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eoieopda · 30 days ago

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triple-dog dare | lsm

“Bambi.”

The sternness of his tone surprised both of you, so much so that when you snapped to look at him, both of you froze. Your moon-sized eyes were further proof that your childhood nickname still rings true to date, although your being the deer made him the oncoming car in this scenario.

He didn’t love that analogy.

Recovering quickly, he pulled the Ace from his sleeve: the surefire way for one of you to get the other onboard:

“I triple-dog dare you to come with me.”

pairing: lee seokmin x reader summary: when you're left off the guest list to seokmin's parent's thirtieth anniversary party, you're content to keep your questions to yourself and stay home. seokmin, on the other hand, is not content. in fact, he pulls the one card he knows will always win. au: childhood best friends to lovers genre: fluff, angst, smut type: one-shot rating: 18+ only. minors do not have my consent to interact. wc: 13k cw: pov switches, complicated sibling dynamics (seokmin’s), there is in fact one (1) bed, halmonis gone wild, stupid childhood nicknames, fingering (v), oral sex (m receiving), multiple orgasms, implied penetrative sex (p in v). reader notes: afab, uses she/her pronouns, wears a dress/heels to the party, is implicitly an only child. the setting is intentionally ambiguous, so she's not implicitly korean and/or asian. there are no descriptions of body shape/size, complexion, etc. a/n: thank you to the incomparable @daechwitatamic for beta-ing this! it's been a long damn time since i've written anything, so this might not have seen the light of day without jo, the hype-man. on that note, i suck at summaries; just read the fic, lmao. svt masterlist. svt permanent taglist. multi permanent taglist.

For being the walking disaster that he is, there have been shockingly few moments in Lee Seokmin’s life where he’s needed to shove his oversized foot into his oversized mouth.

Prior to the incident at your apartment, the last time he’d embarrassed himself like this was when he’d asked his oldest sister, Soyeon, in earnest whether or not she was pregnant, only to learn that she was just bloated; and he’s just an ass.

To your credit, you’re far from cruel when he slips up, but that almost makes it worse. You visibly deflate when he asks his well-intentioned but ill-fated question, rather than letting him have it the way his two siblings would have done.

The day in question went like this:

He asked, “Did you reserve your room yet for the 31st? If not, we can double up. It’ll be a lot cheaper.”

And you blinked, stunned like you’d been slapped. “Have I what?”

It dawned on you both at that moment that, for whatever reason, his parents’ thirtieth anniversary party was in fact news to you. Two things then happened at once: you tried to hide your surprise and the twinge of pain that comes with being excluded; and he racked his stupid brain to find any explanation for why you had to feel either one of those things.

The best option he found was to gently toss his middle sister, Seonmi, under the metaphorical bus.

“Seonmi’s been working on something special for them. You know how she gets,” he waved dismissively. “So obsessed with finding the perfect napkins — ” He wiggled his fingers for emphasis. “— and creating custom cocktails, that she misses the forest for the trees.”

You didn’t look convinced. Likewise, you didn’t look any less uncomfortable.

Fuck.

“I’m sure it was an honest mistake.” To drive his point home, he reached from his spot on your couch to give your knee a reassuring squeeze. “I have a plus-one, so it’s not like it’ll be a logistical problem. You belong there as much as we do.”

And he meant it, wholeheartedly.

All his life, the running joke has been that Soonyi and Minseok Lee have four kids: two biological daughters, a younger son, and his otherwise unrelated twin, who spent more time sleeping on his top bunk than in her own home next door.

The way he saw it — and the way he’s sure his parents would see it — is that no family gathering is complete without you. That’s a hill he’d die on if need be.

You shifted in your seat, which caused his hand to slip off your knee, whether or not you meant for it to happen. Glancing uneasily out your window, you worried your bottom lip between your teeth, mumbling, “I don’t know…”

Seokmin frowned. You didn’t see it, though, and therefore weren’t moved by it. Instead, you cycled through your anxious thoughts at high velocity. If he was still touching you, he’d be worried that your sparking brain might catch him on fire.

“What if it’s not a mistake? I mean, what if it’s a couples thing?”

He couldn’t even classify these questions as rhetorical because he wasn’t meant to hear them in the first place. Though you asked out loud, each one of them was for your ears only. From his half of the couch — miles away — his frown deepened, unbeknownst to you.

“You know, Seonmi follows me on Instagram; she’d know that Kai and I broke up a few months ago. Maybe she doesn’t want me to feel awkward? Even if I went, and I didn’t feel weird about that, her expecting it to be weird might make it weird, right?”

Fuck.

You’d spiral all day if Seokmin didn’t stop you. As much as he loves how thoughtful you are, he knows better than most that you have a tendency to take it too far, inflicting that relentless consideration on yourself until it wounds.

“Bambi.”

He didn’t love that analogy.

Recovering quickly, he pulled the Ace from his sleeve: the surefire way for one of you to get the other onboard:

“I triple-dog dare you to come with me.”

Begrudgingly, you’d conceded, just like Seokmin hoped you would. You sat with him while he figured out travel plans to the mountain resort, helped him visualize what the hell he needed to wear to an event like this. When the time came, you sent him half the cost for the room he booked, even though he repeatedly insisted that you didn’t need to chip in.

Now, that unsolicited sum sits untouched in his Venmo balance. You sit next to him on the night train out of town.

Sit, he thinks, is a bit of an understatement. You’re barely upright, so exhausted from your work day that his shoulder and side are bearing most of your weight. His arm went from tingling to numb an hour ago, but Seokmin doesn’t mind. There isn’t a burden he wouldn’t carry for you, up to and including you yourself.

Besides, he’s not worse off for being left to his own devices. In fact, he keeps himself thoroughly entertained by taking selfies of the pair of you. The aftermath will stay securely in his camera roll — largely because you’d kill him if you saw how squishy your face is, pressed against his coat, or how your little pout trembles slightly, almost as if you’re trying to talk through your sleep — but he still finds it worth the risk. This mochi-cheeked version of you is one of his favorites.

When Seokmin has amassed enough silly photos to comprise a dossier, he tucks his phone back into his pocket with a self-satisfied smile. You’re still out cold, so you don’t stir at his subtle movements or the sound of the concession trolley rattling your way down the aisle.

The girl manning said trolley is significantly outweighed by the thing itself. She hardly looks old enough to have graduated high school, he figures, and he can’t imagine how it is that she’s working at this hour — or how she got stuck doing this job, when it takes all she’s got to maneuver the giant metal contraption through all the train cars.

“Anything, sir?” She asks politely, albeit slightly out-of-breath.

Even though she’s speaking to him, her gaze is directed squarely at his hat, leading him to believe that she may also be too shy for her job. Nonetheless, it’s been two entire hours since his dinner, and he’s on the brink of starving to death, so he coughs up a few bills in exchange for several different snacks.

She could do him the kindness of assuming his massive pile of food is for sharing, but she doesn’t. She gestures to you and whispers, “Anything for your —?”

Seokmin intercepts the question, knowing exactly where it’s headed: in the same direction as the million others like it that he’s heard over the years.

“— parole officer?” He supplies with a smile, “No, this nap is fueled by a lot of crab rangoon. She’ll be out for the duration, I fear.”

Both halves of his response seem to stun her, which means he has to cover his inevitable laugh with a fake cough.

This bit of yours will truly never get old, although the implications that prompt it did a long time ago. It was a stroke of genius on your part, dodging inaccurate references to your relationship status by offering up something too absurd to converse around.

“You two make such a cute couple,” an Uber driver once told you.

“He’s not in a relationship,” you’d politely corrected him. “He’s in witness protection. I’m duty-bound to keep him and his identity safe.”

The silence turns awkward, so Seokmin thanks the girl and gives her a smile he hopes says, “you’re allowed to run away from me now; I won’t take it personally.” She bows her head a little too eagerly, then skitters off with a grimace, like she pulled something in her neck.

Alone again with you, he wiggles gently upright in his seat so that you can rest more comfortably against his pectoral, rather than his shoulder bone. Even though you’re still asleep, Seokmin swears he hears a quiet mmpfh, as if you’re expressing gratitude. He bites his lips to keep from smiling, knowing that smiling in your proximity is one step away from laughter: the only thing you’ve never been able to sleep through.

Instead of giving into the urge, he murmurs, “You should get paid royalties whenever we use that joke. Being as smart as you are should pay off.”

Now, he knows he’s not simply hearing things because you’re just barely loud enough to overcome your own mumbling.

“Agreed,” you sigh on an exhale before slipping to sleep off again.

“Well?”

There are two beats between his first question and his next: the unfilled gap you’ve left in the conversation and the cab’s trunk shutting firmly. “‘s that cool with you?”

Seokmin stares at you, staring at him. His expression is soft, like your lack of responsiveness is something to be fond of, rather than annoyed by. It’s unexpectant, too, leaving the door wide open.

You blink. “Sorry — I — What did you say?”

Hitting him when he least expects it, you shift your suitcase from your dominant hand so you can gesture properly to the bright, poorly crocheted bucket hat flopping over his forehead. “It’s a bit hard to hear you. That hat is so loud.”

His quizzically raised eyebrows drop in an instant. Likewise, that airy smile of his flattens into a straight line.

Bullseye.

“Is it me that you hate?” He asks, tone dead serious as he points his finger towards his own chest. “Or is it the very concept of whimsy?”

You’re too busy biting back a grin to protest when, without being asked, Seokmin reaches out and takes the handle of your suitcase into his own hand, as well as the garment bag you’d draped over your arm. Before turning away to abscond with both sets of luggage in addition to his own, he shoots you an incredulous look. It dissolves entirely before his face even disappears from view.

“This is an objectively delightful hat,” he mutters, nonetheless, in furtherance of the bit.

He spots a member of hotel staff standing on the sidewalk directly outside the hotel’s double doors and pleads his case to them. “She made me this hat, you know,” he announces, gesturing back to you with a nod.

The valet’s uniform hat casts a shadow under the lamplight, but it doesn’t do enough to hide the expression on their face. It is abundantly clear — even in the dark — that they didn’t hear a single word Seokmin said before he offered up that bit of trivia, seemingly apropos of nothing. They muster up a customer-service smile that doesn’t reach their eyes and tell him it’s a wonderful hat. Meanwhile, you roll your eyes from behind because nothing either of them just said is true.

That hat is the byproduct of delusions of grandeur and innumerable skeins of color-conflicting yarn. You made it for yourself, believing that you were the kind of cute and kitschy person who could pull it off; and inconsolable weeping Christ, were you wrong. It was — no, is — your greatest fiber arts failure.

Frankenstein’s floral monster would be in a secondhand shop somewhere if you’d had any say in the matter. It isn’t because you didn’t. Seokmin “rescued” it from the “to donate” pile on your bedroom floor. Since then, he’s worn it at every — public — opportunity, season be damned.

Admittedly, he’s exactly the kind of cute and kitschy person who can pull it off, but you’ve decided out of sheer pettiness to keep that appraisal to yourself.

You take your time catching up to him, both because his long legs make it hard to keep pace; and because the room is reserved under his name. After all, he’s the welcomed guest, not the reluctant party-crasher. The receptionist is already handing him a white keycard when you finally reach the desk. Seokmin holds it up between his index and middle fingers, closed-eye grin sparkling in a matching shade of ivory.

Though the journey up to your shared room is long, the real trip is being confined to an elevator with mirrors for walls.

No matter how hard you try to avert your eyes, you manage to keep finding some new, horrible angle of your stale, post-train state. It’s torture. Three versions of you stare back with deep, dark undereye circles; and all you can think about is how dull your complexion is — especially in comparison to Seokmin, who may as well be bioluminescent with the way he glows from the inside out.

It’s joy, you know, his primary state of being and something he radiates like no other. He’s happy to be here, happy that you’re here, and happy to be happy. Whether or not he means it to be, it’s infectious. Now, you feel yourself starting to smile, too.

Despite your quiet observation, you must have missed him looking at you. Seemingly out of nowhere, he carefully sets down your belongings, raises his now-empty hand, and cups the right side of your jaw. Unaware that you’ve frozen solid, he swipes his thumb carefully over your cheek, tilting his own head to the side and frowning.

“I got you bad, huh?”

You blink.

“The zipper on my coat,” he explains, laughing. “Looks like it took a bite out of you when you used me as a pillow on the train.”

For reasons you can’t possibly explain, the only word to roll off your tongue is a sheepish, “Sorry.”

For a second, Seokmin is just as confused as you are about whether you’re needlessly apologizing to him or his coat. He chuckles quietly at how easily distracted you both are, then he gets back to the point: “Does it hurt?”

“No.”

Your response comes unnaturally quick. Your pulse does, too, when you finally make eye contact with him. After clearing your throat, you give him a half-hearted smile, ignoring whatever medical event you seem to be experiencing. “I didn’t know it was there until now.”

He hums in acknowledgment, then rescinds his hand. You watch in silence while he re-encumbers himself with your luggage and turns back to face the elevator doors, which open almost immediately.

Seokmin steps out easily, like the weight of your respective burdens doesn’t mean a thing. “I’d say this way, please, but I’ve already forgotten the room number,” he admits with a sheepish laugh. “The keycard’s in my pocket.”

You take his cue and reach into the front, right pocket of his coat for the keycard. As soon as you see the room number, you snort.

“You booked room number 218 because that’s your birthday, and then… what? You forgot your own birthday?”

“I’m deeply flawed.” He sighs, put-upon. “Now, let’s go, Bambi. It feels like you packed a week’s worth of bricks.”

There’s no time to point out that you never asked him to carry your suitcase or bag for you in the first place. Likewise, there’s no opportunity to ask exactly how many bricks is a week’s worth. He’s on the move again before you can blink, energy evident in each step regardless of how late it is.

Once again, you follow Seokmin’s lead. Despite the signage, which is clearly visible on the wall, he walks confidently in the wrong direction, prompting you to grab him gently by the elbow and steer him the opposite way. His smile doesn’t falter; he plays it off as if he was just testing how closely you’re paying attention.

It takes several turns down several additional hallways before the pair of you reach your target. When you come to room 218, you tap the keycard against the reader, causing the lock to click open. You turn the handle, push the door open into the room, and step awkwardly out of the way so your personal bellhop can get by.

“This is what I was trying to tell you when you so viciously insulted my favorite accessory.” Seokmin nods his head towards the center of the room. “All of the rooms Seonmi included in the reservation block have a king-sized bed — singular. The rooms outside the block are criminally overpriced for ski season.”

It’s far from the first time you’ve doubled up, so you shrug. “Just like old times, right? Like, when you thought your house was haunted, and you forced your way into the top bunk with me?”

“First of all,” he says as he sets both of your suitcases down and places one hand on his hip, the other pointing at you. “We were six.”

After locking the door behind you, you toe off your shoes, smirking at him from over your shoulder. “What’s your second point?”

“It was haunted —” He insists. Then his stern expression melts into something smug, the way it always does when he’s about to blatantly rewrite history. “— and you asked me to come up there because you were scared.”

A laugh slips out of you automatically, but you selflessly decide to let him have this. Crossing to him, you pat him on the bicep, patronizingly simpering all the while, “You are the brave one.”

Even though you’re both cowards, and he knows it, he pockets this little victory with a pleased hum and a grin.

Turning away from him, you make a beeline for the closet area near the door. There, you shuck off your coat and hang it up, out of the way. While you do, Seokmin passes you both your garment bag and his. From there, the pair of you work in efficient silence: you, pulling your respective formal wear from their bags and smoothing out any wrinkles; him, tucking away your extensive collection of toiletries in the bathroom.

When everything is in its place, you turn back around and notice for the first time how beautiful the room actually is. Though the shades of the floor-to-ceiling windows are almost completely drawn, the snow-covered mountains are at least partially visible through the gap in fabric. If you had the time, you’d spend all day tomorrow sitting on the forest green, velvet chaise directly in front of the window, staring at frosty peaks so massive, they feel close enough to touch.

To your right, an electric fireplace heats the room, while a portrait-framed television hovers on the wall above the mantle, flipping through famous artworks as a screensaver. In between flashes of Van Gogh’s Almond Blossoms and Klimt’s The Kiss, you catch a glimpse of Seokmin’s smile reflecting on the black screen.

Awestruck, you turn to him and sigh, “Don’t let me get used to this.”

He jerks his thumb to his right, gesturing towards the bathroom. “Don’t judge me if I steal one of the bathrobes. They’re probably more expensive than half the shit in my apartment.”

“I won’t, but they’ll bill you for it when they figure it out,” you warn him. “On that note, do you need to shower or anything before I start my skincare side quest?”

Seokmin shakes his head, causing the crocheted abomination to flop. “All yours. My hair’ll get weird if I don’t deal with it tomorrow before we head out.”

And with that mental image of his insurmountable cowlick, you quickly grab your pajamas and shuffle off towards the bathroom.

The first few seconds after you close the door are spent gawking at the insanely intricate, geometric tile pattern in the walk-in shower. Thinking of how much time it must’ve taken to lay each one of them, you set to work on your own tedious task: your ten-step regimen of cleansers, toners, serums, and moisturizers. Seokmin says otherwise, but you don’t think any of them truly make a difference. As stupid as you know it is, the routine itself is therapeutic, even if your skin is no more bouncy and glowy than it was before.

When it’s all said and done, you emerge from the bathroom to find your best friend stretched out on the half of the bed nearest the door with his eyes fixed on his phone screen. It’s the side of the room he always chooses, claiming that it’s to protect you from any intruders, but you know the truth: he’s too much of a freeze baby to sleep near the window, and he knows you like it cold.

“Feeling refreshed?” He mumbles to the best of his ability; his sweatshirt hood is pulled up and drawn so tightly that it squishes his cheeks and chin, restricting his movement.

Chuckling quietly as you go, you pad over to your half of the bed and slip under the comforter. Like a moth to a flame, the other occupant sends his last text, tosses his phone to the side, and scoots closer to you, eager to siphon whatever extra body heat he can. His head winds up on your shoulder, while your cheek rests against the top of his head.

“Before you tell me that I look it, I’d encourage you to stare long into the abyss that is my under-eye circles.”

When he laughs, it’s merely a puff of air from his nose. “You never look as tired as you feel,” he says distractedly, fiddling with the drawstrings of his hoodie. “Pretty miraculous, given how little sleep you get.”

That comment warms you up so thoroughly, you wonder if he can feel it. Then, you wonder if that was the point. You intend to tease him for that, but then it dawns on you how fidgety he’s being. It’s rare for him.

