in your heart, the loneliness does get to you some days but not today.

Recently a facility had been built, a hybrid facility, at first you hadn’t ever thought those existed because under new law hybrids are allowed to coexist around regular humans, they are to be treated as such it was a long time coming, it hurt your heart to see them being treated as outcasts.

You learned that this facility was for the young, abandoned and on occasion they’d take in adults who still couldn’t find their place.

And in that place you finally found your calling. for some odd reason you and your doctor couldn’t place you were still weirdly lactating, it was exhausting having sore breasts and an endless supply of milk you’d have to pour down the drain: too embarrassed to donate it in fear of being found out in the small town of people.

You awake up with full boobs that needed to be emptied or you’d spend the entire day in pain, pumping the milk was the only way, you’d only have to do it once a day but the sheer amount could keep a baby feed for the entire day.

You’d been talking to one of the workers of the facility and they’d been explaining how the young ones weren’t exactly taking well to the supplied formula milk, “they’d cry constantly” he exclaimed and it broke your heart into pieces the thought of them not eating hurts you, for the very first time you confided in the worker and he didn’t look disgusted not one bit in fact he seemed overjoyed.

“Disgusted? Why would I feel that way? This means the little ones will eat and not throw fits.” When he finishes that sentence a long drawn out sigh leaves his lips. You can’t help the giggle that falls from your lips.

Suguru you learn comes by your house to pick up the supplements and does he have some comments, he had waited a week to see how much you would produce.

“All this?!” You stand in your doorway shyly nodding in his presence, he’s actually appalled you weren’t lying when you said you have a good bit, he shakes the box in his hands and listens carefully, it’s hard for you to watch him do that right in front of you and not get a little flustered.

He thanks you graciously and makes his way back to the facility, you really hope they like it, it was one hell of a week for you. Though the feeling you did something good swarms you with warmth.

After that it was found that they absolutely loved your milk, and you had plenty to give, it was so cute the way Suguru described their reactions and how priceless it was. One little one had whined for more: Yuji was a special character he required a bit more milk since he was malnourished, Suguru couldn’t stop describing how he would not let go of the bottle, his grip was not going to let up easily, he looked so genuinely happy describing his work and how much he enjoys this field.

You break out of your thoughts and make your way to the facility, it’s downright gorgeous garden greeting you before the glass doors, smelling so good greets you just as warmly, you open the door and offer your greetings to the staff, Suguru had told you on the phone that the little ones had been particularly needy and needed some attention, attention they couldn’t provide right at the moment so they called you: they always do.

They’re way more comfortable with you, always asking when you’re coming back and on occasion they’ll beg you to stay a little longer with them, cute little faces decorated in tears to trick you.

Right now you’re relaxing on the mat in the playroom whilst they all run around chasing after one another, Nobara: a little lion hybrid is trying her hardest to doze off on your lap, she can’t with all the loud children playing like it’s their last day ever. You slowly and softly rub her short locs to lull her, it’s working until Yuji: a tiger hybrid ever the energetic thing is crawling to come bother her.

With Megumi: a wolf hybrid, and basically his other half following right behind him quietly.

Nobara seems unphased by the tiger trying to bother her, simply shooing him away so she can get her beauty sleep, that sentence makes you giggle, you continue to watch the threes antics without saying a word, a show with no production is how they act together.

Yuji sees your hands rubbing Nobaras ears and he’s immediately making his way towards your soft fingers, basically forcing you to rub his orange striped ears, this doesn’t make Nobara happy and she tries to shove him away; whining for your attention again.

You know how they get if you aren’t showing them equal parts attention so now both of your hands are preoccupied, Megumi doesn’t seem to mind, simply sitting and watching on.

You hear his voice before you even see him, he’s definitely running through the halls disrupting the staff, he’s yelling your name so loud that you know its Satoru and how eager he is, you know how eager puppy hybrids can be.

When he pops his head into the playroom the brightest smile you think you’ve ever seen, he quickly makes his way over to you ignoring the little growls the babies give him, he’s pushing them aside against your protest and laying in your lap. The grip he has around your waist allows for him to fully envelope himself in your breasts.

“Missed you’s much” he playfully whines.

“You seen me yesterday Toru.”

Satoru lets out a satisfied sigh in the warmth of your boobs, he’s become obsessed with you, and it’s bad he’s had to he reprimanded by Suguru and the other staff multiple times for his possessiveness it’s not his fault though! He can’t control how he feels about you not after that day.

It was when he was feeding Megumi, sometimes as a way to bond Suguru will have Satoru bottle feed them, though he absolutely dreads it, he has to put up with it, all the other adult hybrids are far too hard headed.

He was curious one day, about how the milk had tasted, he found out through Suguru that the formula had been changed to breast milk, it was a slip of the tongue but he himself had also noticed how they whined for more.

He unscrewed the top to the bottle, the little calm Megumi was already drifting off so he wasn’t a problem.

He took a sip, and quickly pulled away: fully expecting it to be the worst thing he’s ever tried: it’s baby food not food meant for him but that feeling on his tongue never came in fact it was actually quite good.

Another sip and another after that; he scarfed the remains of the bottle down with a flushed face, it tassted like- well he couldn’t describe it but he knew he fucking loved it. He found himself sneaking into where it was kept and taking some for himself, it was almost an everyday thing, he knew when Suguru was questioning and bothering him he had to stop but he couldn’t, until he met the source of where the milk was coming from.

He snuggles his face deeper, ignoring and zoning out the loud noises around him, he can smell the milk on your breasts, you recently pumped? Probably this morning to be exact as and all he can think about is how you sat there for hours getting rid of the awful feeling in your sore breasts.

You feel something hard against your leg, you know how Satoru feels about you but this is too much. You’ve already had to tell him in the past that he’s much too young for you and would be better off finding someone who can fit his needs, he insists that he only wants you and doesn’t care about the age difference.

You have yet to bring up these feelings to Suguru though, you can’t bring yourself to say because what if Satoru won’t trust you anymore, it was hard building trust with the man due to his past experiences.

He’s only getting more excited by the minute, his tail moving in slow languid motions.

The way he’s looking up at you is filled with nothing but love and lust, you know that look too well.

You aren’t sure why you’re in a bathroom stall with Toru whilst he feels you up, caressing your boobs, every attempt to tell him to stop dies on your tongue when he rubs a sore area, your breath hitching in your throat when he grinds his hard cock on you.

Such a needy puppy he is, whining under his breath words that you can’t quite decipher especially with how heated you’re getting, your mind getting foggier by the minute as you let Satoru get his fill of you.

He rips apart your blouse and carelessly throws it on the floor, along with your bra next. Your nipples are exposed to the cold air of the facility and Satoru is reveling in it. He paws at your heavy boobs with rough calloused hands that are uncoordinated, squeezing the fat in his hand until he sees what he wants.

The droplets of your milk finally coming to fruition, he licks one nipple and you think you can see him visibly shake with excitement, he filts that nipple in his mouth and suckles, after a good minute he ceases his constant unconscious movements and readily focuses on the sweet milk cascading down his throat.

A moan breaks free from your trembling lips, this feels nothing like the machine you have at home, this feels so fucking good it alone has your cunt throbbing in your panties, the swirling of his tongue and just how content he looks is driving you mad.

You slip into that space that you know is bad for you, your voice is for some reason egging Satoru on, calling him all sorts of names that entice him to suck harder. Your hands don’t listen to you either because you’re rubbing the front of his pants in soft motions.

His whimpers don’t go unnoticed, nor does his swishing tail, such a good boy you tell him, losing all sense of rational he drags you with him to sit on the toilet, you don’t expect the amount of strength he has for being so lanky but he manages it.

He goes right back to sucking on your fat breasts that still replenish his appetite.

You let Satoru strip you of your bottoms and your panties, you let him slip his cock inside of you when you know you shouldn’t, he isn’t big but he fucks constant, always hitting that good spot inside of you based off your reactions.

He looks disheveled and messy, his face red and his mouth dripping with drool and remnants of your milk.

You let him bend you any which way he sees fit in that stall, an overexcited hybrid means it’s going to take a while to exhaust them, though you feel tired after having an orgasm you’ve never experienced he isn’t done, he’s cum multiple times, filled your cunt with his leaky cum he still isn’t done yet.

When he’s got you in his lap leaning on him for support he’s nonstop talking about what you and him will do from here, he talks about how he wants a family of his own and how you’ll be such a perfect mommy to his little ones.

[alagaisia]

I really think that as long as you’re bringing it to a good, reputable shelter with high turnover, you can think of it in a purely positive way. You’re giving that pet a chance to find a home and a family that are a better fit where they might be much happier. And, a surrendered pet at a shelter often comes with a lot more information about its likes and wants and behaviors and habits (compared to puppies/kittens or strays) and someone who is looking for a pet with exactly the traits that didn’t work for you will be so glad that you were able to tell the shelter all about the pet.

I’m coming to this from the other side- my family has only ever adopted dogs from the Animal Humane Society, and we’ve had incredible luck. Our first dog, my sweet Cosmo, love of my life, was not quite this situation- he had an elderly owner who either passed or had to move to a care facility when he was two years old- but regardless he was an adult dog with good training and an established personality, so we knew something of what we were getting ourselves into with a first dog. We grew up together and he was a wonderful companion for 14 years until he passed last summer. Squiggy, our little muppet mutt, was a failed designer dog whose original owner hadn’t realized that a purse dog puppy would still need training and attention, and while he was a little old to just be starting potty training by the time we got him, he figured it out. He has bells hung by the back door that he rings when he wants to go outside. He’s very dumb but so fluffy and he’ll snuggle right up under your chin if he’s not busy following my mom everywhere (or crying if he can’t find her).

Our most recent dog, Wilson, we got just a few weeks ago. He’s four years old, very smart, very curious, such a sweetheart. He was a surrendered dog from a family that had recently had to move into a smaller space due to a house fire, and the family didn’t have room to give him his own space (apparently he’d had his own whole room at their old house). He was reported to have issues with chewing on shoes and furniture. We think that maybe this isn’t the whole story, and that there were other lifestyle incompatibilities that led to him being put up for adoption.

For one, we have not had any issues with him chewing on anything at all that he’s not supposed to (although he has rapidly dissected a great many stuffed dog toys). It’s quite possible this was an anxious response. Or, an exaggeration, so that his previous owners didn’t feel as guilty giving him up. He also has very little training for a four-year-old as smart as he is; he learns very quickly, so he knows “sit” already, but it seemed like he knew “no” and not much else when he first got home. He also was not entirely house trained, and didn’t seem to super understand the concept of having a yard (but he’s picked up on both of those things already!). So we think that even in his owners’ previous house, him having his own room may have been more to keep him out of the way than anything else, and he maybe didn’t get as much attention as he needed until he was constantly underfoot.

Obviously I’m a little biased, since I enjoy having him around, but I think Wilson might have a much better life with us than he had with his previous owners (who got him as a puppy from a breeder!) even though there wasn’t necessarily a “good” reason for them to give him up. It seems like they maybe liked the idea of having a dog, and didn’t realize until their living situation changed that he didn’t actually fit that well into their lifestyle. And that’s fine, because it means my family got to bring home a wonderful new dog who we adore. My dad bought him a hoodie so that they can have matching outfits. He gets to play so much fetch. I’m knitting him a sweater to match the one I made for our other dog last year.

Pets that go to shelters are not doomed to a sad and lonely life in a cage. They go on to have wonderful loving families with lifestyles that can prioritize the needs of a pet and they live ✨happily ever after.✨ Just because it’s the end of their time with you doesn’t mean it’s the end of their life. It’s an opportunity for them to get a second chance at that forever home.

hi! can i ask what's ur opinion on giving pets away? not necessarily because u can't afford to care for em anymore but maybe incompatibility of personalities or maybe lifestyles. is it wrong to give ur pet for adoption if u know someone who's better suited for keeping a pet, like emotionally?

This is going to be controversial, but I support making that choice.

There’s a lot of rhetoric lately around how it’s evil and unethical to rehome your pet if you don’t “need to.” And what that does is prioritize human ideology over the actual animal’s well-being.

Pets that aren’t a good match for your home or pets that aren’t really wanted anymore frequently have lower welfare! When caring for an animal becomes a burden or is forced, people end up resenting them, and that means the animal often doesn’t get all of its needs fulfilled. Even if you’re still feeding it and providing appropriate vet care, how likely are you to provide affection or enrichment to an animal you’re tired of being stuck with?

Lifestyle and personality really matter to making sure a pet is a good fit for a home. A dog that alert-barks at every leaf that moves is probably a bad fit for someone who has a chronic migraine syndrome, and they might not know that until the dog has been in the home for weeks and started to open up. A really feisty kitten that requires a ton of play might not do best in the home of someone older who wanted a quiet lap cat. And while you can you do your best to plan to find a compatible animal, you won’t always know ahead of time what issues might arise.

“Forever home” rhetoric is really, really popular and I think it’s very unfair to the animals it is supposed to support. It started with the backlash of seeing animals abandoned inappropriately, and has been heavily reinforced in the public mind because it’s so frequently used to drive fundraising and support for legislation. The whole “forever home” concept communicates to people that getting an animal is an immutable commitment and that if you can’t keep an animal, it is a personal moral failing. It frames human priorities (we think people who get rid of animals are Evil and Bad and should be shunned) as more important than actual welfare needs for individual animals (are they getting the care they need where they are).

Obviously, I don’t support people dumping animals or just getting fad pets they’ll discard immediately, but there’s so many alternate situations that can arise. Even if it’s just “they got a pet and didn’t know what caring for it would take and didn’t want to care for it so they brought it back, how awful” like… okay, I’d like the person to have done more research before they got a pet, but isn’t it better that the animal now has a second chance to go to better home? Knowing what a commitment requires theoretically can be very different than having to actually follow through regularly, and I’d rather see someone maturely acknowledge that having an animal isn’t a good fit than keep it anyway!!

If animals being happy and with all their biological, veterinary, and social needs fulfilled is actually the goal, we need to prioritize their welfare over human opinion. I’d much rather see an animal rehomed responsibly to somewhere it will thrive and be welcomed than see people keep animals they can’t/don’t want to care for out of guilt or shame. 

[withwritersblock]

Call It What You Want

~Call It What You Want by Taylor Swift~

Author's Note: Requested! I um well here's this um yeah

Summary: Luke's fans find out his girlfriend is a content creator and flood her comments with hate. Luke finds a way to comfort her.

Warnings: some mean language, implied smut like barely

Word Count: 3,440

It was an accident. She was planning on keeping her relationship as secret as possible. Her social media following was incredibly nosy. They would always over analyze every detail of her posts. Especially, her TikToks and her YouTube videos. 

She vlogged her life, sometimes it would be barely anything and other times it would be every detail of her life. 

When she started dating her boyfriend, she promised that it would not be something she would make content out of. Especially since her boyfriend was Luke Hughes. They started dating after being friends for nearly a year.

 Keeping their relationship private was easy since their lives didn’t necessarily change much. Since they were friends before they got together. He was never featured in any of her content since people would instantly make assumptions. Keeping it private became extra easy after he moved to New Jersey for the NHL. Although, it became suspicious after she stopped mentioning her boyfriend. 

She had spent several hours editing her most recent YouTube video where she was talking about how she was taking a break since she would be on vacation. Vacation was actually moving to New Jersey to live with Luke. She graduated early, since she spent three years of her life completely focusing on school, her videos, and Luke.

Since her eyes were so exhausted she didn’t notice that Luke was walking in the background completely shirtless. 

He was barely in the video, hardly noticeable. But both of their fans were incredible detectives and found it out within the first ten minutes of the video being posted.

“Lukey,” she called out towards him from her bedroom. She was sitting at her desk, starting towards her desk top. She continued to scroll through the five second clip that Luke was barely in. 

“Yeah?” he called back as he walked into their newly shared bedroom. He walked towards her as he rested his hand onto the desk as he delicately pressed his lips to the side of her cheek. 

“Remember how we were going to keep this secret for as long as possible?” she explained. He hummed as he brushed her hair off of her neck as he tilted her head to the side to kiss her lips delicately. For a moment, she leaned back to deepen the kiss. “Lukey,” she mumbled against his lips. He hummed again as he slowly leaned back. “They found out,” she let out as her eyes widened slightly.

“They—what?” he asked as he shifted his gaze towards her desktop. 

“Look,” she let out as she reversed the video slightly. She played the five second sequence and he stared blankly towards the screen.

“What am I supposed to be looking at?” he asked as he stared towards the screen, “Besides my beauti—”

“Not the time, baby,” she mumbled as she raised her hand up, gliding it across his cheek. He chuckled as he leaned closer. “Look, here,” she mumbled as she pointed towards the top left of the screen. Where he walked through the hallway, his gaze was on his phone as he was on the screen for a few seconds.

“That’s it?” he let out a soft chuckle leaving his lips, “Come on, I look like every guy ever. There’s no way people know that’s me,” he explained as he watched her scroll down and show the top comment on her video. 

Nohughesyno: I know Luke Hughes when I see him!! 3:56!

“Okay that’s one comment—” she interrupted him by scrolling through the rest of the comments. Every single one was mentioning that Luke was in the video. “Okay, that’s fine, we’re fine,” he mumbled as he took a hold of her chair, spinning it so that her body was facing him. 

“This could be bad,” she muttered as she looked into his eyes, pouting slightly. He rested his hands onto the desk as he leaned towards her, deliactely taking her lips with his. She hummed against his lips as her hands glided along his neck and into his hair.

“It will be fine, I promise,” he mumbled against her lips, “Now you don’t have to care too much,” he said as he pulled back. He watched as she slowly opened her eyes.

“You’re right,’ she mumbled.

“I’m always right,” he let out teasingly. She pushed him back, chuckling. He smirked as he leaned towards her kissing her urgently.

~~~

She thought Luke was right, convinced herself that everything would be fine. Except, the comments started off sweet. Many of them were happy to find out that they were together. She noticed that comments and views on old videos were sky rocketing as they were trying to find anything that they have missed. It was cute for a few days.

She thought what’s the harm in actually posting a video with purpose of showing Luke off. By showing him off, it was a two second clip of them posing in her floor length mirror. 

She was wearing a red sweater with black leather pants. He was wearing one of his all black suits. He was standing beside her, awkwardly holding up two thumbs up as they posed for the small clip. 

It was almost instant that the comments were flooded with awful comments. Many of them were calling her a gold digger, calling her ugly, calling her all of the awful inults you could think of. Simply because she was dating Luke.

It wasn’t just his followers that were saying awful things, it was her own. They kept saying that she was shallow for being with a professional athlete. Despite the fact that her and Luke met during their college orientation. She didn’t know that he was even drafted into the NHL since she never paid attention to hockey. 

She was sitting on the aisle of the WAG section, unengaged in any conversation. The first period flew by as the score was still 0-0. Her gaze was on her Instagram comments. There was such a flood of mean comments that at this point all she wanted was to find something that was kind. But there was nothing, no matter how much she scrolled.

Being content creator for majority of her teenage years, she was used to ignoring the comments. Not letting any of the awful words get to her. But something about the words saying that she wasn’t good enough for Luke really stabbed her in her chest. He was everything to her, all she wanted was for his fans to see that. 

Luke wasn’t active on social media much during the season so he was utterly clueless. Y/N was good at pretending, convinced that Luke had no idea how she was feeling.

The boys were skating back on the ice to start the second when Reanne delicately tapped Y/N’s shoulder. She forced her gaze up to meet Reanne’s gaze. “You’re too quiet, what’s going on?”

Y/N’s eyes widened while she took a deep breath. “Been a long day,” she mumbled as she watched Luke skate in a wide circle on the ice. A soft smile formed to her lips, knowing that he was there.

“Saw that you posted Luke on your TikTok. Huge step right?” she expressed. Y/N hummed as she watched the teams line up for the face off. She watched Luke instantly get in the play, pushing any conversation aside. Reanne’s lips fell into a pout but left her alone.

The rest of the game ended in a tight overtime win with a goal by Jack. It was usually how the games have been going for the last few games.

She waited outside of the locker room, her gaze on her TikTok comments. Every word stabbing her in the chest. There was only so much she could take. Especially about how Luke deserves better. She knew that the fans have no idea who either of them truly were but for them to still say that. It sucked.

She leaned against the wall, blinking away any tears that were fighting to form in her eyes. 

Hughesy542: I can’t believe Luke would be with someone who clearly has no personality. She’s probably only with him for his money

The comment continued to cycle through her mind. Her TikTok platform was completely different that how she handled her YouTube videos. Her TikToks, sure she seemed shallow there. Most of the content, the only content that would get views, would be her get ready with me videos. Sure, it probably seemed like that all she cared about is how she looked but she was more than that.

She knew that. Luke knew that. He wouldn’t be with her if that was the case. She was gorgeous but there was so much more to her than that. She hated being called shallow.

“Y/N?” she heard Luke say, she lifted her gaze to see him directly in front of her. She jumped and slammed her hand against her chest. 

“Jesus, Luke! You scared the hell out of me,” she said while chuckling. The corner of his lips curled upwards as he looked over her features.

“I said your name like four times, beautiful. You alright?” he asked as he reached towards her. She stepped back, dropping her gaze towards the concrete below her.

“Ready to head home?” she asked softly as she glanced towards him before she started walking away from him.

Luke pursed his lips forward as he took in a long deep breath. She didn’t give him a chance to reply as she began walking towards the car. He nodded as he pressed his lips together as he followed after her. He was practically jogging towards her.

She glanced behind her to see Luke reaching towards her. He took a delicate hold of her waist; forcing her to stop. She lifted her head up meeting his gaze. He scanned her features, taking note in the tears brimming her eyes. Reaching towards her, he pulled her into a tight embrace.

At first she was hesitant has she kept her arms to her side. Slowly, she wrapped her arms around his center back. Luke took a hold of the back of her head, holding her tightly to his chest. Her entire body relaxed in his arms. A sob rised in her throat but she tried to keep it inside. 

“What’s going on?” he asked softly. 

Reluctantly, she pulled away from him, looking into his gaze. “I’m just tired,” she mumbled. He nodded while looking deeply into her eyes. 

“Okay,” he let out softly as she slipped away from his grasp. He held out his hand towards her and she happily took a hold of his hand. Luke watched her lead him towards his car that was parked in the back of the parking garage.

The drive home was quiet. It was usually quiet after losses but Luke and Y/N were always in great moods after a win. But she was so silent, that he knew something was wrong. They were only a few minutes away from their shared apartment.

“Baby,” Luke mumbled as they sat at a red light. She kept her gaze towards her lap, her phone was in her bag. She couldn’t stare at the comments anymore. The words were all jumbled in her head. Every word was intersecting with one another and making it worse. “Can you look at me?” he let out softly. 

She clenched her jaw as she slowly lifted her head to look towards him. He scanned her features watching her avoid his eye. “Talk to me,” he let out. Slowly, she pulled her lips between her teeth as she tilted her head back. Luke looked back towards the street in front of him as he drove ahead. 

“I–I can’t,” she choked out while she dropped her gaze back down towards her lap. “Not now,” she muttered. Luke’s eyes widened as he shifted his gaze back towards her momentarily as he turned into the parking garage.

“Okay, what can I do?” he asked softly, he took a sudden breath as he slowed down into the parking garage. She shook her head as she continued to avoid his eyes. “Baby,” 

“Luke please,” she mumbled as a sob climbed into her throat.

“Okay,” he let out barely above a whisper. He glanced towards her again as he pulled into his parking spot. “Can you tell me when we get upstairs?” he asked softly. She shrugged her shoulders as she unbuckled her seatbelt. Luke reached towards her, resting his hand onto her thigh.

“I will,” she muttered as she met his gaze. 

“Okay, my love,” he let out as he dragged his thumb across the fabric for a few seconds. She took a deep breath before she opened the door and climbed out of the car. Luke quickly followed in pursuit.

She was already walking towards the entrance to the apartment from the parking garage. Luke practically jogged towards her to catch up to her speed. Luke reached towards her, taking a hold of her arm for her to slow down. She glanced towards him as she slowed down, letting him take a hold of her hand. 

She began to climb up the stairs guiding Luke towards their third floor apartment. His thumb glided along her skin absentmindedly. Despite the stairs being inside, it was incredibly cold and he could feel it against the skin of the top of her hand.

Luke pulled his phone from his pocket and immediately pulled up DoorDash. He decided that she needed her favorite late night dinner. They ordered from the italian restaurant so many times, their order was saved in the app. By the time he ordered it, they were already outside of their apartment door.

She pulled her hand from his as she unlocked the door and immediately stepped inside. “I’m gonna go shower,” she muttered. 

“Hey,” Luke mumbled as he took a hold of her waist, spinning her to face him. “I’ve been very patient,” he muttered teasingly. Her eyes widened slightly as she felt a small smile form on her lips. Luke took a hold of her chin as he slowly leaned towards her. He kissed her delicately for a few seconds. 

“Better?” she asked softly.

“Better,” he mumbled as he pecked her lips once more. “Do you want me to join you?” he asked sweetly. Her lips fell into a soft pout as he glided his thumb across her bottom lip. “It’s okay baby girl,” he muttered as he leaned towards her and delicately pressed his lips to her forehead.

“I’m sorry,” she let out softly.

“Don’t be, my love, I’ll be waiting,” he mumbled as she slowly slipped away from his grasp. He took a deep breath as he watched her hang her head low as she rounded the corner towards the bathroom. He kicked his shoes off and started walking deeper into the apartment. 

Subconsciously, he pulled his phone back out and pulled out TikTok.

Of course, usually how it went, one of Y/N’s vidoes popped up. It was one of the ones she had posted early today. He watched the twenty-second: spend the morning with me video. Smiling to himself, he watched as the clip of the both of them appeared. In his opinion, he looked awkward.

He sat down on the couch, clicking the comments; out of curiosity. The first comment he read was saying that Y/N was ugly. His mouth practically fell open, offended that anyone could look at her and have that thought cross his mind. She was absolutely stunning. 

He shook his head as he continued to read each comment on her post. Every time he read a comment talking about her lack of personality, his mind would instantly think about every moment she made him laugh. How cute she would be every time she would dance while cleaning because she couldn’t sit still.

His heart starting beating rapidly the longer his name was brought up. Every comment with his name in it was saying how he deserved better. He never understood that. If anything, she deserved better than him. She was out of this world stunning and he felt like she deserved better. 

He clenched his jaw the more and felt anger send a rush of heat over his body. How can anyone not like the love of his life? How can anyone not look at her and think anything other than how beautiful she is; think about how kind she is; think about how funny and smart she is?

He took a deep breath and tossed his phone beside him on the couch. Tilting his head back against the couch, he squinted his eyes shut. He shook his head side to side as he contemplated what to do. Luke knew that’s what was bothering her. Usually, she was so good at letting it roll off of her back. But it seemed like it was everywhere and all he wanted to do was make it stop for her. All he’s wanted was for her to be happy, he hated seeing how this was affecting her. 

He was so consumed with his thoughts that he did not realize how much time had passed. There was a knock on his door and his eyes shot open. He stood up from the couch and took fast steps towards his door. 

He took a hold of the door handle and pulled it open to see the person delivering his food. He smiled widely, “Thank you so much,” he expressed as he took the cardboard bag from the DoorDasher. The person quickly darted down the hallway as Luke shut the door, twisting the locks in the process. 

Y/N stepped back into the living room, her hair was dripping went as her body was covered by a tank top and a pair of sweatpants. Her lips curled upward into a wide grin, “Is that what I think it is?” she asked as she hopped slightly towards the countertop. He chuckled softly as he nodded dramatically as he instantly started pulling out their dramatically large pasta dishes. 

She instantly wrapped her arms around him from his side. He wrapped his arms around her as he turned to hold her to his chest. “You’re the best, you know that?” she mumbled against his chest. He glided his hand up and down her back.

“I love you baby,” he whispered as he delicately pressed his lips to the top of her head. Before she pulled away from him to meet his gaze. His hand slipped beneath her tanktop as he glided his hand across her skin. “I’m sorry about what’s happening on social media,” he mumbled.

Her eyes widened as she tilted her head to the side. “It’s okay, Lu–”

“It’s not,” he let out as he looked over her teary features. “Everything they’re saying isn’t true, you know that right?” he asked softly as he glided his hands over her frame. 

“I know, it’s just a lot,” she mumbled.

“And you realize–like–you are so out of my league. I don’t care what my “fans” say,” he mumbled as he slowly guided her backwards. 

She chuckled as she rolled her eyes playfully, “Oh my god,” she let out. He smirked as he reached down and took a hold of her thighs. She jumped up and wrapped her legs around his waist. Her hands ran through his hair, tugging at the curls slightly. 

“Not only are you incredibly hot–”

“Luke–”

“Let me finish,” he said with a grin on his face. Slowly, he pushed open the door to their bedroom. “You’re literally fucking hilarious and adorable and sexy–”

“Luke, what are you doing?” she asked softly as he slowly placed her down onto their bed. He stepped back and took a hold of his red Devils jersey and tossed it to the floor. Her eyes widened slightly as she scanned his frame. His body was covered in redden marks from hits he took during the game.

“I’m reminding of who you are,” he began as he climbed on top of her, “You are my favorite person on the planet,” he whispered as he looked deeply into her eyes. She rolled her eyes playfully as she ran her hands from his hair down his neck. “I hate to see you hurting,” 

“I’ll get over it eventually,” 

“Can I speed up the process?” he asked, a smirk toying to his lips. Her eyes widened slightly while she nodded. Slowly, he began to press delicate wet kisses down her frame.

“I think it’s working already,” she mumbled as she arched her back slightly.

“Perfect,”

[charlotte-fleming]

Here’s my take on Max Jägerman - he is NOT the progressive bully that asks Pete’s pronouns before beating the shit out of him, what he IS is a dumbass.

For example he’ll overhear Caitlyn (Cool Kid���️ so he respects her) talking to Kyle about taking her estrogen and assume it’s a drug and ask for a hit. Kyle and Caitlyn, confused, explain that it’s a hormone girls devolop that guys don’t have to the same level, and Caitlyn obviously has less so takes supplemental doses. Max thinks this means Caitlyn has a medical condition and is like “Oh my god dude I’m so sorry you’re sick? Do you like go to the hospital? Nah I’m not trying to take anyone’s meds my bad bro,” and Caitlyn is too dumbfounded and also entertained to correct him.

Later, in the case that he does not fall and die, Max eventually apologizes to Richie for all the times he punched him in the balls. Richie goes “it’s chill - besides, I don’t even have balls, so it didn’t even hurt as much as you though”. Max is MORTIFIED with sympathy “You don’t have balls?? Oh my god dude how come?” Ruth without a beat says he lost them in a tragic accident many years ago and Max fully believes her. Richie goes along for the bit.

Even further along the line, Max asks about the trans flag on Richie’s bag and Richie explains it’s for people who were born the wrong gender and want to change. Max goes “Wait dude you want to be a girl? Shittt why didn’t you tell me?! Do you have a new name or something like that? Like…Richietta?”

The real progressive bullies, obviously, are pre-Max’s death Kyle and Jason, who apologize before beating someone up and then defend their pronouns in the same breath.

[o9sessions]

FRACTURED MASKS ── #1 | ◯ △ □

on the edge of desperation, a chance knocks,

offering salvation wrapped in a red envelope

MASTER | NEXT

wc ; 4.1k warnings ; violence (slapping), cursing

THE hum of the fluorescent lights in the lab was soothing, the faint echo of pens scribbling onto the versitile paper made from processed plant fibers filling the otherwise quiet space. You sat at a corner desk near the back wall away from the other students, bent over your notes; the pages filled with medical terminology and formulas, a language you knew well.

Frankly, it was all you had left—the work, the research, the dream of the future you were still so desperately clinging to, despite the storm brewing around you. You’d always known you were meant for something more, something great.

As a little girl, you’d sit in the back of the classroom in America, your home country, gazing out the window daydreaming about what your life would be like in years to come. The world had so much to offer, and you wanted to be part of the change, part of the movement that would make this world a better place. Studying medicine was your true calling, a everlasting dream to help those in need, just as the doctor who treated your parents had done.

Your grip on the pen nestled in your hand tightened at the thought of them, a heavy sadness weighing in on your heart. They were both hardworking people who fought through their own struggles, but they gave you everything they could—love, support, and dreams of a better future. Your mother had always been the one to say, “You’re going to do something great, something that will change the world.” Your father, though quiet, had always supported that belief, his pride evident whenever you made a small achievement. You were their only child, the only one to carry on their legacy, and they poured everything into your future.

But when they died, everything came crashing down.

It had happened so quickly. One moment, they were fine—healthy, full of life, planning for your future in medicine—and the next, they were gone. The cancer had come back, worse than before, it took both of them in the blink of an eye. You’d never really had the chance to grieve properly; instead you had to grow up in an instant, picking up the pieces of your shattered world.

You found yourself alone in a vast, cold world, with no one to turn to. The grief felt like a dark cloud, following you everywhere. No brothers, no sisters, no extended family—just you. The silence was suffocating. The weight of carrying on your family’s name and legacy felt heavier than anything you could ever imagine. Your parents’ absence was a constant, an unspoken ache carried with you every day.

But you had to keep going. They had invested so much in you. Their dreams had been your dreams, and you couldn’t just let that die. So you packed your bags, got on a plane, and moved across the world to Korea. You’d told herself it was for your future, for your studies, but deep down, you were running—running from the memories that clung to every corner of your childhood home.

Korea was a new beginning. The medical technology there was unmatched, the advancements in treatment and research were groundbreaking, and it was a place where you could finally make you mark. You would build a new life, one far removed from the painful memories of your parents. You threw herself into your studies, determined to not only make them proud but also to prove that their sacrifices meant something.

Your proficiency in Korean, a skill you’d honed since childhood, made the transition easier. You had taken classes since elementary school in preparation for the opportunity to study abroad. It had been a dream of yours for as long as you could remember, and now that dream was within your reach. You were going to be a doctor, someone who could heal the world.

You didn’t notice how lost in thought you were until the PA system crackled to life, breaking your concentration.

“Attention, Miss [name]. Please report to the Head Minister’s office immediately. I repeat, Miss [name], please report to the Head Minister’s office.”

You froze, pen still in hand, the words barely registering in your mind. Dozens of paris of eyes landed on you in an instant, butterflies swirled in your belly from the attention. The sudden, sharp jolt of anxiety hit your chest as you sat up straight, setting the pen down. With haste you began packing materials back onto your bag, quickly scurrying out of the study lab and into the hallway.

Your mind raced—you had no reason to think anything was wrong. You had been keeping up with your assignments, acing exams, staying focused on your studies. What could it be?

Each step echoed down the silent halls of the school. The walk to the Head Minister’s office felt like it took hours, and by the time you stood outside the door, your palms were clammy, stomach twisted in knots. With a shaky breath, you knocked.

“Come in,” a voice called from within.

You pushed the door open, the dim light inside casting long shadows across the room. The Head Minister, a stern-looking woman with sharp eyes, sat behind her desk, papers scattered before her. Her gaze flicked up when the door clicked shut behind her, but there was something in her expression that sent a shiver down your spine—something that made your pulse quicken.

“Miss [name], please, sit,” the Minister said, gesturing to the chair across from her.

You obeyed, feeling the weight of the room settle over the both of you like a cloak. The minister didn’t waste time.

“I’m afraid there’s some troubling news,” she began, her voice cool and detached, as though she had delivered this same message countless times before.

Your heart thudded painfully in your chest. You instinctively clasped your hands in your lap, trying to still the nervous shaking that had overtaken them.

“Your financial status with the school has fallen into the negatives. There’s a significant amount of debt you have yet to clear, and unfortunately, it’s put your enrollment in jeopardy.” The Minister’s words landed like a punch, each one more suffocating than the last.

Your breath caught in her throat. You had been trying to ignore it, telling yourself it wasn’t that bad, that you’d find a way. But hearing the words spoken out loud, so matter-of-fact, shattered the fragile illusion you had been clinging to.

“Y-You’re saying I’m… not allowed to continue?” you whispered, voice barely audible.

The Minister’s expression softened for just a moment, but the coldness never fully left her eyes. “I’m afraid that’s the case. Until this debt is settled, we can’t allow you to continue your studies here. You’re being put on hold.”

The world seemed to tilt beneath you, the room spinning as the weight of the situation settled into your bones. You had thought she could keep it together, that you could finish what your parents had started for you. But now—now it felt like the ground was slipping from under you.

“I don’t… I don’t understand,” you stammered, her throat tightening. “How did this happen? I thought my payments were on track.”

The Minister flicked through a few papers in front of her, her face impassive. “It appears the balance has been building for some time now, and the payments haven’t been made in full. There’s an outstanding amount that needs to be cleared immediately.”

Your hands picked harshly at your nails, leg bouncing in anticipation for the answer she would provide to your next question. “How much is the balance?”

The way she looked at you then, eyes flickering with a slight hint of pity was enough to confirm that it was something way out of your limits.

“60 Million Won.” ($41,120 USD)

Your mind raced, that was at least a years worth of tuition. You couldn’t afford this! Not now! Not when everything you had worked for—everything you had sacrificed—was on the line. Your dream of becoming a doctor, hope for a future that seemed just within your reach, was slipping away faster than you could grasp it.

“I-I can get the money,” you blurted out, panic rising in your chest. “I’ll figure something out. Just give me time, please.”

The Minister’s expression softened again, but only slightly. “I’m afraid time is no longer a luxury we can afford. Until your financial situation is resolved, I’m afraid we cannot allow you to remain enrolled.”

A lump formed in your throat, a hot rush of tears threatening to spill over. You wanted to scream, to beg, to plead for them to understand—but the words stuck, lodged somewhere deep inside you, where they couldn’t escape.

You weren’t used to being vulnerable, to letting anyone see how far the weight of everything was crushing you. But this—this was different. This was your future on the line, and there was nothing you could do.

“Take a few days to process everything, Miss [name],” the Minister continued, her tone unreadable. “We’ll be in touch once the situation has been resolved.”

You nodded, unable to form words, too numb to respond. You stood up, legs shaky, and vision blurring. The room seemed to close in around you as you turned and walked out, each step echoing in the hollow silence.

The door clicked shut behind you, and the reality of the situation crashed down on you with full force. You stood in the hallway for a long moment, not knowing what to do, where to go, or how to keep moving forward. Your entire future had just been ripped away from you, and all you had left was the suffocating weight of uncertainty.

The cold air of the train station bites at your skin, a sharp reminder of the emptiness around you. You sit hunched over on the worn bench, your bag at your feet, clutching your phone like it’s the only thing tethering you to the world. The fluorescent lights buzz faintly overhead, casting a sickly yellow glow on the nearly deserted platform.

At this late hour, there are only a few scattered passengers—an old man reading a newspaper, a couple arguing in hushed tones, a woman sipping coffee to stay awake.

But none of them matter.

Your fingers tremble as you scroll through your phone, searching desperately for a contact, a message, anything that might lead you to him. Your sugar daddy—the one who promised to take care of you, who helped you get this far—was supposed to be your safety net. He had always reassured you, always provided. But now, every attempt to call him goes straight to voicemail. Every message the same, ‘not delivered’.

When you’d first moved to Korea, only 19 years old and barley out of high school, things had been manageable. You found yourself a place to stay in Seoul, a small but cozy apartment. You made school friends, and your studies were progressing well. Then came the sugar daddy—an older man who had a fondness for your ambition, an attraction to your foreignerness.

He offered to fund your education, promising to cover your tuition, rent, and even some living expenses. It was an unexpected stroke of luck. You didn’t feel right about it, but you told herself it was temporary—just until you got her footing, just until you could fully stand on her own.

At first, it had been easy to accept his help. You wasn’t using him, you told herself. He didn’t ask for anything beyond your company and very small sexual favors, a kiss here some oral sex there. You’d convinced yourself you could keep things strictly business. But you were wrong. You had fallen into his world, one of easy luxuries and comfort, and for a while, it felt like a dream.

But dreams are fragile, and sometimes, they shatter without warning.

You try his social media, hoping for some sign, but when you go to type in the filmilar username no profile pops up, you’re hit with the harsh realization—you’ve been blocked. Completely.

Your heart sinks further as you stare at the blank screen, the gnawing sense of abandonment tightening in your chest. You never knew his real name. He only ever used an alias, a charming façade that you thought was enough. But now you realize just how little you actually knew about him. No name. No address. No way to contact him outside of the platforms he controlled.

He’s gone.

Your mind begins to race, dozens of questions swirling your brain, yet left unanswered. How long ago had he cut off your expenses? Did he find someone else, someone younger maybe? Did he stop paying your rent aswell?

“Fuck.” The sudden thought caused the curse to slip from your quivering lips. Hopefully you wouldn’t come home to find an eviction notice tapped to your apartment door.

You know you’ve been distant this past year, canceling meetings at the last minute, pushing off wondering touches and kisses. Yet that was no excuse for him to cut you off and leave you completely in the dark. You’ve expressed to have been been stacked with work from your university, trying hard to make it through medical school.

A wave of hopelessness crashes over you, and you press the heels of your hands into your eyes to stop the tears from spilling over. The train station around you feels colder, lonelier, as you sit there, unsure of what to do next. The weight of the debt—the 60 million won looming over your head—feels unbearable.

“You look troubled,” a smooth, unfamiliar voice breaks through your thoughts.

You look up sharply, your eyes meeting a man standing a few feet away. He’s dressed neatly, almost too neatly for this dingy train station, with a crisp suit and a polished demeanor that feels out of place. There’s something unsettling about the way he smiles at you—warm enough to seem kind, yet sharp enough to put you on edge.

“I couldn’t help but notice,” he continues, stepping closer, “you look like someone with a lot on their mind.”

You shift uncomfortably, hugging your bag tighter. “I’m fine,” you mutter, your voice unconvincing even to yourself.

“Are you?” he asks, tilting his head slightly. His tone is calm, almost soothing, but there’s a hint of something behind it—curiosity, perhaps, or calculation. “Sometimes, it helps to talk about it.”

You hesitate, unsure whether to brush him off or let the floodgates open. Against your better judgment, the words spill out before you can stop them. “I’m in debt,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how I’m going to pay it off. I’ve tried everything, but now…” You trail off, swallowing the lump in your throat, head bowed in shame.

The man nods slowly, as if he’s heard this all before. “A difficult situation, no doubt,” he says, his voice laced with an odd sympathy. “But perhaps there’s a way out.”

Your head snaps to him so quickly your surprised your neck is still attached to your shoulders. “What do you mean there’s still a way out?”

The man takes a step closer, his polished shoes echoing faintly in the nearly empty station. He sets the briefcase he’s been carrying on the bench beside you with a deliberate precision, the metallic click of the latches breaking the silence. Slowly, he opens it, revealing two neatly stacked piles of red and blue paper squares, along with a thick wad of cash.

You blink at the sight, your heart skipping a beat.

“Miss, would you be interested in a game of ddakji?”

“Ddakji?” you repeated, the name sounding unfamiliar on your tongue. Wasn’t this an old korean kids game? “What is this?” you ask, your voice hesitant as you glance between the vibrant paper and the man’s unreadable expression.

“A game,” he replies simply, his tone light yet oddly menacing. He picks up one of the blue squares and hands it to you. “It’s simple. You take this and try to flip over my red paper square by slamming it down. Every time you succeed, I’ll pay you 100,000 won.”

Your eyes widen slightly at the number, but suspicion quickly creeps in. “And if I lose?”

The man’s smile grows, sharp and knowing. “If you lose,” he says, almost casually, “You pay me the same amount.”

You freeze, your fingers tightening on the paper in your hands. “W-what..?”

He nods, unbothered by the disbelief in your voice. “That’s the risk. It’s only fair, don’t you think?”

Your gaze flickers to the money, then back to the man’s face. The desperation in your chest claws at you, urging you to agree. Sixty million won—the debt that looms over your head—flashes in your mind. Even if you win just a few rounds, it could make a difference.

“What happens if I say no?” you ask, your voice quiet.

“Then nothing,” he replies, his smile unfaltering. “You walk away, and your situation stays exactly as it is.” He tilts his head slightly, studying you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. “But something tells me you won’t.”

You swallow hard, your hands trembling slightly as you look down at the paper square. Against your better judgment, you nod.

“Alright,” you say, trying to sound more confident than you feel. “Let’s play.”

The man’s grin sharpens, and he places a red square on the ground before taking a step back. “Whenever you’re ready,” he says, gesturing for you to start.

You look down at his paper, gripping the blue square tightly. You take a deep breath, then slam it down as hard as you can. The sound echoes through the station, but the red square barely shifts.

The man clicks his tongue in mock disappointment. “Tough luck,” he says, stepping forward.

Your stomach sinks. “I don’t have the money to—”

“Relax,” he interrupts smoothly, raising a hand to cut you off. “You look like you’re about to cry. I’ll tell you what—we’ll change the terms.”

You blink, confused. “Change the terms?”

“Yes.” He crouches slightly so that he’s at eye level with you. His smile stretches wider, his gaze unrelenting. “Every time you lose, instead of paying me money, I’ll slap you.”

Your breath hitches, and you recoil slightly at the proposition. “Slap me?”

“It’s fair, isn’t it?” he says, his voice calm and composed as if he’s suggesting the most reasonable alternative. “And if you win, I’ll still pay you 100,000 won. No money owed. Just a little pain if you lose.”

You stare at him, your heart pounding in your ears. The desperation gnaws at you, urging you forward despite every instinct screaming at you to walk away. Slowly, reluctantly, you nod.

“Fine,” you say, your voice barely audible.

The man’s grin widens, and he gestures toward the red square on the ground. “Good. Let’s begin.”

You kneel down again, gripping the blue square tightly. This time, when you slam it down, the red square doesn’t even budge.

The man wastes no time. He steps forward, his hand swinging sharply. The slap rings out loud and clear, stinging like fire across your cheek.

You press a hand to your face, glaring up at him with watery eyes. “You didn’t have to hit so hard,” you mutter, more out of humiliation than anger.

He shrugs, unbothered. “That’s the game.”

You grit your teeth, determination flaring. You pick up the blue square again, readying yourself for another attempt. This time, when you slam it down, the red square flips over with a satisfying snap.