“You okay, Thumper?”

It feels silly, using that nickname after so long. Your clumsiness stuck around for the ride, continuing Bambi into perpetuity; but he grew out of his companion name when he hit puberty, and his giant feet were suddenly proportional to the rest of him.

He’s certainly no bunny, nor is he a child, but the low ebb of anxiety rolling off of him reminds you of the scared little neighbor boy you used to know. It fits, even if it is silly.

At first, Seokmin begins his explanation without peeling his gaze off his restless fingers. “Apparently, Seungcheol and Mingyu are in town.” Then, his eyes slowly lift up to find you peering down at him. “They want to meet up to go snowboarding before we leave.”

Ah.

There it is: the top-secret look in his eye that only you can decipher. The one he’s been practicing for years, at your insistence, for moments like this, when he needs to be talked into something. When he needs to be brave and avoid missing out on something he’d love, solely because it freaks him out.

You respond the same way you always have; the way you once pinky-promised you always would: “I triple-dog dare you.”

He sighs deeply, neither fully resigned nor relieved, but then he nods. His head knocks slightly against your shoulder as he does. “I’ll do it.”

And that’s that; it’s settled.

Or so you think.

A beat passes in silence, until Seokmin suddenly pipes up again, “But you’re going to have to hold my hand on the chair lift, or I’ll pass out and fall to my death.”

“Deal.”

You grab his hand now in consideration of your promise and scratch affectionately at his palm. Surprisingly, his thoughts haven’t made him clammy. His skin is even softer than usual, likely due to the expensive hotel lotion he’s undoubtedly now harboring in his suitcase. Tongue firmly in cheek, you look at him sideways.

“Just — leave the hat in your suitcase, okay? The snow will be blinding enough.”

Seokmin’s been dressed and ready for at least thirty minutes, but you’re still standing exactly where you have been for the last forty-five. Face pinched, you turn this way and that in front of the mirror, smoothing fabric that’s already wrinkle-free, apparently for the hell of it.

“I’m oh-for-three.” Your exasperated sigh is punctuated by your bare, right foot stomping on the carpet. It doesn’t make the impact you likely hope it will, at least sonically. It does, however, speak volumes about how close to the ledge you are.

“All of them looked good,” he says earnestly. “I think this one is my favorite, though, if that means anything.”

Apparently, this is the wrong answer. Your wild-eyed gaze lifts from your own reflection until you’re staring him dead in the eye through the mirror.

“Why did I even pack this?” You ask, “Do you see this?”

Suddenly, you lift a manicured hand to point at your neckline, from which he’d admittedly been averting his eyes. “This is too much cleavage for a family function, isn’t it?”

As quickly as you glanced at him in the first place, you go right back to fussing with your dress, thankfully missing the way he swallows thickly.

Fuck, now he’s staring — but you’re the one that made him look in the first place — and he can feel heat rising to his ears, a dead giveaway. His sudden silence does enough to communicate his struggle. He has no idea how to respond without vaulting over the boundaries of your friendship.

Is it hot in here?

Deciding to rely on his usual tactic, he jokes his way out.

“If you think I’ll ever side against tiddie…” He forces a grimace, shaking his head gravely. “Then you really don’t know me at all.”

You laugh loudly, and whatever one-sided tension filled the room snaps like a twig. Better still, the smile you give him stays on your face while you reassess your dress. Seokmin takes it as a personal victory that you commit to his choice, rather than cycle back through your options for the second time.

While this means that you’ll both be able to hit the open bar sooner rather than later, the biggest upside is that he no longer has to keep excusing himself to the bathroom so you can change again, and again, and again.

You finish up quickly, tossing on jewelry, and then turn to him. His shoulder keeps you steady while you slip into your devilishly high heels. Seokmin pays them little mind now, however; his attention is drawn to the accessories you’ve chosen. Sure, they match perfectly with the rest of your outfit, but that’s not what strikes him. It’s the fact that everything you’ve picked was gifted to you by his parents at one point or another.

Unable to stop himself, he reaches out and gently taps on one of your dangling earrings. “Eighteenth birthday,” he muses to himself.

Then, both his gaze and his hand lower to your necklace. He skims his fingertip along the delicate, gold chain, inadvertently making you freeze up. “Christmas 2019?”

You shake your head slightly, though it barely counts as movement.

“Ah,” Seokmin corrects himself. “2020.”

Sensing that he’s somehow made you uncomfortable, he reels himself back in and clears his throat. “Shall we?” He asks, furnishing you with a bent arm to loop yours through.

You take his cue, link your arm to his, and sigh, “I suppose we shall.”

The walk to the elevator is quiet, in that neither one of you says a thing. Seokmin can hear the gears in your head turning, though, without any conversation to drown them out.

You step inside that glorified, mirrored box; and for a few minutes, he lets you work through the thing he knows ruined your sleep last night. That is, until he hears your breathing come a little quicker than usual.

“Hey.”

It was supposed to be a jumping off point. He was going to go from there and reiterate that you belong here with him. The plan was to reassure you for as long as it takes to get you to believe it, but you look up at him almost helplessly, and his Etch-a-Sketch brain is wiped clean in an instant.

The very best he can do is smile and offer a single word: “Hi.”

“Hi,” you whisper back, eyes twinkling.

Your plagued frown curves slightly back in the right direction. The creeping shroud of doom lightens, if only a little bit.

“That’ll do, pig.” You swat his arm, but he says it again, emphatically, “That’ll do.”

Halfway through you scolding him for quoting Babe at a time like this, the elevator door reopens, ready to regurgitate the pair of you out onto the ballroom level.

Unlike the lobby, which sits only one floor below, this floor looks like it was ripped straight from the pages of a fantasy novel. Everywhere he turns, there’s something new — and vaguely elven — to look at. Fairy lights hang in perfectly spaced arches from the lofted ceiling, delicately illuminating the exposed, wooden beams above. The chandeliers — plural — are crafted out of antlers of some kind, cutting between rugged and highly refined.

As stunning as it all is, Seokmin’s mind snags on a single conclusion. You’re the one who voices it, though, much to his surprise.

“This is the most Seonmi thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” you whisper to him, all without taking your eyes off the extravagance in front of you. “Is this a dress rehearsal for her wedding next year?”

He bites down on his lips hard to keep his laughter to himself. Of course, you’re dead on. Nothing about this space feels like his parents, who are supposed to be the sole focus of this entire event. He already found it odd that they agreed to such a big to-do in the first place — especially when it would require their loved ones to go out of their way, literally and financially — but this is….

“Am I being petty, or is this kind of… selfish?”

Petty, no.

Psychic? Probably.

“You’re right, and you should say it.” Seokmin nods and withdraws his arm from yours so that he can drape it properly around your shoulder. “This way to the beer, please. We’ll need it.”

Merely four steps in the direction to the bar, and a screech rings out from somewhere neither of you can locate. In fact, Seokmin’s head is turned the opposite way when someone launches themself at you, damn near ripping you from his hold.

“Oh, my god! I knew you’d come!”

Soyeon’s relief in seeing you is palpable. Seokmin can practically feel his bones being crushed as she hugs you tight, swaying from side to side. He catches a glimpse of your expression, which barely peeks through the curtain of his oldest sister’s hair; you’re far happier now than you were in the elevator.

His sister kisses the side of your head. “I missed you so fucking much. I love my residency program, but I hate how far away it keeps me.”

A solid minute passes by like this. When it starts to get unbearable, Seokmin clears his throat, hoping to remind his sister that she hasn’t seen him in months, either; and he’s also standing right here.

Instead of greeting him, Soyeon shoots you a wry smile. “Who is he today? A fugitive you’re harboring?”

In tandem, the two of you appraise him with thoughtfully narrowed eyes. See, this he didn’t miss: being both of his sisters’ least favorite younger sibling.

“Oh, no, though I can see why you think that.” You shake your head, then reach out to pat his shoulder patronizingly. “If anyone asks, this is a foreign diplomat, and I’m the interpreter he can’t understand a word without. Best not say hi to him; he won’t know what you’re saying.”

Soyeon nods, though Seokmin wonders if she truly gets what you’re trying to achieve. Not quite, he realizes a moment later. Instead, she covers his chin with her hand so she can squeeze both his cheeks at once.

“He’s adorable,” she coos. “Doesn’t look old enough or mature enough for diplomacy, though.”

Seokmin rolls his eyes. “Well, we can’t all be doctors, can we?”

Again, in tandem, all eyes on him widen with feigned shock. Between overlapping gasps of “he does understand!” and “someone’s been studying!”, he shakes off his sister’s touch and scowls.

“If you’re going to keep bullying me, can you at least do it at the bar? That way, I can numb my suffering with booze.”

At this, Soyeon drops the charade and pulls him into a hug like a vice grip. She holds him so tightly that his vision starts to get spotty. It’s not until he gently pats her back, begging for air, that she lets him go.

“I missed you too, Thumper,” she swears, prompting you to snicker.

Now, he’s annoyed for a completely different reason — one that makes even less sense to him. That nickname hasn’t bothered him in the last decade, so it shouldn’t now. Then again, the only person who’s called him Thumper since middle school is you.

The rules are different for you, if they exist at all.

“And I promise to catch up with you later, but I’ve got five thousand questions for Bambi, and the answers aren’t half as juicy with you around.”

Just like that, his plus-one is subtracted.

As much as you love Soyeon, she’s no Seokmin. With him, talking is easy; he never rushes to fill silences, doesn’t steer the conversation with a white-knuckled grip.

On the contrary, his oldest sister comes forward with a pickaxe, smashing through small talk while she mines for the wild stories she thinks she’s missed out on since moving away.

You don’t blame her, really. If you spent all your hours in a hospital, only sleeping in the lulls between other people’s trauma, you’d probably become just as intense — the human equivalent of a cracked-open fire hydrant — in the search for closeness, too.

In the thirty minutes you sit with her, you brief her on all the cliffhangers you’d left her with the last time you saw her.

Yes, you’re still stuck with your lease in the same apartment; and the old lady next door still regularly sets off the building’s fire alarm by accident.

No, you decided not to stay with Kai and haven’t spoken since the breakup; he needed more of your time and energy than you wanted to sacrifice for him.

No, Seokmin still hasn’t gone out with anyone that you know of in months. In fact, it’s been so long since either of you have touched on this topic, especially compared to how little time he and the last girl were together, that you can’t even remember her name.

Beyond that first, limited fact, you keep your mouth shut about the rest. It’s not your business to share; and it wouldn’t kill her to ask Seokmin about himself for once.

The longer you spend with her, the more frustrated you find yourself getting, although you keep this fact to yourself, too. Soyeon and Seonmi have both spent their lives fussing about Seokmin, talking about him like he’s some helpless baby, without doing much to get to know him.

That’s it.

If you were at all confident that Soyeon would take the initiative, you’d let her find all of this out on her own. She won’t, you know, but maybe it’ll sink in if she hears it from you.

“Seokmin’s doing really well, now that you mention it,” you offer, though she barely mentioned him in the first place. “He got promoted last month; he’s now lead architect on that massive commercial lot downtown. Apparently, it’s still a secret, whatever it is they’re putting there. Must be something special.”

Seokmin is something special, you all but yell inside your head.

Soyeon’s eyes brighten.

Nobody loves secrets quite like she does. You wait for the barrage, anticipating all the questions to which you’ll have to respond with “seriously, I don’t know,” but they don’t come.

Instead, she puts her drink back on its coaster, reaches out, and squeezes your wrist with her slightly chilled hand. “I’m grateful that he’s always had you, Bambi. If he didn’t, I don’t know if he’d lean in to opportunities like that.”

The look on her face tells you she means it. Maybe that’s what makes your stomach sour: that she can sit there, hearing of Seokmin’s accomplishments, and still find a way not to credit him for them.

Anger ignites inside of you. The flames lick up your esophagus, ready to explode, and you suck in a breath with every intention of letting her burn.

But then an arm slinks around your waist. Seokmin’s head bumps slightly against yours until you’re cheek to cheek.

“I hope I’m interrupting something.”

For a second, you think his slight tipsiness caused him to misspeak. Tilting your head to the side the best you can, you look at him out of the corner of your eye and catch his very subtle wink.

Soyeon opens her mouth, but Seokmin makes his wish a reality.

“Sorry, sis,” Seokmin says, entirely unapologetically. “I just found out that the band takes requests; and I’ll be goddamned if Bambi and I don’t show you clowns the meaning of dance.”

It takes no encouragement whatsoever for you to slip off your stool, get to your feet, and inch your way closer to his side. Then, like a starting gun was fired, the two of you bolt clumsily away from the bar, with you shouting “sorry!” over your shoulder as you go.

Your heels skid against the dance floor when you finally reach it, but Seokmin steadies you before you can eat shit in front of god and everyone.

“You’re way too expressive, you know that?” The fact that he’s out-of-breath doesn’t keep him from laughing. “I could’ve seen that grumpy turtle face of yours from space.”

Unintentionally, you prove his point, drawing your eyebrows together and frowning. “I do not —”

“— Also, I lied,” he interrupts yet again.

This, coupled with the everything else going on, leaves you too stunned to speak.

“This band is all trot, all the time. They don’t take requests — trust me, I tried — but if you stay here with me long enough, we can kill two birds with one stone.”

Seokmin doesn’t wait for you to answer because he knows it’s a yes. He doesn’t wait for you to assume your position, either, and instead holds your left hand in his right before placing your right on his left shoulder. This close, you feel the urge to tell him how handsome he looks with his hair parted off his forehead. You don’t, however.

The music swells behind you. Seokmin leads, and you follow, swaying slowly and moving across the floor.

“Two birds?” You remember to ask, one eyebrow arched.

His right arm lifts. “Spin,” he whispers. You step under his arm, then twirl. While you’re facing the opposite direction, he continues, “There. Do you see it?”

“Oh, my god.”

You do.

The bar stool you were just occupying is now filled by Seokmin’s great-uncle, Hajoon, while his new and much younger girlfriend, Yunhee, hovers near his shoulder. Even from this distance, you can see the look of abject distress on Soyeon’s face, totally unhidden by her attempt to seem engaged.

You return to your position in front of Seokmin, your hand accidentally landing on his bicep, rather than his shoulder. Flustered by the deceptive bulk there, you immediately scoot your palm back to where it belongs.

He leans in so that only you can hear him. It doesn’t feel necessary at all, given how loud the band’s horn section is, but you don’t recoil this time.

“They had me trapped over by the appetizers,” he explains, low voice making you shiver involuntarily. “Every time he started a story with when I was your age, I wanted to point out that Yunhee hadn’t been born yet.”

You can’t help the laugh that erupts out of you and therefore can’t pull your head away from Seokmin’s ear in time to save him. Instead of wincing or complaining, he looks at you and breaks into laughter of his own as soon as your eyes meet. The effect doubles, and before you know it, both of you are teary-eyed.

“How the hell did you get away from him?”

It’s a feat you've never once managed. Uncle Hajoon’s inability to read a room is equal parts due to his horrible hearing and his tendency to never stop talking. Even if he did leave space in the conversation for you to excuse yourself, you’d never successfully get the message across.

Seokmin lifts his arm again but not for you. He takes his leave to spin himself, simpering as he goes, “That’s where Yunhee came in handy, actually. I didn’t know she had it in her, but she’s not as much of a dud as we initially thought.”

“Oh?”

“She told him that I should be able to dance with my girlfriend, and he shouldn’t keep me any longer.” He shrugs. “It didn’t seem like the time to correct her.”

All the heat in your body goes straight to your cheeks. Nonetheless, you attribute it to the dancing and choke out, “No royalties for me, then.”

“Not this time.” Seokmin shakes his head. “I said that Soyeon was trying to catch up with everyone and would love to hear his stories.”

You bite back a grin. “You’re a bastard, you know that?”

“Maybe.” He smiles with every single one of his teeth. “But you’re free.”

“Surprisingly so. I haven’t felt the Eye of Sauron on me at all yet.” Just in case your statement serves as a jinx, you glance around the room for Seonmi. The tension you’ve been keeping in each one of your muscles slackens when, once again, your radar is blip-free.

“Dinner was supposed to start ten minutes ago. If I had to guess, she’s either leaving a scathing Yelp review or personally waterboarding the chef as we speak.”

“Both at the same time,” you counter, earning a wry smile. “She inherited your mom’s self-assuredness. If she believes she can, she will.”

After the pair of you dance through two more songs, the band breaks, and the hotel’s battalion of waiters come in, bearing domed, silver trays. Seokmin takes off in a hurry for your assigned table in the far corner of the ballroom, so famished that he barely remembers to tug you along behind him.

Through the meal and all its complimentary wine pairings, you do your best to focus on the conversation. Seokmin introduced you to the few people sitting with you that you haven’t had the occasion to meet yet. While he does what comes naturally to him, charming them with ease, you struggle for the first time to pay attention to him.

A few tables over, Seonmi sits down with her fiancé, joining the company of her parents; Soyeon and her date are there, too, leaving Seokmin out by design. Like an insane person, you can only watch her, rather than Seokmin’s blatant theft of bites from your plate. She laughs at whatever jokes her mother cracks, but you’d recognize that look of veiled angst anywhere. She isn’t happy, you realize. You can’t avoid the feeling that you’re the reason why she isn’t.

Time passes, somehow too quickly and too slowly. The plates are emptied, then cleared away by the wait staff — except for your half-empty glass, which is your third. Much like the other guests at your table, the joyful buzz you’d been feeling so far leaves, too.

All that’s left is you, Seokmin, and that ominous, storm cloud you can’t seem to shake.

“You’ll probably feel better if you talk to her.”

He’s always more observant than you give him credit for. You snap out of your zoned-out stare across the room in order to look at him. You frown. “I doubt it. She already looks pissed. Me parading my presence here despite her isn’t going to help anything.”

“Bambi,” Seokmin sighs, not impatient but gentle. “She’s not exactly warm, but she has always liked you. There’s literally no reason why she wouldn’t be happy to see you —”

You open your mouth to argue.

“— that happened over twenty years ago, and you really need to stop feeling guilty about it —”

You close your mouth, cross your arms self-consciously, and sink in your seat. Despite yourself, you glance over at him and catch the way he’s looking at you. He doesn’t need to say the words out loud for you to hear them.

It’s either the unspoken dare, his reassuring, soft-eyed smile, or all the blasted merlot that does you in. You’re not sure which of the three was the coup de grâce, and as you slink off towards her table, you realize it doesn’t matter. For one reason or another, you’ve decided that fear isn’t going to get the better of you this time.