The man raises an eyebrow, mildly impressed. “Atta girl,” he says, pulling a crisp 100,000 won bill from the briefcase and handing it to you.

The money feels heavier than it should in your hand, like a tangible piece of hope. It ignites something in you, pushing you to keep going.

You play again. And again. And again.

The slaps come harder, the sting lingering longer, but every time you win, the money in your hand grows. By the end of it, your cheek is red and sore, your hand aching from the repeated impact of the paper. But you’ve amassed a small stack of cash—a temporary reprieve from the weight crushing your shoulders.

The man finally raises a hand, signaling the end of the game. “You’ve done well,” he says, his tone almost approving. “But if you’re truly interested in changing your life, there’s a bigger game you can join.”

Your heart sinks at the cryptic offer. “What do you mean?”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small black envelope, wrapped in a red bow. He holds it out to you, his expression unreadable, although for a second you swear you saw a flicker of uncertainty—guilt, in his eyes.

“Call the number on this card,” he says. “You’ll have the chance to win far more than what’s in your hands right now. Enough to erase your debt and start fresh.”

You hesitate, staring at the card as if it holds the answer to all your problems—and maybe it does. But there’s an edge to his words, a warning you can’t quite decipher.

“Think about it,” he adds, stepping away and closing the briefcase with a decisive snap. “But don’t take too long. Opportunities like this don’t come often.”

And just like that, he’s gone, leaving you alone in the station with the cash in your hands and the card weighing heavy in your pocket.

The familiar creak of the apartqment door echoes in the silence as you step inside, exhaustion pressing down on you like a physical weight. You shut the door behind you, the click of the lock strangely final. Kicking off your shoes, you shuffle toward the tiny kitchenette, your mind too scattered to bother with anything more than a pack of instant ramen.

The fluorescent light above flickers as you fill a cup with water and pour it into the noodles. You toss the packet into the microwave, pressing a few buttons with little thought. The soft hum fills the quiet space, but it does nothing to soothe the growing ache in your chest.

Leaning against the counter, you glance around the small apartment. The peeling wallpaper, the sagging couch, the pile of bills stacked on the coffee table—it all feels heavier now. Without the safety net of your sugar daddy, this place feels less like home and more like a trap.

You exhale shakily, running a hand through your hair. “What am I supposed to do now?” you mutter, the question hanging in the air.

The microwave beeps, but you don’t move right away. Instead, your gaze drops to your bag sitting on the floor by the door. You remember the card. That strange, cryptic envelope the man gave you at the station.

Pushing off the counter, you walk over and crouch down, pulling the card from the pocket of your bag. The glossy surface catches the dim light as you hold it up.

You pull the little envelope open, it’s a small brown card, your thumb traces over the circle, triangle, and square symbols printed on the front before flipping it, revealing the number written inside.

8650 4006

For a moment, you just stare at it, your mind racing with everything that happened today—the minister’s cold words, your sugar daddy’s abrupt betrayal, the stinging slaps, the small stack of cash you’d managed to scrape together.

Sixty million won. The number feels like a noose around your neck, tightening with every second that passes.

You sit down on the edge of the couch, clutching the card in your hand. Your other hand hovers over your phone, trembling as you consider what you’re about to do.

“This could be it,” you whisper, the words trembling on your lips. “My way out.”

Or your way into something worse.

But desperation drowns out caution. You dial the number, the ringing filling your ear like the ticking of a countdown.

On the third ring, someone answers. A calm, even voice greets you.

“Would like to participate in the games?”

You close your eyes, your breath hitching. “Yes,” you say softly, the word carrying the weight of everything you’ve endured.

“I want to play.”

And just like that, your fate is sealed.

a/n — omg guysss first chapter done, so excited to carry on this new story. don’t worry in-ho will be introduced in the 2nd or 3rd chapter i wanted to build up the reader’s background and give you guys an understanding of her thought process and life yk 😭 feel like everyone just rushes their story to get to the good parts 😣🙄 like where’s the build uppp ! hope yall enjoyeddd if you liked to be tagged in the next chapter comment down belowww

[loveesiren]

𝖡𝖾𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗂𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝖭𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗆𝖺𝗋𝖾

Thanos x American!reader

a/n: hi my babies! so this is my first thanos (choi su-bong) fic i'm posting. however, i kind of wrote this as an aftermath of a little series i've been working on of them in the games. so, once i am done hating it and editing it, i will posit it! but i hope you guys enjoy this cute lil fluff. i suck at writing fluff tbh but i tried! xx also, t.o.p is my gwiyomiii, my honeyyyy, my angel babyyyyyyyyy! i'm so inlove with him so feel free to send requests!

synopsis: nightmares of the games still haunt Thanos a year later, but luckily Y/n will never leave his side.

warnings: language, fluff, very brief mention of sex if you squint

wc: 1.1k+

You couldn’t sleep. Insomnia had wrapped itself around your mind ever since surviving the games last year, a constant shadow in your otherwise bright new life. You had so much to be grateful for—making it out alive, the money that had saved you in more ways than one, and, of course, Su-Bong. Though, to this day, you still called him T. Your T.

Never in a million years would you have imagined living in a sleek penthouse in downtown Seoul with a man you fell in love with while playing deadly children’s games. Yet here you were, in a world that once seemed as unreachable as a dream: Thanos’ World. And you loved it.

The games had changed Thanos in ways you never thought possible. He quit the drugs, buried his oversized ego, and spent six months holed up in his apartment with only you for company. It was a metamorphosis you never expected but cherished deeply. When he finally emerged from that cocoon of self-reflection, he returned to music—his first true love. But this time, it wasn’t about sex, drugs, and wealth. His lyrics delved into the rawness of his childhood, the pain of his struggles, the weight of his dreams—and you. Always you. You were his muse.

Being with the Thanos, however, was far from simple. Going out with him was an ordeal, a gamble. Fans flocked to him wherever he went, now more than ever, since he’d announced his new album. He once thrived on the chaos, basking in the adoration of women throwing themselves at him and men idolizing him. He was a star, and he reveled in the glow. But now? Now the attention suffocated him. He avoided crowded places as much as he could, especially when you were by his side.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to show you off—God, he did. But the fear gnawed at him. What if something happened to you? What if someone hurt you? You’d already faced your fair share of vitriol when the media leaked that Thanos was dating some American girl. “American bitch,” they’d called you, throwing their venom your way in tabloids and comment sections. But the hate didn’t break you. If anything, it hardened your resolve.

You refused to let him hide away forever. When his anxiety tried to keep him tethered to the penthouse, you were the one who dragged him out into the world. You reminded him of what life outside these walls could offer, even if it wasn’t always kind. And slowly, piece by piece, you were helping him reclaim it.

You glanced over at Thanos, his peaceful face softened by sleep, his arm draped lazily over your bare thighs. Carefully, you lifted his arm and slipped out of bed, moving quietly so as not to disturb him. Padding toward the kitchen, you glanced at the clock: 2:30 a.m. Another sleepless night. You sighed, the weight of endless insomnia pressing down on you.

You set the kettle to boil, deciding tea wouldn’t cut it tonight. The staleness of the room felt suffocating. What you needed was air. Before stepping out to the balcony, you peeked into the bedroom again, reassured by the steady rise and fall of Thanos’ chest.

The view of Seoul stretched before you as you stepped outside. The city pulsed with quiet energy, its lights casting a warm glow against the dark sky. The faint scent of cherry blossoms drifted through the breeze, mingling with the night air and brushing your hair across your face. This view, this life—it was something you’d never take for granted.

Pulling out your phone, you typed a quick message to Se-mi.

y/n: You up?

Minutes passed before your phone buzzed with a reply.

Se-mi: Yeah. Can’t sleep?

y/n: The insomnia is never-ending.

Se-mi: I miss when we all lived together.

Your lips curved into a bittersweet smile. Memories of those first fragile weeks after escaping the games flooded your mind. The four of you—Thanos, Se-mi, Min-su, and you—crammed into your tiny apartment, clinging to each other for sanity. For weeks, you barely left the safety of those walls. Eventually, Thanos invited everyone to move in with him, but Se-mi and Min-su had decided it was time to go back to their families. The games had taught them how precious life was. That, and your shared space wasn’t exactly conducive to privacy—especially with how loud things could get between you and Thanos when you couldn’t keep your hands off of eachother.

y/n: I miss it too. I miss you. Shopping tomorrow?

Se-mi: You know I hate shopping.

y/n: But you love me, and T gave me his black card.

Se-mi: Spoiled brat.

y/n: See you tomorrow 🥰

Se-mi: Can’t wait ✌🏼

You smiled at her response, warmth spreading through you at the thought of reconnecting with your best friend. But the moment of peace was shattered by a sound from inside—faint whimpers carried through the air. Your heart clenched. Setting your tea down, you hurried back to the bedroom.

“T?” you called softly as you stepped inside.

No response. Only the faint cries that sent chills down your spine. You rushed to the bedside table and flicked on the lamp. Thanos was thrashing slightly, tears streaming down his cheeks, his hands grasping desperately at the empty space where you should have been.

“Fuck! NO!” he suddenly screamed, his voice hoarse with panic.

“T!” you gasped, climbing onto the bed and pulling him into your arms. “T, baby…” you murmured, your voice gentle but firm. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

His hand found your shirt, bunching the fabric in his fist as though clinging to reality. He fought against the demons clawing at him, his breaths ragged and uneven. Finally, his eyes fluttered open, glassy and unfocused at first, until they locked onto yours. His lip quivered as shame filled his expression.

“Hi, baby,” you whispered, brushing your thumb tenderly across his cheek to wipe away the tears. “You’re okay. I’m here.”

“Fuck…” he sighed, his voice trembling as he buried his face in your shirt. His shame was palpable, but you held him tightly, cradling him as though the weight of his nightmares could be eased by your embrace.

“Another nightmare?” you asked softly. He nodded wordlessly, slipping his hand into yours. He hated these moments. Hated the way his past still haunted him, dragging you into his darkness. But you didn’t mind. You’d made a decision long ago: this man was worth every struggle, every sleepless night. Some may say a few days isn’t enough time to know who is your person, but when your life is on the line, time has a way of fast-tracking love.

“M’sorry…” he mumbled, his voice muffled against your chest.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, T,” you reassured him, your fingers running soothingly through his hair. “You know I’ll always be right here.”

“Promise?” His voice was barely above a whisper, raw and vulnerable.

You kissed his forehead, tightening your arms around him. “Promise,” you said, and you meant it with every fiber of your being.

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© loveesiren 2025 - do not copy, translate, transfer, or repost my work without my permission. if you find my work on sites other than through links i've provided, please notify me.

[maenoakasuna]

{ All For Us }

The title will maybe change cause at first it was supposed to be a one shot, But it will be a multi part things.

Im really obsess with Thanos ( T.O.P ✨) And I litteraly watched Squid game for him.I necer watched it before. But anyway, back to buisness, I let you a summary of the whole thing it gonna be. Also be award : English is not my first language so im sorry for the mistakes ☠️

Thanos x Pregnant reader, but it’s new.

Y/N accepted to be part of the gamr to get money for her futur family and lat every debts she had since she met Thanos two years ago. He cheated on her and learn just after they broke up that she was pregnant. Meeting him again in the game wasnt part of the plan. Will you be able to stay alone, survive and keep your little secret ? Or will you admit you need Thanos by your side.

Smut will come, but not for this part. I will tell you when ✨

TW: Mention of drug, Violance.

You was Awake by a music who gave you creepy chills. It wasn’t a literal creepy song, more like something you could hear in an attraction park or something, but you it gave you a bad feeling. The light in the room was to bright, it took you time to adapt.

Looking around you, you noticed a lot of bed, many people and all dress the same. They all had numbers on their back or on their chest. 

You take a look at your hoodie to know your own number ; 017.

Staying in your bed you try to remember what happened. A guy gave you a visit card after you played a game with him. But he also gave you money when you won. Lucky for you, you always were good at Djaki, so You won at your first try. 

Slowly your memory came back. You accepted to play games to earn a lot of money after finding out you were pregnant.

Biting your bottom lips, you put your hand on your stomach. It was still small inside you, but you will need money to raise the child, especially after all the debts your ex boyfriend let you. You was a saint in that story. After all,a part of your debts are caused by you addiction to drug and alcool. It all started two years ago when you met him. He changed you, probably for the worst, but you loved him so much. You lost everything cause of him, cause of your addiction. Your parents dont want to ear about you anymore and your friends didn’t want to hang out with you. You lost everything for a stupid dumb and addict wanna be rapper. 

Thinking about all of this brings tears to your eyes, but you quickly whipped it. You refuse to cry again cause of this stupid dude.

The big door opened and guards wearing a pink one piece entered the room, armed with guns. All the attention was on them at the minute they arrived. They explain the situation you was all in. Some of them had questions and it was all legit. No one had their phone on them or any other personal objects. In your case, you didn’t really care. No phone mean no social media, no text from your ex or anyone who could harass you to got their money. Your only concern is when you gonna be home, maybe you will find a dirty appartement cause some of them will have bursted in.

Your eyes got on the Tv when the guard start to show some people here, call their name and say how much in debts they are in. You wasn’t really interested until your ear his name ; Choi Su-Bong. 

Your eyes started to scan the room, looking for him. Anxiety rushed in your veins, heart pudding until you saw him. He was in the crowd with his usual purple hair. 

Your hands started to shake, your breath was quicker, heavier. Normally when you felt that way, you took a pill to calm you down, but you can’t anymore.

Nervously you started to bite your fingernails. You closed your eyes and took a deep breathe, trying to control the anxiety. You silently cursed any gods out here or whatever other dinities to had put your ex in the same game as you. What was the fucking chances ? 

But at the same time, you weren't really surprised. He has double or triple the money you have to repay.

After everyone had a little more trust in the guards, they asked everyone to come to sign a paper about the four rules of the game. Nervously you get in line with the others, far away from Thanos. When it was your turn, you read the rules carefully and sign it.

The next step was the picture before the first game. You placed yourself in front of the camera and gave a small smile when the lady said to smile. It was more an anxious smile than a real one. After the picture you was on your way to follow the other but turn your head when you eared thanos voices. He was with a big group of girl and some guys for a group photo. Of course, even here he was popular. Even here he had to play it cool. If only they all knew who he really was. The only nice thing you could said about him was how easy he can connect with people. Something you would like to have. You never was the shy type or the kind of girl who was afraid to say what’s on her mind, but you’ve been called rude more time than you can remember ; Until Thanos

Two Years ago

You come out of the University after another endless class. You just go your last exam result and it was not what you hopped for. You could already ear your mom yell at you and saying how much you disappoint her, after all the money herself and your dad put in your scholarship, how you should study more. You never really was good at school cause you never liked that. You parents expect you to become a lawyer but you don’t give a shit about that job or the laws. Your passion was somewhere else. You love music, drawing, painting. You are more of an artist person than the big brain kid. If you keep going to school it’s only because you know art doesn't pay enough. 

That Night, one of your friends wanted to go out to celebrate her birthday and you agreed to be there for at least some hours, cause you needed to go back home to study harder before the next exam. It’s in this crowded bar you met Thanos. He was there, on stage, performing, rapping, having the time of his life. You were at the Bar, waiting for your order and the one your friend did when you had eye contact. The lyrics of his song felt like he was talking about you. Your cheeks became hot from embarrassment. When the drinks were ready, you took it and go back at your place, giving a last look to the rapper.

You don’t remember much of that evening. Your friend invited you but she also invited other people you didn’t know and you never was good to interact with strangers, so you stayed quiet most of the time until the barmaid came to your table with a shot and a little note. You looked at her confused.

«-I’m sorry, I didn’t order this, you said. -It’s from Thanos, she reply with a smile before leaving.»

The little group looked at your, surprised.

«-You know Thanos ? -No ! Who’s this guy ? -The hot guy who was on stage most of the night ?! What’s the note about ?»

Your friend took the note, red it and smile at you.

«-Girl, believe me, take that shot and go see him. -What ? Are you insane ?! I’m not taking something a stranger offered me, what if he put drugs in it ? »

You take back the note and read it. It was an invitation to come see him in his V.I.P room. You rolled your eyes, take the shot in your hand before leading your way to this famous Thanos room. You quickly saw him sat at a table with pretty girl and some dude, playing cards. Without any hesitation you put the shot on the table and look at him, not giving a damn shit about all the other around who looked at you.

«-Hear me out Mister infinity stones, that was nice of you for the shot, but i’m not the type of girl you can buy with that. Especially since I don’t know what you could have put in it.»

A smile appear on his lips before he made a move with his hand to invite everyone to leave the table. When you was alone, he got more comfortable in his chair.

«-I just saw a Beautifull flower in the crowd and wanted to know more about you. I didn’t expect you to react like this, but It’s way more entertaining than the usual.-The usual ? You do this often ? Find a cute girl, invite her over with a drink. -Not often and not in this exact way.»

I got up and get closer to me.

«-Now you’re here I can do a proper introduction.

He slowly took my hand and kiss the top of it

«-Hi Seniorita, i’m thanos, nice to meet you.»

Back to the Present

When you arrived outside, or something who looked outside, the doors behind you closed and in the other part of the room, you noticed a weird, giant, doll and two guards. The voice of a lady started to explain the first game you gonna play ; Red light, Green Light. At least, this first game sound easy, making you smile, but it quickly fade away when a guy screams and find his way out of the crowd of player, saying the doll gonna kill us if she cought us moving during the red light moments. Many of them didn’t took him seriously, but even if it’s sounded crazy as fuck, you started to shake. Maybe the fact you didn’t took any sort of drugs since a long moment didn’t help, but it wasn’t just that.

The game started and the man in front of the other gave us direction. You gave a look at thanos who was with a pretty girl. You growl from annoyance. This guy didn’t lose his time. 

One lost but he found ten other ones.

So far the game goes well until the pretty girl close to your ex start to scream and moving. She seemed to want to chase away something. When she stop moving by herself, a fireshot was eard, making me froze for real. Three seconds later a lot of people start running in panic as the guy in front of you screamed to not moving or panic. It was more easy to say than do. You whole body asking you to run away, but at the same time you was to horrified by the corps who felt close to you, it wasn’t possible at all. When everyone who tried to ran away was on the flood, the game continued. You moved and froze at the red light, hiding Yourself behind taller people as suggested. You turned your head to see if thanos was still alive and it was sort of a relief when you noticed he was. You also noticed he pushed people on the ground. This guy was definitely fucked up. 

Luckily, you made your way to the end, safe. You sat on the floor, tired cause of the anxiety this deadly game caused you and that’s at this moment you eared his voice.

«-Y/N ?! Flower is that you ? Are you for real ?! »

Thanos quickly sat in front of you, smiling at you.

«-Get Lost Thanos. -Yeah, i’m happy to see you too, beautiful.»

You didn’t answered. What could you say ? To many things actually, but absolutely nothing at the same time.

«-Oh come One, are you still ignoring me ? -Did you not eared me ? Get.Lost.Motherfucker.»

You was still mad a him and sad and all the hormones was high in your body. The situation didn’t help. You felt you was about tu cry and got up to go somewhere else but Thanos stopped you by gripping gently your wrist.

«-Wait, Y/N. Please, let me explain myself … -I don’t need any explanation. I saw You. You Cheated on me. There’s nothing more to explain.»

You didn’t faced him. If you will, you will cry and you don’t want him to see you like this.

You was saved by the voices of the women who told everyone to return in the main Room. You took back your wrist and quickly follow the others to go back in the room with all the beds. It was definitely too much emotion for this first day and you started to regret your decision.

[agnireed]

THINGS UNSAID

summary 🏹 others notice what you and daryl feel for eachother but it takes longer for the connection to reach the two of you.

word count 🏹 4.8k

warnings 🏹 large age gap, side character POVs at the start, smut lol

thanks to @irisdixon1023 for the fun idea! hope i did it justice even if i changed somethings

There were plenty of events that you had found yourself in the background of throughout the apocalypse. 

You’d had to put things together at the drop of an eye because there were some questions you just didn’t ask. You didn’t need to be told the new man approaching camp was Carl’s father, evident enough by the way his mouth dropped open and Lori’s eyes flashed with hot fear and betrayal.

That unfolded in your mind exactly the same way as when you saw Shane come back from the woods with a busted nose and a manic look so intense it almost took your breath away, something cold and knowing settling in your gut but not quite strong enough for you to accuse him of planning anything. 

You never put much thought into how you might come across to somebody just observing new people you’ve met on the road that might be making their own judgements on you. The end of the world had brought one relief and that was from the constant thought about your own presentation and what a stranger might think of you. 

These already drawn conclusions were exactly the reason you were so confused with yourself for being so absorbed with why the red headed man kept glancing in your direction.

Truthly Abraham had never been somebody who bothered sugarcoating his words and pretending to be something he was not and that included being the type of person who was extremely curious about a certain dynamic he had seen unfolding in front of him.

He had only spent a few hours with you in the train car but he had managed to make a damn near solid case if he did say so himself and he was juggling with how much it was being challenged as soon as a few more bodies were thrown into the mix.

Both of you had looked worse for wear when his team found you alongside the gravely road, Glenn barely standing upright as they approached and then fully face planting the asphalt while you stared at him with a look that seemed to be a mixture of exhaustion and determination.

You kept your sentences short and sweet while Glenn was unconscious and you climbed into the back of the large truck but Abraham had a hard time being upset about your lack of manners considering you’d clearly been through hell's asshole before they had arrived. 

His plans continued to be derailed and you proved to be a serious pain in the behind but he had felt strongly enough about his people reading to assume that you were one of two things, either just a bit slow emotionally or completely in love with the man you were traveling with.

Of course he felt only a bit disgruntled when said man actually woke up and spoke only of a loving wife that he clearly would stop at nothing to find in a very large haystack but then that could explain the heartbroken look you wouldn’t stop carrying around.

It made full sense to him that you were in love with a taken man and so desperately that you were willing to risk your life to help him be happy with somebody else so he was now fully offended when he offered this idea to Glenn one night after you’d fallen asleep, just for him to laugh in his face.

Then you had been thrown into the traincar and you suddenly took on a heavy expression of grief, like you had only just now accepted you were not going to find whatever it was that you were looking for. He had figured beforehand that you had lost someone permanently but apparently you had a mission of your own. 

When the doors were opening again, this time he was happy to be an observer.

The two men entering the car looked equally as deadly as you had standing on that road side and ready to go to war for your friend's limp body and he almost pieced together they were a part of your larger group before any of you actually had turned to notice them.

Everybody tensed at the same time and then it felt like the air in the train car suddenly got much lighter. 

You’d barely looked at the bearded man that seemed to automatically capture everybody's attention first, almost like they were waiting for him to give them a command before they even processed he was standing in front of them again.

Your eyes were stuck on someone else entirely and he was happy to finally have some entertainment after being sat next to a mumbling Eugene for far too many hours. 

He didn’t need a lick of guessing to know what type of man the second was and he almost wanted to have his guard farther up if it wasn’t for the young boy beside him, peering around with big scared eyes. (Plus the fact he had come to respect you and the sight of you staring like the rugged man had hung the stars was good enough reason to relax).

The bearded man seemed to finally notice you standing there and he gave you an overwhelmingly fatherlike look, seeming like he wanted to pull you into a hug but deciding against it for reasons Abraham couldn’t quite figure out just yet.

His counterpart didn’t have the same problem and you let out a sob when he finally looked over to you, his entire tense frame melting like a little kid as he stumbled his way through the dark train car so he could fall against you.

You cradled his head like it was the single most important thing in the world and your friends around you seemed like they were suddenly walking on eggshells to avoid disturbing you and making you pull out of the emotional moment. 

First assumption was that you were related in some way but that quickly faded when he noticed the way the man had his hands low on your back, squeezing and pulling you closer and closer like he could feel you slipping through his fingers.

There was nothing overtly romantic about it and certainly not sexual, not with the way you sobbed harder seeing his bruised face and sullen expression, but it definitely was too close for comfort if you were father and daughter adjacent.

Second assumption was gone as fast as it came, absolutely not lovers judging by the way you were quick to stumble out of his grasp as soon as you noticed Maggie and Glenn watching curiously, his hands lingering but eventually having to fall back to his side once you were out of reaching distance.

You made haste to hug the young boy and distract yourself from the blatant showcase of something that most likely was a secret, both to each other and the others but possibly to yourselves.

The man didn’t take his eyes off of you the entire time you all sat there devising a plan and you sobbed like a woman scorned when they were throwing flash bangs inside the car before dragging him away, having to send a swift kick to your ribs to get you to let go of his arm. 

Abraham observed a scary switch in you now that he was gone again and the small almost fragile girl from before was once again replaced with the silent and constantly armed one, all emotions stripped down to your bare bones until you were left with instinct alone. 

He kept watching your group during the days that followed the fall of Terminus, building up his strongly held opinions on each of them individually and then again in pairs and larger clumps. He couldn’t help the fact that you and Daryl struck his interest, boredom taking over for the most part although Rostia had told him he needed to get a better hobby.

It was impossible not to wonder now that he knew more about the two of you, although he’d yet to speak to your male counterpart. There was a large part of him that figured it wouldn’t end too pleasantly and he was halfway busy with sucking up to you all so you’d accompany him to the end of the line for Eugene and the cure.

So he didn’t pick a fight with the archer although he wasn’t sure you would have allowed it anyways.

You were small in size but he had managed to get a few glimpses of what you could do with rage and a blunt wooden stick alone back at Terminus so he wasn’t particularly interested in seeing how you fared with a knife.

You were constantly next to Daryl and it was almost a foreign sight to see one of you without the other, a strange feeling settling over anyone whenever you’d wander in alone or the rare times he went hunting without you.

There was a glint in your eye whenever somebody talked to you, like you were ready to pounce on your own family members if you needed to just to keep the man next to you safe at all cost. He was halfway to asking Maggie if you had been like that before you were separated or if it was a new adjustment but he decided against it when he saw her fondly holding Rick’s baby.

He was finding it a bit ridiculous that there were so many moving parts in your poorly oiled machine yet it was running smoothly and, not only that, but you actually seemed to love and care about each other beyond means of survival.

Abraham decided it wasn’t any of his business anymore as soon as he ruled you and Daryl off the list of potential people who would come along on his mission, pushing you to the back of his mind to will off any distractions.

_____

Maggie had always known there was something lingering deep in you for the older man but she was quickly realizing she didn’t know the half of it apparently because the way you gripped onto him for dear life was extremely telling.

She was already surprised enough that you had practically leapt into his arms but what really struck her was how willing he was to fold over into you and meet your sobs with cries of his own.

She knew Daryl was more than what he looked like, more than what he even said most of the time but that still didn’t mean he was ever this open and vulnerable around any of them before. Even Rick sent her a thrown off look that she fought hard in the few seconds it lasted to try and understand.

Your mood had been sour for the time it took you all to find Terminus after reuniting her and Glenn but there were a thousand things she would’ve guessed as the cause of it before assuming you were mourning Daryl Dixon.

Maybe she had been blinded by her own worries and the blossoming of her love so she didn’t pay attention to the signs or maybe they were just new but they were impossible to ignore now although every one seemed to be trying their very best.

Did he always hand you your portion of food first, followed by sneaking bites of his own onto your plate when you both pretended you weren’t watching him do it?

Had it always been almost instinct that you would fall asleep next to each other, never touching but close enough to touch if you ever just reached out? She was thinking now that she wasn’t sure you slept the entire time you spent on the tracks, always awake on a watch shift when she drifted off and staring into the dying fire by the time she opened her eyes again.

Yet you seemed to have no problem drifting off with your head on Daryl’s shoulder.