Seonmi somehow senses you coming. Even without the band underscoring your movement, your timid steps across the mahogany parquet should’ve been impossible for anyone to pick up on.

Must be an older sister thing, you think, being doomed to keep a perpetual eye on others.

She doesn’t say anything when you slip into the chair next to her, which doesn’t bode well but isn’t a deal breaker, in and of itself. The important thing is that she doesn’t get up to leave. You tell yourself that this is a good sign. The knot in your stomach begs to differ, however.

Say something.

Say anything.

“Everything’s… lovely, Seonmi, seriously.” You gesture around you, smiling, but she only gives you a cursory look. “You’ve really outdone yourself with this one.”

Seonmi takes a sip of her cocktail — something bitter, the petty voice in your head assumes — and lets the corner of her mouth rise slightly. If it’s the closest thing you’ll get to a smile, you’ll take it. She hasn’t granted you a proper one in the decades since you got gum in her favorite Barbie’s hair.

“Thanks, kid,” she sighs, setting the drink back down on her personalized, cardboard coaster.

You can’t remember the last time she called you “Bambi”, let alone your real name. Just like Seokmin, you’ve always been a child to her. Apparently, you always will be, no matter what you do.

Her grip around the glass remains rigid, not unlike her overall posture. Condensation weeps under and around her manicured fingers, uninhibited. You watch those droplets soak through the coaster’s design, darkening her parents’ initials and wedding date, while you mull over whose turn it is to talk.

Ultimately, as is usually the case, Seonmi makes this decision for you. Without so much as a glance at you out of the corner of her eye, she muses, “It was a lot of work, getting all the details ironed out.”

You pick up on the subtext immediately. One of those details would’ve been the guest list; another, the invitations. Seokmin assumed it was all an accident and said as much to you no fewer than a hundred times, but this little comment from his sister blows his assurances to smithereens.

Your exclusion wasn’t an accident at all.

Suddenly, somehow, the room is twenty degrees colder. You shoot a panicked glance over to where Seokmin was just sitting, wanting nothing more than to slink back to his warmth with your tail between your legs; but he’s not where you left him. In fact, he’s nowhere to be found.

Fuck.

“Ah,” is the best you can do.

And then the two of you sit awkwardly in silence while the seconds age in dog years.

You should’ve brought a drink over with you so you’d have something to do with your hands. Or your phone — except you left it on its charger, you idiot — or a time machine, so you can revoke your bullshit decision to walk over here in the first —

“He deserves that, don’t you think?”

The combined suddenness of her voice and the switch in topics makes you jolt ever so slightly. You try to pass it off, to pretend that you’re simply adjusting the skirt of your dress, but your efforts go unnoticed. Seonmi is too busy pointing casually ahead, drawing your focus to the center of the dance floor.

Like absolutely no one else is watching, Mr. Lee twirls around his laughing wife, his heart-shaped smile beaming so brightly that it almost hurts your eyes. The love of his life has to hold one of her hands over her mouth to keep her laughter from bursting out; the other hand is raised with the rest of that arm, allowing her husband to spin himself underneath. When he’s halfway through, she surprises him, drops her arm down, and embraces him fully, giggling all the while.

It almost makes you tear up — Mr. Lee’s unabashed, silly love, and how much it reminds you of his spitting-image of a son; the way Seokmin’s mother’s eyes sparkle in the same blissful, radiant way his do. Maybe the same can’t be said for his older sisters, but it’s abundantly clear where Seokmin came from. It’s even clearer where he should end up.

“Yes,” you breathe, and it almost sounds like a laugh because of course, he does. Before you can stop yourself, you ask, “Is that really a question?”

No, you realize too late, it’s bait.

Without batting an eye, she counters, “Is it really so hard for you to let him have that?”

Seonmi turns her head to look you dead in the eye. Confusingly, despite her words, there’s nothing in her tone or gaze that reads like malice. If anything, the slight furrow of her brow shouts concern.

Your mind is spinning too fast to keep up with. Whatever her next move is, you’re too dizzy now to see it coming and too disoriented to follow it. With the knot in your stomach tightening further, you stammer, “Is — what?”

“God,” Seonmi drops her face into her hands. “You don’t get it, do you?”

A fish on dry land, all you seem to know how to do is open and close your mouth. You may not be literally flailing, but with the state your mind is in, you may as well start.

“Seokmin loves love.”

She says each of these words slowly, like she’s trying to hammer each nail through a thick skull.

“It’s the one thing he’s wanted most since he was a kid, yet I can count on one hand the number of short-term relationships he’s been in. He doesn’t ever bring anyone home to meet us; he doesn’t bring anyone to weddings, or parties, or holidays; he just brings you.”

Of course, you’ve been right there through all of his situationships. He’s always scant on details when they end — and you’ve never pressed for any — but you know better than anyone that nothing has stuck long-term.

You’ve never thought about how odd this really is, but with Seonmi spelling it out for you now, you can’t come up with a single, good reason why someone as objectively incredible as Seokmin can’t make these things work — or why, even as you rack your brain, the only constant you can find in his life is you.

She glares now, as if she’s daring you to speak; as if you’ve got anything she’d deem worth adding. The bulldozer revs up again, whether you’re ready or not: “You’ve always been the only person he saves space for, whether or not there’s a place for you, and he has no room left in his life for someone to love him like that —”

Seonmi points again to her parents, who are circling slowly on the dance floor, talking softly to one another.

“So, what is it? Do you truly not see what he’s missing, or are you choosing not to because you like his attention?”

Your eyes burn with tears, but you can’t let them fall, and you can’t wrap your head around why that is.

Who are you hiding them from: Seonmi or yourself?

The longer she stares at you, the muddier it gets. You don’t want her to be right. You don’t want to be the kind of person she’s describing; but there’s something awful whispering in the back of your mind, saying that you might be.

You’ve left every relationship you’ve been in, telling everyone who asks in the aftermath that you like being on your own better. But that’s bullshit. It’s not your own company that you keep when you’re single; it Seokmin’s.

He makes sure that you never spend a day feeling alone, that he’s always available over the phone in the rare times he’s not physically with you. As his best friend, he treats you better than every single one of your exes ever has. Like you’re worth more than anyone else will credit you.

What kind of friend are you if you feel relieved whenever his relationships expire?

Seonmi’s hand drops, landing half-heartedly clenched on the tabletop. Just the same, her voice drops until it’s almost a whisper.

“I am begging you,” she pleads, eyes narrowing desperately as they search yours. “If you don’t want him, someone else will. Please just — get the hell out of their way.”

By the time you reach the elevator, all you’re left with is a blur. You’ve already forgotten how the conversation ended, or which one of you was the first to get up. If she said anything else to you, it was drowned out by your own hammering pulse and a looping chorus of voices validating your biggest fear, stating in no uncertain terms that you don’t belong.

You’re shaking when you reach your floor. Heels clicking under unsteady footsteps, you make for room 218; and as you go, you shove your hand into the well-concealed pocket of your dress for the keycard Seokmin forgot to grab himself on the way out earlier.

He’s certainly not in the room when you finally step inside, although you have no clue where he’s gone. It’s for the best. The door closes behind you, and with no one to see it happen, you burst into tears.

All rational thought flies out the window, shaken off by the tornado of utter confusion tearing through your brain. You grab your suitcase, needing nothing more than to be anywhere else, and begin haphazardly throwing your things back inside of it.

Why did you still come with him, knowing it wouldn’t end well? It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve told him no; he would’ve listened if you truly meant it.

If you didn’t mean it when you initially tried to squirrel your way out of this, why not? Was it just your friend asking sincerely that won you over without a fight; or was it because you knew, deep down, it’d hurt to see him bring someone else?

Why would it hurt?

The answer to that will crack the foundation of everything the two of you have built, but only if you admit it to yourself. It can’t threaten you if you don’t say it out loud, don’t make it real.

So, you won’t.

You’ll bury it deeply enough to forget about, repour the concrete, and tiptoe through the rest of your life with your best friend still at your side.

That is, if your friendship survives the weekend — rather, your sudden departure from it — at all.

“Halmoni, it’s time to go back to your hotel, okay?”

He coos this, as if he’s pleading with a toddler at bedtime, because that’s exactly what it feels like to wrangle the drunk, 80-year-old clinging to his arm.

Physically, she needs to hold onto Seokmin to keep herself steady. Mentally, she’s ready to run and has made several attempts to do just that when she thinks his guard is down. It’s no wonder the hotel staff cornered him and begged him for help; she’s too wily for those who don’t know her.

The manager had at least done him the courtesy of hailing a cab. It sits out front, warm and waiting, while he shepherds his grandmother through the lobby.

“— and another thing!” She slurs.

There is never not another thing. She shouldn’t bother concluding her sentences in the first place; she’s never done talking.

“I told your sister — I said, Sunny —”

Seonmi, he dares to presume, although he doesn’t dare to correct her.

“— you can’t have stuff like this —” She gestures animatedly, albeit vaguely around her. “— in places like this and expect retirees to pay for it! I said — oh, what did I say? — Ah, I said, ‘find me the cheapest motel in the area, or I’ll be staying in your room with you’ —”

Her kitten heels hit the brick outside with an angry thwump.

Seokmin can’t help himself. “She didn’t go for that?”

“No!” His grandmother squawks.

The driver sees the ball of a woman wobbling his way and quickly exits the cab, skirts around it, and flings the back door open for her.

“I can’t imagine why, halmoni,” he lies through his teeth, which shine down on her in his best, least sincere smile. “You’re a blast in a glass.”

She roars with laughter, even while two grown adults work together to pour her into the backseat without bumping her head on the doorframe. “Glast in a blass!”

“Exactly. Can you —?”

He gives up before he finishes voicing his request; it’s no use. Instead, he bends down to hug her and finagles the buckle of her seatbelt while she’s too distracted to fight him off. That click is the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard, after the clunk of the door shutting her in.

By the time Seokmin turns to the cab driver, his grandmother is fully slumped in her seat, pilled peacoat rising and falling with every wine-laced breath.

“I am so sorry.” He sighs, which devolves into a sheepish laugh, and fishes all of the cash out of his pocket. No tip could possibly cover the emotional toll of this ordeal, so he does his best and gives the driver everything he has.

The driver’s eyes widen. Seokmin gets the impression that he doesn’t quite understand the task he’s undertaking.

Poor bastard.

Seokmin continues, “My grandfather is at the inn already; he didn’t feel well enough to come here, but he’ll be ready to get her inside once you drop her off.”

“Sounds easy enough.” The driver smiles and holds out his hand to shake.

Seokmin reciprocates, and he declines to explain just how wrong that assessment is. He thanks the man and chirps a quick goodbye to his grandmother before rushing back inside.

Walking into the ballroom, he hopes to find you and Seonmi laughing about whatever misunderstanding had gotten in your way before. At the very least, he expects you to still be sitting next to each other at the same table. That would be good enough, he thinks; he could assist in repairing the situation from there.

The problem, it seems, is beyond his help. Neither one of you occupies the same table. If his quick scan tells him anything, you’re not even in the same room.

No matter which way he turns, he can’t spot you. His sister, on the other hand, is near the far corner, having what looks like a nightmarish conversation with their parents. There are approximately five billion things Seokmin would rather do than get in the middle of that, but you don’t have your phone on you, and he has no other way to find out where you went.

Above the heads of the two women, Seokmin’s father catches sight of his approach. They lock eyes; there’s something insane in his father’s gaze. The older man shakes his head, mouthing “no.”

Seokmin stops short, raises his hands with the palms up to get across his confusion, and mouths back, “Bambi?”

In response, his father extends a single finger and points upwards. He then makes a shooing motion with his hand. His wife and daughter are so engrossed in their argument that neither of them catches the pantomime or Seokmin’s quick exit, back the way he came.

On the elevator ride upstairs, Seokmin worries. The most likely explanation is that you went to find your phone so that you could find him – but you haven’t texted or called him in the time he’s been looking for you, so he supposes it isn’t likely after all.

Maybe, he thinks, the wine caught up to you. You’re not as strong a drinker as you think you are. While he walks down the hallway to room 218, he steels himself. Even though you both hate it, he’s ready to hold your hair if he walks in and finds you with your head in the toilet. That dress looks too good on you not to be expensive; he’d rather talk you out of your embarrassment tomorrow than have you shell out for dry-cleaning.

You didn’t deadbolt the door behind you, which strikes him as odd. In fact, you didn’t even close it properly; it isn’t latched. All he has to do is tap on it for the door to open.

“Bambi?” He calls out before stepping inside entirely, thinking it’s only decent to confirm in advance that he’s not an intruder. “Sorry for disappearing. I had to pour my grandmother into a cab – it was exactly as awful as it sounds.”

The faint rustling sound he hears isn’t coming from the bathroom, which is both dark and unoccupied. Part of him wants to take this as a good sign, but the rest of him wonders if he’s walking in on a burglary. That flicker of fear is followed by a stupid sense of validation:

You always laugh at him when he cites this as his reason for choosing the bed closest to the door; you claim it’s statistically unlikely. Finally being able to say “I told you so” after a robbery wouldn’t make either of your belongings magically reappear, of course. That said, it might make him feel a little better.

But the figure rooting through your suitcase isn’t a bandit at all. It’s you with your coat on.

“Um,” he starts, unintentionally startling you. “What is….”

His question peters out when you look up at him. There are broken mascara tracks down your cheeks, as if you tried to wipe them off without actually looking at them. Above them, your wide eyes are wet, like you’re seconds away from crying all over again. Even worse, you’re trembling.

Seokmin’s only instinct is to reach for you. Before he can wrap his arms around you, you jerk away from him. “Please don’t.”

So, he stops, though he doesn’t understand why. This is quite literally the only time in your life that you’ve pushed him away.

“What’s going on?” Ideally, he’d project calm at a time like this. He just sounds desperate. “What happened with Seonmi?”

“She — um, she didn’t — It wasn’t that bad; I’m just… You know how sensitive I get when I drink wine.”

Like a switch flips, a half-hearted smile takes over the bottom half of your face. It’s not real; if it was, your eyes would light up and crinkle at the corners. Whatever that look is, it’s bullshit.

Seokmin gestures to your suitcase, where everything you brought with you has been unceremoniously shoved. “Sensitive enough to, what, run away? No. I’m not buying it. She said something — or did something — to make you this upset. Bambi, what happened?”

His urgency is selfish, he knows it. Seonmi’s always been way too intuitive for her own good. There’s no way she hasn’t noticed the way he looks at you when you aren’t looking; how god-awful he is at acting platonic.

He tries — has been trying, for a long time now — to shake these feelings off because he knows you’re not emotionally available. Because he knows who he’s supposed to be for you, and how devastating it would be if he threw your friendship away.

That devastation is right in front of him now; and it’ll push you out of his life forever if he doesn’t shut it down. He has to get in front of it.

You strike first, though. “Seokmin, why didn’t you bring anyone else?”

There are two ways for him to interpret that question: with the emphasis on anyone, meaning not you; or as an escape route. For your sake, he chooses the latter.

“She gave me a plus-one, not a plus-two,” he says softly.

Despite his tone, it must hit you like a punch. You nod curtly, once. “Got it. Basic math. Thanks, Seokmin; that was never my strongest subject.”

Foot, meet mouth.

You immediately set back to work, reaching for the lid of your suitcase to close and zip. Before he thinks once, let alone twice, his hand darts out and flattens against the mesh inner pocket on the top, preventing you from doing so.

“No.” He shakes his head firmly. “Not happening.”

You don’t scowl at him the way he expects, nor do you even stop to look at him. It’s far worse than that; your eyes start swimming, focused helplessly on your suitcase.

When you speak, your voice cracks. “I shouldn’t have come in the first place. I knew that this invitation shit wasn’t an accident; I knew I wasn’t welcome to —”

“— You came anyway.” Seokmin doesn’t mean to snap at you, but the point is moot. Softening at the edges, he quickly continues, “And I’m glad that you did because I don’t want to be here with ‘anyone else’.”

It’s not the whole truth, so it may as well be a lie. You know him too well for him to get away with it; it was stupid of him to try. Your head turns, and the slight narrow of your eyes says it all.

I triple-dog dare you to tell me the truth.

This fork in the road has two dead ends. His only options are to do just that or double down and lie straight to your face, while you see straight through him. Either option pulls the pin, he figures, so it’s no longer a question of who gets hurt; it’s who gets hurt worse.

Seokmin jumps on the grenade.

“I don’t want to be with anyone else!”

It comes out too loudly, startling you. In a way, it’s angry, too. He wishes could project that anger onto Seonmi for starting shit, as usual, but the person he’s maddest at is himself for putting you both in this position.

For the first time ever, he can’t decipher the expression on your face. He’d shove his foot into his mouth to try and keep himself quiet, but his adrenaline is firing on all cylinders, and he can’t seem to stop shouting.

“And I’m really fucking sorry to say it because I know you don’t want to hear it, not from me or anyone else. So, you can leave, alright? I’m not going to stop you.”

The force of the surprise almost knocks the air out of him, so quick that Seokmin can’t process what’s happening until his back is flush to the wall behind him — until your hands, flat against his white button-up, curl to grip the fabric, and you kiss him so hard that he sees stars.

You’re surprised too, it seems. When you pull away, chest heaving, you freeze in the same way he does. Eyes searching the other’s, unsure of what to do now that twenty-plus years’ worth of boundaries have been blown to bits.

You whisper, “Are you still sorry?”

Of the five million feelings swelling inside of him — fear, kind of; joy, yes; fucked up by your blown-out pupils, definitely — regret isn’t one of them.

Actually…

He cups your face in his hands like water from a spring, drinks down the sight of you in this new and perfect light. “I’m only sorry that it took me this long to tell you,” he confesses before kissing you back twice as hard.

You’d ask Seokmin to pinch you and prove to you that you’re not dreaming, but the fear you feel at the thought of waking up is too overwhelming.

Even if it wasn’t, he can’t help you, can he?

His hands are far too busy.

Your pretty dress is long gone now, having been shucked off and tossed somewhere out of sight. In its place, it’s Seokmin’s body that now drapes over yours, warm in touch and tone, like molten gold.

His middle and marriage fingers curl inside you, working you up again; and all you can do is cling desperately to his hair, whimper, and wait for the fall.

“I take back what I said earlier,” he murmurs between nips and kisses at your neck.

You can’t ask him to elaborate. You’re too close to careening over the edge for the second time tonight; too busy babbling fucking nonsense.

His simper against your throat reverberates all the way down, lights up your every nerve in tandem like a switchboard. “Only an idiot would tell you to be less expressive.”

The pad of his thumb swirls over your clit; its movement synchronizes with his middle finger inside of you, targeting your weak spot. He presses down on that spongy patch of nerves, and your hips buck involuntarily, a hallmark of your body begging for you while your words fail.

“You were right, though.”

You summon all your concentration. “I’m always right,” you counter. Seokmin pulls his mouth away from the underside of your jaw just to look at you pointedly. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

He picks up the pace of his ministrations, pulling no punches. You’re teetering on the ledge with no real ability to lift your own neck; your head crashes back against the pillow as you wail, clenching and gushing around his fingers.

“I do know how sensitive you get,” he snickers before slipping his fingers from you and sweeping down to kiss you sweetly.

The ringing in your ears has barely subsided, but you’ve decided not to take anymore of his teasing laying down. Slipping your fingers from his hair, you move your hands to his shoulders; and with whatever muscle control you still maintain, you flip him off of you, onto his back.

“How long —”

You climb over his lap and straddle him, placing your palms flat against his chest. It’s as much a show of dominance as it is a carefully disguised trick for balance.

“— have you been waiting to say that?”

Caught red handed, Seokmin shoots you that trademark, heart-shaped smile. His cheeks were already flushed from the effort he just expended on you; that perfect pink only deepens when he blushes and laughs, “What, you think I can’t come up with killer lines in the heat of the moment?”

You scratch your nails gently down the lines of his abdominal muscles. “Nope,” you purr.

Sitting up on his elbows, Seokmin tilts his head to the side and narrows his dark eyes at you. You’re nowhere near used to seeing him look at you like this, like you’re something to be devoured. The feeling of being wanted so badly makes your stomach flip.

“Give me some credit, won’t you?” He asks, voice low. “You’re a knockout; you’re naked in front of me for the first time; and it’s a miracle I can talk at all when I feel this concussed.”

When you lean in, he licks his lips expectantly. You’re close enough to kiss him, of course, but you stop a few millimeters shy of your mark and watch him fight the urge to pout. His eyes search yours, almost pleadingly.

“Is that why you’re still not naked?”

Seokmin’s next move is to reach for the black briefs he’s still got on, but you stop him, encircling each of his wrists with your hands.

“Ah, ah, ah,” you tut with a patronizing shake of your head. “You’re fired. I’m in control now.”

If the little sigh he lets out is any indication, he is very much on board with your self-promotion.

He takes your cue and reels himself in, allowing you to move further down his body, your fingertips hooking under his elastic waistband and tugging as you go. When his length finally springs free, you duck your head to take him into your mouth, beyond eager to feel his weight on your tongue.

“Oh, my god,” he groans, eyelids fluttering, while you swirl your tongue around his head. “Feels s-so —”

The rest of his sentence gets stuck in his throat; you take what you can of him down your own throat, working whatever remains with your hand.

Seokmin wants so badly to watch, you know he does, but he’s sensitive, too. His head tips back, eyes closed and mouth hanging open.

It’s messy, the spit dribbling down your chin and the sound brought forth by the suction of your mouth around him. The obscenity of it all spurs you on. Nothing inspires you quite like Seokmin’s breathy whines and low moans, though. Above all else, it’s his reaction to you that slicks the inside of your thighs.

You’d give him the ending he deserves, right down the back of your throat, but you feel his fingertips graze your shoulder, beckoning you to look up at him.

Voice rough, he pleads, “Come here.”

With his steadying hands on you, you move back into your original position with your bent knees on either side of him. You immediately spot the indent his teeth have left on his lower lip, which is now slightly swollen. Delicately, you brush your thumb over the mark. “Oh, you’re a goner.”

Seokmin looks at you pointedly. Though you tease, you’re even worse off: drunk on the taste of him, as much as the sight of him underneath you, wanting you just as badly.

“Alright, alright,” you concede. “I am, too.”

The hand you use to wave dismissively at him then reaches down between your thighs, fingers wrapping around his cock and lining it up with your entrance.

“But I’m taking you down with me.”

And you do.

So thoroughly that you barely recall him staggering off to the bathroom when all is said and done, the wash cloth he returns with to clean you up, or the way you slump into his waiting arms before promptly falling asleep.

You sleep so soundly, in fact, that you don’t stir when the sun blares through the open curtains. Likewise, when Seokmin carefully maneuvers himself out of the tangle of your limbs and places your head on a real pillow instead, you’re none the wiser.

What finally gets to you is the clatter of the expensive, hotel-issued shampoo clattering against the floor of the shower, echoing off the tile like a sonic boom. You sit bolt upright in bed, staring bleary-eyed in the direction of the bathroom.

As if on cue, Seokmin pokes his head out of the doorway to see if you managed to sleep through the noise. Damp hair splays over his forehead, hanging just as loosely as his lazily-knotted bathrobe. If you weren’t still too sleepy to function, you’d love nothing more than to grab him by that tie and drag him back to bed.

“Shit. I’m sorry, Bambi,” he coos, though his mouth is full of both toothpaste and a toothbrush in a distinctly greener shade of blue than usual.

You merely point at his mouth with a half-powered look of distress, otherwise unable to put your suspicion into words. He doesn’t get it; he glances down at his chest, looking for what he assumes is a stray glob of paste.

When you finally do speak, it’s a prayer: “Please tell me that’s not mine.”

Seokmin blinks at you, then down his nose at the toothbrush he’s using. He cocks his head to the side, opens his mouth to assure you it isn’t, and finally, when the realization makes his eyes widen, he groans.

You wail, “Noooooo!”

Memories of your last trip together clash before your mind — specifically, attempting to navigate a drug store in a foreign language while you shopped for the replacement toothbrush Seokmin is currently holding.

Ears bright red with embarrassment, he ducks back into the bathroom. Immediately, you hear a rush of water from the tap, which nearly drowns out his feeble cry of “I’m sorry!”

“I know it’s an honest mistake, but how do you make it twice?”

You collapse back onto the pillows and bury your face in your palms; and you stay that way, even when you hear him padding softly over to you. The mattress shifts under his weight as he makes his way, one knee at a time, until you feel him looming over you. His hands reach out and gently pull yours from your face.

Before you can get any ideas, Seokmin flattens himself on top of you; a weighted blanket, smelling like vanilla and spearmint. He folds his arms across your chest and props his chin up on the top of his right wrist, bright eyes sparkling as he peers up at you.

Suddenly, you find it very difficult to be annoyed with him. The worst part is that none of this is by design. He always just looks at you this way, not to get out of trouble but because you’re you.

Your hand reaches out of its own accord and brushes the remaining damp strands off his forehead. When your touch lingers, Seokmin leans into it, warming your palm with his cheek.

“Hey,” you say, after failing to come up with anything better.

He beams. “Hi.”

“Why are we awake at this hour?”

That smile of his evaporates slowly, giving way to a grimace you’ve seen before. “Seungcheol and Mingyu want to meet up at the ski lodge before the post-brunch crowd gets there,” he explains. “And I told my parents we’d get breakfast with them first, since yesterday was… well, mostly a disaster.”

“And it will conveniently provide you with time to think of a way out of snowboarding?” You chuckle quietly and pat his cheek.

Seokmin shakes his head firmly, then stretches his neck enough to kiss you.

“No,” he mumbles defiantly against your lips. “I never back down from a triple-dog dare.”

762 notes · View notes

waynes-multiverse · 10 months ago

Note

Ok hear me out. I got this idea after the episode of Dean getting his "virginity" back and hooking up with the porn star when he's digging through her dresser and finds the DVD of her ANYWAY

Best friend Dean who's been pining after you for sooo long but doesn't want to fuck it up and lose you. You're hanging out when you ask him to go grab something from your room and he's digging through your drawers looking and accidentally comes across some lingerie and now it's days later and he's so hot and bothered cuz he can't think of anything else (the boy has a serious panty kink lets be honest) and you catch him in your room going through your drawers again and OH

A/N: As I warned y'all, this is a longer DD because, well, the prompt was long, so it's not really my fault. All that backstory took on a life of its own, but I think no one will be mad about it 😅 Again, I had tons of fun with this one! You'll see 🤣

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female!Reader

Warnings: +18/NSWF, a ridiculous heat wave, friends to lovers (Wayne's Version), crack, a panty kink, some sneaky fluff, and some hot lovin' aka smut (oral f & face sitting)

Word Count: 4.5k (whoops)

Main Masterlist || Dirty Drabbles

Cruel Summer

“You open the beaches on the 4th of July, it’s like ringing the dinner bell for Christ’s sake…”

As Jaws flickered across the screen in the Dean Cave, the green-eyed hunter adjusted himself in his seat. Usually, he had perfect control over himself and his feelings for you.

But on some days – like today – when you sat right next to him on the couch in nothing but a loose t-shirt and some short sweatpants, fanning yourself with an old magazine of Busty Asian Beauties as beads of salty sweat collected on your forehead and trickled down your neck, you made it hard for him.

“God, I’m so hot,” you sighed exhaustively and sunk further into the couch cushions, lifting your shirt from your sticky skin to let some cool air to your boobs as a heat wave ravaged through Kansas.

Painfully hard.

“Dean?” You pouted with your best puppy dog look at your best friend.

“Huh?” Dean was in trance, watching you more than the movie, always on the edge of getting caught one of these days.

“We’re out of Sour Patch Kids. I have more in my nightstand. Can you get them for me please?” you asked sweetly. “I don’t wanna move. I might actually die from heat exhaustion.”

Dean sighed and wordlessly rose from his seat. He knew you always kept an array of salty and sweet midnight snacks in your room in case you got hungry and didn’t want to wander into the kitchen in the middle of the night.

Moreover, he was grateful for the break. God knows he couldn’t stand to be around you any longer, or he would’ve been too tempted to rip your clothes off and really make you sweat.

I’ll show her a damn heat exhaustion, he thought with a scoff.

Hastily grabbing the desired snack, his green eyes then caught something red and lacy sticking out from the first drawer of your dresser. The hunter knew the decent and honest thing would’ve been to just keep moving and leave your godforsaken room.

Turn around, as Bonnie Tyler sang. But for some reason, his bright eyes couldn’t resist, his curiosity overtaking him.

Dean opened the drawer with the intention to push the naughty little clothing item back into its place and out of sight. Get rid of the temptation, so to speak. It sounded like the perfect loophole. He got to touch it and look at it, but for a very heroic and noble reason – not because he was a creepy perv, violating his best friend’s privacy.

On some level, Dean knew he’d never stand a chance with you. He wasn’t good enough. He had so much baggage all his suitcases wouldn’t even fit into the bunker.

A damn touch of a pair of panties you weren’t even wearing was all he would ever get from you.

But then his fingers touched the soft and see-through material, his pads tracing every delicate scarlet thread with precision and care. It was game over for him then and there, cursing himself internally for not resisting harder as his cock twitched joyfully in his jeans.

Dean had laid his eyes on you the second you strolled with swinging hips into that diner in Wichita for your very first case together, a werewolf hunt six years ago. And he had managed to get by without an incident for years since then, even when you moved into the bunker, being rather proud of that achievement. He never wanted to lose you as a friend and didn’t dare to cross a line. Ever.

Recently, though, it became more difficult to keep his distance and not let his thoughts wander. His feelings were magma that slowly had filled a volcano over the years. Each time you did something sexy or sweet or goofy or smart, another drop was added. And now, that damn fire mountain was overdue for an eruption – no thanks to that stupid heat wave.

“Thanks,” you said absentmindedly as the hunter handed you the candy but didn’t settle back down. Instead, he stood behind the sofa and leaned his hands on the backrest.

What you didn’t know, though, was that Dean was sporting quite the boner and wouldn’t dare to come into your line of view. He was surprised he could even walk up straight and not like a caveman early in the evolution.

A hunter gathering panties.

“I’m gonna hit the hay,” he told you with a somber clear of his throat. As the fan carried a breeze of your perfume to his nose, his grip tightened on the couch.

You turned in your seat and looked over your shoulder at him, raising a surprised brow. “Already? But the movie’s not over.”

“Yeah, I’m beat,” he excused and tried his best not to look strained. He forced a tight smile to his lips while his little dude celebrated Spring Break in his jeans. “‘Sides, we’ve seen Jaws like a million times now, Y/N.”

It was a cherished summer tradition between the two of you, watching it every 4th of July.

“I guess so.” You shrugged disappointedly, watching your best friend retreat to his room. Truth was, you loved spending time with Dean and held those little traditions close to your heart.

The Winchesters were your family, the only one you ever had. And while some families wore matching pajamas on Christmas morning, you watched the first two Die Hard movies. You would watch Dean’s favorite horror movies on Halloween. Sixteen Candles and High Fidelity on your birthday, Tombstone and The Great Escape on Dean’s, and some lame-ass foreign language documentaries that you both snored through on Sam’s.

Valentine’s Day was a dreaded non-holiday for all three of you, but for the past four years, someone would leave a box of chocolate in front of your door. The salted caramel ones would always be missing, and it always came with the same Forrest Gump quote:

I’m not a smart man, but I know what love is.

You knew the anonymous someone was Dean, and you knew he meant it as a joke. Still, you clung to those little traditions. They might seem silly and stupid to some, but to you, they were your lifeline in a world full of darkness.

So, you felt rather saddened Dean didn’t seem to honor them anymore. It wasn’t just Jaws, either. He’d been withdrawing from you for a while, and you didn’t understand why.

Unbeknownst to you, the green-eyed hunter had kept a lacy souvenir from your room.

Now, Dean had managed to avoid you for four days. Every night since his stealthy excursion, he would lie in his bed with your stolen panties in one hand and his throbbing length in the other, feeling goddamn pathetic for sinking so low.

It was probably so low that even his memory foam mattress would remember it.

With closed eyes, he then imagined how the perky globes of your ass would look like covered in crimson lace. How you would stretch out on his bed on all fours, with your ass high in the air and wiggling in front of him. How his fingers would push the wicked material aside to push into you, taking you deep and hard while you moaned his name.

As he ruined tissue after tissue, the guilt would wash over him as soon as he was done. Call it a post-nut epiphany.

Dean knew it was wrong to think those things. He knew he only made it harder for himself to ever look you into the eyes again. Hell, he barely could do it now, even though a part of him audaciously wondered what other treasures were hiding in that drawer of yours. And more pressingly, what ultimate wealth he would find beneath your clothes. If your lingerie was gold, he’d be a creepy-ass dragon sitting on it.

So, Dean tried to avoid you as best as possible. Mostly because, well…

“God, fuck me,” you groaned exhaustively and opened the refrigerator door, leaning against it as the refreshing cold hit you from behind. On top of that, you held a big bag of frozen peas to your sweaty chest. You already wore the bare minimum – some short denims and a white tank top, your hair up in a messy bun.

“I swear underboob sweat is the worst. Just be glad you don’t have tits,” you complained. “Guys, seriously, can we invest in an AC? This heat wave is killing me! This bunker is like one giant oven…”

You watched as Dean squirmed in his seat as he ate his cereal, looking as uncomfortable as you. Surely, the boys were suffering just as badly during those sweltering temperatures, already forgoing the usual flannels and opting for plain t-shirts instead. How they were still wearing jeans was beyond you. When you first moved in, you protested against Dean’s suggestion of Naked Tuesdays, but these days, you were actually giving it a second thought.

“Well, I’m gonna drive to Kansas City today and see if I can get us an AC. Apparently, they’re all sold out, but I figured maybe with a bit of flirting and some cleavage, I can still get us one,” you explained your plan with a bright smirk and wiggled your eyebrows. “What d’you guys think, huh?”

Dean then abruptly banged his fist on the table, spilling some milk from his bowl on the surface. “For God’s sake, Y/N!”

You frowned in confusion at his unexpected outburst. “What’s up with you? Are you having a heat stroke?��

“Flirting, really?!” the hunter barked, his brow shaped into a deeply furious v.

“What’s wrong with that? Double standard much? You do it all the time to get shit,” you countered and watched his jaw clench in anger.

“I do-... not,” he remarked snappily with a fierce finger drilling into the table, clearly lacking a good argument. Sam cleared his throat in agreement with you, but that only earned him a glare. “And Jesus fucking Christ, would it hurt you to put on some goddamn clothes? You’re not even wearing a bra!”

“Did you not hear my tits rant just now? Of course I’m not! ‘Sides, those boobs are gonna get you an AC, so be a little more grateful to them,” you retorted, annoyed with his attitude. You’d think of all the people in this world, Dean Winchester would understand. (And maybe even appreciate it.) “And how can you even tell, huh?”

“‘Cause science, Y/N! You’re literally cooling your tits! What did you think was gonna happen, huh? Nipples!” he vented outrageously. “This ain’t a strip club!”

“It’s 102 degrees, Dean!” you argued, throwing your arms up. “Look, if I could, I’d even go naked, alright? It’s fucking hot!”

“Oh, for crying out loud!” Dean shook his head and stormed out of the kitchen without any further comment.

Confused, you blinked at the younger Winchester. “What’s up with him?”

But Sam only shrugged, shaking his head. “Uhm, I don’t know,” he replied, although he could take an educated guess, suspecting his brother’s feelings for you as the culprit.

“Well, alright, I’m going to Kansas City,” you decided without wasting another thought on the older Winchester’s strange behavior. “Text me if you guys need something. I can pick it up on my way home.”

Dean knew he was in deep trouble as his bow legs bolted down the bunker’s hallways. He tried so hard to keep it together, but when he saw you, half-naked and panting in front of the fridge, he quite literally lost his coolness in this goddamn heat wave.

The green-eyed hunter understood a thing or two about torture, but this was the worst of all. He’d rather have a demon repeatedly peel off his skin in hellfire than endure a day more of this fucking madness.

If the temperatures didn’t drop soon, it would be a cruel summer ahead of him.

As Dean heard the door to the garage close, he knew you’d left for your trip and exhaled a deep sigh of relief. At least he’d get a few hours of peace.

With the best intentions, he strolled to his bedroom, but as he passed your room on his way, he found the door ajar. Whatever good motives he had up until this point, went quickly out the window right then.

His hand twitched at the thought of more riches, worse than any trigger finger and competing with a California earthquake, and well, so did the dick in his jeans. It was an addiction at this point, an obsession he couldn’t resist nor get rid off. The fact that it was forbidden and wrong only made it even more appealing. The apple in the garden of Eden.

Unfortunately, there wasn’t an anonymous support group for this kind of sickness.