When did Daryl stop flinching under your touch and since when were you so touchy anyways? Your hands were almost constantly rubbing up and down his arm or holding onto his wrist like you were stopping him from leaving except he didn’t seem to ever be going anywhere, not from you at least.

She wondered if you always looked so calm and gentle when peering up at him or if that was also a new development. She couldn’t read his gaze back down on you and she wasn’t really sure she wanted to, feeling guilty about her silent spying.

Glenn told her that it wasn’t a big deal and everybody people watched but he also denied seeing anything between the two of you so either he was lying to make her feel better or he simply wasn’t watching hard enough. 

There wasn’t anything wrong with the age difference in her mind but she still occasionally caught Rick sending the two of you glances and she almost hoped it was just his fatherly urge to protect you like he always had.

_____

You could tell something had changed between you and Daryl but you weren’t too focused on defining whatever it was. 

He had always been the number one person you paid attention to and you couldn’t stop thinking about him your entire stay at the prison but the pain of losing him and thinking it was for forever was clearly the push you needed to never let him forget this again, even though you hadn’t told him directly.

There was no way he didn’t know how you felt when you stared into his eyes and kept your hand on his chest, whispering lowly how happy you were for him to be back with you. He would have to truly be the dimmest person in the world to think your reaction to seeing him again was just a fluke or you not thinking straight. 

Daryl must be aware of how you feel because you don’t think he would risk treating you the way he did if he didn’t.

He was sweet to you and doted on you like you were already lovers and his favoritism was apparent to anybody who paid attention for more than a few minutes. He remained as gruff and abrasive as always but he let you brush the hair from his face and his tone sounded far sweeter aimed towards you.

You knew he had feelings for you and you also knew he wouldn’t let you in on that secret unless he suspected you felt similarly.

“Couldn’t even breathe.” You had found yourself outside the stuffy church together again, somewhere just off in the treeline and leaning against a thick tree stump.

His back was pressed into the bark but your own was against his chest, sat on the drying leaves between his spread legs and laying back on him, his hands resting skillfully next to your thighs so he wasn’t touching you too directly.

“Hm?” His hum was low and sweet and you noted that he sounded like he was drifting off to 

sleep, a light smile on your face at his abandoned defensive walls even though the topic of conversation was rather heavy.

“I pictured them all going one way or another but not you, never ever you.” You picked one of his hands off the ground so you could hold it in your own, resting in the air above your stomach as you smoothed over his rough calloused skin and traced shapes on his palm.

He said nothing when you sighed and relaxed your limbs again, this time with his hand landing on your stomach and being enclosed by yours so he couldn’t remove it so easily. You could feel his heartbeat pick up on your back and your mouth turned up with fondness. 

You didn’t need him to remind you for the hundredth time that he hadn’t gone anywhere and he was still right here with you but it was still nice to hear him grumble it in his low voice, almost a shy whisper that you had to preen to hear.

Daryl may have needed to actually feel the effect of your death before he started to slowly showcase his affectionate side but you thought it was well worth the wait, feeling beyond grateful that he hadn’t pulled away from your clinginess yet.

You figured it would just be a few days of needing him close to process that he wasn’t gone after first losing him in the smoke of the prison and then watching him get ripped away in a similar fog as soon as you had him back finally but days turned into weeks and you were still trying to find a way to silence the ache.

His heart was only picking up in speed when you were using your hand to move his slowly, so slow you could barely tell it was going anywhere at all. You pushed it until his pinky finger was under the button of your small jean shorts and you paused when you heard his breath stutter.

Part of you wanted to turn back and check his expression, make sure this was something that he wanted but you couldn’t gather the courage. Instead you sat there with your hands like that and you felt a jolt of electricity when he was moving his hand on his own.

You didn’t let it get far, barely brushing the hem of your underwear before you were swiftly sitting up in a way that clearly startled him.

He didn’t have long to overthink and wonder if he had misread the situation because now you were on your knees in between his spread legs, as close as you could get and swaying forward like you were going to lay on his chest again.

The reality was much different than he expected and lifetimes better, your lips slotting against his and automatically drawing a high pitched sound from you. There had been countless times Daryl wondered what you sounded like and the knowledge was seering itself into his brain now, longing to bring more out of you.

Your hands were on his face and you were scrambling forward so you could be sat in his lap, legs on either side of his waist as you desperately leaned into the kiss. He was easily matching your pace and you felt an overwhelming heat when you heard him groan into your mouth.

“Daryl.” The sound of his name in that tone was enough to make anybody insane and his hands on your body proved it, one hand on your lower back but the other directly touching those godforsaken jean shorts you wore.

They were poor excuses for fabric and there had been a dozen times when you'd bent over in front of him long enough for him to catch a glimpse of your panties underneath, long enough for him to run a hand over his face and disappear into the guard tower for a few hours.

Now there was no reason to pretend he wasn’t looking at you, wasn’t running his rough hands over your perfectly smooth and innocent body. That seemed to be the only innocent thing about you considering your hips were starting to rock in his lap, just slow enough to make his head spin dangerously.

His big hands were both cupping your ass now and helping you move against him, loving the way you could barely kiss him as you struggled to hold your whines in.

“Feels so good.” You sounded absolutely pathetic and wrecked and he knew right then and there that he was truly perverted, grunting into your open mouth and thrusting his hips up to make you really feel him against your sensitive core. One of your hands had been running through his hair and you tugged at the feeling, crying out in surprise. 

“Cmon sweetheart.” His voice was so low and raspy, vibrations going straight to your core and making you rock harder against him. 

Your lips were swollen and wet when you moved them from his mouth down to his jaw, sucking and biting the skin wherever you could and making sure he was grunting straight into your ear so you could commit the sounds to memory.

He barely flinched when you sat up to pull your tank top off, a bit too hasty considering it was getting stuck on your arms for a second and he had to help you, eyes hazy when your head finally emerged and he could really look at you,

You felt touched that he watched your eyes for a few heavy breaths before he even bothered to let his gaze move down to your bare chest, rising and falling with your nipples standing at attention off his stare alone. His hands weren't wasting any time before gently cupping your soft mounds and your mouth parted in another high whine at the feeling.

Hips moving slower but still just as addicting, you were letting him worship your tits and really take his time memorizing the way your body looked on top of his like this.

Daryl had pictured you in a hundred scenarios that brought shame to his core and sometimes the disgust was enough to bury it back down but more often than not, he couldn’t stop thinking about how much he wanted this no matter how wrong it may be.

“No idea how much I thought about these hands.” Your voice was the highest pitch he’d ever heard and you were softly stuttering through your words like you’d forgotten where to place them, hand back in his hair and trying to be sly with the way you were moving his head downwards. “This mouth.. f-fuck.”

He may not be the most experienced, certainly not with girls as young and pretty as you but Daryl wasn’t as idiot. It was almost second nature to wrap his mouth around your nipple once he understood that’s what you were silently asking for, his entire arm wrapping around your back to keep you locked in place.

His muscles flexed when you made an extra loud sound and you suddenly remembered just how strong he really was, capable of really doing some damage to you right now if he decided that’s what he wanted. The thought sent heat further through you and you gasped out his name in repeated cries.

You were fully humping against him now and trying to get as much pressure on your core as you could but he was firm in his hold on your middle, practically making out with your tits in a way that was so lewd and filthy you felt lightheaded. 

“I need more.” You were desperate now and on the verge of a sob, yanking on his hair impatiently and immediately diving into a nasty kiss the second he lifted his head to glare at you. Your tongue was so deep in his mouth he was able to fully suck on it, low sounds leaving him constantly now. 

You hadn’t even realized you were falling until you hit the ground with his heavy frame falling over you, spreading your legs so he could slot himself between them easily.

“F-fuck you’re so hard.” You knew you sounded beyond fucked out already just from some dirty kissing but you couldn’t find it in yourself to be embarrassed. Although you clearly didn’t need to considering you weren’t at all exaggerating and Daryl was fully hard and moving his core against yours like he couldn’t stop himself. 

“Pretty little thing.” His lack of vocalization didn’t bother you, not expecting it from him in the first place but you were almost grateful for his silence because it made every word he did say sound so much sweeter. 

Daryl had never complimented you so directly before and it sounded ridiculous to flush over him calling you pretty while you were laying in the leaves, bare chest out and his hard on rubbing against you but it still made your body warm in a much purer heat than the rest of your body.

He did everything in his life with an aged roughness you had realized a long time ago, hands weapons even when he didn’t mean for them to be and even when it ate him up inside afterwards so you felt particularly touched that he had a gentle grasp on your ribs and hip like he was terrified of hurting you. 

Although the thought of him hurting you did light something deep inside of you on fire but you decided to push that away and deal with it another time, slowing down your kisses once he started to fidget with the button and zipper on your shorts.

It was quick to go from dirty to romantic and you were grateful for the change even though you enjoyed the former just as much, the longing in your heart for a real sign that he felt similarly being slightly fulfilled when he was moving a hand to cup your cheek and really pay attention to the softer kiss. 

You could tell he found amusement in his own patience bringing forth the opposite in you, a whiny annoyed noise leaving you as you started to tug at his belt impatiently and try to get him to resume what he was doing before you distracted him.

“Take it easy girl.” He was so close and the whispered words, light and affectionate enough that you almost forgot how lewd you were currently, made your eyes widened as you stared up at him hovering over you. 

He made eye contact with you for only a brief second before he was looking away and you could see a heavy shyness in him that was directly opposite to the way he was pulling your shorts down your thighs and touching you before you’d even felt the wet air on your core.

Your breath caught in your throat and you wrapped your hands around his back, resting on his shoulder blades and you knew his vest would have the shape of your fingernails indented in the leather for a long time to come.

The low humming noise he was making against your neck seemed to be approval towards your neverending wetness and you were letting out a breathy laugh of pure hazy disbelief when you felt the head of his hard cock pressing against you. 

You could hear him softly shushing you in a soothing manner, trying to get you to relax enough that he could actually push inside without seriously hurting you. You wondered if he could tell you had never done this before, suddenly self conscious that your inexperience was radiating off of you.

Unknown to you, he was thinking the same thing about himself and hoping you couldn’t feel the way his entire body was tensing to stop from pushing in before you were ready out of pure desperation that only you could bring out of him. It was hard not to act like a horny teenager when you were panting like you were getting fucked hard just from him touching your tits.

The combination was deadly and the sound he made when he started to actually fuck you was even worse, damn near ending your life then and there just to be immediately brought back when you felt the hot pain between your legs.

Now your pants were telling a different story and he did his best to slow down and let you get used to the sheer size of him stretching you out, not realizing the way your pupils were dilating and you were purposefully tightening your legs around his waist.

“M-more.” You were begging now as the pain started to go down and he gave you a look that told you he thought you were crazy, eyebrows furrowed as he started to shake his head in disagreement. “Please Daryl love it so much, hurts so good.”

That seemed to silence both the man above you and the entire forest, his body stiffening for a few seconds too long and your heart started to race with something not as nice as the flirty nervousness you normally felt around him.

You almost opened your mouth to apologize to him for making him uncomfortable, try to explain yourself and why you liked something like that without actually knowing the reason yourself. Instead your lips parted with another high whine when he started to move, clearly getting over whatever had made him pause and making it his personal mission to give you exactly what you wanted.

Daryl would never leave your sight again and you would stop at nothing to make sure of that so you had plenty of time for gentle, endless days to fill with romance and soft kisses that made your cheeks red. Today, however, was going to be reserved for something else entirely and you could’ve truly died happy there on the leaves with him on top of you. 

[basicallyjeankirschtein]

lost and found - toji x reader x sukuna

chapter 5: new beginning

summary: definitely rushing, but you meet sukuna! (over text)

warnings: kys jokes, ooc sukuna (i’m sorry i had to make him sweet to reader), pov changes a lot

* writing in between pics if ur interested in context, if not, pics can be read standalone but may be a bit confusing (:

masterlist. prev. next.

you frowned at your phone, checking the time anxiously. where were gojo and geto? did they seriously ditch you again? how can two people collectively be so stupid to ditch you after promising to apologize for ditching you the first time-

you took a deep, anxious breath, trying to calm your nerves. they weren’t that stupid, where they?

well, they where. you were already tearing up, checking the time again. fifteen minutes late. you sighed to yourself, you should have more faith in them-

maybe call them? as you were about to click on getos contact, as he would be more likely to answer his call, you noticed a message from an unknown number. biting your lip anxiously, you texted back.

sukuna? could this night get any worse! he’s probably gonna beat you up next for even being associated with gojo- you were absolutely freaking out, closing the messages app before you could even think of a reply.

did you have read receipts on? you didn’t know. you were too scared to check.

you did infact have read receipts on, you noticed to your dismay. it took you ten minutes to get the courage to check.

not wanting to make sukuna mad at you, and get a face full of his fist, you decided to text back..

he.. just wanted to text? that was odd. definitely weird. he totally wanted something from you- maybe trying to get blackmail material- this was bad! the scariest guy on campus who just beat up your best friend- who should be your ex best friend- just wanted to text? this made no sense at all!

oh, he’s shokos friend! you never knew that! she never mentioned him, weird.

well, maybe you were too trusting, too friendly, because all it took for you to be convinced he didn’t want to ruin your life was that he was shokos friend. you probably should be scared of him, he definitely texted a bit dry which made you a bit uneasy, but he seemed pretty okay!

you hadn’t even noticed how long it’s been since your so called friends were supposed to arrive. they’re a half hour late.

sniffling to yourself, you went back to the groupchat. you didn’t know why leaving the chat made you think that would make them be here in an instant begging for forgiveness, but when it didn’t happen, it made you feel even worse. it didn’t make any sense- you knew of getos hatred towards gojo, so why now suddenly where they inseparable and avoiding everyone but each other? where you bound to always be the one left out?

in all of your friendships, you’ve always been the one pushed to the side. the one standing behind them while they walked together if the sidewalk was too small. even when you introduced shoko and utahime, in hopes you’d finally have an equal trio, they ended up dating. not that you cared, you were so happy for them, but what about for yourself? when will you be someone’s favorite person. they were all your best friends, but you were never their best friend.

was it selfish to make new friends, especially one that beat up your best friend and ruined his reputation? maybe. you didn’t know. but right now, you needed a ride, and your phone was dry and consisted of five contacts (two being your ex-friends and the fifth being sukuna).

taglist

@starmapz @corvid007 @estella-novella @zezedoesshit @beautifulwitchcandy @jinxiewritings @pixiedustaddictsblog @nightlysunn @nanamineedstherapy @lvingd3adg0rl @paradisestarfishh @yanelis-world @str4wb3rryc4k333 @indiewritesxoxo @havkjhdecs @tenthmilo @yunho-leeknow @polarbvnny @b0nez9 @etsuniiru

[airybcby]

જ⁀♡⊹｡° because i liked a boy

♡ a/n — for my new childhood friends to lovers series :)

♡ word count — 1.5k

♡ content — oliver aiku x fem! reader, fem! reader, could be gn but i wanted to be safe in case i missed a few pronouns, childhood friends to lovers, mention of social media hate, goes from 2nd grade to the U-20 game, nickname 'my girl' used once

♡ synopsis — You’d been Oliver Aiku's best friend since you could walk, but what if you wanted to be more?

Oliver Aiku had always been larger than life. Even as a scrappy little kid on the soccer field, he had this magnetic pull that made you look at him twice. It wasn’t just the way he played—wild and relentless, like the ball was an extension of himself—it was the way he owned the field, every inch of it.

He’d score a goal, throw his arms in the air, and spin to face the crowd as if he were already playing in a packed stadium. The parents on the sidelines clapped politely, some shaking their heads at his showboating, but you? You clapped the loudest.

Parents exchanged awkward glances, but none of it ever phased Oliver.

He had you.

You’d been his best friend since you could walk—your families were next-door neighbors, practically an extension of each other. Whenever someone had enough of his showboating, he’d turn to you with that unshakable grin.

“You saw that, right?” he’d call out, jogging over to where you sat with your knees pulled to your chest.

“Yeah, Oliver, I saw,” you’d reply, trying and failing to hide your smile.

“That’s why you’re my favorite,” he’d say, tousling your hair before running off to join his teammates.

Back then, he didn’t care who was watching or what anyone thought. It was enough that you were there, your laughter and cheers louder than everyone else’s combined.

By middle school, Oliver had grown taller, his voice deepening as his grin remained the same. He still played soccer like the world depended on it, but something else was changing, too.

Your classmates whispered in hallways about who liked who, notes were passed in class, and suddenly everyone seemed to be holding hands. Oliver wasn’t immune to the wave of adolescent curiosity, but unlike the others, he approached it with the same fearless energy he brought to the game.

He started dating casually, his charm drawing girls in like moths to a flame. Each week, there was a new name, a new story. You’d sit on your bedroom floor together, him tossing a soccer ball from hand to hand while you half-listened to his latest escapades.

“She dumped me,” he said one day, catching the ball and staring at it like it held the answers.

“Why?”

“She said I didn’t text her enough,” he replied with a shrug.

“Did you?”

“Nope.” He tossed the ball into the air and caught it again. “Too much effort.”

You rolled your eyes but laughed anyway. It was impossible to stay annoyed with him for long, but something about these conversations left a knot in your chest. You weren’t sure why until the day he turned to you, his grin soft and sincere.

“Hey, if you’re feeling left out,” he said, “we could date.”

Your heart stumbled in your chest. “What?”

“I like you,” he said, as if it were obvious. “If you like me, let’s try. You’re the only person who actually gets me anyway.”

The words hung in the air between you, so simple yet so earth-shattering. You liked him—you always had—but the thought of crossing that line was terrifying. Still, the way he looked at you, so sure, made it impossible to say no.

But it didn’t take long for you to realize you weren’t ready. The idea of ruining what you had—the easy laughter, the shared history—was too much.

You barely managed to hold his hand, let alone anything else. So you broke it off before it could go any further.

Still, Oliver didn’t hold it against you. “You’re my best friend,” he’d said. “That’s never gonna change.”

And he kept his word. To this day, you were the only ex Oliver Aiku had ever stayed friends with.

By the time high school rolled around, Oliver was no longer just a neighborhood star. He was the Oliver Aiku, soccer prodigy and the center of every conversation. He’d grown into his confidence, wearing it like a second skin, and the world couldn’t look away.

Everyone wanted a piece of him—teammates, classmates, even teachers. And though he still found his way to your side, leaning against your locker or texting you late at night, the space between you began to grow.

“I miss when it was just us,” you admitted one afternoon, your voice barely louder than the hum of the vending machines outside the gym.

Oliver tilted his head, his brow furrowing slightly. “What do you mean? It’s still us.”

But it wasn’t. Not really.

You didn’t say that, though. Instead, you smiled and nodded, trying to ignore the ache of watching him move further into a world where you couldn’t quite follow.

You tried not to let it bother you, the way girls flocked to him in the hallways, the way his name was always on someone’s lips. You weren’t invisible, not really, but compared to him? It felt like you were.

Still, Oliver always made time for you. You were grateful for that.

“You’re the only one I can actually talk to,” he said, making it clear there's a reason it's always been you two. “Everyone else just wants to hear about soccer.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Maybe that’s because you never shut up about it.”

He grinned, nudging you playfully. “See? That’s why I like you. Low maintenance. A good friend.”

For some reason, the words stung. You’d always been friends—why did hearing him say it now hurt so much?

When Oliver got his first pro offer, it should have been the happiest day of his life.

He found you immediately after practice, bursting through the door of your part-time job at the library with his usual uncontainable energy.

“I’m taking you out,” he declared, practically dragging you away from the returns cart.

You laughed, stumbling after him. “Shouldn’t you be with your family? This is a huge deal!”

He shook his head, grinning. “I have all the time in the world with them,” he said, flashing you a grin. “I’d rather be with my girl.”

You froze. “I’m not your girl—”

He cut you off. “Do you want to be?”

The air shifted between you, heavy with something unspoken. This time, you didn’t back away.

The words lit something warm in your chest, and for the first time in years, it felt like things were back to the way they used to be. Just you and Oliver, like always.

Oliver’s first season was everything you’d hoped for him. His name was everywhere, his skills celebrated, his confidence unmatched. When the season ended, he posted a picture of the two of you on Instagram—a soft launch for some, but for Oliver, it was a declaration.

“First year down, forever to go,” the caption read.

Some assumed he was talking about soccer. You knew better.

But by his second season, the narrative had changed. His performance wasn’t as sharp, at least in the eyes of fans and reporters. Every missed pass, every fumbled play, was scrutinized. And somehow, the blame landed on you.

“She’s a distraction,” one reporter wrote. “He was better when he was single,” another said. “With that woman clinging to him, he won’t make it in this industry,” a coach even said during a press conference.

Your social media became a war zone. Strangers flooded your posts with hate, blaming you for Oliver’s supposed “decline.” You tried to ignore it, but the words stuck to your skin like thorns.

The U-20 loss was devastating, the kind of failure that sent shockwaves through his career and his psyche. When you found him in the locker room after the game, he was a shell of himself, his usual confidence replaced by simmering frustration.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he muttered, not meeting your eyes.

“I wanted to see you,” you said softly.

He let out a bitter laugh. “Yeah, well, maybe that’s the problem.”

You froze. “What are you talking about?”

“You,” he snapped. “I should’ve listened,” he continued, his tone venomous. “Everyone warned me, but I was stupid enough to think you wouldn’t ruin my life.”

You'd fought before, what couple hadn't but, you ruining his life? "I've been friends with you basically your whole life!" you argued back, fists clutching at the 'Aiku' jersey that adorned your torso.

No matter what you said, Oliver wasn't listening. “You’ve been nothing but a distraction. Ever since we got together, everything’s gone to shit. My career, my focus—it’s all your fault.”

The words sliced through you, sharper than any knife. “Oliver, that’s not fair—”

“Fair?” He laughed again, harsh and hollow. “What’s fair is that I gave up everything for this, and I’m still losing. Maybe if I hadn’t wasted so much time with you, things would be different.”

Your breath caught, tears blurring your vision. “If that’s how you feel, then I should go.”

“Maybe you should,” he said, his voice cold and final.

So you left.

The weeks that followed were unbearable. You deleted your social media, unable to face the onslaught of strangers blaming you for Oliver’s mistakes. Everywhere you went, you felt like a ghost, haunted by his words and the memories of what you’d shared.

You wanted to hate him, to let his betrayal harden your heart, but the truth was, you missed him.

And deep down, you wondered if he missed you too.

the synopsis is awful so sorry if you jumped in not knowing what was gonna happen

likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!

[seospicybin]

TASTE.

CHAPTER 2: SWEETBITTER.

Lee Know x reader. (s,a)

TASTE MASTERLIST

Synopsis: When Minho is hired as the head chef of Farfalle, a prestigious Italian restaurant, expectations are high for him to elevate its reputation and bring it to new heights. However, no one anticipates the drastic changes he implements in the kitchen—including his strict rule that that there'll be no women and no romance in his kitchen. (17,1k words)

Author's note: I hope you're hungry because I'm about to serve, well, Minho is, not me. Hope you enjoy this one too. Don't be shy to let me know what you think of this chapter ♡

Sweetbitter. /swēt-ˈbi-tər/ (adj) 1. being at once sweet and bitter 2. pleasant but including or marked by elements of suffering or regret

The memory creeps up on you like the scent of freshly baked bread—warm, comforting, and vivid.

It was three years ago, during the height of dinner service at a restaurant in Milan. You were buried in orders, swiftly plating bowls of tagliatelle and arranging perfectly browned gnocchi when the head chef approached, wiping his hands on his apron.

“A customer wants to personally thank you for the spinach lasagna,” he said, his tone equal parts surprise and pride.

You blinked. Normally, compliments like that were directed at the head chef, but this customer had been insistent about meeting the specific cook behind the dish. The words felt like a crown resting on your shoulders—the highest compliment any chef could receive.

Fixing your coat and smoothing back stray strands of hair, you stepped out of the bustling kitchen. The dining room was a sea of candlelight and muted conversation, and at first, all you could see was the back of the man who had requested your presence. His broad shoulders and casual posture told you little about him.

It wasn’t until you reached his table that he turned to face you.

“Are you the one who made this?” he asked, studying you with an unreadable expression.

“That would be me,” you replied, a polite smile on your lips.

For a moment, he said nothing, his dark eyes scanning your face as though trying to commit it to memory. Then he broke into a genuine smile, one that softened the sharp angles of his face.

“The spinach lasagna,” he began, “was incredible. Dare I say, it was better than sex.”

You froze, startled by the bluntness of his praise. Then, to your own surprise, you laughed—a warm, light sound that seemed to catch him off guard.

“Well,” you said, recovering, “that’s not something I hear every day.”

He chuckled softly, the dimples in his cheeks becoming more pronounced. “I’m Chris.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a sleek business card and handed it to you.

You glanced down at it, reading the elegant font: Christopher Bang.

“I own an Italian restaurant,” he said, his voice calm but persuasive. “I’d love for you to come work with me.”

The offer was so unexpected that you could only gape at him. “Why me?” you finally asked, looking back at him. “There are plenty of... talented chefs in the kitchen tonight.”

Chris leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands together as a dimpled smile spread across his face. “I don’t want them. I want you.”

Something about his casual confidence disarmed you. Perhaps it was the warmth in his voice or the sincerity in his eyes, but in that moment, you felt the ground shift beneath your feet.

You didn’t realize it then, but that moment marked the beginning of a new chapter in your life. Within weeks, you were on a flight to a new country, leaving behind the familiar comfort of Milan to work at Farfalle.

And now, standing in this restaurant facing him three years later, that memory feels both distant and fresh, a reminder of the strange and unexpected paths life can take.

-

The dining hall falls silent as Chris steps in, his imposing presence freezing everyone in place. The sleek black suit, the pale complexion, and the calm authority in his gaze demand undivided attention. Whispers ripple through the room, curiosity and disbelief mingling in hushed tones.

“I'll make it short,” Chris begins, his tone steady and authoritative. “I'm closing down the restaurant.”

“What did you say?” Taesoo blurts out in sheer panic.

Chris puts on a small smile and calmly explains. “I will close it down for three days, tentatively. ”

The room erupts in shock. Souschef Hyunwoo steps forward, his voice raised in protest. “What? You can’t close the restaurant during the busiest season! Do you know how much we’ll lose in revenue?”

Chris doesn’t flinch, meeting Hyunwoo’s gaze with a faint, composed smile. “I understand your concern. But this is necessary for the future of Farfalle.”

Felix raises a tentative hand. “So... what are we supposed to do for three days?”

Chris’s smile widens, almost playful. “Rest. Relax. Have fun... and after three days, I want everyone to come back with a new menu idea—a dish that can revive Farfalle. Every single one of you will participate, without exception.”

The room falls silent as everyone processes his words.

Chris continues, his voice unwavering. “However, there’s one condition: the total cost of ingredients for your dish cannot exceed ten dollars. Be creative, be bold, and think about what will make Farfalle stand out. The future of this restaurant depends on those menus.”

He lets the weight of his words settle before finishing with an easy, almost disarming smile. “I’ll see you all in three days.”

Without another word, Chris steps back, leaving the room with the same enigmatic presence with which he entered.

The staff exchange uncertain glances, whispers rippling through the group. Minho crosses his arms, his expression unreadable. After a moment, he straightens. “You heard him,” he says firmly, his gaze sweeping over everyone. “Three days. I’ll see all of you then.”

-

The hallway outside the manager's office is eerily quiet, the distant sounds of bustling staff fading behind you. You pause in front of the polished wooden door, taking a moment to compose yourself before knocking.

“Come in,” Chris’s voice calls out, calm and collected.

Pushing the door open, you step inside. The office is surprisingly minimalistic, dominated by a large desk and a single window that lets in soft, natural light. Chris sits behind the desk, his tailored black suit as sharp as his presence. His dimples appear as he smiles, clearly having anticipated your visit.

“I figured you’d come,” he says, gesturing for you to sit.

You take a seat, wasting no time. “I’m just as surprised as everyone else to see you here. Shouldn’t you be busy running the rest of your family’s empire?”