As unbearable shame and guilt collected in his stomach like rainwater in the gutter, his eager hands rummaged through your dresser drawer. There was purple lace and black satin, navy G-strings and white Brazilians. It was never ending, and the hunter couldn’t stop as he picked up each item and let his fantasies roam wild.

God, the things he wanted to do to you were as colorful as your rainbow full of underwear.

“Dean?!”

The green-eyed hunter froze in his place, a white lace panty still bunched up in his large palm. The hair in the back of his neck stood up in shock, a part of him refusing to turn around at the sound of your voice. He was caught red-handed, and he knew it.

“What are you doing in my room?” you prompted, suspiciously cocking an eyebrow. It looked fairly obvious what your best friend was up to, but you didn’t want to accuse him right away, giving him the benefit of the doubt.

Frankly, it was quite unbelievable.

“It’s not what it looks like,” Dean replied and swallowed thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he held up his hands like a criminal during an arrest, the evidence still in his grasp.

“Well, it looks like you’re snooping through my lingerie,” you pointed out bluntly.

Dean nodded, guilt-ridden and reluctant. “I can explain.”

“Good,” you said, crossing your arms over your chest. “I’m waiting…”

“Right, uhm…”

“Oh, before you scramble for an answer, you should know, though, that I’m aware a pair of red lace panties is missing, and I know the washer didn’t eat them,” you said and raised an expectant brow.

You had a feeling your pervy best friend was behind the mystery of the missing item. Now you knew for sure.

“Man, I always knew you were a kinky son of a bitch, but this is a new level, Dean,” you scolded.

Dean’s gaze dropped to the floor in shame, scratching the nape of his neck. “Look, uhm, there’s no good excuse. I know I fucked up here. I’ll sleep in a motel tonight until I find my own place. You can stay here with Sam, alright? I’ll move out and won’t bother you anymore.”

As he tried to brush past you, you blocked his exit and grabbed his arm. “So, you’re gonna leave? Just like that?”

“What other choice do I have? I don’t wanna make you more uncomfortable,” he stated without glancing at you once. He couldn’t bring himself to look into your eyes and see the disappointment and disgust there. “I know what I did was wrong.”

“Oh, so wrong,” you agreed. “I just figured you wouldn’t run away like a coward and take your punishment like a man, you know? Aren’t you at all curious what I’m wearing right now?”

That was when Dean’s juniper eyes slowly wandered to you and caught your gaze for the first time. You smirked as his breathing became heavy and his look darkened and filled with lust. It seemed like he wanted to rip your clothes off with his goddamn bare teeth like a wild animal.

“I can’t tell if you’re joking or if I’m dreaming,” he admitted, his deep voice part harsh swallow and part nervous chuckle.

“Neither,” you said, biting your bottom lip.

Carefully, you leaned closer, your hands reaching up to cup his scruffy cheeks. Noses nuzzled as your lips ghosted against his with a daring grin. You wouldn’t go further; it was up to Dean to make that final decision.

And then, as no more than a mere second ticked by on the clock, the hunter crashed his lips against yours in a kiss so scorching it made the current heat wave look like an ice age. If you thought you were hot before, now it felt like you were burning in a wildfire.

Dean roughly pushed you against the door, his kiss all teeth and tongue in an uncontrollable frenzy. His dick was hard and thick, straining against his jeans and rubbing along your thigh. Pantingly, you gasped for air and grabbed his hand, guiding it down your body and into your shorts.

“Feel that?” you asked mischievously as his fingers dug through your soaked folds and collected the arousal he caused. A wanton growl left his plush lips. “All for you, baby. You’ve been a bad boy, haven’t you?”

“Shit, yeah, so bad…” Dean rasped huskily against your throat as he worshipped his path down your body, forcing your shirt up till his wet tongue rolled over your pert and still cold nipple.

“Gonna make it up to me, huh? Show me how sorry you are?” you prompted, your fingers raking through his sandy blond and soft hair, eliciting a groan from him every time you tugged a little harder.

Teeth pinched your skin, tongue cherished your taste, and lips left your throat bruised. It was equal parts hot, sweaty, messy, naughty, dirty, and sticky as your bodies rutted against one another, looking for dire release.

With swollen and plumper than before lips, he came back up for air and found your eyes. He kissed you with heated passion once more as if he couldn’t resist to touch you over and over again. He had to restrain himself to be able to speak.

“So, uhm, you sure about this?” Dean asked between labored breaths with an insecure gleam in his green eyes. “‘Cause if we go further, I don’t think I can stop. And I don’t mean just this time but ever… If you want this to be a one time thing, you gotta tell me, sweetheart, so I can mentally prepare myself. I mean, I’ll take what I can get, you know? Not that I care either way… Well, that’s not true. I do care. A lot… But, you know, you’re you, and I’m me, so I’m not delusional. I know there’s no way you would–”

You interrupted his babbling with a kiss, causing the hunter to lose his words. You looked deeply into his eyes and offered him a small smile of comfort.

“Dean, listen to me, okay? ‘Cause this is very important,” you urged, your hands gripping his shirt tightly.

He nodded, gulping anxiously. “O-Okay.”

“You’re incredible,” you said and watched him inhale sharply at your words, blinking at you in disbelief. “Absolutely fucking bonkers incredible. You’re right – you’re you. And thank God you are, because you’re the best, funniest, smartest, kindest, and goddamn hottest man I’ve ever met. I’m tired of you not seeing that. As my boyfriend, I really need to you to see that, alright?”

As Dean pensively took in your words, his brow began to furrow. “Boyfriend?”

The corners of your mouth rose to a beam. “Yeah, boyfriend,” you confirmed. “That’s what you want, right? ‘Cause I’d really like that, too.”

“Uh, yeah, yeah… That’s what I want.” Dean nodded eagerly before another swallow followed. “I mean, among other things…”

You bit your lip, smirking. “What other things?”

“Well, uhm…”

Dean didn’t finish his sentence, his lips impatiently claiming yours instead. He pressed you hungrily back against the door, massive hands sliding down your sides till they hooked into the hem of your denim shorts and ripped them down to your ankles, leaving you only covered in teal lace. He growled shamelessly at the sight, his thick digits eagerly diving inside.

“Wanna be inside you,” he groaned into your ear, thumbing furiously at your clit. “Every hour of every day…”

“We can do that,” you agreed with a giggle, your arms locking around his neck, fingers carding through his hair in the back.

“Wanna feel your mouth around my–” The last word was muffled as he ravaged your neck, but you understood where he was going with this.

“You can do that,” you said with a smile.

“And fuck, I want you to ride my face,” he declared. That demand left you speechless, making even Dean stop for a minute and look at you. “Too far?”

You shook your head and smirked. “I can do that.”

Before Dean’s mind could fathom your words, you shoved him onto the bed, his back hitting the mattress. When you stood before him, slotted between his muscular legs, his gaze trailed up and down your body, memorizing every beautiful curve. As your fingers curled into the waistband of your panties, however, the hunter stopped you.

“Leave ‘em on, sweetheart. Don’t you dare take those off,” he told you, his hands rapaciously reaching out to you.

You played with the hem of your top and smirked, your tongue licking over your lips. “What about this? On or off?”

“Off,” he shot back faster than a bullet leaving a barrel.

“You first,” you demanded and grinned. “Remember, this is still your punishment.”

“God, I love getting punished,” Dean mumbled and slipped out of his shirt. He then swiftly shimmied out of his jeans, discarding each item carelessly around the room.

He then took a deep breath as he tugged the waistband of his boxers, his erection already fighting its way out. “Well, here goes nothing,” the hunter said and pulled his underwear down.

You tilted your head to see his hard cock from a better angle as it sprang against his stomach. Your lips parted in anticipation, wondering what he’d taste like on your tongue and how deep you’d be able to take him. You guessed there’d be a struggle ahead, considering how huge and wide he was.

“Oh, I would not call that monster nothing,” you commented with a scoff, your pussy throbbing with need. “Explains all that BDE.”

Dean blushed. It was cute to watch. “Thank you.”

Giggling, you removed your shirt and tossed it at his face, blinding him for a second. You used that momentum to slide onto the bed and straddle his torso. As his eyes finally found you again, he almost choked on his spit when he gazed up at your perfect tits above him. A primal grunt escaped his throat.

With a mesmerized sparkle in his eyes, his hands trailed up your body and cupped your breasts, massaging them roughly as your panties grew damper by the minute. He then pulled you down to his lips and kissed you breathless before he left them with a boyish smirk on his freckled face.

“Hop on, sweetheart.”

And as if his words hadn’t been enough motivation, his hands wandered to palm your ass and hauled you closer to his mouth. He was an impatient one – or maybe he’d waited years for this and was finally tired of it.

Your knees sunk into the mattress on either side of his stubborn head. His fingers dented your flesh as they grabbed onto your thighs. Yours held onto the headboard for support. You tried not to look down, because then you’d see his big lopsided and full of excitement grin.

The same one he had when you found a diner in Kentucky that advertised the biggest burger in America (it wasn’t). The same one he had when he thought he had run into a member of Metallica at a gas station outside of Phoenix (he didn’t). The same one he had when you and Sam gifted him his own beer brewing station for his last birthday (which tasted horrible, but neither you nor Sam had the heart to tell him).

And now, he had that same grin when he was about to be with you.

As your pussy dripped above him, Dean couldn’t hold back his lewd groans any longer. You didn’t even have to lower yourself; he just dragged you down onto his face all to eagerly. His fingers swiped your panties to the side, and before you could even adjust your grip on the bedpost, his tongue darted into your soaked channel as deeply as he could and sucked you goddamn dry.

With several whimpers, you clenched around his wet muscle. If you were water in the desert, he was parched and drinking to survive.

His nose was buried in your folds, rubbing deliciously against your clit as he lapped your pussy in a vicious attack that left you squirming and moaning to a pornographic degree above him. Because Dean was just that – pure porn.

Instinctively and irresistibly, you ground your cunt against him, the vibrations of his keen groans against your sensitive flesh rocking you to the edge of your climax. He ate you out and devoured you like that damn gigantic burger in Kentucky. And as you dared to blink down and watch him in action, he had the audacity to devilishly smirk up at you with the crinkles around his green eyes alone, gauging your every reaction to his touches as if you were a goddamn movie on a silver screen.

You trembled and quivered and screamed as your orgasm electrified every molecule in your body. You white-knuckled the wood in your grip, your body only held up by Dean’s strong arms because God knows your weak legs were useless now.

As wave after wave washed over you, Dean drank every drop of yours, his tongue never getting enough of your taste. The sounds that filled the room were carnal and obscene.

“Fuck, Dean,” you sighed blissfully and lifted off his face and captured his swollen and red lips in a grateful kiss, your palms finding purchase on his broad shoulders. Your drenched and sensitive cunt settled on his thighs as an egregiously large erection poked your belly and tempted you further.

Dean smirked up at you, all satisfied and confident with his achievement. “I think we have a slight problem, though.”

Your brow knitted, your heart tightening with anxiety. Had you been as disappointing as the burger, beer, and that fake Metallica band member?

But Dean only grinned teasingly at your confused face. “There’s no way I learned my lesson here.”

You snorted and sought out his lips, the kiss giving you a taste of yourself. “We’ll work on that. I might have to nickname you Jaws after this,” you joked.

“Can’t wait for you to explain that one to Sammy.” Dean snorted, chuckling. “Now, how about you hop on again, but this time a little further south, huh?” he proposed with a wiggle of his eyebrows and a suggestive twitch of his cock for emphasis.

You giggled with a few nods. “I can do that.”

Was it worth the words? 😝

For all you newcomers and as a general reminder, Dirty Drabbles are always open. I still have quite a few left, but you're welcome to send more in, and we'll add it to the collection at some point 😎🔥

PUT YOUR DIRTY THOUGHTS HERE

TAGS:

Everything Jensen: @alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey @deansbbyx @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies @agalliasi @yvonneeeee @hobby27 @imsapphine @globetrotter28 @mxltifxnd0m @lacilou

#dirty drabbles #dean winchester #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x female reader #dean winchester x y/n #dean winchester reader inser #dean winchester smut #dean winchester fluff #supernatural #supernatural reader insert #jensen ackles #jensen ackles smut #dean winchester fic #dean winchester fanfic

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grahstumhurts · 3 months ago

Text

1. Ignition

Cheerleader!Megan x Loser Band Member!Reader

a/n - n/n basically means nickname

Rekindling Masterlist

“Hey” Lara waves a hand over your face “You good? Zoned out for a good five minutes. Anything you wanna talk about?” She questions the look on your face, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder. Noticing the deepness in your thoughts in the way your face had scrunched up.

“I'm good, Dont worry about me.” You shrug her hand off your shoulder, standing up to put your guitar strap on. “What are we working on today?” All four of your band had gathered in Dani’s garage, which had become a tradition ever since forming your quartet. Meeting up every Tuesday and Thursday to work on music together, With Lara as vocals, Dani as bass, Yoonchae on drums and You on guitar and main songwriter.

“We are voting on prom performance songs” Dani grins, “As the leader of our band, I say we should do either Still into you or Fender. if your done that is.”

“Either one works for me.” Yoonchae chimes in, quietly tuning her drum kit.

“I'm down to sing still into you” Lara shrugs and looks over at me expectantly. “What bout’ you? Still into you fits your vibes currently since you're still not over megan.” Dani slaps Laras arm, “Ow what its true!” She rubs her arm.

“Fenders my vote, Dani?” you glance over at dani who is still glaring at Lara. “For the record I'm over her.” You go back to playing around with your pick, One that Megan had given you when you were kids. A pink hello kitty one with her worn out initials on the back.

“You still using that pick says a lot, Yn” Dani scoffs “But i can ask if we do both? I’m sure Ms Grant wont mind us doing two” She shrugs,

“Well some of the lyrics on fender need some reworking since i haven't finished it.” you add in, “I’m like, 80% done though. Shouldn't take too long” you glance into your notebook, the lyrics scribbled in, varieties of different coloured pens from when you had woken up and scribbled something down. You hand it over to Lara, who takes a quick read and nods.

“This is probably some of your best work so far, Personally.” She smiles, “No offence to the other songs in this tragedy of a notebook”

“None taken, Some of those were horrid” You chuckle. “Lets work on still into you first though, I’ll finish up fender in the next couple of days.” You strum your guitar to check its tuning before turning on the amp.

Wednesdays were always the worst. You shared one class with Megan and that was Psychology. On Wednesdays Psych was always first period, which means you had to see her with Greg. Greg is an asshole to say the least, He always teases Yoonchae, who's a sophomore while he's a Senior. Calling her a bunch of racist slurs and other things cause she's a transfer student from Korea, Not sure he realises Megan is also Asian. Pretty fucking ironic honestly. Greg always flirts with Megan any chance he gets. It's hard not to pay attention to his poor attempts at flirting with her when he's so bad at it.

You sit in your regular spot waiting for Ms Ginberg, You open up your notebook and work on changing up some of the lyrics that didn't work.

“Im hiding in the trunk im crossing my legs,” You mumble under your breath, “What's another word for crossing?” You rub your forehead as you repeat your question aloud.

“Pretzeling is a good word. If that's what you're looking for?” Megan stands by your desk, Close enough to notice the scent of oranges and persimmons, Her favourite fruits. “You write music now, That's pretty cool, N/n” She smiles at you, as if she hadn't been ignoring you for the past year.

“Thanks,” You avoid eye contact with her, scribbling down the word in place of crossing. “I'm hiding in the trunk, I'm pretzeling my legs. Sounds a lot better.”

“Whats this song even about?” She questions you, looking into your notebook glancing around at the different lyrics.

“Its nothing, just something i'm working on” You hastily close the book and shove it into your bag. “Since when do you care what i'm doing?” You scoff under your breath as Ms Ginberg walks in, Megan returns to her normal seat next to Greg with a slightly hurt expression.

Class goes as usual, Ms Ginberg teaches nothing, Greg flirts with Megan,Ms Ginberg assigns you way too much homework, and the list goes on. You gotta give it to Greg, he is persistent. Megan comes up behind you after class ends, Taps your shoulder to get your attention.

“Hey, Can we talk after school?” She asks, with a seemingly large amount of sincerity “I owe you an apology and an explanation.”

“What makes you care now?” You cross your arms over your chest and give her a disappointed look “You haven't seemed to care for two years, Megan.” It hurts to call her that when you’ve known her for all your life as Meg or Meimei.

“Look, Just hear me out. You don't have to do anything afterwards, I'll leave you be. But just take a chance on me okay?” She pleads with you.

“Fine, I’ll meet you outside the gate and we’ll talk there.” You sigh deeply, “I’ve gotta go to my next class. I’ll see you around, Megan” You walk off, knocking your shoulders together as you push past her to your second class of the day. Lara ambushes you on your way to your shared ceramics class.

“So, what's the deal with you and Megan anyway?” She gives you a knowing look “If you're not over her just say so, Saw you talking to her earlier.”

“She wanted to talk, I dunno what about but it seems important I guess.” You shrug “I’m not entirely sure if I'm totally over her now.” You sigh again and Lara rolls her eyes

“I knew it, Dude, seriously its not that embarrassing as you think.” She pushes your shoulder playfully “First girl crushes be like that for real.” she laughs after her last comment.

A/n EEEK SO HAPPY WITH HOW THIS FIRST CHAPTER CAME OUT WOOOWOWOOO

#katseye x reader #katseye imagines #katseye fluff #katseye megan x reader #katseye #rekindling 🔥❤️#katseye megan skiendiel #megan skiendiel #megan skiendiel x reader #katseye megan skiendiel x reader #grahstumhurts

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beansprean · 7 months ago

Text

My Familiar’s Ghost part 81

Masterpost Masterpost 2

See the latest pages on Patreon!

(ID in alt and under cut)

ID: 1. Wide shot, knees up, of vampire Guillermo and Nandor sitting on the couch in the library in front of the papered-over bay window. Nandor is wearing one of his usual outfits and Guillermo is wearing something new: a dark blue shirt with a pink floral pattern, a dark red sweater vest, brown cuords, and a string of pearls. Both are looking at the viewer and have clipboards in their hands, Guillermo's pen poised and ready on the paper and Nandor gesturing his in the air as he asks, 'So...what makes you the best candidate for our new familiar?'

2. Reverse shot of a single green armchair on a vague brown background. Sitting on it, legs crossed, is a southeast Asian woman in her 30s with shoulder length black hair and countless slash-like scars running up her arms, neck, and face. She is wearing a purple sweater with 3/4 sleeves, black leggings, and combat boots. She grimaces, looking upward, left arm waving vaguely as her right nervously fingers the arm of the chair, and says, 'Well, I survived three years with Gorgo the Murderer...'