Chris leans back in his chair, his smile never faltering. “I’ve been keeping an eye on Farfalle for a while now. The sales have been on a downward spiral, and I decided it was time to step in. Sometimes you have to get your hands dirty to fix things properly.”

You nod slowly, absorbing his explanation. “So, this is personal for you?”

“In a way,” he admits, his tone light but resolute. “I couldn’t just stand by and let it crumble. Now, tell me,” he leans forward, his gaze teasing, “are you happy to see me?”

You let out a soft laugh, meeting his eyes. “It’s... nice to have another man in the restaurant.”

Chris chuckles, his dimples deepening. “Flattery suits you.”

He pauses, the teasing air around him softening. “Before you go, why don’t you cook me some pasta?”

You raise a brow, crossing your arms. “Nope.”

“Why not?” he asks, feigning offense.

“Because I’m going to do exactly what you suggested,” you reply with a sly grin. “Rest, relax, and have fun.”

Chris leans back in his chair, giving you an amused look. “Fair enough.” He gestures toward the door, silently excusing you.

You rise from your seat, heading toward the exit. Just as your hand touches the doorknob, Chris’s voice calls out again.

“Don’t have too much fun though,” he says, the teasing lilt in his voice unmistakable.

You glance back, offering a playful smirk. “No promises.” With that, you step out, leaving the office and its enigmatic new occupant behind.

-

The salty tang of the fish market fills your senses as you weave through the bustling aisles, stalls overflowing with fresh catches of the day. The cacophony of haggling customers and shopkeepers blends into a background hum as you scrutinize each stall, searching for ingredients that won’t break Chris’s strict $10 budget.

Your frustration grows as every inquiry leads to disappointment. Everything you find is either overpriced or unsuitable for the idea forming in your mind. Just as you’re about to give up, something catches your eye.

Minho stands a few stalls ahead, his sharp profile unmistakable even in the chaos of the market. He’s deep in conversation with a shop owner, his posture relaxed but commanding.

Curiosity piqued, you linger just out of sight, trying to catch snippets of their conversation. But the noise of the market drowns out their words. You watch as the shopkeeper gestures toward a selection of fish, and Minho nods thoughtfully before moving on.

The moment he leaves, you step up to the stall. “Excuse me, what was he asking about?” you inquire, gesturing toward Minho’s retreating figure.

The shopkeeper smiles knowingly. “Filefish. He was asking if I had any larger ones for a better price. Told him he’d have better luck at the harbor.”

Filefish? You tuck the information away, thanking the shopkeeper before turning to leave.

But as you make your way toward the exit, you freeze mid-step. Minho is there, leaning casually against a pole, arms crossed as if he’s been waiting for you. His eyes meet yours, a flicker of amusement playing across his face.

"Following me now?" he asks, his tone teasing but edged with curiosity.

You bristle, quickly recovering from your surprise. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Minho smirks, clearly unconvinced. “So, what exactly are you doing here, then?”

You hesitate, debating whether to play coy or confront him about the filefish. Instead, you sidestep his question. “I could ask you the same thing.”

He shrugs, pushing off the pole and walking past you, his voice drifting back. “Just making sure the competition doesn’t get too comfortable.”

Before you can respond, he takes you by the hand and drags you out of the crowd.

-

The ride back is unexpectedly tense. Minho insisted on giving you a ride home, claiming it would save time, but the silence in the car is thick with unspoken words. You glance at him from the passenger seat, his profile lit by the soft glow of the dashboard.

“So,” you start, breaking the silence, “what are you planning to make for the new menu, chef?”

Minho doesn’t even look at you. “Not telling.”

You scoff, leaning back in your seat. “Why not? Afraid I’ll steal your idea?”

“Exactly,” he replies flatly, his hands gripping the steering wheel.

You roll your eyes but decide to take another approach. “Fine. I’ll tell you mine first. I’m thinking of making fishball pasta. Simple, creative, and within budget.”

Minho glances at you briefly, his expression unreadable. “Good for you.”

Encouraged by the lack of sarcasm in his tone, you press further. “Now your turn, chef.”

“Nope,” he says, his lips twitching with the hint of a smirk. “This is a competition. Why would I share secrets with a competitor?”

The car slows as he pulls up in front of your apartment building. He gestures toward the door. “We’re here. Get out.”

But you stay put, crossing your arms defiantly. “Not until you tell me what you’re making.”

Minho lets out an exasperated sigh, leaning his head back against the headrest. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re stubborn,” you counter, flashing him a grin.

After a moment of tense silence, he relents, his tone reluctant. “Fine. I only need the filefish livers.”

Your eyes widen in surprise. “The livers? Why just the livers?”

“Because I’m making foie gras out of them,” he explains, his voice tinged with pride. “I want to show the true value of foie gras with it,”

Your gasp is audible, and Minho glances at you, his expression softening at the wonder in your eyes. “That’s… genius,” you breathe.

Minho almost smiles seeing your genuine awe in response to his answer but he hides his amusement, focusing instead on the road ahead. “Are you satisfied now? Get out.”

But instead of complying, you grab his arm, tugging at it lightly. “Wait. Hear me out.”

He raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “What now?”

“You don’t need the meat, and I don’t need the livers. If we work together, we can split the cost and stay within budget.”

Minho clicks his tongue, mulling over your suggestion. “Why should I work with you?”

“Because it makes sense,” you argue, meeting his gaze. “You said it yourself—this is a competition. Working together gives us both an edge. Plus, I know where to get bigger and cheaper filefish.”

He narrows his eyes at you, clearly debating the idea. After a moment, he sighs, shaking his head. “If I agree to this, will you finally get out of my car?”

You nod eagerly, a triumphant smile spreading across your face.

Minho pushes the car door open for you, his expression still skeptical. “We’re leaving tonight,” you announce as you step out. “At midnight.”

Minho shakes his head, a small smirk tugging at his lips as he watches you disappear into the building.

-

The afternoon feels like it’s slipping away too quickly. You plan to catch some rest before heading to the harbor around midnight, but just as you’re about to settle down, the doorbell rings. Frowning, you glance at the guest cam and see your property agent standing there. A flicker of hope rises—maybe he’s bringing good news about the apartment.

You open the door, your polite smile faltering slightly when you notice he isn’t alone. Beside him stands Sara, her expression calm but assessing as she looks past you into the apartment.

“Good afternoon,” the agent says cheerfully. “I thought I’d stop by to introduce someone interested in sharing the apartment.” He gestures to Sara, who steps forward with an elegant nod.

You blink, caught off guard. “Oh, I see. Well, come in.”

The two of them enter, and you close the door behind them, trying to process the situation. Sara doesn’t waste any time, walking through the living room and kitchen, her sharp eyes taking in every detail. Meanwhile, the agent glances at you with a knowing smile.

“She’s very interested,” he says in a low voice, as if this were the best news you’d heard all week.

Sara returns, stopping a few feet away from you and the agent. “I’ll take it,” she declares confidently.

You nod slowly, her decisiveness catching you off guard again. “Alright, then.”

She crosses her arms and adds with a small smirk, “It’s more convenient sharing with someone I already know.”

You force a smile at that, hoping it doesn’t look as strained as it feels. “That makes sense.”

Sara tilts her head, her gaze steady on yours. “Would it be alright if I move in tomorrow?”

“Even better,” you reply with as much enthusiasm as you can muster.

As the agent beams at how smoothly this is going, you feel a sinking sensation settle in your stomach. Once Sara leaves, the reality of the situation becomes clear.

Sharing an apartment with Sara might be manageable on its own, but the thought of Minho finding out she’s now living on the same floor as him sends alarm bells ringing in your mind. You don’t even want to think about what could happen if they run into each other.

And worse, you’re now stuck in the middle of it all.

-

Minho taps his fingers against the steering wheel, the faint rhythm of his impatience echoing in the quiet of his car. It’s been over ten minutes since the agreed-upon midnight meeting, and there’s still no sign of you. With a frustrated sigh, he picks up his phone and dials your number.

The phone rings once, twice, then he sees you sprinting down the street toward his car. He immediately hangs up, watching as you approach, your hurried steps matching the apologetic look on your face.

You slide into the passenger seat, breathless. “I’m so sorry. I fell asleep and—”

Minho raises a hand, cutting you off. “Save it. Let’s just go.”

But as you buckle your seatbelt, Minho notices something off. Your expression isn’t just apologetic—it’s troubled, like you’re carrying the weight of something you don’t want to share. For a moment, he debates calling you out on it but decides against it.

“Where are we going?” he asks instead, breaking the silence.

Without a word, you pull up the address on your phone and input it into the GPS. Minho glances at the screen, then back at you, eyebrows raised. “Hey! Don’t fall asleep on me.”

“I won’t,” you promise, your voice firmer than he expects.

The car rolls to a stop at the harbor after two hours of drive, its headlights cutting through the misty pre-dawn darkness. Minho turns off the engine and glances over at you, only to find you fast asleep in the passenger seat. Your head leans slightly against the window, your lower lip jutting out in a slight pout, and your brows knit together as if something is bothering you even in your dreams.

Minho rolls his eyes but can’t help the faint smile tugging at his lips. “So much for not falling asleep,” he mutters under his breath.

He sighs, exasperated, but he doesn’t have it in him to wake you. Instead, he sits back, letting his gaze linger on your peaceful face. For someone who could be so frustrating, you looked oddly…endearing like this. A small, unbidden smile tugs at the corners of his lips, but it vanishes the moment your eyes flutter open.

Caught off guard, Minho immediately looks away, pretending he hadn’t just spent the past few moments watching you sleep.

“Are we here?” you ask, your voice thick with sleep.

Minho’s response is immediate, his tone sharp to mask his embarrassment. “What did I tell you about not falling asleep on me?”

You rub your eyes and stifle a yawn, offering him a sheepish smile. “Sorry. I’ll treat you to coffee, okay? My treat.”

He grumbles but doesn’t protest, and the two of you end up at a small open food stall by the harbor, huddling against the chilly sea breeze with steaming cups of coffee in your hands. The dawn light begins to creep over the horizon, painting the sky in soft shades of pink and orange.

Minho takes a sip of his coffee and grimaces. “Seriously? This is what you call a treat? It’s cheap, and it tastes like burnt beans.”

You laugh softly. “I’ll buy you a better one later, promise.”

Without thinking, you scoot closer to him, seeking warmth against the brisk air. Minho stiffens slightly and shrugs his shoulder, half-heartedly pushing you away.

“Why do you like me so much?” he asks, his tone laced with mock annoyance.

Instead of answering, you cling to his side, resting your head against his shoulder. “And why do you hate me so much, chef?” you counter, looking up at him with playful defiance.

Minho blinks, taken aback, before responding quickly. “When did I ever say I hated you?”

You grin and lean in close to pester him. “So that means... you like me?”

He scoffs, feigning nonchalance. “Just drink your coffee!”

Your grin widens, and you cling even tighter to his side, the warmth of your smile radiating in the chill air. Minho glances at you from the corner of his eye, watching the way your eyes shine and how content you look pressed against him. For a moment, he lets himself smile, but when he realizes it, he quickly hides it behind his coffee cup.

The two of you sit in comfortable silence, watching as the sun rises over the horizon, its golden light reflecting on the gentle waves. Despite himself, Minho feels a warmth spreading in his chest, one that has nothing to do with the coffee or your proximity. It’s a moment he doesn’t quite understand yet, but it’s one he knows he won’t forget.

-

The harbor comes alive as ships return from the sea, their decks brimming with the morning’s catch. You stand by, watching Minho as he inspects the filefish, his sharp eyes scanning each one carefully. He negotiates with the fisherman, his tone calm yet firm, discussing the price for a box of the freshest catch.

For the first time in a long while, you see him not as the stern head chef you work with, but as the Minho you knew back in school. There’s a quiet confidence about him, a passion that flickers beneath the surface as he handles the fish with precision and care.

Once the transaction is complete and the box of filefish is secured, you suggest grabbing breakfast before heading back. Minho agrees—but only if you treat him.

You groan, shaking your head and putting on a pitiful look at him. “I just spent most of my money on those fish.”

Minho stops in his tracks and turns to you, giving you that look—the one he wears right before he’s about to scold you. You brace yourself, ready for his biting words, but instead, he asks, “How much money do you have left?”

You blink, surprised by the question, and quickly count the small bills in your pocket. After telling him the amount, he nods decisively. “Go buy some rice and sesame oil with it.”

Without questioning him, you hurry off and return shortly after, only to find Minho by the fisherman’s boat, expertly filleting a fish. His knife glides effortlessly through the flesh, each movement fluid and precise. For a moment, you’re mesmerized by the display of skill, and you can’t help but tease him.

“There’s nothing sexier than a man who knows how to use a knife,” you say with a grin.

Minho scoffs, his lips twitching in what could almost be a smile, he's above to shove the first slice of fish into his mouth but noticing the pitiful look on your face, he refrains and feeds it into your mouth. The taste is incredible—fresh, light, and briny, the fish melts the moment it touches your tongue.

“This is amazing,” you gush, savoring the flavor. You pick up another slice and hold it out to him. “Here, try it.”

He eyes the piece in your hand and glares at you. “I have hands. I can feed myself.”

Unbothered, you shrug and pop it into your mouth instead, grinning at the flavorful taste of fresh fish in your mouth. Meanwhile, Minho mixes the fish slices with the rice, adding a dollop of red chili paste and a drizzle of sesame oil. He stirs it all together with practiced ease before handing you a portion.

“Here. Your breakfast,” he says, his tone casual but expectant.

You take a bite, and your eyes widen. The dish is unbelievably good—simple yet bursting with flavor. “This is… exceptional. How is something so basic this good?”

Minho smirks, clearly pleased with your reaction but says nothing, turning his attention back to the fish.

As you finish the rice, you’re about to toss the fish bones and scraps into the trash, but Minho stops you. “What are you doing? Those aren’t trash.”

He grills the remaining pieces over a small fire, the aroma wafting through the crisp morning air. Together, the two of you sit by the water, sharing the grilled fish while the warm sun rises over the horizon. The view of the sea, paired with the comforting meal, makes everything feel oddly perfect.

Minho leans back, crossing his arms with a smug expression. “There. I just served you a full-course meal.”

You chuckle, nudging his arm. “Thank you, Chef. That was honestly amazing.”

Minho doesn’t respond, but there’s a softness in his gaze that wasn’t there before. Deep down, as you sit together, you can’t help but feel a quiet contentment—like, for this moment, everything is exactly as it should be.

-

The car hums softly as Minho drives, the early morning sun casting a warm glow over the horizon. You lean back against the seat, feeling the calm after the morning at the harbor. Your phone suddenly buzzes, the screen lighting up with an unknown number. You hesitate but decide to answer it, just in case it’s important.

“Hello?” you say cautiously.

“Hey,” Chris’s familiar voice immediately puts you at ease. “Just checking in to see how things are going with the preparations for the new menu.”

You smirk, unable to resist teasing. “Oh, everything’s going great. I’m actually at the seaside, having fun.”

Chris laughs, though there’s a knowing edge to it. “You’re not fooling me. Let me guess—you’re out there to get fresh ingredients for the new menu?”

“You’re to blame for this. You’re the one who set the budget for the ingredients so low.” You admit with a chuckle.

Chris laughs again, the sound warm and light. “Fair enough. Did you go by yourself?”

You hesitate, your gaze shifting to Minho, who keeps his eyes on the road. After a brief pause, you answer, “No. Chef came with me.”

There’s a brief silence on the other end before Chris replies, his tone neutral but slightly amused. “Convenient. I was just about to call him to come to the restaurant anyway.”

“Oh,” you say, surprised. “Anything important?”

Chris brushes it off. “Nothing urgent. Just let him know. Drive safe, alright?”

“Will do,” you reply, and the line goes dead.

You lower your phone, glancing at Minho. “Chris wants to see you at the restaurant.”

Minho glances at you briefly before focusing back on the road. “Why?”

“No idea,” you admit, shrugging.

The car falls into a moment of silence before Minho breaks it. “You seem close with Chris.”

His tone is casual, but there’s an undercurrent of curiosity. You glance at him, surprised by the observation. “Well... We’ve known each other for a while.”

Minho’s expression doesn’t change, but his grip on the steering wheel tightens slightly. It’s clear he has more questions, but he doesn’t voice them.

When you arrive at your apartment building, Minho pulls up to the curb and puts the car in park. He turns to you, gesturing toward the box of fish in the backseat. “Take the fish with you. Don’t put it in the freezer. Keep it in the icebox.”

You nod, opening the door and reaching for the box. “Got it.”

Per Minho’s instruction, you carry the icebox into the building, your arms straining slightly under the weight. The elevator ride is uneventful, but your mind buzzes with thoughts of the morning at the harbor and Chris's phone call. When you step into your apartment, you’re startled to see boxes and bags scattered around the living room.

Sara looks up from where she’s unpacking a box by the couch, her expression turning sheepish. “Oh, you’re back! I’m so sorry about the mess. I know I said I’d move in tomorrow, but the movers came early, and I didn’t want to miss the chance…”

You wave her off, smiling. “It’s fine, really. Don’t worry about it.”

Sara visibly relaxes and glances at the icebox in your hands. “What’s that? Where have you been?”

“To the harbor,” you reply, setting the box down on the kitchen counter. “Had to get fresh ingredients for the new menu.”

Curiosity sparks in her eyes as she walks over. “Can I see?”

You flip open the lid of the icebox, revealing an array of freshly caught filefish. Sara gasps, leaning in to inspect the contents. “Wow, that’s a lot of fish! Are all of these yours?”

You chuckle, shaking your head. “Not just mine. Some of them are chef’s.”

At that, Sara’s gaze snaps to you, surprise flashing across her face. “You went to the harbor with Minho?”

“Yeah,” you say casually, closing the lid. “It was for the new menu, so we had to split the cost.”

Sara raises an eyebrow, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. “Interesting.”

You roll your eyes at her expression but decide to let it slide. Before you can say anything else, Sara places a hand on your shoulder. “You should get some rest. You must be exhausted after the trip.”

You sigh, realizing how heavy your limbs feel now that she’s mentioned it. “Yeah, I think I’ll do that.”

“Good,” Sara says with a smile. “I’ll finish unpacking quietly, don’t worry.”

You nod and head toward your room, leaving the icebox on the counter for later. As you close the door behind you, the events of the day replay in your mind, making it hard to decide what to focus on—Chris’s call, the morning at the harbor, or now that you've officially in between Sara and Minho, literally and figuratively.

-

Minho strides into the restaurant, his expression set in a familiar scowl. It’s quiet this early in the day, with no staff bustling like usual. He heads toward the coffee station and finds Chris already there, calmly preparing a cup of coffee.

“You’re here,” Chris greets, glancing at Minho as he places a cup under the espresso machine. “Sit down. I’ll make you a coffee, chef.”

Minho hesitates but eventually drops into the chair across from Chris, his arms crossed. He watches as Chris works efficiently, his movements smooth and unhurried. The quiet confidence in Chris’s demeanor rubs Minho the wrong way, frustrating him further.

Minho’s fingers tap against the table, breaking the silence. “I’ll be honest—I wouldn’t have taken this job if you were the one who offered it to me.”

Chris smirks faintly as he places a steaming cup of coffee in front of Minho. He them takes the opposite seat, his expression unchanging. “That’s funny because I wouldn’t have offered it to you.”

Minho blinks, slightly taken aback. “Huh?”

Chris leans back, resting his elbows on the chair's armrests. “You’re talented, no doubt. But I knew you’d be... difficult. Still, we’re here now, working together, so let’s just do our best.”

Chris offers his hand, a gesture of truce. Minho eyes it warily before finally grasping it for a firm shake. “Fine. But don’t think this means we’re friends.”

Chris chuckles lightly and pulls his hand back. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Chris shifts the conversation. “How was the harbor trip? Did you get the ingredients you needed?”

Minho nods, the memory of the fresh fish he brought back crossing his mind. “I did. The quality is excellent. I’m confident about the competition.”

Chris raises a brow, impressed. “Since you have good ingredients and confidence, you are exempt from the contest. Tomorrow, there's a charity dinner at W hotel. We've been invited to participate.”

Minho tilts his head and narrows his eyes at him. “Whether it is to compete or work or cook, you're telling that I have to follow your orders without complaints?”

Chris puts on a faint smile and takes a sip of his coffee before continuing. “I know it's a charity dinner but all the participating chefs are from 5-star hotels and the winner is decided by who sold the most plates. This is a competition on who has the most confidence that they made the best dish which also makes it a good opportunity to boost Farfalle’s reputation.”

Minho leans back, considering it. He knows the importance of publicity for the restaurant, but the idea of being pushed into the spotlight annoys him. Still, he nods. “For the sake of the restaurant, I’ll do it.”

Chris smiles approvingly. “Glad to hear it.”

Minho starts to rise, thinking the conversation is over, but Chris stops him. “One more thing.”

“What now?” Minho asks, irritation creeping into his voice.

“Chef Sara wants to compete with her version of the new menu,” Chris says casually, as though it’s no big deal.

Minho groans, leaning forward. “Why? The kitchen doesn’t need unnecessary competition.”

Chris shrugs. “You’re confident in your cooking, right? Then you shouldn’t be worried about it.”

Minho narrows his eyes. He finally sees Chris’s management style clearly—it’s about pushing boundaries, challenging people, and doing whatever he thinks will benefit the restaurant, no matter how it ruffles feathers.

“You’re something else,” Minho mutters as he stands. He gives him a long look before turning toward the door. “Do whatever you want. It’s your restaurant after all.”

Minho was having a great day until he met Chris but his day takes another downturn when he spots Sara walking towards her car. It takes a second for her to notice him back, her face lighting up with a smile that only irritates him further.

“Minho,” she greets cheerfully. “I’m looking forward to seeing your new dish tomorrow.”

Minho halts in his tracks, crossing his arms as he levels her with a sharp gaze. “Don’t get your hopes up. You’re no match for me.”

Sara’s smile doesn’t falter, her confidence unwavering. “We’ll see about that. I’ve been waiting a long time to cook with you again.”

He scoffs, narrowing his eyes at her. “You haven’t changed a bit. You still think cooking is all about competition.”

Sara tilts her head, an air of calm defiance surrounding her. “Maybe I have, maybe I haven’t. You’ll see soon enough.”

She turns to leave, but Minho isn’t finished. A realization strikes him, and he pivots on his heel, his voice cutting through the quiet. “It won’t be as easy as you think. You’ll have to beat her first.”

Sara stops, glancing over her shoulder with a raised brow. “Her? Who?”

“You know exactly who I mean,” Minho says, his voice laced with confidence. “If you think you can win against her, go ahead and try.”

Sara chuckles softly, shaking her head. “Are you saying that I'll be losing to a junior cook? Don’t make me laugh, Minho.”

Minho steps closer, a devilish smirk playing on his lips as he says, “Cooking is unpredictable. That’s what makes it fun, don't you think?”

Her expression stiffens for a moment, but she quickly regains her composure. “You’d better prepare for tomorrow. I won’t hold back.”

Minho’s smirk deepens as he leans in slightly. “I can’t wait to see your face when you lose to her.”

Without another word, he turns and strides toward the elevator, leaving Sara standing by her car, her calm exterior showing a faint crack.

As Minho steps into the elevator, a renewed determination fuels him. He’s not about to let Sara’s arrogance go unchallenged. If she underestimates you, she’ll regret it.

The elevator dings, signaling his arrival at his floor. He wastes no time heading straight to your apartment, his steps quick and purposeful. He presses the doorbell, and when you open the door, slightly confused by his sudden appearance, he doesn’t waste a second.

“Grab the ice box,” he orders firmly.

You blink at him, taken aback. “What? Why?”

“No time for questions,” he says, already turning on his heel. “Bring it and follow me.”

Reluctantly, you do as he says, hauling the ice box and trailing after him down the hallway. He leads you to his apartment, opening the door and gesturing for you to step inside.

“What’s going on?” you ask, still confused.

Minho’s eyes glint with determination as he shuts the door behind you. “We’re working on your recipe. You’re going to win tomorrow.”

-

Stepping into Minho’s apartment for the first time, you’re momentarily distracted by its minimalistic design and subtle charm. But before you can properly take it in, Minho pulls you toward the kitchen, his grip firm on your wrist.

“Put the ice box there,” he commands, gesturing toward the counter.

You do as he says, placing it down gently. Turning to face him, you wait for whatever instructions he’s about to give. Minho stands across from you, his expression unreadable as his sharp eyes study you in silence.

“What?” you ask nervously, breaking the stillness.

He finally speaks, his voice as cold as his gaze. “You need to have the determination to beat me.”

You blink, confused, and let out a nervous chuckle. “Beat you? That’s impossible.”

His face doesn’t change. The coldness remains, and your chuckle falters. “Wait... you’re serious?”

“Yes,” Minho replies flatly. “How can you even hope to compete if you don’t believe you can win?”

“But it’s you,” you mumble, still baffled. “How can I beat you?”

He interrupts, taking a step closer. The gap between you shrinks, and your breath catches as his piercing gaze locks onto yours. “How do you plan to be a chef without a competitive spirit?”

The intensity of his question and proximity make you look down, overwhelmed. Before you can respond, you feel his hands grip your shoulders, firm and commanding. His voice rises, filled with frustration and urgency.

“I can do it. Posso farcela!” he shouts, his eyes blazing with an almost contagious fire.

You blink at him, unsure of what he’s trying to do. “What does that even—”

“Say it,” Minho insists, shaking your shoulders slightly. “Everyone has their shining moment. Even you. But only if you believe it. Posso farcela!”

Without waiting for your consent, he leans in until his forehead presses firmly against yours. The sudden closeness sends a shiver through you, and your heart races. With Minho, you can’t really tell if you should be scared or excited by the proximity. His voice softens but remains commanding. “Say it.”

Hesitating, you whisper, “Posso farcela.”

“Louder!” he demands, his grip tightening.

“Posso farcela!” you shout at the top of your lungs.

Finally, Minho steps back, a small, satisfied smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He releases your shoulders and nods. You’re still catching your breath when he turns to the counter, pulling out ingredients and utensils. “You’re staying here tonight,” he announces matter-of-factly.

“Wait, what?”

“You heard me,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “We’re practicing all night. Don’t even think about going home.”

A chill runs down your spine—not just from his words, but from the realization that you’ll be cooking with him all night. Somehow, this is far from how you ever imagined spending the night at his apartment.

-

The warm lights of Minho’s kitchen illuminate the room as the two of you work side by side. You’re focused on molding the fish mixture into small, round balls, while Minho is pan-searing fish liver with precision. The sizzle of the pan fills the silence between you, and the savory aroma teases your senses.

Every now and then, you find yourself glancing at Minho. There’s something hypnotic about the way he moves—the effortless way he tilts the pan without spilling, the fluidity of his knife work, the sharp focus in his gaze as he perfects every detail. Even in casual clothing, Minho radiates charisma. His dark sweater hugs his frame, accentuating his broad shoulders, while his rolled-up sleeves reveal veined forearms that flex with every movement.

Your admiration is cut short as Minho suddenly turns toward you, his sharp eyes locking onto your work. Without a word, he strides over and pokes one of your molded fishballs with his finger. It crumbles immediately.

His glare pierces you. “It’s too crumbly,” he states coldly. “Do it again.”

You nod meekly, murmuring, “Yes, Chef,” and begin adjusting the mixture.

Moments later, he scolds you again. “Why are these so small? They’ll fall apart when you fry them. Do it again.”

You gulp and obey, reforming the fishballs to a larger size.

It doesn’t take long before you’re on the receiving end of another critique. “You’re frying them wrong,” Minho snaps, stepping in to demonstrate. He moves with efficiency, ensuring the fishballs are evenly browned and perfectly cooked. Watching him, you can’t help but feel inadequate but also in awe of his skill.

Finally, the first batch is done, and you nervously wait as Minho takes a bite. Your stomach sinks as he spits it out into the sink almost immediately.

“This is terrible,” he says bluntly, glaring at you. “Too much egg and breadcrumbs. I can’t even tell if it’s made from fish or chicken.” His tone sharpens.

“What was the point of driving all the way to the seaside if this is what you’re going to make? Do it again.”

You nod quickly, muttering another shaky “Yes, Chef,” and get back to work.

After a couple more failed attempts, you finally feel a sliver of hope. You’ve followed every piece of advice Minho has given, and this batch feels like your best yet. But the hope is short-lived as Minho spits it out once more, his glare now blazing.

“Are you trying to kill me?” he barks, holding up a small piece of fishbone he found in his bite. “You left a bone in it!”

You freeze, guilt and embarrassment washing over you.

“What are you standing there for?” he snaps, crossing his arms. “Get back to the kitchen and do it again.”

Minho leaves the kitchen, your eyes following him taking his coat and puts it on. He turns to you as he informs,

“I’m going out, and when I get back, I expect you to have this perfected.”

With that, Minho storms out, leaving the apartment in silence. You let out a long, shaky breath the moment the door closes. Setting down your utensils, you wander into the living room and collapse onto the sofa, burying your face in your hands. Exhaustion weighs on you like a heavy blanket, and frustration simmers beneath the surface.

The silence in Minho’s apartment is deafening, broken only by the soft hum of the refrigerator. Exhausted and at your wit's end, you pull your phone from your pocket and stare at the screen, debating whether to make the call. It’s ridiculously early, but if there’s anyone who can help you, it’s your dad. After all, he’s been running his bakery for as long as you can remember, and you know he’s probably already in the kitchen preparing the first batch of bread.

You dial his number, pacing anxiously as the phone rings.

“Hello?” your father answers, his voice slightly groggy but steady.

“Dad,” you say in a rush, “I regret going to culinary school. This was the worst decision I ever made.”

There’s a pause before your father sighs heavily. “I told you this would happen. Cooking isn’t just some romantic idea—you need grit and perseverance, and clearly, you don’t have enough of either.”

His words sting, but you expected nothing less.

“Why are you calling me so early, huh? Shouldn’t you be sleeping off your regrets?”

You groan, leaning against the counter. “I need help. I’m working on this recipe, and I can’t get the chewy texture I need for fishballs. I’ve tried everything, but nothing works!”

Your father grumbles something under his breath before asking, “Alright, what are you putting in the mixture?”

You quickly list off the ingredients, your voice rapid and desperate.