3. Repeat, new candidate in the chair: a fat white man in his 30s with close cropped sandy blond hair and unsettling blue eyes, wearing a blue polo and brown chinos. His arms are covered in gorey tattoos depicting blood, buzzsaws, skulls, and fangs, plus one art nouveau portrait and black fang shapes above and below his mouth. He stares directly forward with a fixed grin, hands laced together over his chest, and declares, 'My former mistress always said I had a knack for dismemberment.'

4. Repeat, new candidate in the chair: a fat brown hispanic person in their 20s with hazel eyes, big glasses, and half bleach blonde half dark brown hair in a bowl cut. She is wearing a red flannel open over a TrueBlood tee shirt and jeans, nails painted teal, a silver hoop in each ear. They are leaning forward eagerly, fists clenched and eyes wide, babbling, 'You're the only familiar I've ever heard of who got turned! What's the turnaround for your familiars? Which one of you will turn me?!'

5. Repeat, new candidate in the chair: a small white woman in her 60s with gray-streaked auburn hair wearing a low-cut dark pink top tucked into a plaid knee-length skirt. Her long nails are painted a dark reddish brown to match her lipstick, and she also has on pantyhose and, inexplicably, a diamond ring on her left ring finger. She leans casually against the side of the chair, brown eyes roaming the ceiling, and announces, 'I've had so many masters by now... I'm really just looking for something more long-term...'

6a. Reverse shot back to Guillermo and Nandor on the couch. Nandor leans forward with a suggestive smirk, touching the butt of his pen coyly to his chin, and replies, 'That is good to hear... I trust your age will not prevent you from your duties?' Guillermo glares at him from the corner of his eye, grip shaking on his pen. 6b. Knees up in profile of Nandor and the milf candidate sitting across from each other, leaning forward with suggestive grins. One of her legs stretches forward to rub against his and she touches her chest demurely, replying, 'Honey, I can handle whatever you have for me-' Guillermo leans around Nandor to get between them and interrupts her, loudly shouting 'Next!!' 6c. Zoom in to shoulders up of Nandor, turned toward the viewer to curl his fingers in a wave as the milf leaves offscreen, muttering, 'Uh, well, thank you for your time.' Nandor glances over his shoulder with the smuggest of grins at Guillermo, who is absolutely seething behind him. Guillermo is surrounded by a ragged black aura, frowning as deeply as his boyish face allows, glowing orange eyes burning holes into the back of Nandor's head. /end ID

#wwdits #my familiars ghost #nandermo #mlm #vampire guillermo #guillermo de la cruz #nandor the relentless #what we do in the shadows #what we do in the shadows fx #my art #fanart #fan comic #image described

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mammonscheeks · 6 months ago

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brothers reaction to mc with a long skincare routine

✎ warnings: the word blood

"Finally!" You grinned to yourself, hauling a large package on the HoL dining table. Inside were all of your favorite products; hair oils, body scrubs, perfumes, face washes, serums, and the like.

Since you had been summoned unexpectedly to the Devildom, you were forced to use the oddest local products; a facewash that burned your flesh, deodorant that smelled suspiciously like blood, and hair masks that were green and slimy.

As much as you loved Devildom culture, it was tough to find products that didn't harm your human skin and hair, even with Asmodeus's help. So you were glad when Barbatos personally cleared your package from the human world at Devildom customs, where it had been stuck under inspection for the past month.

Later that night while you were indulging in your products, a certain brother came to visit you in your room.

LUCIFER would probably sigh at the number of products you use. he watches you layer serum over serum on your face with a judgemental expression.

"this long of a routine is a waste of time and money, mc. you could be studying right now.

then you walk by him, sending a wave of the honey-scented body scrub you use in his direction. his resolve threatens to break as his face grows warm. thoughts of running his lips over your sugar- scented neck plague his mind. the next day, lucifer visits the human world to buy everything you use, so you never run out in the Devildom.

MAMMON initially comes to your room to see if you have any luxury items worth much. however, he curiously watches you as you go through your hair and skincare routine, and asks if he can try some products out. he's adorable, obviously excited to be involved in whatever you're doing, and not wanting to be left out.

"can you put that on me too, mc? oh, and that? what does this one do?"

before long, you and mammon are cuddling in bed and watching a movie, waiting for the pink glittery face mask on both of your faces to dry.

LEVIATHAN would be interested in the packaging of your skincare, especially if its those asian brands with anime and hello kitty packaging. he'd declare that he's going to buy skincare products with ruri-chan packaging! he probably won't ask to try your products, since Devildom products work better for him, but he wouldn't protest when you put something on him, just to get one of those stereotypical scenes from romance anime, where the protagonist leans in close and...

"MC, I know you're trying to put serum on my lashes, but y-you're too close!"

SATAN inspects the packaging and ingredients of your skincare, thinking back to his research in chemicals and potions classes. He suddenly cups your face, running his thumb over your soft skin.

"MC, why are you so flustered? I'm just trying to understand your skin composition."

the next day, he uses his knowledge in potions and with a list of the chemicals in your products, recreates all your products, so that you can get them for free.

"S-stop grinning like an idiot, MC. I just did this to expand my knowledge on human products, that's all."

he did it because he loves you

ASMODEUS is absolutely DELIGHTED that your package has come. he had helped you this past month, trying to find products that worked for you in the Devildom, but to no avail. he definitely uses popular human world products as well, but not nearly as much as you. he literally wants to do EVERYTHING with you that night, from showering together to skincare.

"MC, show me absolutely EVERYTHING you do, step by step! We can do our routines alongside each other!"

the two of you have so much fun comparing products and being beauty product nerds together. he promises to give you the angelic essence serum he smuggled from the celestial realm, but only if you get him that a tube of that korean sunscreen he's been eyeing.

"my beautiful angel MC! you're glowing!"

BEELZEBUB would try and eat your products. they just smell so good, like candy, honey, and flowers! after preventing him from gobbling them down in one bite, he curiously watches you. he probably wouldn't ask you to put any products on himself, but he wouldn't mind if you do. he provides emotional support while watching you, completely entranced with how your face glows after every step.

"MC, I know you wanted to put this face mask on me, but I keep licking it off..."

after you're done with your routine, expect a clingy beelzebub, who keeps nuzzling your neck and face for a sniff of the sugary products you use.

BELPHEGOR upon watching your routine begins to feel tired. He doesn't understand why humans (and Asmodeus) need to go through so much effort and products before going to bed. On top of that, humans have to be patient and wait between steps, so their skin absorbs the serums properly!

"I feel sleepy just watching how long your routine is, MC. Doesn't it take too much energy to do so much?"

In an effort to show him that skincare is relaxing, you lay him down in your bed and start running a gua sha on his face. In 5 seconds flat, he's passed out (snoring and everything), from the ice-cold sensation on his jaw as well as your soft hands on his face.

#obey me hc #obey me headcanon #obey me x reader #obey me brothers #obey me imagines #obey me mc #obey me x mc #om! shall we date

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pixiefelixie · 1 month ago

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𓆝..°°𓈒 ⋆ (필릭스) : REMEMBER THIS SUMMER "MONDAY"

𓆉 °°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ synopsis felix is living the summer every teenager dreams of, with a perfect beach house on the east coast of australia and an even more perfect girlfriend. by taking the best of both worlds, felix invites her to experience the world he grew up in to make this the best summer ever. amidst bonfires, romantic sunsets, and seagulls, felix has one goal this summer: to finally tell her he loves her. with just one week to do so, felix is met with a challenge to make his feelings known before time runs out.

pairing: nonidol!felix x fem!reader, series warnings: felix + reader are intended to be 17-18, established relationship, fluff, underaged drinking at a bonfire/party, use of "chink" please read below, borderline violence due to influence under alcohol, suggestive (making out for the first time) important notes: The content of this work is purely fictional and is not intended to endorse or encourage any behavior, especially among minors, that may be deemed inappropriate or unsafe. This story is created solely for entertainment purposes and should be understood as fiction. This work includes the use of a racial slur, which is solely included for the purpose of the story and to reflect certain character dynamics or societal issues. It does not represent my personal views or beliefs, nor does it come from the characters of Felix or the reader. As an Asian author, I approach this topic with sensitivity and awareness. The inclusion of such language is not intended to perpetuate harm but rather to portray the realities faced by marginalized communities. Reader discretion is advised.

series masterlist

previous / next

chapter under the cut! ~11k words

the next morning, you woke up in the guest room you were staying in, the sun beaming through the large windows. the room was bathed in a warm, golden light, making the white walls and light blue accents glow softly. you could hear the faint sound of the ocean waves crashing against the shore in the distance and the air was filled with the fresh scent of morning dew.

you sat up and looked at your phone for the time. it was still early, but the sun was making its presence known. you plopped back down, and after a few moments of basking in the morning light, you decided to get up. slipping on your fluffy slippers, you headed out of your room to freshen up.

a quick rinse of your face, a good teeth brushing, and a refreshing shower later, you felt fully awake. you brushed through your still-damp hair, deciding to leave it to dry naturally. the humid summer air always seemed to coax out the soft waves in your hair. besides, you loved the effortless look the season gave you—tanned skin from those first few weeks of summer, a natural glow that didn’t need much enhancement.

you curled your lashes, swiped on a bit of tinted lip balm, and stepped back to check the mirror. that was all you needed. summer was kind like that: minimal effort, maximum payoff. your skin had that sun-kissed warmth, and your hair had a life of its own, perfectly undone in a way you couldn’t replicate any other time of year. you smiled at yourself, satisfied, and headed out to see where the morning would take you.

once you got back to your room, you rummaged through your suitcase and picked out an outfit: a pair of frayed denim shorts and a flowy floral top with soft pink and yellow hues. the combo was light, breezy, and perfect for the warm day ahead. just as you were putting your necklace on, a knock sounded at the door.

"come in," you called.

the door creaked open to reveal felix, and you had to bite back a laugh. his hair was a complete disaster—wild tufts sticking up every which way, as if he'd had an argument with his pillow all night and lost. he stood there, bleary-eyed, wearing nothing but a pair of red plaid pajama pants slung low on his hips. his chest rose and fell with the kind of lazy rhythm that only came with someone who wasn’t fully awake yet. his squinting eyes barely adjusted to the golden morning light streaming in from your windows.

"look at you!" you teased, unable to resist pulling out your phone and snapping a quick picture of his morning look.

felix groaned dramatically, running a hand through his already messy hair in a failed attempt to tame it. "why are you like this?" he mumbled, shuffling across the room like a grumpy toddler before collapsing face-first onto your bed. "can i sleep here?" he muttered into your pillow, his voice muffled.

you perched on the edge of the bed, brushing a strand of damp hair behind your ear. "what's wrong?"

"a pigeon keeps pecking at my window," he grumbled, dragging your blanket over his bare shoulders like a makeshift cocoon.

"a pigeon?" you repeated, already laughing.

"seagull, same thing," he muttered sleepily, burrowing deeper into the covers like he was trying to merge with your bed. after a moment, he inhaled deeply and let out a content sigh. "and the bed smells like you," he said softly, his hand reaching out blindly until it found yours. he gave it a light squeeze before letting his arm fall limply back onto the mattress.

your chest tightened at the sweetness of it. smiling, you reached out to brush his hair, the strands soft between your fingers despite the chaos. "my mom wanted us to get bagels this morning," he said, his face still buried in your pillow. "they only have the good ones in the morning," he mumbled, the words barely decipherable but completely serious, like he was delivering some sacred bagel truth.

"then we better go," you said, laughing softly.

felix groaned again, this time flipping over onto his back, the blanket now tangled around his waist. he looked up at you through half-lidded eyes, a lazy smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "not yet," he murmured, his voice low and rough with sleep. “come on, lay with me for a minute," he said, patting the empty spot beside him.

"felix," you said, rolling your eyes.

he waved a dismissive hand, his biceps flexing ever so slightly. "my mom will survive. it’s not like they’re gonna run out in the next five minutes." his smirk widened as his eyes flicked over to you. "seriously, come here. the bed’s big enough, and i’m a fantastic pillow. multi-purpose, really."

you crossed your arms, arching a brow. "you’re ridiculous."

"just for a minute,” he stretched his arms over his head, showing just enough of his abs to make it clear he wasn’t playing fair. "the bed’s warm. and you’re cold."

"i’m not cold," you said, shaking your head as you grabbed a pillow and lightly smacked it against his chest. "get moving, felix," you shot back, already heading toward the door before he could say anything else to make your face heat up.

as you neared the dock of his family’s beach, the sight of their boat came into view. it was a sleek, white vessel with blue trim, bobbing gently in the water. felix led the way, his hand still holding yours, guiding you with ease.

“i got you,” he said, stepping onto the boat first, the wood creaking slightly under his weight. he turned back, extending a hand to you. you took it, feeling the strength of his grip as you jumped in, the boat rocking slightly once again.

felix helped you steady yourself, and guided you to a seat beside him as he made his way to the helm. the boat’s interior was polished and tidy, with cushioned seats and a small table in the centre. you sat down, feeling the coolness of the white leather seat beneath you.

he started the engine, the low hum of the motor blending with the sounds of the sea. the boat began to glide smoothly across the water, the wind whipping through your hair. you watched as felix expertly maneuvered the boat, his hands steady on the wheel. the sun reflected off the water, casting shimmering patterns on the boat’s deck.

felix turned to you with a smile, his eyes sparkling with excitement. you couldn’t help but smile back, the wind tugging at your hair and filling your lungs with the salty scent of the sea. his goofy side always comes out when he was driving the boat. he leaned into the turns with exaggerated movements, pretending to be a race car driver.

“hold on tight!” felix shouted, his voice barely audible over the rush of wind and waves. he accelerated, the boat picking up speed and bouncing over the water. you grabbed the edge of your seat, as he sent sprays of water into the air, the droplets sparkling like diamonds in the sunlight.

“having fun?” he called out, but his words were lost in the wind. you furrowed your brow, unable to hear him clearly.

“what?” you shouted back, leaning in to try and catch his words. he repeated himself, but the wind still swallowed his voice. determined to understand, you moved closer, bringing your face just inches from his. felix laughed at your proximity, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

before you could ask again, he couldn't help but take that chance to kiss you, his lips warm and firm against yours. you pulled back with a grin, playfully swatting his arm. “focus!” you said, laughing.

felix chuckled, his eyes never leaving the water as he steadied the boat. “i asked if you're having fun,” he repeated, louder this time.

“yeah!” you replied, your voice just as loud to compete with the wind. felix gave a satisfied nod, his eyes twinkling with a mischievous glint.

without thinking twice, you jumped up from your seat and made your way to the open area in the bow of the boat. felix watched with amusement as you raised your hands in the air and let out a loud "whoo!" that echoed across the ocean.

the wind tousled your hair as you embraced the thrill of the moment, the salty breeze tingling against your skin. as you passed by another boat, its wake created a larger wave, causing you to squeal in surprise. you stumbled slightly as the boat rocked, testing your balance and felix's laughter bubbled up as he saw you teeter for a moment, but you managed to steady yourself, grinning widely despite the near slip.

you then reached into your pocket and pulled out your trusty digital camera. with a mischievous grin, you skipped back to felix and aimed the camera backwards towards both of you.

you pressed a kiss to felix's cheek for the photo and he posed with a big beaming smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners, captured in the frame. as you lowered the camera and looked back at the photo on the small screen, a gasp escaped your lips which felix could easily guess meant you were happy with it.

as you looked up from the camera, the harbour came into view like something out of a postcard. rows of boats rocked gently in the sparkling blue water, their masts swaying in time with the soft waves. the docks were lined with weathered wooden planks, and colourful flags fluttered in the breeze, adding splashes of vibrant reds, yellows, and blues to the scene. small pastel-painted shops and cozy waterfront cafés dotted the shoreline, their signs advertising fresh seafood, ice cream, and souvenirs. overhead, seagulls circled lazily, their sharp cries blending with the hum of conversation and the occasional bark of a distant dog.

felix eased the boat to a slower pace, the engine's hum softening as he steered with practiced precision. his hand rested on the wheel, his posture relaxed yet focused. he glanced over at you, the corners of his lips tugging into a small, confident smile. “alright,” he said, gesturing towards the front of the boat. “you see the anchor up at the bow?”

your eyes followed his motion, spotting the anchor coiled neatly near the edge. “mmhm,” you said with a nod.

“i want you to grab it and take it to the edge. when i say ‘drop it,’ you let it go slow. don’t just chuck it, alright? you want it to catch, not tangle.”

“yes sir,” you said, suppressing a grin at his serious tone.

with careful steps, you moved to the bow, the anchor feeling heavier than you expected as you lifted it. felix slowed the boat further, adjusting the wheel slightly as he glanced over his shoulder to make sure you were ready. “alright, now. lower it nice and steady.”

you crouched down and eased the anchor into the water, feeling its weight pull gently against your grip as the chain unraveled. the boat gave a soft tug as the anchor caught, settling it into place. “great job,” felix said from behind you, his tone warm. “now come back here.”

as you returned to your seat, felix hopped out of the boat with effortless ease, the dock creaking softly under his weight. he bent down and grabbed the rope, securing it to a nearby cleat with a twist and loop. straightening up, he looked back at you and extended a hand. “your turn,” he said, his voice teasing. “come on, before you fall in and i have to fish you out.”

“funny,” you muttered, rolling your eyes and taking his hand. his grip was strong but careful as he helped you step onto the dock, your feet finding the sturdy planks beneath you.

“nice, isn’t it?” he asked, glancing around with an easy grin. the sun caught on the streaks of gold in his hair, and his eyes reflected the deep blue of the water.

“it’s beautiful,” you replied softly, taking in the bustling harbour again. the air was alive with the sound of children laughing and the clinking of glasses from a nearby café patio. a pair of kids ran past you, their flip-flops slapping against the wood, and you couldn’t help but smile at the carefree energy of it all.

felix gave your hand a gentle squeeze, his touch grounding. “come on,” he said, leading you down the dock with a laid-back confidence, his fingers still loosely intertwined with yours. as the two of you walked, the scent of saltwater mingled with the tempting aroma of fresh bread and coffee, making you feel like you’d stepped into a perfect summer day.

as you continued walking along the dock, the bagel shop came into view, a quaint little place with a sea blue and white striped awning that fluttered gently in the breeze. the windows were adorned with hand-painted signs advertising fresh bagels, coffee, and house-made spreads. the aroma of freshly baked bread spilled into the street, mingling with the salty tang of the ocean air.

the inside of the shop was just as charming as the outside. rustic wooden tables were scattered around, their surfaces polished smooth from years of use. a chalkboard menu hung above the counter, listing the day’s offerings in looping white script. the display case beneath it was packed with three types of bagels—everything, blueberry, and cinnamon raisin—alongside trays of pastries glistening with sugar glazes and bowls of spreads.

the place wasn’t busy yet, so you and felix went straight up to the counter. behind it stood a girl about your age, her blonde hair pulled into a neat braid that highlighted her delicate features. when her eyes landed on your boyfriend, they lit up like fireworks, her entire face breaking into a radiant smile.

“oh my gosh, is that felix?” she exclaimed, her voice carrying a bubbly excitement that seemed to fill the shop.

felix offered her a polite smile as he replied, “good day.”

the girl leaned forward slightly, resting her hands on the counter as she beamed at him. “when did you get in?” she asked, her enthusiasm unmistakable.

“we drove down yesterday morning,” felix said, glancing at the menu.

“wow, it’s so good to have you back!” she gushed, her words tumbling out like she couldn’t get them fast enough.

“how’s the store been this summer?” he asked.

“busy, busy, like every year,” she replied. “you know how it gets when the tourists roll in. but it’s been good. we’ve had a lot of regulars come in lately, which is nice.”

“nice,” felix nodded, his fingers tapping absentmindedly on the counter.

she paused for a second, glancing toward the sea. “there’s a new pastry shop that just opened up a couple of streets over,” she said, her expression turning a little more serious. “they’re getting a lot of attention, to be honest. the line’s been out the door every morning, and i’m not sure what’s drawing people in, but they’re definitely pulling a crowd.”

felix raised an eyebrow. “sheesh,” he murmured, shaking his head slightly. “competition getting fierce, huh?”

“yeah,” she said with a half-smile, but there was a glimmer of pride in her eyes. “i mean, it’s good for the neighborhood, right? more foot traffic, more people coming through. but it does make things interesting, that’s for sure.”

felix laughed softly, leaning back a little. “i get that.” he shrugged.

“we try our best to keep the locals happy. you know, there’s gonna be a bonfire tonight a couple hundred metres from your house. i still remember how much you and chris loved them last year.” she smiled at the memory, her tone softening just a bit. “how is he, by the way?”

chris had been felix's family friend since they were toddlers, and you knew him as an incredibly nice guy. felix often told you stories about how he used to think chris and his friends were so much older and cooler. even when felix was still in elementary school and chris had already entered secondary school, he often invited felix to hang out with him. there was always a hint of admiration in felix’s voice when he talked about those days, like chris had been more of an older brother than just a friend.

“he’s doing great,” felix replied with an easy grin, leaning his elbow on the counter. “i don’t think he’s coming this year, though. he’s off to college this fall, so he’s had a lot going on.”

“that’s a shame,” she said, her expression faltering for just a second before brightening again. “but you could bring…” her gaze slid to you, the pause deliberate.

felix didn’t miss a beat. “of course,” he said smoothly, stating your name like it was the most natural thing in the world.

her smile stayed in place, but her eyes flicked over you quickly, assessing. there was something in her look—friendly, but maybe a touch too curious. “great. i hope you both can make it,” she said, her tone as cheerful as ever.

“we’ll see,” felix replied noncommittally, already turning his attention to the bagels. “can we get a dozen, please?”

“sure thing,” she said, tapping the order into the register. “anything else?”

“that’s all,” felix said, pulling out his wallet and handing over a crisp bill.

“coming right up,” she chirped, flashing another bright smile before moving to prepare the order.

as she turned away, felix rested his hand lightly on your back, the warmth of his palm steady and grounding. “let’s go over here,” he murmured, steering you toward a quiet spot by the window.

felix leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a quieter tone, the teasing edge softening just a little. "can i be honest with you?" he asked, his eyes locking with yours in that way that made your pulse quicken. you nodded, the corners of your lips lifting in curiosity, wondering where this was going.

his hand brushed over his face, clearly hesitant. "i… i did not know her name," he confessed, his voice laced with embarrassment.

you blinked, trying to make sense of it. "wait—what?" you laughed, a little incredulous. "are you serious right now?"

"i’m not joking!" felix said with a self-deprecating laugh. "i’ve always just called her 'the bagel girl,'" he explained, his voice tinged with a hint of disbelief, as if it was still a bit ridiculous to him. "and it wasn’t even that i didn’t care enough to remember her name," he added quickly, his face turning a little red. "it’s just... i don’t know if it never came up."

you raised an eyebrow, the wheels turning in your mind. "so, how come she knows your name?" you asked, a little amused. "it must have come up before.?"

felix shifted uncomfortably, his hands slipping into his pockets. "well," he began, looking down for a moment before meeting your gaze, "last year my friend told me she was into me, and i guess she figured it out from, you know, caring so much." he smirked.

"no wonder you were so flirty just then," you teased, leaning in slightly with a playful grin. "you definitely wanted her to eat it up, didn’t you? you dick."

felix immediately turned red, and his eyes widened in offense. "i did not!" he protested, throwing his hands up as if to defend his honor.

you laughed, nudging him. "it’s normal, felix. we’ve all done it before." you said.

felix let out a dramatic sigh, leaning back a little. "believe what you want," he said with a casual shrug, but there was still that teasing glint in his eye. "i was just being felix. nothing more to it."

still, you decided to piss him off further. "i don’t blame you though," you said, crossing your arms. "i mean, if i knew a girl like that liked me, i’d probably do the same."

felix’s face flushed deeper, and he opened his mouth to respond, but the words caught in his throat. his voice dropped, almost uncertain. "i... i don’t..." he stuttered, trying to find the words to explain himself but failing. he wanted to deny it, to say something flippant like he always did, but something felt different now. he wanted to tell you that you were the only girl he found strikingly beautiful, that no one else had made him feel the way you did. but something inside him held back, just like it had last night.

“you know,” he started, his voice more serious now, “i’m not saying this to brag or anything…” he glanced at you, making sure you were listening. “but this is what it was like last year,” he said, a small sigh escaping his lips. “it’s like... after i got abs, everyone suddenly noticed me.”

you raised an eyebrow, your tone light but curious. “interesting,” you said.

"before, it was chris and felix. like i was always following him around," he continued, his voice softer now, almost as if he were thinking out loud. "he was always the older one, the one everyone knew first. and then, last year, it was like people just realized i was there. like i had always been welcomed, but suddenly i wasn’t just chris’s little buddy anymore. people started looking at me differently. it was... strange.”

he shrugged, a small, almost self-deprecating smile playing at the corners of his lips, but there was a hint of uncertainty behind his words. "i guess that’s just how things go. i didn't really know how to handle it at first. it felt kind of weird, like i didn't belong in the spotlight, you know?"

the silence between you stretched for a moment as you processed his words. you could see the vulnerability in his eyes, the hesitation that lingered around his smile. it was rare for him to open up like this, and it felt like he was finally letting you see a side of him that wasn’t just the teasing felix you usually saw.

"i get that," you said, in an attempt to comfort him. "you don’t want to feel like you’re getting noticed because you’ve grown or look better. it’s hard when everyone suddenly sees you differently." you placed a hand gently on his arm, offering him a comforting squeeze. "but you’re more than that. you always have been. and people should notice you for who you are, not just how you look."

felix looked down at the ground for a moment, then met your gaze, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "yeah," he murmured, his voice soft. "i guess that’s why you’re special." he let out a quiet chuckle, his eyes twinkling as he crinkled his nose. "you first started liking me—back in physics, right? i mean, come on, keep in mind i had a full shirt on." he grinned, his tone teasing but affectionate. “that’s gotta mean something." he added the last part with a playful smirk.

"i think it was your charm and persuasion," you said with a teasing smile. "you always tricked me into thinking you knew what you were talking about, when you had no idea."

felix raised an eyebrow, a grin creeping back onto his face. "you're right," he admitted with a dramatic sigh. "physics was definitely not my strong suit."

you laughed, nodding knowingly. "whenever i’d ask you for help, you’d give these long-winded answers and sound so confident, but i could always tell you were just making it up."

felix groaned, dropping his head back dramatically. "stop," he whined, looking up at you with an exaggerated pout. "i just really liked you, okay?"

you smiled softly, nodding as you met his gaze. "i did too," you admitted, your voice quiet but sincere. "you were always so...felix. and even when you didn’t have all the answers, you somehow made everything feel like it was gonna be okay." the sincerity in your voice made his heart flutter. "but i should say, though, the summer crowd does get a view," you teased.

felix's breath hitched as your fingers toyed with the bottom hem of his shirt, the soft fabric slipping between your fingertips. his usual cocky confidence was slipping, and for a moment, you could see the rawness in his expression. he desperately wanted to stay calm but you had him completely off balance. his eyes darted between your hand and your face, but the words didn't come easily. he was so close now, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths, like he was trying to contain the tension building between you.

you looked up at him, your eyes locking. in that moment, there was no pretending, no distractions. felix’s mind was clearly racing—she’s killing me—you could practically hear it. his gaze lingered on your lips, the smallest hesitation before his eyes met yours again.

“so,” he began, his voice hushed, almost strained. “about that bonfire…”

he trailed off, his words barely more than a whisper, and you could tell he was using it as a distraction. but it didn’t work. felix leaned in just a fraction closer, his body drawn to you like a magnet, but stopping him right before he closed the distance.

“i’m up for it unless you have anything else planned,” you said, your voice light but with an edge. your fingers still brushed over the collar of his shirt, teasing, the touch barely there but enough to keep him riled up. “i’ll go wherever you go,” you murmured. you saw the way his pupils dilated, the shift in his expression that told you everything you needed to know. he was losing the battle.

“oh yeah?” felix whispered, his voice low and husky now. he leaned in slightly, just close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him. he was dangerously close now, his lips just centimeters from yours.

but just as your eyes fluttered closed, just as you both inched forward—bam—the sound of a cheerful voice broke the spell, slicing through the electric air between you two.

“here you go!” the bagel girl’s voice rang out, sweet and carefree, as she reappeared with your order in hand. "a dozen, just as you ordered!"

felix froze, his eyes snapping open, and breaking whatever spell you put him under just now. he turned to the bagel girl with a grateful smile, though his expression was a little less natural now. "thanks a lot," he said, the words sounding a little rushed. "we’ll see you tonight."

you stood there for a moment, fighting the smirk that wanted to creep onto your face. felix rubbed the back of his neck, still visibly affected, and shot you a quick, sheepish glance.

day 2 - 22:00

"one... two... three..." you muttered, shifting your weight as you adjusted your angle with each count. you had to lean back just enough to get a better view of the bird's nest on the rooftop, but the night sky above made everything appear blurry and shadowed. the darkness seemed to swallow up the delicate nest, making it harder to see than you'd expected. "they're all here!" you exclaimed with a sigh of relief, your heart settling as you spotted the large eggs nestled safely inside the woven twigs. "now, please put me down."

felix let out a soft chuckle, the sound warm and familiar. he crouched down slightly, slowly lowering you until your feet touched the ground. "my parents should be done packing and ready to leave by now," he said, brushing his hands off and standing up straight with a satisfied stretch.

"let's go say goodbye," you replied, taking his hand in yours. the cool night air had a quiet stillness, and the weight of the moment seemed to settle over you as you gently pulled him toward the house, your fingers laced tightly with his.

inside, the house was bustling in a quiet sort of way. the living room was dotted with two carefully packed suitcases, bags filled with travel essentials, and little signs of the last-minute preparations that always seemed to rush by. felix's mom stood by the couch, smoothing out a stack of clothing, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. she looked up as you entered, her face lighting up with a smile that was soft and welcoming. "there you two are! did you have a good time outside?" she asked, her voice gentle as always.

"yeah, we did," felix replied with a grin, giving your hand a soft squeeze. "all the baby birds are accounted for."

"that's wonderful," his mom said, her eyes sparkling with that ever-present twinkle of fondness. "you know, we’re getting a lot of crows this season. they’ve been very active around here."

felix's dad, who had been checking something on his phone, looked up and raised an eyebrow. "they might go after those gull eggs you two are so interested in," he warned with a playful glint in his eyes. "watch out for them, they like to come out in the rain."

felix’s mom smiled, shaking her head as she gave him a small push. "we should stop scaring them, dear," she said with a soft laugh. "we have a flight to catch."

you smiled warmly at them both, feeling the pang of saying goodbye. "have a fantastic trip!" you said, your voice filled with genuine warmth.

felix’s mom pulled you into a tight, affectionate hug, the kind that felt like home. "thank you," she said softly, kissing the top of your head before pulling back. "take care of each other while we're gone.” she then looked at her son and pulled him into a hug with felix’s dad.

"thanks for trusting me," felix said.

his mom responded first, her voice warm and reassuring as she gave him a tight squeeze. "we love you," she said.

felix’s dad clapped him on the back firmly. he leaned in, his voice low and meant only for his son. “she’s great, felix,” he said. “i’m proud of you.”

you didn’t catch the words, choosing to hang back near the door, giving them their moment. felix didn’t respond right away, but you caught the soft smile that crept onto his face, the way his eyes seemed to brighten just slightly as he held the hug a little longer. "i know," he murmured back, his voice quiet but sure.

finally, they pulled apart. felix’s dad adjusted his coat, clearing his throat as if to steady himself. “the house is stocked up,” he said in a firmer voice, slipping back into his practical role. “but make sure to buy whatever you need from the market.”

“thank you, dad,” felix replied, his smile now playful and easy again. “we’ll be fine.”

with one last round of hugs and warm smiles, his parents picked up their luggage and headed toward the door. you and felix followed, standing in the entryway as they wheeled their suitcases down the front steps. the yellow taxi idled at the curb, its engine humming softly in the night. his parents exchanged a few final words before the driver helped them load their bags into the trunk.

you and felix stayed on the porch as the taxi pulled away, its red tail lights glowing faintly against the darkened road. the engine hummed louder as it sped up, then grew quieter, the car shrinking into the distance until it disappeared around the corner. the stillness it left behind felt almost too big, wrapping around the two of you in the silence of the night.

felix exhaled, a sound that was part sigh, part laugh, and stuffed his hands into his pockets. he glanced at you, his expression unreadable for a moment, before a small, genuine smile curved his lips. "well," he said, his voice light, though you could still hear the lingering weight of the goodbye, "guess it’s just us now."

you didn’t answer, your eyes still fixed on the spot where the taxi had disappeared. the quiet around you felt heavy, like the world had gone still and was waiting for something to happen. your chest felt tight, your mind replaying the moment felix’s dad had mentioned the crows. you knew it had been a harmless comment, maybe even a joke, but the thought of the birds... it clung to you.

felix tilted his head slightly, his brow furrowing as he studied your face. “you okay?” he asked softly, breaking the silence. he reached out, his hand warm and steady as it rested lightly on yours.

you blinked, realizing you hadn’t moved, your fingers stiff and cold in his. “me? yeah,” you said, your voice a little too quick, a little too high. “um… i’m just a little shaken up.”

felix didn’t pull back, his hand staying where it was, grounding you. “by what?” he asked, his voice calm and patient, like he had all the time in the world for your answer.

you hesitated, feeling a little ridiculous now that you had to say it out loud. “the crows,” you admitted finally, your words barely above a whisper.

felix blinked in surprise before his lips quirked into a crooked smile. “yeah, crows. guess we’ll just have to keep an eye out for them, huh?”

“yeah,” you said quietly, your lips twitching into a faint smile. the tension in your shoulders eased slightly, and you glanced at him, grateful for his calm presence. “should we go?”

“bagel girl said it’s walking distance from here. i’ve got a pretty good idea where it is,” he replied, as he stepped toward the edge of the porch.

you followed him, the soft creak of the old wooden boards beneath your feet breaking the quiet of the night. the porch light flickered slightly, casting a warm but uneven glow over the small front yard. felix hopped down the steps first, his sneakers crunching softly against the gravel path that led to the street. then you stepped off the porch, your sandals scuffing against the gravel as you caught up to felix.

as you walked, the tranquil stillness of the evening began to shift. at first, it was barely noticeable—a faint vibration beneath your feet that made you pause for a moment, thinking it might just be the rhythm of your own footsteps. but then, as you continued, the sound grew louder, more distinct. the soft thudding transformed into a steady, rhythmic beat, resonating in your chest like the pulse of something alive.

“do you hear that?” you asked, squeezing felix’s hand lightly as you looked up at him.

he nodded, his eyes glinting with curiosity, and a grin spread across his face. “yeah. sounds like we’re close.”

the further you walked, the more the sound surrounded you, enveloping the quiet of the night. the bass grew stronger, its deep thrum underscored by the hum of voices and the occasional burst of laughter. the noise wasn’t chaotic; it was inviting, like a lure calling you forward.

turning a corner, the source of the sound finally came into view. a large bonfire burned brightly in the center of a clearing, its golden flames licking up toward the dark sky. the fire cast flickering shadows over the faces of the crowd gathered around it, making their features seem almost otherworldly in the dancing light. warmth radiated outward, pushing back the coolness of the night and wrapping around you like an embrace.

the scent of burning wood filled the air, mingling with the briny tang of the sea breeze that drifted in from somewhere close by. waves crashed faintly in the distance, their rhythm syncing with the beat of the music. strings of fairy lights were strung haphazardly between trees, their soft glow adding a touch of magic to the scene. laughter rippled through the group as someone poked at the fire with a long stick, sending sparks spiraling upward like tiny, golden fireworks.

as you approached, your attention was drawn to a guy frantically wrestling with a beer keg near the edge of the crowd. he was conventionally attractive, you would say. dirty blonde with blue eyes, tall, and tan, definitely not your type but he could 100% be a heartthrob back at school in sydney. the poor guy was losing a battle against the tap, beer squirting out in all directions as his hands slipped against the slick surface. his muttering, a mix of frustration and colorful language, carried over the music. every few seconds, he’d glance around like he was hoping someone—anyone—would step in to help.

you couldn’t help it—you turned to felix, stifling a laugh behind your hand. the sight was just too funny. “do you see that?”

felix followed your gaze and grinned, shaking his head. “that’s griffin sanders. he’s a total dumbass,” he said with a chuckle, his voice full of fond exasperation, like this wasn’t even the first time he’d witnessed something like this.

you laughed, the sound light as you both made your way deeper into the crowd. the bonfire was the heart of the gathering, its flames throwing warm, golden light over everything and everyone. the air was thick with the mingling scents of wood smoke, spilled beer, and salty sea air. laughter and music filled the space, the bassline vibrating faintly under your feet.

as you moved through the group, heads turned. felix, it seemed, was a familiar face. a few guys nodded at him in greeting, calling out quick, friendly remarks as you passed. but it was the way some of the girls reacted that caught your attention. their expressions lit up when they spotted him—bright eyes, wide smiles—but the moment they noticed you walking beside him, their enthusiasm dimmed. smiles faltered, and they glanced away quickly, feigning disinterest as if they hoped you hadn’t seen. you had seen, though, and you didn’t quite know how to feel about it.

felix didn’t seem to notice—or if he did, he didn’t let on. he navigated the crowd with ease, leading you toward a quieter spot near the bonfire. the logs arranged in a loose circle around the flames were worn smooth from use, and you both found a place to sit. the fire crackled, its warmth wrapping around you in gentle waves. flames leapt and twisted, their vibrant hues of orange and red mesmerizing against the backdrop of the dark sky.

the same guy who was fighting with the keg strolled up. felix looked up, his posture shifting slightly as recognition flickered across his face.