“Are you using potato starch?” he interrupts.

“Yes,” you reply, blinking.

“Check it,” he orders. “Make sure it’s 100 percent potato starch.”

His words give you pause, and you dash to the kitchen, grabbing the package of potato starch from the counter. You scan the label, your stomach sinking as you read: 92 percent potato starch.

“Dad,” you say, your voice small, “it’s only 92 percent.”

“Unbelievable!” your father exclaims. “How do you expect to get the texture you want if it’s not 100 percent? You’re sabotaging yourself! Go and get proper potato starch!”

“But—”

“No buts! You’re wasting your time otherwise. Fix it.” His tone leaves no room for argument.

“Thanks, Dad,” you mutter before hanging up. You stare at the package in your hand, a newfound determination building in your chest. You don’t know when Minho will be back, but you’re certain of one thing: you’re going to perfect this recipe before he walks through that door.

You take a deep breath, head back to the kitchen, and prepare to start over—this time with the right approach.

-

The sun is beginning to rise, casting a soft glow over the city as you step out of Minho’s apartment. The cool morning air brushes against your skin, a stark contrast to the warmth of the kitchen where you’ve spent the entire night. You’ve left your dish on his dining table, hoping it meets his impossible standards, and now you’re longing for a moment of peace.

When you arrive at your own apartment, you’re met with the sight of chaos in the kitchen—ingredients scattered, utensils abandoned mid-use, and remnants of Sara’s late-night preparations everywhere.

Your eyes move to the couch, where Sara is curled up, her head resting on her arm. The sound of your footsteps stirs her awake, and she looks at you groggily.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” you say, feeling a bit guilty.

Sara stretches and shakes her head, offering a small smile. “It’s okay. I was about to get up anyway.”

Feeling a pang of sympathy, you ask, “Would you like some coffee? I could use a cup myself.”

Her smile widens, and she nods. “That would be nice.”

A few minutes later, the two of you sit together in the living room, cradling mugs of freshly brewed coffee. The morning is quiet, save for the faint hum of the city waking up outside.

You glance toward the kitchen, breaking the silence. “You must’ve been busy prepping for your TV program.”

Sara doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, she takes a sip of her coffee and then looks at you with a faintly amused expression. “Were you at Minho’s place all night?”

Her question catches you off guard, and you pause mid-sip. You're aware that Sara knows more than she lets on. You sigh, nodding in acknowledgment.

“Have you tried his new dish?”

You shake your head. “Hardly.”

“He's like that. He won't let anyone taste it until it's perfect.” Sara softly smiles as she says it as if she's reminiscing something.

“Must've been fun though,” she adds with genuine envy in her eyes.

You scoff at that and cradle your cup of coffee in both hands. “Fun? I got scolded all night.”

Sara chuckles softly, her gaze distant. “Still, cooking with someone else is always less tiring. And it's more fun.”

Her words hang in the air, and you can’t help but wonder if there’s more meaning behind them. Does she miss cooking with Minho? Since she won the contest, there are two possibilities: It's either she gives the recipe to the restaurant or she's taking the responsibility of this dish herself in the kitchen. Honestly, you can’t imagine the latter. Having two chefs in one kitchen is one thing but two chefs who shared a complicated past? That's a recipe for disaster.

You shake the thought away, deciding it’s not your place to dig deeper into their shared history. Draining the last of your coffee, you stand and offer her a small smile. “I should get some rest before the contest. Good luck with your cooking today.”

She looks up at you, her smile soft. “You too.”

-

The familiar sounds of clattering pans and bubbling pots fill the air as you step into the bustling kitchen. For the first time in a while, you feel an odd sense of comfort here—like you’ve missed this chaos, missed the kitchen itself. Looking around, it’s clear that everyone else feels the same. The team looks rejuvenated from their break, their energy palpable as they chatter excitedly about the upcoming contest.

Your thoughts are interrupted by Felix bounding into the room, his face glowing with excitement. His freckles seem brighter than usual, standing out against his sun-kissed skin.

“Someone’s been having fun,” you tease, smiling as he joins you at your station. “Where’d you go?”

Felix grins, his boyish charm making it impossible not to smile back. “Oh, just somewhere fun,” he replies cryptically, his eyes twinkling.

You roll your eyes but let it slide. “Are you ready for the contest?”

“Absolutely,” he says with a confident nod, and you hold out your fist. He meets it with a firm bump, a gesture of mutual encouragement.

The room falls quiet as Chris enters, his demeanor as calm and collected as ever, his enigmatic smile adding an edge to his presence. “Alright, everyone,” he announces, his voice cutting through the silence. “You may begin cooking your new menu items. Good luck.”

You glance around the kitchen as everyone springs into action, but one thing—or rather, one person—is missing. Minho.

“Where’s Minho?” you ask Felix, lowering your voice so as not to draw attention.

Felix shrugs, his expression unbothered. “Probably using the other kitchen. It’s pretty packed in here.”

His explanation makes sense, but a small pang of unease lingers. You shake it off and refocus on your task. You’ve come too far and worked too hard to let anything distract you now.

As you begin preparing your dish, the words Minho drilled into you all night echo in your mind: “Posso farcela!”

You whisper the phrase to yourself, almost as a mantra, channeling it into every movement. Confidence surges through you as you remind yourself why you’re here—to create something incredible and to prove, most of all to yourself, that you can do this.

-

The dining hall buzzes with energy as chefs carry their meticulously prepared dishes to the tables for judging. You’re no different, your dish carefully balanced in your hands, though a nagging thought occupies your mind: Where is Minho?

You’re not the only one wondering. Whispered speculations ripple through the room, the tension thick in the air. The door opens, and your heart leaps with hope, expecting Minho to stride in after Chris. Instead, your breath catches in your throat.

It’s not Minho. It’s Chef Sara.

Her poised figure glides into the room, her sharp gaze scanning the crowd before briefly landing on you. You offer her a hurried, polite smile, masking your shock and the storm of questions swirling in your mind. Why is she here?

She doesn’t need this contest. She’s already at the pinnacle of her career—a celebrated chef with a regular TV program, several bestselling cookbooks, and fame most chefs only dream of. So why?

The answer flickers at the edges of your mind, but you refuse to acknowledge it. Chris claps his hands, pulling everyone’s attention to the front. His calm, commanding presence stills the murmurs in the room.

“I have something to inform you before we begin,” he begins, his voice steady, “unfortunately, Chef Lee will not be joining us today due to special circumstances.”

You blink, the news hitting harder than you expect. Your stomach sinks as you try to imagine what could have kept Minho away.

“But,” Chris continues smoothly, “Chef Sara will be stepping in to compete instead.”

A ripple of surprise sweeps through the room. You’re no exception, your mind reeling as you watch Sara move to her station with a confidence that makes her presence feel larger than life.

Chris doesn’t leave room for more speculation. “Let me explain how the contest will proceed.”

He goes on to detail the rules. The first round involves the service staff tasting and voting for the three best dishes to move on. In the second round, fifty selected guests of Farfalle will taste the top three dishes and vote for the winner.

“The winning dish,” Chris says, his enigmatic smile returning, “will become the new main menu of Farfalle. The winning chef will not only oversee this dish in the kitchen but will also earn incentives from its sales.”

That last part immediately ignites a spark in the room. Chefs exchange glances, excitement crackling at the mention of money. You can’t help but smile, impressed by Chris’s ability to up the stakes and turn the contest into something electrifying.

Chris scans the room, his gaze settling briefly on you before moving on. “Good luck,” he says simply.

And with that, the contest begins.

-

The second round feels surreal. Though you expected to make it this far, the reality of going up against Chef Sara and Sous Chef Seojun feels daunting. You’re torn between pride and the sinking pressure of the competition.

From the second floor of the dining hall, you lean against the railing, watching as the selected guests taste the dishes below. Your nerves flutter, every movement of the tasters amplified in your mind.

Lost in thought, you barely notice Sara standing beside you until she speaks.

“You must’ve been surprised to see me here,” she says softly, her tone almost apologetic.

You glance at her, offering a polite smile. “Just a little.”

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” she explains, her gaze sincere.

You shake your head. “I’m not uncomfortable at all. Honestly… I’m no match for you anyway.”

Sara chuckles, but her expression turns serious. “You’d be surprised. I’m actually nervous because of you.”

Her words catch you off guard, and you laugh, assuming she’s trying to lift your spirits. “Sure, Chef. Nice try.”

“I’m serious,” she insists, her eyes unwavering.

Your smile falters slightly, a flicker of gratitude warming your chest. “I’m just glad I made it to the second round,” you admit, brushing off her words even as they linger in your mind.

Sara gives you an encouraging nod before stepping away. As you head back toward the kitchen, your phone buzzes. You fish it out of your pocket, your heart skipping a beat when you see Minho’s name.

“Posso farcela!”

A second message follows almost immediately.

“I’ll be there soon. Posso farcela!”

A smile tugs at your lips before you realize Chris is nearby, watching you with an amused expression. You quickly shove your phone back into your pocket, your cheeks warming under his gaze.

“What’s with that look?” Chris teases.

“Nothing!” you protest, flustered.

Chris smirks, his sharp pinstripe suit somehow making him look even more teasingly intimidating. The tailored fit accentuates his broad shoulders and lean frame, making it hard not to admire him. But nothing is as charming as his dimpled smile as he aims it towards you.

“Looking sharp,” you comment, trying to deflect.

He raises an eyebrow as he pulls a hand out of his slacks pocket. “Complimenting me won’t help you win.”

You chuckle and start walking toward the kitchen. “But it’s worth a shot.”

Chris steps closer, his tone light but curious. “Do you think you’ll win?”

“I have to be confident,” you reply with a shrug. “Besides, I’ve got nothing to lose.”

He nudges your shoulder playfully. “Well, if you do win, you owe me dinner.”

The warmth of his words makes your chest tighten in a good way. He actually has faith in you and he makes it sounds possible for you to win the contest.

“Deal,” you say, smiling.

He stops on his track and grabs your shoulder. Swiftly, he turns your body to the side, making you face him. He leans closer, his brown eyes softly gazing into your eyes. “Don't tell anyone but I'm rooting for you.” He whispers, not wanting everyone else to hear that he's biased.

You smile in genuine gratitude. “Thanks, Chris.”

As Chris walks away, you take a deep breath, feeling a renewed sense of determination. With encouragement from both Minho and Chris, you can’t afford to let your nerves get the better of you now.

-

Anticipation filled the dining hall as everyone gathers one last time for the night. The air is electric with nervous excitement, and you feel the weight of the moment settling in your chest. You tell yourself not to get your hopes up, but the thought of impressing Minho lingers, making your heart race.

Chris steps into the room, his confident stride and easy smile drawing everyone's attention. "Thank you all for your hard work on this new menu," he begins, his tone warm and genuine.

Without much preamble, he announces, "The two popular dishes from tonight are… the fishball pasta and Chef Sara’s triple-flavored pasta."

Your breath catches, a small spark of hope igniting within you. As expected, you made it this far. Maybe Minho’s mantra really did work wonders. You glance at Sous Chef Seojun, who wears a strained expression. Noticing his disappointment, you gently pat his shoulder and offer him an encouraging smile.

The room quiets as the door opens, and Minho strides in, his presence commanding instant attention. He surveys the room briefly before focusing on Chris, who grins and announces, "Chef Lee will be our tiebreaker tonight. I believe he’s the most unbiased person for the job."

Minho raises an eyebrow but nods, accepting the role without complaint. He takes his seat at the head of the table, signaling you and Chef Sara to bring your dishes forward.

You carefully place your plate in front of him, trying to keep your hands steady. Chef Sara does the same, her usual poise shining through. Stepping back, you wait as Minho begins tasting the dishes.

You can’t stop yourself from nervously playing with the edge of your apron as Minho takes a deliberate bite of your pasta. His expression is unreadable, his focus entirely on the food. He moves on to Chef Sara’s pasta, taking his time with each bite.

Finally, Minho sets his fork down and rises from his seat, commanding the room’s attention. He looks at you first, his gaze steady and thoughtful.

He calls your name first, his tone softer than usual. "You’ve done a good job."

A smile creeps onto your face, unbidden but genuine. Coming from Minho, that acknowledgment feels like a win in itself.

"You managed to maintain the sweetness and softness of the fish very well," he continues, his voice measured. "I noticed you used the least amount of eggs and breadcrumbs in your batter, which is commendable. It shows skill."

You bask in his words for a brief moment before he shifts his focus to Chef Sara.

"Chef Sara," Minho begins, his tone shifting to one of professional admiration. "Your dish is intriguing—a ravioli with a mysterious filling and a combination of two sauces that could have been disastrous. But you balanced it beautifully. I’m genuinely impressed."

Chef Sara beams at his praise, thanking him warmly.

Minho pauses, his gaze sweeping the room. "Cooking," he says, "is more than just technique. It’s dynamic. It should seduce whoever is holding the fork and knife."

He turns back to you, his expression gentle but firm. "Your dish is good, but it lacks that seduction. It doesn’t quite pull the diner in the way it should."

Your smile falters ever so slightly, the sting of his words hitting harder than you expected.

Chris breaks the momentary silence by asking, "So, does that mean Chef Sara wins?"

Minho nods, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Yes. The winner is Chef Sara."

The room erupts in applause as Chef Sara steps forward, her confidence radiating as she graciously accepts the title. You force a smile, clapping along with the others.

"Congratulations," you manage to say to her, your voice steady despite the pang of disappointment in your chest.

Sara thanks you with a warm smile, her sincerity softening the moment. As the night winds down, you remind yourself that second place is still an accomplishment. But deep down, you can’t shake the lingering ache of wanting more—not just for yourself, but to make Minho proud.

-

Minho sits in Chris’s office, his arms crossed as he waits with thinly veiled impatience. He checks the clock on the wall, nearly rolling his eyes as the door finally swings open. Chris enters first, his usual air of ease intact, followed closely by Chef Sara.

Sara takes the chair across from Minho without hesitation, her posture relaxed but alert. Chris leans casually against his desk, his eyes flicking between the two.

“Well,” Chris begins, clapping his hands together, “since Chef Lee chose the Triple-flavored Pasta, I thought it’d be a good idea for the two of you to discuss the details—preparation, launch timeline, all that fun stuff. Once you’ve reached a decision, let me know.”

Minho barely acknowledges Chris’s words, instead leveling him with a pointed look. “Can we have some privacy?”

Chris raises an eyebrow but doesn’t argue. “Sure,” he says simply, pushing off the desk and heading for the door. “Play nice.” He closes the door behind him, leaving the room weighted with tension.

Minho leans back slightly, his gaze cold and calculating as it settles on Sara. “Congratulations,” he says, the chill in his tone making it sound more like an obligation than genuine praise. “Now, let’s get straight to the point. I’ll need your recipe for the kitchen.”

Sara doesn’t flinch under his scrutiny. “No,” she says flatly.

Minho’s eyes narrow. “No?”

“That’s right,” she replies, her tone calm but firm. “I’m not giving my recipe to the kitchen.”

Minho leans forward slightly, the air around him growing sharper. “Are you suggesting you plan to come here and prepare the dish yourself?”

Sara meets his gaze without hesitation. “Why not?” she counters. “I can’t do that?”

A scoff escapes Minho’s lips, followed by a malicious smirk. “You’re delusional if you think I’ll let that happen.”

Sara crosses her arms, unfazed. “It’s my privilege as the contest winner. You knew that when you chose my dish—or did you misunderstand?”

The smirk on Minho’s face falters, replaced by a flicker of irritation. “You have other places you can go,” he says, his tone clipped. “Places you can pick and choose at your leisure. You don’t have to be here.”

Sara smiles, calm and deliberate. “But I like it here.”

Minho’s frustration bubbles over, his voice lowering dangerously. “Let me remind you of one thing: I didn’t choose your dish because you’re welcomed in my kitchen.”

Sara’s smile doesn’t waver. “And let me remind you,” she says, her voice steady and unwavering, “that if you want my recipe, you’ll have to accept me in your kitchen first.”

The room grows silent as their gazes lock, a battle of wills unfolding with neither showing any sign of backing down. The air between them is charged, the tension so thick it feels almost tangible.

It’s a stalemate, and for now, neither of them is willing to yield.

-

You move through the locker room like a machine, your mind distant as your hands go through the motions of changing. Shrugging into your jacket, you’re startled when Felix suddenly appears, leaning casually against the locker beside yours.

His eyes study you, his easygoing demeanor not quite masking his concern. He crosses his arms together then lets out a sigh. “How cheeky of Sara to just waltz in and steal first place like that.”

A small smile tugs at your lips of Felix’s effort to cheer you up, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “I didn’t really stand a chance anyway.”

Felix smirks knowingly, leaning closer. “Don’t act like you like her. We both know we don’t like her, and neither does Minho.”

You snap your locker shut, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “If Minho hates her so much, why did he choose her as the winner?”

Felix falters, clearly caught off guard by the question. He opens his mouth as if to reply but stops, unable to come up with an answer.

You smile faintly, brushing past him. “Night, Felix.”

Leaving the locker room, you head toward the restaurant’s exit, your footsteps heavy with exhaustion. Just as you near the door, Chris’s familiar figure comes into view, his signature dimpled smile lighting up his face as he falls into step beside you.

“Where are you taking me for dinner?” he asks, his tone playful.

You blink at him, puzzled. “I didn’t win, remember?”

Chris’s grin widens as if he’s caught you in a trap. “Second place is still a win,” he counters smoothly. “And you promised me dinner, didn’t you?”

You let out a soft laugh, unable to argue against his infallible logic—or his charm. His gaze is warm, his smile unwavering as he looks at you, and for a moment, the disappointment from earlier feels like a distant memory.

“Fine,” you say, relenting with a smile of your own. “But I get to choose where we’re going.”

Chris nods eagerly, his dimples deepening. “Deal.”

Without warning, he gently takes your hand, leading you toward the parking area. His touch is light, but his presence is grounding, and you feel your mood lifting with every step.

Maybe a night out with Chris is exactly what you need to forget the tension of the contest—even if just for a little while.

-

It’s only been a minute but Chris is already struggling. His low groans and muttered complaints don’t go unnoticed as you glance over at him. His forehead glistens with a sheen of sweat, his ears glow red, and his flushed face and neck betray the battle he’s having with the bowl of spicy noodles—the same dish you’re enjoying without much trouble.

Putting down your chopsticks, you frown. “Chris, stop eating it. You’re suffering.”

Despite his clear discomfort, he shakes his head and stubbornly takes another bite. “It’s spicy, but it tastes good,” he says, though his voice is strained.

You sigh, getting up from your chair and heading to the fridge to grab a bottle of cold water. Returning to the table, you uncap it for him and pull the bowl away from his reach.

“Enough,” you insist, placing the water in front of him.

Finally conceding, Chris gulps down the water in relief, though it’s obvious it does little to soothe the fire in his mouth. Between sips, he glares at you. “Why on earth did you choose spicy noodles?”

You chuckle, finding his over-the-top reaction amusing. “You’ll live,” you tease, but his scolding continues.

“This isn’t funny!” he protests, still drinking water. “Do people eat this? Why would you eat this?”

Your laughter bubbles over, the tension of the day dissolving for the first time. Seeing your mirth, Chris glares again, but a small smile threatens to break through his stern expression.

As a way to make up for the "dinner disaster," you grab some milk and ice cream from a nearby store. The two of you sit on a bench outside, sharing the treats. Chris chugs from the carton of milk, sighing in relief as the burn finally starts to fade.

He side-eyes you, mock accusation clear in his tone. “Were you trying to kill me or something?”

Rolling your eyes, you open a pack of ice cream and offer it to him. “Stop being so dramatic.”

Chris takes it with a begrudging smile, the two of you settling into a companionable silence as you enjoy the sweet relief against the chilly late-winter air.

Your phone rings, breaking the moment. Glancing at the screen, you see Minho’s name flashing. Without a second thought, you hit “Reject” and shove the phone back into your pocket.

Chris raises a brow. “Not going to answer that?”

“Not now,” you reply, shrugging. “I’ll call back when I feel better.”

He sense that your mood hasn't changed much but he doesn’t push, instead offering a comforting smile. “You know, second place isn’t bad. You should be proud of yourself.”

It’s not about losing to Sara, though, but what her win represents. Still, you keep that to yourself, simply nodding. “You’re right. I feel good and happy about it.”

Chris grins, leaning in slightly. “You should. I saw everything tonight, and you were incredible. Even if you didn’t win, your cooking? Amazing. Remember what I said the first time I tasted your cooking?”

You laugh, recalling his words. “How could I forget? You said it was better than sex.”

Chris leans closer, his tone teasing. “Tasted it again today. Still better than sex.”

You burst out laughing. “Now I doubt that you ever had sex at all?”

He scoffs, feigning offense. “Excuse me? Not only am I rich, but I’m also attractive and popular.”

You roll your eyes and decide to tease him. “All that, and yet you can’t handle spicy food.”

Chris smirks, throwing an arm around your shoulder and roughly pulling you close. “You’re lucky I like you,” he says, squeezing you gently in mock revenge.

You giggle, squirming slightly in his hold, but his grip softens after a moment. His hand rubs soothingly up and down your arm, and the warmth of his touch is comforting. Leaning your head against his shoulder, you let out a content sigh as he pats your head softly, murmuring, “You did well. You really did.”

For a while, you sit like that, the peaceful night wrapping around the two of you. Then, out of the corner of your eye, you spot a stall selling fish-shaped breads down the street.

“Fish-shaped breads!” you exclaim, suddenly energized. Before Chris can respond, you’re already sprinting toward the stall, leaving him laughing in your wake.

The drive back is quiet, save for the soft hum of the radio and the occasional sound of Chris drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. You glance at him, noting the content smile on his face, and feel your own mood lift.

As the car comes to a stop in front of your place, you unbuckle your seatbelt and turn to him. “Thanks for tonight, Chris. I really needed this.”

Chris looks at you, his eyes soft under the dim glow of the streetlights. “Thank you for the most memorable dinner I’ve ever had.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Most memorable, huh? You mean the spicy noodles almost killed you.”

He grins, leaning back in his seat. “Exactly. Unforgettable.”

Reaching for the bag of fish-shaped breads you’ve been holding the entire ride, you hand it to him. “Here, I kept these warm for you. My apology for the spicy noodles fiasco.”

Chris accepts the bag, his smile widening as he peeks inside. “I’ll forgive you—this time.”

The two of you share a quiet laugh before leaning in for a quick hug. His arm wraps securely around your shoulders for a brief moment, the gesture warm and comforting.

Pulling away, you open the door and step out. Before closing it, you lean down to look at him one last time. “Goodnight, Chris.”

His dimpled smile returns as he waves. “Goodnight. Get some rest.”

You shut the door and watch as he drives away, the bag of fish-shaped breads still in his hand. Smiling to yourself, you turn and head inside, the warmth of the night’s memories still lingering.

Until your phone rings and you see that it's Minho calling you again.

-

Minho stares at his phone, the screen mocking him with yet another voicemail. He clenches his jaw, his patience thinning with each unanswered call. Unbelievable, he mutters in his head, tucking the phone back into his pocket. You always pick up but not tonight. Not after everything that happened today.

His frustration only grows as the elevator ascends to your apartment floor. He doesn’t know what he’d say when he sees you—maybe he’d scold you for ignoring him or demand an explanation. Something. Anything to ease the irritation gnawing at him.

When he reaches your door, he rings the bell, shifting impatiently on his feet. It opens after a beat, but instead of you, it's Sara standing there, her expression annoyingly serene.

Minho stiffens. Of course, it has to be her. He knows she lives on the building but didn’t know that she's sharing the apartment with you.

“Is she home?” he asks brusquely, cutting straight to the point.

Sara tilts her head, a smirk playing on her lips. “Not yet,” she replies, as if his irritation amuses her.

Minho turns to leave but stopped midway. He can’t resist. Not with her standing there, acting like she belongs here. Facing her again, he let the words spill out, each one sharper than the last.

“I chose your dish because it’s just like you—greedy. Three sauces in one dish, just like how you want everything. Love. Skill. Fame. You don’t know how to let go of anything, do you?”

To his disbelief, Sara smiles, her eyes sparkling as though he’s just given her a bouquet of compliments. “Thank you,” she says sweetly, her voice saccharine.

His jaw clenched, a scoff escaping his lips as he turns on his heel and walks away.

“Goodnight, Minho,” Sara shouts toward him before getting back into the apartment.

“Ridiculous,” he mutters to himself in disbelief.

As he nears his apartment, something—or rather, someone—catches his eye. There you are, standing a few feet away, watching him. His chest tightens, though he masks it with irritation.

“Where have you been?” he snaps, his voice harsher than intended.

You cross your arms, meeting his glare head-on. “I was out with Chris.”

Chris. The name alone sends a sharp sting of annoyance through him. “What’s going on between you and him?” he demands, stepping closer.

Your brow arches, and instead of answering, you deflect. “What’s going on between you and Sara?”

Minho scoffs, shaking his head. “There’s nothing going on.”

“Really?” you challenge. “Because it looks like you two are still very close.”

The audacity. Minho closes the distance between you and him, forcing you back away until you hit the door of his apartment. His voice drops, low and deliberate. “I’m closer to you now than with her.”

He watches as a smile threatens to tug at your lips, though you fight to suppress it. “How much closer?” you tease, your voice light but your eyes searching his.

Minho is conflicted. A part of him wants to just go ahead, do whatever he wants to do but another part of him, the most stubborn part of him, reminds him to stay put, sticks to the rules. However for a moment, he falters. The walls he’s so carefully built around himself trembles under your gaze. The rules he’s sworn to uphold, the distance he’s vowed to maintain—they all seemed insignificant now.

But he can’t. He shouldn’t.

“Get out of my way,” he says instead, his tone clipped as he steps back.

You pout, moving aside as he unlocks his door. He pushes it open, stepping inside. This is the right choice, he tells himself. The smart choice.

But then he glances back.

The sight of you standing there, the faint disappointment flickering in your eyes—it's enough to unravel him completely. Before he can stop himself, he reaches out, grabbing your hand and pulling you inside.

The door clicks shut, and without hesitation, he presses his lips to yours. The kiss is desperate, unrelenting, all the tension and frustration he’s bottled up pouring out in waves. His hands found your waist, pulling you closer as every ounce of restraint dissolved.

Rules be damned. In this moment, you're all that mattered. Tonight, the stubborn part of him loses to his desire.

-

The moment Minho's lips find yours again, everything around you dissolves into nothingness. It's not just the way he kisses you—hungry, fervent, and impossibly deep—but the way his hands grip your waist with unrestrained need. Every movement, every touch, speaks volumes of just how much he’s been holding back.

When he finally pulls back, his chest heaving against yours, you barely have time to gasp for air before he sweeps you up effortlessly. Your arms wrap instinctively around his shoulders, your legs clinging to his hips as he carries you through the apartment. The kitchen counter greets your back, cold against the heat coursing through your body, as he sets you down and steps between your parted legs.

“This close,” He finally answers to your earlier question.

You hold his fiery gaze and breathlessly mutter, “Not close enough.”

The next kiss is even more desperate, more demanding. His hands work with an urgency that mirrors your own. You feel the tug of fabric as he pulls your jacket off and, with a sudden, heated impatience, rips open your shirt. The sound of buttons scattering echoes faintly in the room, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

Minho's lips leave yours, dragging hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, his teeth grazing just enough to send shivers through your entire body. He pauses at your collarbone, his fingers toying with the strap of your bra, his touch both teasing and commanding.

You take your chance, your hands tugging at the hem of his sweater. In one swift motion, you lift it over his head, and the sight of his bare skin—taut, toned, and so undeniably Minho—makes your breath hitch.

Your fingers trace down his chest, feeling every dip and ridge of his muscles as you pull him closer. This time, it’s your turn to explore. You press your lips to his throat, savoring the taste of his skin, warm and slightly salty, mixed with something so distinctly him that it makes your head spin.

His hands slide to your hips, gripping you firmly as his lips return to yours, his kiss relentless. When he pulls away this time, his eyes lock onto yours, dark and filled with something raw, something electric.

He takes hold of your hair, his fingers tangling at the side of your head, and tugs just hard enough to tilt your neck to the side. The sensation makes you gasp, but the sound quickly turns into a quiet moan as his lips find your neck again. He nips at the sensitive skin, his teeth grazing and his tongue soothing in turns.

“Tell me,” he whispers, his breath hot against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. “How much closer do you want me to be?”

Your gaze locks onto his, unflinching despite the fire coursing through you. “A lot closer,” you say, your voice steady, daring.

The corner of his mouth quirks up into a smirk. Without another word, he hooks his arms under you, lifting you from the counter like you weigh nothing. Your legs tighten around him, your heart pounding as he carries you toward the bedroom.

Every step heightens your anticipation, your excitement surging as you wonder just how much closer the two of you can possibly get.

-

The room is dimly lit, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting long shadows across the walls. The air feels charged, every sound amplified—the rustle of the sheets, the faint hitch in your breath, the steady rhythm of Minho’s own.

You lie beside him, your naked body sinking into the mattress as his gaze locks onto yours, dark and unwavering. There’s an intensity in his eyes that makes your heart race, your pulse pounding in your ears.

“Don’t look away,” he murmurs, his voice low and commanding. His hand trails up your arm, his touch featherlight, yet it leaves a trail of heat in its wake. “I want to see you.”

What he means by that is seeing every reaction you make as he explores your body. You swallow hard, nodding slightly, though the weight of his stare makes it hard to hold. His fingers trace the curve of your shoulder, sliding down to your collarbone and then lower, brushing against your skin with deliberate slowness.

“Keep your eyes on me,” he says again, his tone softer this time, almost coaxing. His hand moves to the small of your back, pulling you closer, his thumb pressing gently into your hip.

Your breathing quickens, your chest rising and falling as his hand continues its path, exploring with a mixture of reverence and possession. His touch is both soothing and electrifying, every movement sending shivers through you.

“That’s it. Stay with me,” he whispers, his lips curving into a small, satisfied smile.

His fingers brush against your jaw, tilting your face slightly, ensuring your eyes remain locked on his. The intimacy of it is almost overwhelming, the closeness between you leaving no room for anything else—no thoughts, no distractions, just him.

As his hand continues its slow, deliberate exploration, he leans in, his breath warm against your skin. “I want you to feel everything,” he murmurs, his voice a promise, a command.

And you do. Every touch, every whispered word, every look—it’s all-consuming, a connection that feels deeper than anything you’ve ever known.

Minho’s hand slides down the curve of your waist, his fingers pressing just enough to remind you of his presence, of his control. He leans closer, his lips brushing against your temple, lingering there for a moment before trailing down to your cheek. His kisses are unhurried, deliberate, as if savoring every second.

“Still with me?” he murmurs against your skin, his voice a velvet caress.

You nod, your gaze still locked with his, though your breathing comes in shallow, uneven waves.

“Good,” he says, the corner of his mouth twitching into a faint smile. His lips find the corner of yours, hovering there teasingly before capturing them in a kiss that starts gentle but deepens with each passing second.

His hand moves again, tracing the outline of your thigh, then sliding up to your heating core. He pauses there, his thumb making lazy circles on your bundle of nerves that send warmth coursing through you.

Breaking the kiss, he pulls back just enough to meet your gaze again. “Don’t close your eyes,” he says softly, his fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “I want to see you.”

You nod again, unable to find words, your heart pounding too loudly in your chest.

Minho dips his head, his lips finding the hollow of your throat. He presses a series of kisses there, each one slower and more purposeful than the last. His free hand moves upward, trailing across your ribcage, his touch igniting a fire beneath your skin.

When his lips return to yours, the kiss is hungrier, filled with a need that matches your own. His hand slides back to your lower back, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you.

“Is this close enough?” he murmurs against your lips, his voice husky and sincere. His hand cups your face, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone as he leans in again, his kisses growing more fervent, more insistent.

You don't know if he's asking if you're close to your high or this is the closeness you demand from him. Your brain is struggling to function and time seems to blur, the world outside fading away until he takes you to your high and you soar onto cloud nine.

Minho’s lips hover near your ear, his breath warm against your skin. “Perfect,” he whispers, his voice low and intimate. His words are a soft admission, meant only for you, carrying a depth of emotion that makes your heart ache in the best way.

Minho grounds you to the bed, peppering your shoulder and neck with kisses to help you coming down from your high. After a while, he slowly turns you to lay on your side and you hear the ripping sound from behind you. You turn your head to see Minho tears open a condom with his teeth.

You hold the arm curving around you as he works on putting a layer of protection on before coming back to plant kisses on your flushed skin again.

He grabs your chin, turning your head toward him so he can capture your lips in a kiss. His other hand grabs your leg by the back of your thigh and slowly, he lifts it just enough to make space for him to enter you from behind.

A crease formed between his eyebrows as he begins pushing his length, his teeth faintly biting his lower lip and his hand keeping your knee up. His fingers start to dug into the flesh as he launches the rest of his length until it's fully sheathed inside you.

Your gasp spill into his mouth and Minho crashes his lips onto yours again. In the dimly lit room, he holds you close as he moves in steady, slow motions. You hear nothing but the rustle of the sheets beneath you and your shared breathing, endlessly echoing in the room.

“Is this close enough for you now?” he suddenly asks with his ear pressed to your ear.

You mewl in complaint and shake your head.

Minho smirks at that, a corner of his mouth raises higher than the other. It gives you the impression that he has anticipated that answer and more than capable to cater to that demand.

He grips you by the waist and pulls you even closer, he slings his arm around you, keeping your body still as he picks up the pace of his thrusts, fulfilling your wish. It's just the two of you, bodies tangled on the bed, hands intertwined on the sheets, and you want this night to last forever, you don't even care if you have to live in darkness as Minho knows how to brings out the stars.

-

The room is quiet now, the air filled with the soft rhythm of your breathing and Minho's. The sheets are tangled around your legs, the faint scent of him clinging to the fabric. Minho lies beside you, his chest rising and falling steadily as his arm drapes protectively over your waist.

You shift slightly, your cheek resting against his shoulder. His skin is warm against yours, grounding you in the stillness of the night. Minho stirs at the movement, his hand tightening briefly on your hip before relaxing again.

“You okay?” he murmurs sleepily, his voice rough around the edges but laced with concern.

“Okay,” you whisper back, smiling softly as you tilt your head to look at him.

His eyes flutter open, dark and drowsy but still full of that intensity he never seems to lose. He shifts closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead before settling back into the pillows. “Good,” he mutters, his hand lazily tracing patterns on your back.

For a while, neither of you speak, content to bask in the quiet intimacy of the moment. The weight of his arm, the warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart—all of it lulls you into a state of peace you hadn’t realized you needed.

Minho’s fingers trail up to your hair, gently brushing it away from your face. “Don’t even try to leave,” he softly threatens, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“I wasn’t planning to,” you reply, your lips curving into a smile.

His lips find yours in a slow, lingering kiss, one that feels like a promise. When he pulls back, his gaze searches yours, as if memorizing every detail.

“Good,” he says again, his voice softer now, almost inaudible.

As the minutes stretch into hours, sleep finally begins to claim you. Minho pulls you closer, his arm wrapping securely around you. His breath is warm against your temple, his presence a protective cocoon that makes you feel utterly safe.

And with that, the world fades away, leaving only the quiet comfort of being beside him, the rhythm of his heartbeat a soothing lullaby as you drift off together.

-

The morning light streams through the tall windows of Farfalle as you walk down the hallway, the crisp click of your shoes echoing faintly. With a light knock on the door, you wait for Chris’s faint, “Come in,” before pushing it open slightly and poking your head in.

“Good morning!” you chirp, a bright smile on your face.

Chris glances up from his desk, clearly surprised by your sunny demeanor. His own lips curve into a smile as he leans back in his chair, arms crossing. “Well, someone’s in a good mood today.”

You shrug coyly, stepping into his office and making your way to his desk. “Maybe,” you say, your tone teasing. From your pocket, you pull out a small bottle and place it in front of him with a sly smile.

Chris’s brows furrow, and when he realizes it’s a digestive drink, he fixes you with a playful glare. “Really?” he says, exasperation coloring his tone.

“Just in case your stomach acts up today,” you quip, barely able to suppress your grin.

His tongue pokes the inside of his cheek and then shakes his head, but there’s amusement in his eyes. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”

“Never,” you say with mock seriousness, before leaning forward slightly. “I also came to give you a warning.”

His brow arches, curiosity flickering across his face. “A warning?”

“Don’t act too friendly towards me,” you say, your tone playful but laced with faux seriousness. “And definitely don’t behave in a way that could be misunderstood by everyone—especially Chef Lee.”

Chris chuckles, shaking his head slightly. “And why’s that?”

“Because if you, even for a second, make me think I’m your favorite, I’ll start expecting special treatments,” you warn with a grin.

His smile widens, and he leans forward on his desk. “What if I told you that you already are my favorite? Tell me what kind of special treatments you want from me?”

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “At least try to pretend like I’m not your favorite.”

Chris chuckles again, the sound low and warm. “Fine,” he says, raising his hands in surrender. “I’ll try my best.”

With a triumphant grin, you reach into your pocket again and pull out a lollipop, placing it on his desk. “Since we've reached an agreement,” you say with a laugh.

Chris stares at the candy for a moment before sighing, his smile softening as he hurriedly puts the lollipop in a pocket of his navy suit. “This is exactly why you’re my favorite.”

You laugh as you turn to leave, waving over your shoulder. “Have a great day, Manager Bang!” You say in a veiled formality and a suppressed smile.

His quiet chuckle follows you out the door, leaving a small, satisfied warmth in your chest as you return to the bustling kitchen which immediately puts you on edge.

Your eyes widen as you see them hauling boxes of ingredients into the kitchen, the clattering of crates and the shuffle of hurried feet filling the air. A knot of dread forms in your stomach—you should have been helping with this.

You sprint to the back entrance, weaving through the bustling staff. Sure enough, Minho is there, standing at the edge of a delivery truck, clipboard in hand as he meticulously checks off the contents of each box. His voice cuts through the air, sharp and commanding, as he instructs everyone to carry the ingredients inside. He’s inspecting two styrofoam boxes when you cautiously approach.

“Why do we need fish roe?” he mutters, narrowing his eyes at the label.

“It’s for Chef Sara’s dish,” you answer quickly, hoping to be helpful.

Minho’s head snaps up, and his sharp eyes lock on yours. His gaze narrows further, the intensity of his stare making you freeze. “And where,” he starts, his tone low and dangerously calm, “have you been?”

You avoid the question entirely, choosing instead to give him your sweetest smile and hope that you can get away with it.

Minho’s lips curl into a sly, almost mocking smile, and he tilts his head slightly. “Come here,” he says, motioning with two fingers.

Warily, you step closer, and before you can react, his hand darts toward your forehead. You instinctively close your eyes, bracing yourself.

“Keep your eyes open,” he scolds, flicking your forehead hard enough to make you wince.

“Ouch! Chef!” you protest, rubbing the sore spot with a pout.

He merely smirks, unbothered. “If you have time to smile like an idiot, you have time to work.”

You grab a box of ingredients hurriedly, eager to escape his glare. “I’ll take this inside,” you mutter, hoisting it up.

“You should be,” he replies smoothly, not missing a beat. “You’re part of the kitchen staff, remember?”

“Yes, Chef,” you answer, louder this time. As you’re about to carry the box away, he stops you with a hand on the edge of it.

“Not that,” he says, taking the box from you with ease. “Take the sack of short-necked clams.” He nods toward the truck bed. “You’re in charge of vongole, aren’t you? These clams are your precious babies.”

You hesitate, staring at the heavy sack with dismay. Gathering your courage, you grab it and attempt to lift it. The weight nearly pulls you off balance, but you hold on, determined.

Minho watches your struggle, a small smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “What? Are you going to act like a girl now?”

You glare at him but straighten up, adjusting your grip on the sack. “No, Chef,” you snap, gritting your teeth as you finally manage to lift it.

“Then hurry up,” he barks, his voice loud enough to make you flinch.

“Yes, Chef!” you shout back, stumbling slightly as you head toward the kitchen with the sack.

You can feel his eyes on your back, no doubt ready to pounce if you falter. Despite everything, a strange thrill courses through you. Minho’s treatment of you in the kitchen is as cold and exacting as ever, but the contrast to how he was last night only makes it more intriguing. It’s a game of hot and cold, and you find yourself enjoying the uncertainty of what might come next.

-

Minho steps into the quiet kitchen, the clatter of utensils and murmurs of the staff enjoying their lunch fading into the background. It’s the only time during the day when the kitchen isn’t buzzing with chaos, and he plans to take full advantage of it. He heads straight for the workstation, intent on prepping the ingredients for his new dish.

He’s mentally cataloging everything he needs when his phone buzzes in his pocket. Without glancing at the screen, he answers, half expecting it to be some important work calls.

“Hello?” he says curtly.

“Minho,” comes a familiar, overly sweet voice that instantly grates on his nerves.

He stiffens. Sara.

She skips any pleasantries, her tone light but deliberate. “It’s been so long since we’ve worked in the same kitchen, hasn’t it?”

Minho’s jaw tightens as he grips the phone. “What do you want?” he asks coldly, already regretting picking up.

Sara doesn’t answer directly, instead continuing with an air of feigned nervousness. “I have to admit, it’s a bit... intimidating. Being in the same space as you again.”

He exhales sharply, more annoyed than surprised. “You’ve always wanted what I have,” he bites out, cutting through her coy act.

A low chuckle comes through the line, infuriatingly casual. “Oh, Minho,” she says smoothly, “I’m not here to take it from you. I want us to share it.”

Minho scoffs, the sound harsh and dismissive. “Share?” he repeats, the word tasting bitter in his mouth.

“With both of us there, we could make something extraordinary,” she says, her tone as slippery as ever.

He doesn’t bother responding, his silence heavy with disdain.

Sara lets the pause linger before finally breaking it. “Well,” she says lightly, “I’ll see you later, Minho.”

The line goes dead before he can hang up on her. Minho stares at the phone in his hand for a moment, his expression hard and unreadable. He slips it back into his pocket, his jaw tightening further. Share the kitchen? With her? The thought alone makes his stomach churn.

He shakes his head, refocusing on his ingredients. If Sara thinks she can rattle him, she’s wasting her time. The kitchen is his, and nothing—least of all her—will change that.

As he focuses on his dish, Minho hears the sound of footsteps echoes through the quiet kitchen. Without glancing up, Minho knows it’s you. He can sense your presence even before you step into his line of sight, though he doesn’t acknowledge you.

You don’t speak at first, clearly aware that when Minho is cooking, interruptions are unwelcome. The kitchen hums with the low sizzle of the foie gras in the pan, the aroma rich and intoxicating. He’s in his zone, focused on perfecting the delicate balance of flavors for his dish.

After a moment, though, your voice breaks the silence. “Can I have a taste of the foie gras, chef?”

Minho doesn’t even look up. “No.” His response is flat and immediate.

Undeterred, you take a step closer. “What if I help prepare the liver? I’m good with—”

“No,” he cuts you off again, his tone firm.

“Fine,” you say with a sigh, clearly thinking of another angle. “What if I assist with plating? I’ll make it look perfect—”

“No.”

This time, your voice takes on a pleading tone. “Can I at least taste the failed ones? You know, the ones you don’t use—”

Minho’s hand pauses briefly, his gaze flicking to you. “I’d hate that even more.”

You huff, realizing you’re getting nowhere. But rather than give up entirely, you try a different approach. Your eyes land on the remaining fish nearby, and you ask casually, “Can I at least have the rest of the fish, then?”

As your hand reaches out, Minho’s reaction is swift. He slaps your wrist lightly, his movements sharp and precise.

“That’s mine,” he warns, his voice low and serious. “Don’t touch it!”

You withdraw your hand quickly, your pout almost comical under the weight of his intense stare. For a brief second, Minho’s lips twitch, but he suppresses the urge to smirk.

Instead, he gestures toward the door. “If you have that much energy to bother me, go call everyone to get ready for dinner service.”

“Yes, chef,” you obey as you always do, but not without one last attempt at teasing him. As you turn to leave, your fingers hover playfully over the fish again, daring to provoke him.

Minho narrows his eyes and clicks his tongue, annoyed. “Don’t even think about it,” he growls.

With a mischievous grin, you laugh softly and disappear through the door. Minho shakes his head, a faint smirk finally breaking through. You’re infuriating, but somehow, it only fuels his focus.

-

The kitchen hums with a tension that feels almost electric as everyone stands at their stations, awaiting Minho's lead. He steps forward, his voice cutting through the quiet like a blade.

"Is everyone ready for dinner service?"

A unified reply echoes back, "Yes, Chef!"

Minho surveys the room, his gaze sharp and commanding. “There’s a lot to prepare for tomorrow’s reservation—100 guests. It’s going to be a long night.” He points toward Taesoo, Felix, and then you, his eyes briefly locking with yours. “You three stay after closing time. Understood?”

“Yes, Chef,” the three of you reply in unison and Felix sneakily offers his fist at you and you give it a gentle bump with your fist.

Just as the service staff enters, informing that dinner guests have arrived, Chris strides into the kitchen, his presence drawing everyone's attention. His casual demeanor is replaced by something heavier, his expression unreadable as he clears his throat to address the team.

“I hope you’re all prepared for tomorrow’s press conference,” Chris begins, glancing around. “We’ll be introducing the new additions to the menu—Chef Lee’s foie gras and Chef Sara’s triple-flavored pasta.”

Minho freezes mid-step, his jaw tightening as the words land. The room feels like it shifts; everyone is equally stunned, their collective silence palpable.

Chris doesn’t stop. He then turns toward Minho and says, “Sara says she’ll be making the pasta herself.”

The phone call suddenly clicks into place. Minho’s expression doesn’t change, but you can see the sharp edge in his gaze. You’re not the only one who notices—Felix is the first to speak.

“What?” Felix blurts, his voice tinged with disbelief. “Does that mean she’ll be cooking here, in this kitchen?”

Chris nods, calm yet firm. “Yes. As it'll be on the restaurant’s menu.”

Felix protests, his tone rising. “That’s nonsense! How can there be two chefs in one kitchen? You can’t. It's like having two conductors for the orchestra. Do you think that'd work? Do you even think about us?”

Seungwan chimes in, frowning. “They’d have completely different ways of making the same dish. What do we do then?”

Sous Chef Seojun, always composed, adds with a dry tone, “Even if she won first place for the new menu, she’s an outsider who participated without prior notice. I think the right thing for her to do would be to give us the recipe and we compensate her for it.”

Chris’s patience visibly thins. His jaw clenches, and for the first time, you see a flicker of true tension in his usually relaxed posture. The sight of him like this—stern, commanding, his gaze hard—shouldn’t distract you, but it does. He looks… devastatingly hot.

“Enough,” Chris says, his voice low but firm. “The restaurant was closed for three days for a reason. We agreed on changes in the restaurant,” he adds, looking directly at Minho, “And all you need to worry about is your foie gras, Chef.”

Minho exhales sharply, a sound that betrays his simmering anger. You can see the tension in his jaw, the way his hands clench at his sides. You know it's not the right time for it but Minho also looks... devastatingly hot.

He narrows his eyes at Chris, sensing there’s more to come. “Don’t tell me that she's already here,” Minho says, his voice tight.

Chris confirms with a nod. “She’s here.”

As if summoned by his words,, Sara steps into the kitchen, her heels clicking against the floor as she strides in with a confidence that feels almost rehearsed. Her sweet smile only adds fuel to the tension in the room.

“Nice to meet everyone,” Sara says, her tone light, playful. Her eyes flicker to Minho. “I hope no one plans to chase me out of the kitchen just because someone here has… issues tolerating women in the kitchen.”

The comment is a thinly veiled jab, and she glances pointedly at Felix, acknowledging him as Minho’s loyal protégé. Sara continues, turning to Minho with a feigned sweetness. “I’ll follow your instructions, Chef. Tell me where to stand and from which stove I should work.”

Minho’s knuckles whiten as he grips the edge of the table, his rage barely contained. He says nothing, his silence louder than words.

Sara tilts her head, her voice dripping with mock innocence. “Should I pick the station myself, then?”

Her hands slide onto the chef’s table, a deliberate, territorial move. The implication is clear—she’s claiming his space.

It’s the last straw.

Minho spins on his heel, his movements sharp and deliberate. His eyes burn with fury as they lock onto hers, and for a moment, the air between them feels suffocating.

Sara doesn’t flinch, meeting his gaze with calm defiance.

Without a word, Minho storms past her, his shoulder brushing hers hard enough to make her stagger. The force of his exit is like a storm ripping through the room, leaving everyone in stunned silence.

Sara straightens herself, brushing off the impact with a smirk. But the damage is done—the kitchen is left in a tension so thick it feels impossible to breathe.

And just like that, Minho is gone.

-

Support my writings by kindly reblog, comment or consider tipping me on my ko-fi!

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[slytherinshua]

★　MARRIED LIFE　( 부승관 )

genre fluff , established marriage , husband!seungkwan x fem!reader   cw none   wc 705   request no   note for my beloved rania @wheeboo happy birthday!!! officially two decades old, what a grandma (but an iconic one) skdjsk anyway i hope you enjoy this and i love you very much <33   net @kstrucknet

Seungkwan liked keeping himself busy. Waking up at the crack of dawn and starting work almost immediately (though, not before he gets his hand on an iced americano), was his usual routine. He liked his routine. He liked keeping busy. Whether it was keeping his mind off of anything hard in his life, or the satisfaction of getting work done; Seungkwan worked relentlessly, and he never stopped. 

As for breaks, they were nice at times when everything got a little overwhelming, but he never really craved one. Seungkwan found himself bored if left alone. He’d always drag one of his friends into doing something with him, even during a break. Who could blame him? He lived for the fun of life.

But it was only after he had met you, dated for years, and finally tied the knot that he truly started to yearn for time off. His friends first thought he was going crazy when he was the first to suggest getting off work early. The workaholic wanting to stop working was never a good sign. But Soonyoung was the one to catch on first. Seungkwan was a newlywed husband, after all. 

The teasing he endured just for wanting to go back home to you was immense. 

But he forgot all about it as soon as he stepped foot into the house that he had bought with you, the one that you had quickly made feel like a home, despite it being a little unfamiliar to you both still. The hours he had spent trying to get himself to focus on work and not think about you every second paid off the second he returned to you. 

You didn’t mind that the few days after your wedding were nothing grand or out of the ordinary, and instead enjoyed the simple task of waiting for him to get back from work. With Seungkwan being such a big celebrity, even keeping your marriage under wraps was a task itself. You were content to wait until he had some time off to go on a bigger trip for your official honeymoon. Until then, it wasn’t like any of the excitement and affection from the wedding day had worn off.  

It was clear in the way you ran into his arms as soon as he had closed the door behind him. Clear in the way he pulled you into a kiss immediately, the sweet taste of cherry on your lips finding its way to his tongue. Clear in your satisfied hums in between his fervent kisses and the way his grip on your waist grew tighter, pulling you ever closer. 

The newlywed elation certainly hadn’t been dampened in the past week, no matter how long Seungkwan was cooped up at work, the amount of teasing he was sure to hear from his group mates, or the number of hours you had to wait for his return. Everything fell exactly in its proper place as soon as you were back in Seungkwan’s arms, and you relished every bit of warmth that his hold held. 

It was strange how significant the shift had been from dating to being married. Everything felt new and exciting, but at the same time, it was all comfortable and familiar as it always had the past few years. 

Everytime you looked at the ring on your finger, you were reminded all over again of the exact reason why you had fallen in love with Seungkwan in the first place. Nothing made you happier or prouder than to be able to call yourself his wife, although you couldn’t quite compete with Seungkwan’s pride whenever he reminded anyone he was now a married man. 

And, perhaps married life had changed him, even in just a few days. The man who barely knew how to relax and spend vacation time now craved to spend every single hour with you. Though, Seungkwan supposed he did have the rest of his life by your side to savour. 

But would that amount of time be enough to suffice? Seungkwan wasn’t quite sure. What he did know was that he would spend the rest of eternity with you just as you were now, even if at the end he still wanted more.

svt taglist (bolded could not be tagged): @kangtaehyunzzz,, @eternalgyu,, @ddeonudepressions,, @hannahsophie0103,, @cham3li,,

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@lexeees,, @xikskrrrs,, @cupidslovearrows

[gf2bellamy]

vest — aaron hotchner

pairing: aaron hotchner x reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: hotch helps you with your fest content warnings: mention of an unsub holding a hostage , mention of guns , mention of snipers a/n: hotch in a fbi vest <3 hope you guys enjoy this !!

You sat in the SUV for a moment, gathering your thoughts as you watched the flurry of activity outside. Police cars were scattered across the street, their lights painting the scene in sharp flashes of red and blue. Officers stood with their guns raised, their focus locked on a house at the end of the block. 

Taking a deep breath, you stepped out of the vehicle, following Derek Morgan as he strode toward the rest of the team. The tension in the air was palpable, thick enough to settle in your chest as you approached. 

This wasn’t your first case with the BAU, but you were still new enough to feel a little out of place. You’d learned quickly that there wasn’t much time for hesitation in this line of work, and standing on the sidelines didn’t help anyone. 

The unsub was holed up inside the house, refusing to come out, with a hostage trapped inside. Every second felt critical as the team discussed their plan. 

“Snipers are in position, but we don’t have a clean shot,” Emily said, her tone clipped and professional. 

“There’s only one way in and out,” Rossi added, nodding toward the front of the house. “If we breach, we need to control the situation immediately before he hurts the hostage.” 

You stood quietly at the edge of the group, listening intently but not speaking up. You weren’t sure if your input was expected yet, and you didn’t want to risk saying something that wasn’t helpful. 

Then Hotch’s voice cut through the discussion, calm and authoritative as always. “I’m going in.” 

Your heart skipped a beat at his words, and before you could process them, his dark eyes shifted toward you. 

“You’re coming with me,” he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. 

You froze, caught completely off guard. “Me?” you asked, your voice betraying your surprise. 

“Yes,” Hotch replied, already moving toward the house without waiting for further questions. “You’ve studied his profile. I need you in there.” 

You swallowed hard. The weight of the moment pressed down on you—this wasn’t a training exercise or a simple debrief. This was real, and the stakes couldn’t be higher. 

You walked back to the SUV, the cool night air doing little to calm the adrenaline still coursing through your veins. Opening the door, you grabbed your bulletproof vest and slammed the door shut, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. 

Your hands trembled as you fumbled with the vest, trying to slip it on and tighten the straps. You cursed softly under your breath, annoyed at yourself for not being able to steady your movements. 

“Do you need help?” 

The deep, steady voice startled you, and you turned quickly to see Hotch standing just a step away. His face was calm, unreadable as always, but there was a faint softness in his gaze that caught you off guard. 

You hesitated for a moment before nodding. Without another word, Hotch gestured for you to turn around with a light touch on your arm.

You swallowed hard as you turned, your back to him now. The faint pressure of his fingers lingered against your arm, and you felt your heart pick up its pace. You cursed yourself silently.

Hotch’s hands moved with precision as he adjusted the straps of your vest. His knuckles brushed lightly against your sides as he tightened the straps, and you couldn’t help the nervous flutter that rose in your chest. 

“Follow my lead,” he murmured, his voice low and steady. His breath was warm against the back of your neck, and you felt heat rising to your face. 

He finished securing the vest, his hands lingering just a moment longer than necessary before he stepped back. “And stay close to me,” he added, his tone leaving no room for argument. 

You turned around slowly, meeting his eyes. His expression hadn’t changed—calm, stoic—but there was something in the way he looked at you that made you feel just a tiny bit less terrified. 

“You’ll do okay,” he said simply, his voice firm but not unkind. 

For a moment, the chaos around you seemed to fade. You nodded, swallowing hard as you tried to appear confident.

Hotch gave a single nod before turning, his focus already shifting back to the task at hand. But as he walked away, you couldn’t shake the lingering sensation of his hands on your vest—or the way he’d looked at you.

[orangeblossomsintheair]

oh could you write something cute about the reader and Lando please, maybe something funny where the reader says "oh yeah I'll do this but for that you'll buy me a Porsche" and Lando actually buys her a car 💜

BRAND AMBASSADOR | LN4

wc : 3k

an : slowly working through my requests yippie! im not too sure about this but i hope its alr :'>

It was meant to be a joke. Really.

But Lando didn’t know how to take a joke.

For weeks, he’d been pestering you to do a photoshoot with him for Quadrant.

“Brand image, baby!” he insisted, arms flailing as if that explained everything. “Power couple vibes! You and me, absolutely dominating the internet. Imagine the engagement!”

“My manager would actually drop dead if I did a hoodie campaign.”

“Oh come on, baby, just one photoshoot,” he pleaded, leaning so far over the kitchen island that he looked like he might slide right off. “Just a few pics in Quadrant stuff! Hoodie, joggers, maybe the bucket hat if you're feeling spicy-"

You didn’t even look up from your phone. “Lando. I’m booked for the next eight months. Vogue is flying me to Paris next week, and Dior wants me in Milan by the weekend. I don’t have time to play influencer in your gamer merch.”

“It's not gamer merch!” Lando gasped, clutching his chest like you’d stabbed him. “It’s- it's… lifestyle! Culture! Gaming and racing fusion!”

“That’s cute,” you said flatly, scrolling.

Lando narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t even look at the new designs I sent you.”

“Because it’s just another hoodie, baby.”

He gasped again, louder this time. “Just another hoodie?”

“Oh, I’m sorry- hoodie, but make it Formula 1.”

“Wow.” He pointed at you. “I cannot believe this slander. From my own girlfriend.”

“Your supermodel girlfriend,” you corrected without missing a beat.

“And yet, I’m still here, humbly begging for crumbs of attention.”

You didn’t even blink.

And that’s when you heard it. The soft shuffle of socks against hardwood floors.

You looked up just in time to see Lando drop dramatically to his knees in front of you, arms sprawled over your thighs like some lovesick Victorian maiden.

His chin rested on your knee, staring up at you with those big, stupidly pretty eyes.

“Please.” His voice dropped to a pitiful whisper, like he was auditioning for a charity ad. “Do a Quadrant shoot with me.”

“Oh my God, Lando- get off the floor!”

“No. I live here now.” He clung tighter. “Photoshoot. Please, baby. You could be the face of the brand! Imagine it: you in my merch, absolutely carrying. We could finally replace Max’s ugly mug on the website-”

“Lando!” You laughed, swatting at him.

“It’s true! The customers deserve better!”

“You own the brand. You’re supposed to be the face.”

"But you’d look so good in my hoodies," he said, practically drooling at the thought. "God, you in joggers? Maybe one of those cropped sweaters? The internet would lose its mind.”

You stared at him. Long. Hard.

“…Fine.”

His eyes lit up, stars in aquamarine. “Wait, really?”

“But it’s gonna cost you.”

Lando blinked. Sat up straighter. “How much?”

You smirked, dragging your perfectly manicured nails through his curls, watching him melt like butter.

“A car.”

His entire posture changed. He sat up straighter, interest piqued. Now you were speaking his language. “Which one?”

You almost choked. “Excuse me?”

Lando leaned in, eyes sharp now. “Which. One.”

Oh, he was serious.

You blinked, regrouped, and leaned back like you were simply ordering off a menu.

“LaFerrari.”

Silence.

“The red one. Wine red. Matches my nails.” You admired the burgundy polish glinting under the light. “I’d look good in it.”

Lando didn’t even blink.

“Deal.”

Your head snapped toward him. “What?”

“Done.” He stood up, dusting off his sweatpants like you hadn’t just asked for a multi-million-dollar hypercar. “I’ll have the keys for you next week. Photoshoot’s on Friday.”

“Lando, that’s a LaFerrari-”

“And?”

“It’s like… a $3 million car!”

He tilted his head. “Do you want it in the garage or delivered to your place?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

“…You’re insane.”

Lando leaned down, smirking, and kissed your forehead. “And now you’re stuck with me.”

“…I want full creative control over the shoot.”

“Baby, you can set the studio on fire if it makes you happy.”

“And you’re paying for my glam team.”

“Obviously.”

You stared at him, still trying to process how you had accidentally hustled a hypercar off your billionaire boyfriend in under five minutes.

“And I want full rights to veto any photo where I look bad.”

“Oh, baby, you never look bad.”

You squinted. “If I show up and it’s just me in some hoodie in front of a brick wall-”

Lando’s hands cupped your cheeks, deadly serious. “You will be in a hoodie… in front of a gaming PC.”

You slapped his hands away.

—

You were never supposed to take it this far.

The photoshoot was meant to be a joke.

A little bargaining chip to shut Lando up for five minutes. You didn’t think he’d actually pull it off.

Yet here you were.

In a studio. In a Quadrant hoodie. In sweatpants.

And to make it worse, Lando was treating this like he was shooting for Vogue.

“Okay, okay- pause! Can we fix the lighting on her left side? I need more contrast, more mood. She’s selling the hoodie but not the vibe.”

You slowly turned to glare at him. “Lando. I am wearing a hoodie. There is no ‘vibe.’”

“There’s always a vibe!” Lando spun around to the photographer. “Tell her there’s a vibe.”

The photographer, who was clearly riding the paycheck wave, gave you an awkward smile and a less than enthusiastic thumbs up. “Yeah. Big vibe.”

You groaned and adjusted the hoodie, tugging the hood up over your head. “Lando, I walked for Dior last month. Dior. And now I’m here, dressed like a Twitch streamer in front of a gaming PC.”

Lando gasped. “First of all, streamers WISH they looked this good. Second of all, don’t disrespect the setup. That’s a triple-monitor, RGB-lit, water-cooled rig worth more than my life.”

“Yeah, well, it better be. Because I’m dying inside.”

“Okay, can we get a shot of her sitting on the desk? Like, casual, but make it fashion. Maybe holding a controller? No- headset! Baby, put on the headset.”

You stared at him. “You want me to wear a gaming headset in a fashion shoot?”

“Yes. Gamer girlfriend aesthetic. Internet eats that up.”

“I haven’t touched a console since the Wii came out.”

“And that’s the fantasy!”

—

Lando couldn’t stop staring.

The moment you put on the damn headset, he knew he was in trouble.

He’d been so smug, so proud of himself for getting you to agree to this ridiculous photoshoot.

But now? Now he was fighting for his life.

Because there you were, sitting on the desk in a Quadrant hoodie, wearing his brand, looking so effortlessly good that it was like the universe was punishing him for ever thinking this was a good idea.

It wasn’t just the way the hoodie hung on you, oversized and perfect, or the way you pushed the headset into place like you were made to wear it.

It was the thought behind it.

You were wearing his stuff.

And that did things to him.

Very Dangerous things.

Lando dragged a hand over his face, trying to snap himself out of it, but it was no use.

His gaze betrayed him, sliding back to you as you leaned back on the desk, legs crossed, your smirk telling him you knew exactly what you were doing to him.

“Lando,” you said, your voice teasing and smooth, “you okay over there, baby?”

He tried to play it cool. “Yeah. All good.” His voice cracked halfway through, and he coughed to cover it up.

But he wasn’t fine.

Not even close.

His hands were clammy, his heart was pounding, and he was hyperaware of the fact that he was growing harder by the second.

Oh, this was bad.

You shifted on the desk, leaning forward slightly, the motion drawing his eyes to your legs before snapping them back to your face.

That cocky little smirk was still there, your stupidly pretty eyes glinting with amusement.

You were enjoying this. Brat.

“You sure?” you pressed, tilting your head.

His voice was higher this time, strained and barely holding it together. “Yep. Fine. Totally fine.”

You didn’t buy it for a second. “Lando…”

“That’s it,” Lando muttered, voice tight, cracking slightly with frustration. “Break! We’re taking a break.”

His words were sharp, a contrast to the usual smooth confidence he exuded.

Without waiting for any response, he grabbed your wrist, dragging you away from the set with a sense of urgency that didn’t match the cool composure he usually carried.

“Lando, what the-”

“Not now,” he interrupted, low and tense, as he pulled you into a nearby storage room.

The door clicked shut with an almost deliberate force, the sound of the lock turning echoing in the small space.

You barely had time to gather your thoughts before he was in your space, his breath coming fast, his chest rising and falling against yours.

“Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?” His voice was low, strained, his hands finding your waist, gripping tight, enough to bruise.

A slow smile spread across your lips. “I think I’ve got a pretty good idea, yeah.”

Lando’s forehead pressed against yours, eyes squeezed shut for a moment as if trying to center himself.

His breath fanned across your lips, shaky and uneven, and you couldn’t help but notice the way his chest seemed to rise and fall faster with every breath.

“You’re a brat,” he muttered under his breath, voice raw, yet edged with something almost desperate.

“You’re the one who wanted me in your merch,” you teased, your fingers curling into his hair as you leaned into him, feeling the heat of his body.

“Yeah, well…” His hands slid lower, pulling you closer, his fingertips burning against your skin. “Now I’ve got more than I bargained for.”

The words barely left his lips before his mouth found yours.

The kiss was messy, urgent, his lips urgent against yours, like he couldn’t get enough.

You didn’t need to think. Your body responded immediately, hands moving to pull him closer, the heat building.

The press of his body against yours was relentless, hard and desperate, as he deepened the kiss.

His hand slid down your thigh, pulling it up to hook around his waist, while the other traced a slow, deliberate path along your jaw.

His breath fanned across your skin, shallow and uneven, each exhale carrying a heat that set your nerves ablaze.

“You don’t fight fair,” he murmured against your lips, his voice rough, edged with a hunger that made your stomach flip. His mouth moved to your neck, leaving a trail of fire in its wake as his teeth grazed your throat.

Your lips curled into a smirk, your nails raking across his back just enough to make him shudder. The sound of his sharp inhale sent a rush of power through you.

“Neither do you,” you whispered, leaning closer, your breath mingling with his as your fingers found the hem of his hoodie, tugging it higher, your touch skimming over his skin.

“God, you…” His voice broke, his words catching in his throat as he crashed his mouth back to yours.

The kiss was harder this time, almost frantic, as though he couldn’t get enough of you.

His hands moved with purpose now.

Demanding, claiming, leaving no part of you untouched.

Your nails scraped against his back again, dragging another groan from deep in his chest, a sound so raw and desperate it made your knees weak.

His hips rocked against you, slow and deliberate, each movement sending shockwaves through your body.

“Careful, Norris,” you teased, your voice breathless but still carrying a hint of mischief as you pulled back just enough to meet his gaze.

His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. A quiet intensity that you'd seen more than once.

“You’re starting to look a little… well, territorial.”

For a moment, he froze. His chest heaved with every ragged breath as if he was trying to regain control.

Then his lips twitched into a sly, almost dangerous smile, one that sent a thrill through you.

“Maybe I am,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, each word carrying weight. His hand slid to your waist, pulling you even closer, making any distance between you disappear.

The words sent a shiver through your spine. But it wasn’t fear. It was something else, something exciting, something that only made you want more.

His lips found your neck again, pressing soft, burning kisses against your skin.

His teeth grazed over your pulse, just enough to send a jolt through you, sharp and unexpected, making your breath catch in your throat.

You tilted your head to the side, giving him more access, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer as you whispered, “Everyone’s going to notice, you know. You weren’t exactly subtle when you dragged me off like that.”

The corner of his mouth curled into a grin, but it was dark now, and there was a sudden pressure in his hands as he adjusted his position against you. “Let them notice,” he said, his voice thick with something unspoken.

He kissed down your neck, his lips trailing lower, his breath hot against your skin. “I don’t care. They can see whatever they want.”

The words sent a wave of heat rushing through your body, and you couldn’t help but arch into him, your nails scraping lightly over his back.

—-

When it was over, you leaned back against the wall, your chest rising and falling as you tried to steady your breath.

Lando, however, was already standing in front of you, his hair tousled, his hoodie still hanging off his frame in a way that somehow made it look even better on him than it ever had before.

He bent down casually to scoop your underwear from the floor, dangling them in front of you with a shit-eating grin plastered on his face.

“Come on, love,” he said, his voice rough and teasing, still thick with exertion. “Don’t leave me hanging. Put these back on before we go out there.”

You shot him a glare, snatching the fabric from his hand and hurriedly slipping it on, feeling the heat rush to your face.

Lando leaned back against the wall, watching you with a cocky, self-satisfied grin. “Still dripping with me,” he murmured, but the rasp in his voice made your stomach flip. You felt your cheeks flush even more.

You rolled your eyes, tugging the hoodie down to hide your body and fix your composure. “You’re disgusting.”

“And yet, you love me,” he replied with a wink. “Guess that says something about you too.”

The studio lights were still dimmed as you walked back in, legs slightly unsteady. You caught yourself on the doorframe, trying to keep your cool, but the feeling between your legs was still fresh, raw.

Lando followed you, smirking like a cat that had just caught its prey. He leaned against the wall, eyes on you as his grin grew wider. “Fix your hair,” he said, voice dripping with amusement. “You look like you just got fucked.”

You barely suppressed a laugh, brushing your fingers through your hair and pulling it back into something that at least resembled “done.” “Gee, I wonder why,” you muttered under your breath.

Lando raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the way you were still trying to play it cool. “Hey, I didn’t hear you complaining.”

You narrowed your eyes, about to retort when Lando took a step forward, his smirk never fading, and pulled you close. He kissed you softly, lingering, the kind of kiss that made it hard to remember where you ended and he began.

“Come on,” he murmured against your lips as he pulled away, the mischief still dancing in his eyes. “We’ve got a photoshoot to finish.”

—-

Months passed.

The LaFerrari didn’t show up.

Not that you cared. Really.

Sure, it had been a fun little joke—“Pay me in a LaFerrari or I’m not doing this shoot”—but you never expected Lando to actually follow through.

He said he would but Lando also forgot to stock up on groceries some days so you didn’t take it to heart.

Besides, it wasn’t like you had time to think about it.

Your schedule was relentless: fashion weeks in Paris, Vogue shoots in Milan, fittings for Dior in New York.

You were barely home long enough to unpack, let alone pine after a car.

It wasn’t a big deal.

Until one night, after a particularly grueling flight back from London, you pulled into your driveway and-

You slammed the brakes.

Because there it was.

A LaFerrari.

Burgundy red. Like aged wine. Like sin and velvet had a baby and parked it outside your house.

It gleamed under the porch light, shameless and expensive.

For a full minute, you did nothing but stare, slack-jawed.

Then you slowly got out of the car, leaving your bags in the trunk.

“Lando,” you muttered, pulling out your phone.

You called.

He picked up on the second ring.

“Hey, baby- what’s up?”

“You left a LaFerrari on my driveway.”

“Oh! You got home?” He sounded way too casual.

“Lando. There is a multi-million-dollar car parked outside my house.”

“Yeah, about that. It’s yours. Obviously.”

“…You’re joking.”

“Would I joke about something this expensive?”

“Yes.”

“Fair. But not this time.”

You stared at the car again.

“Are you serious? After months?”

“It takes time to deliver a LaFerrari!” Lando said, his voice way too serious for a man who had just been exposed.

“I had to get it customized, too. Your name is literally engraved on the side. And then there was the whole issue with cargo. Did you know they’re super strict about how cars are transported? I had to make sure it wasn’t gonna get dented, and the shipping company I trust didn’t have any available slots until-”

“I thought you were joking, Lando!”

“Well, I wasn’t,” he replied confidently. “You said you wanted a LaFerrari. You said ‘make it red wine,’ so I made it red wine. I also got the seats customized with carbon fiber inserts and-”

You groaned in disbelief, interrupting him. “You literally bought the car, customized it, and shipped it to my house."

Lando blinked, unfazed. “Well, yeah. Obviously. Did you think I was kidding about that part?”

“Yes! It’s a LaFerrari! Who even does that?! It’s absurd!”

"Clearly me.” He paused. “Check the glove compartment.”

“What?”

“Just do it.”

Suspicious, you approached the car, heels clicking on the pavement. You opened the door.

God, even the door sounded expensive- and popped the glove compartment.

Inside was a tiny Hot Wheels car. A red LaFerrari.

Taped to it was a sticky note.

“Just in case this one wasn’t enough. - Lando”

You stared at it.

You looked back at the LaFerrari, glinting under the sun like some ridiculous, over-the-top love letter.

“…I’m taking it to the Dior fitting tomorrow.”

“You better.”

“…Is this why you were ignoring my texts last week?”

“I wasn’t ignoring you! I was busy coordinating with Italy!”

“Oh my God.”

[lyvhie]

hai!!! could i request a idol! mark smut :(( where reader is missing him but hes too busy with work but then he surprises her over the new years!!!

happy new year to u!!! <3 sending u hugs and kisses

a nice surprise | lee mark

mark lee x fem!reader (18+ mdni) ꒰ summary ꒱ you were already expecting to spend another special occasion alone, but your boyfriend just wanted to surprise you. ꒰ a/n ꒱ little edit! OOPS IT WASNT AN ANON HELP MEEE!! IM SORRY, CUTIE I DIDNT SEE YOUR NAME thats embarrassing omg 🫣 happy new year to you too! i'm sorry it took me so long to write, i was really sick 😖 BUT I FINISHED!! i hope you like it and ALSO wishing you aaaall the best this year, mwah! 💖 ꒰ cw ꒱ smut, oral (f), unprotected sex, pet names.

When you started dating a famous person, you knew things wouldn’t be easy. Paparazzi, overzealous fans, and the constant need for caution every time you stepped outside, those challenges came with the territory. You’d prepared yourself for it, and over time, those things became just another part of your daily routine, barely registering as problems anymore.

What you hadn’t expected, though, was how difficult the distance would be.

Being away from Mark for days, weeks, sometimes even months, felt like torture. The only thing keeping you sane was the existence of technology—video calls, texts, and voice messages filled the gaps when he was free. But it wasn’t the same. There were nights when the loneliness hit harder than usual, when a screen or the sound of his voice through the phone just couldn’t replace the warmth of his presence. You didn’t just want him; you needed him there, right beside you.

But you knew that, no matter how much you longed for his presence, things couldn’t just change on a whim. Mark couldn’t simply drop everything he was doing to spend a day with you—even though he’d suggested it more times than you could count. The thought alone made your heart ache and swell at the same time, knowing how much he cared but also understanding the weight of his responsibilities.

Still, Mark always found a way to remind you that you were on his mind, no matter how far apart you were. Like the random voice notes he’d send in the middle of the night, whispering about his day because he knew you'd listen to them first thing in the morning. Or the surprise delivery of your favorite snacks and flowers with a note that simply read, "Thinking of you. Always."

It wasn’t the same as having him there, but it was enough to keep you going.

“So… you really won’t be here tonight?” The disappointment in your voice was clear as you lay on your bed, hugging the pillow tightly and pressing your cellphone against your ear. “You couldn’t make it for Christmas, and now this…”

He was supposed to come home today, and at least start the year with you after weeks without seeing each other. But something went wrong with their flight, and now they’d have to wait two more days to board another plane. Two days might not seem like much, but after being apart for so long, the thought of waiting two more days felt like an eternity.

“I know it’s frustrating, I really wanted to be there with you,” you could hear his sigh on the other end of the line. “I promise I’m doing everything I can to get home to you as soon as possible. These two days will fly by, I’ll make it up to you when I get there. Just a little longer, okay? I miss you so much.”

The warmth in his voice made the ache in your chest a little more bearable, but it still didn’t take away the longing you felt. “I miss you too, love, you have no idea,” you said, letting out an exasperated sigh. “I wanna see you so bad, Mark.”

“I know,” he replied softly. “I wanna see you too. Just hang in there for me, okay? I’ll be there before you know it.” Before he could say more, you heard faint voices in the background followed by his hum. “Baby, I… I hate to do this, but my manager’s calling me. I have to go,” he said reluctantly.

“It’s okay,” you chuckled softly, imagining the little pout that was surely on his face. “Go do what you need to do.”

“I’ll call you as soon as I can, okay? Promise. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

And just like that, the call ended, leaving the room enveloped in quiet once more, the only sound now your soft breathing. You let out a long sigh, staring at the ceiling. It was just you and the silence again.

But the quiet didn’t last long. Three firm knocks on your front door echoed through the room, loud enough to pull you from your thoughts. You glanced at the time on your phone—it wasn’t exactly the hour for unannounced visits, and you weren’t expecting anyone. Well, not anymore, anyway. Maybe it was your neighbor, they had an uncanny knack for finding reasons to complain about the tiniest sounds.

You let out a small groan and shouted, “I’m coming!” as another knock sounded, dragging yourself out of bed.

“Hi, how can I—” The words died on your lips the moment you saw who was standing at the door. Your eyes widened, and your jaw slackened as your hand remained frozen on the doorknob.

“Hey, beautiful,” Mark greeted you with that boyish smile you adored, a cute teddy bear in one hand and a box of chocolates in the other. The sight of him left you speechless, your heart racing as if it couldn’t quite believe what it was seeing.

Before you knew it, you had thrown yourself into his arms, the force of your embrace nearly causing the teddy bear and chocolates to slip from his grip. He caught you effortlessly, as if he had been waiting for this moment as much as you had. Your arms tightened around him, your face burying into his shoulder as his familiar scent washed over you, sweeping away the loneliness of the past weeks in an instant.

Mark managed to nudge the door shut behind him and guided you both further inside. Without breaking the hug, he set the teddy bear and chocolates down on a nearby surface, his hands quickly finding their way back to you. His arms wrapped around you firmly now, holding you close, as if he never wanted to let go.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands cupping his face as if making sure he was real. “You’re really here?” you asked softly, your eyes scanning every inch of his familiar features.

“I’m really here,” he replied with a chuckle, leaning into your touch. He couldn’t help but find it adorable how you stared at him like he was some kind of alien. Covering your hand with his, he turned his head slightly to press a tender kiss to your palm.

“So… all that stuff about the airplane was a lie?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. His cheeky grin was all the answer you needed.

“I wanted to make a—” he started, but his explanation was cut off as your hands playfully squished his cheeks.

“Mark Lee!” you scolded, though the smile breaking across your face betrayed your mock anger.

Mark laughed softly as he tried to wiggle free from your hands, his grin never leaving his face. “Okay, okay, I deserved that,” he said, eyes sparkling with affection. “I thought it would be a good surprise, sorry.”

You let go of his cheeks, your hands sliding down to rest on his shoulders, then gently on his chest as you looked up at him. There was a moment of silence, the playful energy from before softening into something deeper, more intimate. You searched his eyes, your voice quieter, more sincere.

“And it was,” you whispered, your heart full as you leaned in slightly. “God, it was. I’m so glad you’re here.”

“I’m glad I’m finally here too, I missed you so much,” Mark said softly, his voice thick with emotion. It was his turn to cup your face gently between his hands, his gaze soft as he looked at you, almost as if he was memorizing the moment. Without another word, he leaned in, bringing his lips to yours in a warm, affectionate kiss that felt like home, his love for you pouring into every second.

The kiss lingered for a moment, slow and tender, as if both of you were savoring the reunion, letting the warmth of each other fill the space between you. When you finally pulled away, both of you were breathless, your foreheads resting together.

“You’re really here,” you whispered again, as if you couldn’t quite believe it, the words tumbling out like a soft confession.

Mark chuckled, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “I’m here, baby. For as long as you’ll have me.”

Your heart fluttered at his words, a rush of relief and joy flooding through you. You leaned in again, kissing him once more, this time deeper, pulling him even closer, as if you couldn't get enough. Mark’s hand found its way to the back of your neck, his other hand sliding down to your waist, rubbing slow circles that made you melt into him.

“Mmh, I missed that too,” he murmured against your lips, his smile evident in his voice as his hands toyed with the waistband of your pants.

“Mark…” you tried to sound stern, your tone a mix of warning and amusement as you attempted to pull away. But he wasn’t having it, his lips quickly chasing yours, capturing them in another kiss.

“What?” he asked innocently, though the playful glint in his eyes betrayed him. His hands slid lower, cupping your ass with a firm squeeze that had your breath hitching, pulling you impossibly closer to him. “You act like you don’t like it,” he teased, his voice low and dripping with affection.

You rolled your eyes, though the warmth spreading through your chest made it hard to be truly annoyed. “I didn’t say that,” you muttered, trying to keep a straight face.

“Exactly,” he smirked, his grip on you tightening slightly. “So let me make up for all the time I’ve been away.”

Before you could say anything more, he silenced you with another kiss, gently guiding you backward toward the bedroom. You didn’t try to protest or stop him, simply letting the moment continue as your arms wrapped around his neck. As you passed through the bedroom door, Mark felt his mind drift into a state of calm. The entire space carried your scent, wrapping around him like a warm embrace. It was just another one of the countless things he missed—the feeling of being surrounded by everything that reminded him of you.

Mark gently laid you down on the bed, his lips staying connected to yours as he followed you. The comforting weight of his body against yours made everything else fade away. His kisses began to wander, trailing from your jaw to your neck, then down to your collarbone and the delicate valley between your breasts.

You couldn’t take your eyes off him, watching his every move as your heart pounded in your chest, loud enough that you were sure he could hear it. With slow, deliberate movements, he lifted your shirt, his lips continuing their journey downward, leaving a trail of warm, lingering kisses along your belly. The soft sensation sent a ripple of tingles through you, drawing a quiet chuckle from your lips.

Mark glanced up at the sound, a side smile gracing his lips before he returned to his path, stopping just at the waistband of your pants. His gaze lifted to meet yours again, the intensity in his eyes stealing your breath and leaving you speechless, your entire body attuned to his next move.

Mark’s hands lingered at your waistband, his fingers brushing lightly against your skin, igniting a trail of warmth that made your breath catch. His gaze never wavered from yours, searching your eyes as if silently asking for permission. When you nodded, the smallest movement, he leaned up to kiss you again. Soft, tender, and unhurried, as though he wanted to savor every second. His hands worked deftly, slipping your pants down inch by inch, his lips following their descent with featherlight kisses that sent shivers up your spine.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin as his lips traced a path along the inside of your thighs. Every kiss, every gentle press of his hands, carried a tenderness that left no doubt about how much he’d missed you, full of care and unspoken longing.

Your heart raced as you took him in, the contrast of his soft, adoring gaze and the undeniably seductive way he moved leaving you breathless. He looked so unfairly perfect—both sweet and completely enticing—positioned between your legs, his intentions written clearly in his eyes.

“Mark…” you whispered, your voice barely audible as your fingers found their way to his hair, tugging lightly. You weren’t even sure if it was meant to ground yourself or encourage him further, but the smirk that tugged at his lips told you he knew exactly the effect he was having on you.

And you didn’t need to say anything more. His mouth had already found its way to your center, the thin fabric of your underwear doing little to shield you from the heat of his tongue as it teased over the delicate material. A sharp gasp escaped your lips, your breath coming in a long, shaky sigh as your eyes dropped to meet his. The way he looked at you, so intent and unrelenting, only made the anticipation coil tighter in your core.

He didn’t make you wait long. His tongue moved purposefully, pressing against the sensitive bundle of nerves even through the fabric, a sensation so electrifying it had your fingers clutching the sheets beside you. The soft suction that followed had a breathy moan slipping from your lips, unbidden and raw.

“Mark…” you whispered his name again, your voice a mix of need and surrender, your hips subtly arching toward him, silently begging for more.

His only answer was a soft hum that sent a gentle vibration through you, causing a soft whimper to escape your lips. His teeth gently tugged at your panties, pulling them down slowly, all while his gaze remained locked on yours.

Needless to say, you were already dripping, and that sight made his heart swell with pride. No matter how many times he found himself in this position, the view of you laid out before him always felt as thrilling as the first time. His gaze lingered for a moment, taking in every detail before he leaned in, planting a soft kiss on your clit.

The gentle press of his lips against your sensitive spot sent a jolt of pleasure through your body, making you gasp softly. His tongue darted out, circling around the delicate bundle of nerves with a teasing precision that had your eyes fluttering shut and your head falling back against the pillow.

He watched your reaction, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips, before sliding his tongue down, parting your slick folds and licking through your slit. His movements were slow, deliberate, savoring every taste as he explored you.

Another moan left your lips as he continued, the warmth of his mouth combined with the skillful flicks of his tongue driving you crazy. His hands gripped your thighs, holding you in place as he worked, his own excitement growing with every shudder and whimper he drew from you.

His tongue continued its journey, alternating between long, languid licks and quick, focused flicks over your clit, building you up slowly, savoring every moment of your pleasure.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, gently pulling as your hips moved instinctively against his mouth. The sensation of his tongue, combined with the heat pooling in your core, was overwhelming, and you could feel yourself getting closer with each stroke.

Mark glanced up, catching the blissed-out expression on your face, and it only spurred him on. He flattened his tongue, dragging it up slowly from your entrance to your clit, then wrapped his lips around the sensitive bud, sucking gently. The change in pressure had you gasping, your thighs trembling around his head.

“You taste so good," he murmured against your skin, the words sending a shiver down your spine. His hands now gripped your hips tighter, anchoring you as he continued to work his magic, bringing you closer and closer to the release you craved.

Your breaths came quicker, each exhale accompanied by a moan. "Mark... I'm so close," you whimpered, your voice strained with need.

He didn't let up, his tongue moving in perfect rhythm, drawing out every ounce of pleasure from you. One of his hands slipped down, his thumb finding your clit to rub in tandem with his tongue, sending you over the edge.

Your body tensed, a wave of ecstasy washing over you as you came undone beneath him. A cry of his name escaped your lips, your back arching as he continued to lap at you, helping you ride out the high.

As the tremors subsided, he pulled back slightly, pressing soft kisses along your inner thighs, his eyes filled with satisfaction and adoration. He crawled up to meet your gaze, brushing a stray hair from your face and leaning in to capture your lips in a slow, lingering kiss, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

Your hands roamed down his back, feeling the tension in his muscles, your fingers slipping under his shirt, tugging at the fabric. Mark's breath hitched slightly, the desire in his eyes deepening as he pulled back just enough to shed his shirt, revealing his bare chest. You ran your hands over his skin, savoring the warmth beneath your fingertips as he leaned down, capturing your lips again.

He shifted, pressing himself against you, and you could feel the hard outline of his arousal through his pants. Your hand moved between you, palming him gently, eliciting a soft groan from his lips, your touch becoming more intended as you began to unbutton his pants, sliding them down his hips.

He kicked them off, his body pressing back into yours as you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. Mark positioned himself, his forehead resting against yours as he slowly pushed into you, the both of you releasing a simultaneous sigh of relief.

“You feel so good," he whispered, his hands cradling your face as he kissed you deeply. Mark's movements remained gentle, each thrust slow and purposeful, as if he wanted to memorize every sensation, every reaction from you. The room was filled with soft sighs and the quiet rustle of sheets as you clung to him.

His pace quickened slightly, the friction building a delicious tension between you both. You arched into him, your hands threading through his hair as you whispered, "I'm close again.” The sensitivity from your previous climax heightened every sensation, making your body tremble beneath him.

Mark's forehead pressed against yours, his eyes locking with yours as he adjusted his angle slightly, hitting the perfect spot that had you gasping, your nails digging into his shoulders. "Let go for me, love" he coaxed, his voice soothing, full of love.

With his encouragement, you felt the wave of pleasure cresting again, your body tensing as you cried out his name. The intensity of your release pulled him closer to the edge, and with a few more thrusts, he followed. A groan escaped his lips as he pulled out, spilling himself onto your belly, the warmth of his release spreading between you as he shuddered, his breath ragged.

Mark collapsed gently beside you, his breathing ragged as he pulled you into his arms, holding you close. The warmth of his body against yours was comforting, and the soft rise and fall of his chest helped calm your racing heart.

For a while, you both stayed like that, in silence, just holding each other, the only sound in the room was the soft rhythm of your breaths, gradually returning to normal. The warmth of his body pressed against yours was comforting, and neither of you felt the need to break the tranquility of the moment.

Mark kissed the top of your head and was about to speak when a loud thud echoed from the wall of the bedroom. His brows furrowed in confusion as he looked at you, his expression a mix of curiosity and concern and you couldn't help but burst into laughter, the sound filling the room.

"I guess we made the neighbor mad again."

↝ taglist: @yizhrt, @sinisxtea, @peterm4rker.