“it’s been a while, felix,” the guy said, his voice loud enough to cut through the surrounding noise. “looks like you brought a girl from sydney?”

felix smirked, gesturing toward you. “yeah, this is my girlfriend.”

“nice to meet you,” the guy said, turning his attention to you with a wink. “you can call me griff. so, how are you liking the beach, love?”

“it’s great,” you said, shifting slightly on the log. you glanced at felix for a moment before returning your attention to griff. “really beautiful. the kind of place that makes you forget about time, you know?”

griff laughed, the sound loud and boisterous. “spoken like someone who’s already been caught up in its charm. it’s what this place does to people. one minute you’re here for a weekend, and the next, you’re house-hunting.”

felix chuckled softly, “thanks for the sales pitch.”

griff waved a dismissive hand, his grin unwavering. “give it time, mate. she’s a keeper—you can tell.” before you could respond, he thrust a red plastic cup full of beer against felix’s chest. “here, i thought you might appreciate this.”

felix hesitated, his hand hovering near the cup but not taking it. “i, um…”

“come on, man. you used to drink all the time at these things,” griffin said, his tone a mix of coaxing and teasing. “no need to act all goodie in front of your dollface.”

you glanced at felix, your eyebrows drawing together. you’d never known him to drink—not once. your confusion must have shown on your face because felix glanced at you, his expression softening as if he could read the questions in your eyes.

“i’m actually good, thanks, griff,” felix said, his voice firm but polite. he shifted slightly on the log, leaning forward as if to place the cup back in griff’s hands.

“come on, felix. just one,” griffin persisted, waving off the refusal like it was nothing. “it’s only, like, two percent.”

felix sighed, a quiet exhale of resignation. you could tell he didn’t want to cause a scene. “you know what? i’ll take it for now,” he said, reluctantly taking the cup.

“that’s my boy,” griffin said, grinning as he clapped felix on the arm, the motion so aggressive it made felix wince slightly. he smiled awkwardly, clearly ready for this to end. but griff’s attention shifted to you next.

“and i’m definitely getting one for you,” griffin said, his grin widening. before you could protest, he was already jogging back toward the keg, weaving through the crowd with agility. you exchanged a look with felix, who rolled his eyes slightly, his lips curving into a lopsided smile.

within moments, griff was back, holding a freshly poured cup of beer. he placed it at your feet with a flourish, his grin as wide as ever. before you could say a word, a girl called his name—a sharp shout that made him turn. “duty calls,” he said, raising his hand in a quick goodbye. “don’t be strangers, yeah?”

both your eyes followed him as he disappeared into the crowd. felix let out a breath and glanced at you, a faint crease forming between his brows. his lips pressed into a sheepish half-smile, like he was trying to downplay his discomfort. “i’ve only ever drank like…a few times. last year. he’s making a bigger deal out of this than it needs to be.”

you shook your head, offering a small, reassuring smile. “no, no, it’s fine. really. i don’t mind.” then, your gaze dropped to the red cup, sitting upright in the sand like a lonely monument to peer pressure. “it’s just… what do i do with this?” you added, nudging it lightly with your shoe.

felix followed your gaze, his shoulders relaxing a little. “like he said, it’s only 2 percent,” he said. then, before you could reply, he lifted the cup in his hand up to his mouth and downed all of it in one smooth motion.

you raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at your lips. “okay, mister. i guess you’re having mine too.” without waiting for a response, you picked up your untouched cup and handed it to him.

felix chuckled, his laughter low and rich, shaking his head as he took it from you. “if you insist,” he said, his tone light, teasing. he lifted your cup to his lips and began to drink again. the liquid sloshed slightly against the rim as he tilted his head back, the firelight cast golden shadows across his face, catching the faint crease between his brows and the sharp angles of his jaw.

you shouldn’t be finding him this hot right now, but you couldn’t help it. it was the way his eyebrows furrowed in concentration, like he was making serious business with the beer. the way his adam’s apple bobbed up and down each time he swallowed. he finished with a final gulp, lowering the cup and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand in one smooth motion.

completely unaware that you’d been watching him, he set the cup down in the sand and glanced at you. when he noticed you staring, he paused, his head tilting slightly. “what?” he asked, his voice breaking the quiet.

you blinked, startled out of your thoughts. “what?” you echoed.

his brows furrowed again, but this time in confusion, his gaze searching your face. “you’re looking at me like i have two heads or something.”

you blinked at him, a playful glint in your eye as you tilted your head. “is that a problem?” you asked, your tone light but teasing.

felix’s lips quirked into a smirk, his eyes narrowing slightly in that mischievous way that always made your heart race. “no,” he said, his voice low and smooth. “i like it.”

the way he looked at you then, his gaze lingering on your lips, sent a flutter through your chest. his expression softened just a touch, his smirk fading into something more vulnerable. the space between you seemed to shrink, the crackle of the fire fading into the background as the world blurred into just him.

you felt a magnetic pull, as though some invisible thread was drawing you closer to him. slowly, you leaned in, your eyes fluttering shut as your heart thudded loudly in your chest. felix mirrored your movement, his breath warm against your skin as he closed the gap.

just as your lips were about to meet, a loud, sharp explosion rang out—a loud burst of sound coming from the sky so sudden it made you jump. your eyes snapped open, and you turned your head quickly toward the source, your pulse racing.

before you could process what had happened, felix’s hand slid gently to your chin, his touch warm and firm as he guided your face back toward him. “don’t worry about that,” he murmured, his voice husky and low. his gaze locked onto yours, his expression intense and unyielding. “we’ve had enough interruptions today, don’t you think?”

and then, without hesitation, he kissed you.

the force of it sent a jolt through your body, his lips pressing against yours with a fervent hunger that left no room for doubt. it wasn’t soft like usual—it was demanding, like he’d been holding himself back all night and had finally given in. his hand remained on your chin, tilting your face toward him as he deepened the kiss, his other hand sliding to the back of your hand, pining it down to the worn down log.

your mind swirled, the rest of the world dissolving in the heat of his touch. his lips moved against yours with a rhythm that was both urgent and deliberate, his need for you evident in every motion.

his kiss deepened, parting your lips, and his tongue slid in, tasting of the faint, tangy bitterness of the beer he’d just consumed. the flavor mingled with the heat of his mouth, intoxicating in a way that had nothing to do with the drink. his hands found your back, firm and steady, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. the pressure of his lips against yours was urgent, almost desperate, as if he couldn’t get enough of you, and the sensation sent a shiver racing down your spine.

you kissed him back with equal fervor, your fingers threading through the soft strands of his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan softly against your mouth. the sound was low and raw, vibrating between you. your body molded into his, heat radiating from him in waves that seemed to melt away the cool night air.

another loud explosion cracked through the sky, the sound reverberating in your chest and pulling you from the haze of the kiss. reluctantly, you broke apart, your breaths coming in quick, shallow bursts. felix’s lips lingered on yours for a fraction of a second longer, like he wasn’t quite ready to let go. his eyes fluttered open, dark and heavy with desire, as you both turned your heads toward the sky.

above, a firework burst in a brilliant cascade of color, its reds and golds spreading out like veins of light against the dark canvas of the night. the shimmering display reflected faintly in felix’s eyes, adding to the glow that already seemed to emanate from him.

but as you stared in awe, felix leaned back slightly, his gaze fixed not on the fireworks but on you. “see?” he murmured. “it’s not that interesting.”

you turned your gaze back to him, your chest still heaving slightly from the kiss, and swallowed hard, the reality of what just happened settling over you. your lips tingled from the intensity, and the heat radiating from your cheeks was enough to rival the fireworks still bursting above you.

you blinked, trying to process it all—the way his lips had moved against yours, the way your hands had seemed to know exactly where to go, threading through his hair like you’d done it a thousand times before. but you hadn’t. this was the first time. a full-on make out.

how did you even know how to do that? where had that come from? your mind raced with questions, all of them tumbling over each other in a chaotic jumble. had it been good for him, too? no, scratch that—it had to have been good. you’d felt the way his body responded to yours, the way his lips had been so urgent, so eager, like he was drinking you in.

you glanced at him again, his face now lit softly by the remnants of the fireworks. his lips were still slightly swollen, a faint flush coloring his cheeks. his gaze met yours, warm and steady, with a hint of something unspoken simmering beneath the surface.

“are you okay?” he asked softly, his voice carrying that raspy edge you hadn’t noticed before tonight. it was a sound that made your stomach flip all over again.

you nodded, but your mind betrayed you, still looping on the same thought: how did i just do that?

“i—” you started, but your voice cracked, and you pressed your lips together, suddenly shy. you looked down, realizing your hands were still resting against his chest. you could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips, fast but strong, and that tiny reassurance made you brave enough to speak again. “it happened so fast…i don’t know how—.” you breath hitched as you couldn’t speak anymore.

he chuckled, low and warm, and the sound sent a pleasant hum through your chest. “you don’t have to know,” he said, his voice dropping just enough to make your heart stutter. “you just have to feel.”

you looked at him, your breath hitching as his words settled over you. he wasn’t wrong. in that moment, nothing had been overthought or planned—it had just happened. natural. instinctive. perfect.

and somehow, that made it even better.

felix tilted his head toward you, furrowing his eyebrows. “it’s getting hot by this fire, don’t you think?” he asked.

you blinked, caught off guard. “i mean… yeah, it is pretty warm,” you replied, fanning yourself awkwardly—though you weren’t entirely sure it was just the fire causing him to get so red.

felix huffed a breath and grabbed the bottom hem of his shirt, lifting it to wipe his forehead. the casual movement exposed a sliver of his toned stomach, and your eyes immediately fell towards it, your heart skipping a beat. goodness gracious.

“i might need another beer to cool off,” he said, his words slightly slurred as he tossed the shirt back down.

you nodded quickly, not trusting yourself to speak. your gaze flickered back to him, trying to act normal—whatever that meant in this situation.

felix stood up, swaying slightly as he did. “come with me,” he said.

you stood up, and you followed him silently, wondering where this was going.

felix seemed a little unsteady on his feet, but his confidence never wavered. his steps were purposeful—until they weren’t. you saw it happen in slow motion.

“felix—” you started, noticing a guy standing in his path, holding a drink precariously close to his chest, but it was too late. before you could get the rest of your warning out, felix collided straight into him, sending the drink splashing down the front of the guy’s shirt.

“dude!” the guy exclaimed, holding his arms out in disbelief as the liquid soaked through his clothes.

felix blinked, then burst into laughter, the sound bright and unfiltered. “sorry, that’s—” he paused to catch his breath, still laughing. “that’s my bad, man.”

you cringed, stepping forward quickly. “why are you laughing? that’s not funny.” you said, with a serious tone. “so sorry by the way” you apologized to the guy.

but as you looked at felix, it hit you. this wasn’t felix—not the felix you knew, anyway. normally, he’d be mortified, apologizing profusely and trying to fix the situation. but right now, his laughter was carefree, almost careless. he was completely intoxicated. already?

you sighed, glancing at felix as he leaned heavily against you. maybe his tolerance is just really shitty, you thought, trying to rationalize how he’d gotten to this point so quickly. just as you were about to scold him again, you heard an all-too-familiar voice cutting through.

“how’s he holding up?” griffin’s voice was laced with amusement as he walked up to you both, his grin wide as he took in the scene. when his gaze landed on felix, his lips twitched, clearly trying to suppress a laugh.

felix attempted to sit up straighter, his eyes slightly unfocused but brimming with defiance. “i’m fine, griff,” he insisted, his voice slow and deliberate, as though he were concentrating hard on getting the words out. “100%. fine.”

you raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms as you watched felix’s obvious struggle to look composed. his usually smooth speech was stilted, his enunciation overly precise like he thought it would mask his tipsy state. it was clear he was trying to look tougher in front of the guy.

“really? because you don’t look fine,” you muttered under your breath, shaking your head. turning to griffin, you added, “he’s only had two drinks. i don’t understand why he’s like this already.”

griffin let out a low chuckle, glancing at felix before leaning slightly closer to you. “well,” he said with a smirk, “you should’ve known—these chinks can’t handle anything.”

you blinked, not fully processing griffin’s words at first. but as the weight of what he’d said sank in, your stomach twisted. you turned to him, your voice steady but laced with disbelief. “i’m sorry, what did you just call him?”

felix let out an unexpected laugh, the sound catching you completely off guard. it wasn’t his usual warm chuckle—it was light, careless, and entirely out of place. your stomach twisted, a mix of disbelief and anger bubbling up inside you.

griffin shifted uncomfortably but quickly masked it with a grin. “hey, calm down. i didn’t mean anything by it. you see, even your boy is laughing”

the casual dismissal from both of them made your blood boil. your feelings toward griffin shifted in an instant. just hours ago, he had seemed harmless, even likable. but now? how could he so casually toss around that word, as if it were nothing?

you took a step closer, your eyes blazing with anger. “no,” you said, your voice low but trembling with fury. “what the hell did you just say?”

griffin raised his hands, feigning innocence. “okay, calm down, dollface. i’m not blaming it all on his tolerance, alright? you know the beer couldn’t have been two percent. why the hell would it be here if it was? honestly, i’m surprised he didn’t notice when he drank it.”

felix, still swaying slightly but clearly trying to sound coherent, muttered, “it’s hard to tell, griffin. it didn’t taste that different…”

you turned to him sharply, your frustration boiling over. “you can shut up,” you snapped, the words leaving your mouth before you could stop them. your voice was harsher than you intended, but you were too angry to care.

felix blinked at you, startled, and he opened his mouth as if to say something, then seemed to think better of it, instead averting his gaze to the ground.

you turned back to griffin, your eyes narrowing. “you knew it wasn’t light, and you pressured him to drink,” you snapped, your voice sharp with anger and protectiveness.

griffin shrugged, his indifference infuriating. “he would’ve done it regardless of how strong it was. looks like, you don’t know him enough. sydney’s not like the beach, dollface. this is just a bit of fun. no harm done.” he said, his tone dismissive. he even had the audacity to attempt a smile, though it fell flat against your glare.

“fun?” you repeated, your voice rising. “you call this fun?” your chest tightened with rage, your words spilling out before you could stop them. “i’ve only met you tonight, griffin, and i already know you’re a coward. it’s easy to stand there, acting like nothing matters, tossing around slurs and getting people drunk without their consent. but you know what? that’s not fun. that’s pathetic. and it says a hell of a lot more about you than it does about felix.”

griffin's face twisted into a sneer. "watch it," he warned.

"you watch it," you retorted, stepping closer.

the fire crackled beside you, casting long, flickering shadows over griffin's face. his eyes glinted with anger, the light reflecting off his sneer. the crowd around continued to chatter, seemingly completely unaware of the tension between you and griffin, besides a few. the distant sound of waves crashing against the shore seemed louder in the stillness, a stark contrast to the charged atmosphere.

griffin’s sneer deepened, and in a swift motion, he raised a hand as if to make a point—or worse. instinctively, you flinched, squinting your eyes as your body braced for any impact. before anything could happen, a hand clamped down on griffin’s shoulder from behind.

"dude, stop it, you're so drunk!" his friend said, his voice firm, his grip tight on griffin's arm.

“i was just trying to scare her, relax,” griffin slurred, his tone defensive but far from apologetic.

felix stood up quickly, without stumbling, and grabbed griffin by the collar. his movements were now swift, fueled by an adrenaline rush, contrasting to his drowsiness. "don't touch her!" he yelled, his voice shaking with rage. the firelight cast sharp shadows across his face, highlighting the intensity in his eyes.

griffin struggled against felix's hold, his face contorted with anger and defiance. "get your hands off of me!" he snarled, his voice slurred yet still threatening.

felix gritted his teeth, pulling griffin closer, their faces inches apart. you could see the raw emotion in felix's eyes, a mix of fury and protectiveness. griffin's friends quickly stepped in, pulling the two apart. their expressions were a mix of concern and urgency, trying to defuse the situation before it escalated further. felix's chest heaved with anger, his eyes blazing with a fiery intensity that was hard to ignore.

“come on, felix. you look insane right now,” you said, your tone softer, but desperate. his eyes flicked toward you, the fury in them softening just slightly.

his breath was uneven, chest rising and falling rapidly, but he nodded, the tension in his jaw easing ever so slightly. without saying a word, you reached out, pulling him gently away from the crowd. you didn’t look back at griffin—couldn’t bring yourself to—but you heard his voice ring out from behind you, bitter and full of venom.

“yeah, walk away!” griffin shouted, his words laced with resentment. “chinks never belonged here anyway!”

a chill ran through you at his words, and you froze. your hands clenched into fists, but you didn’t turn around. some of the people around the bonfire had gone eerily silent at his words, the air thick with discomfort and tension. you imagined the faces of everyone who could hear it, all the people who could have been affected—felix, some of the teenagers at the bonfire, and even chris if he was here.

the fact that griffin, of all people, would throw out such a loaded term without a second thought was sickening. the thought of how casually he had tossed it out, with no respect or understanding for its weight, made your stomach turn.

you felt felix beside you, his hand on your back, his touch warm despite the storm of emotions swirling inside you. you finally took a deep breath, turning your head only slightly to look at him, the frustration and anger still simmering within you. he was still angry, his face tight, but there was a softness in his eyes that made you sigh in relief.

“we need to get out of here,” you muttered, your voice a little shaky from everything that had just happened.

felix's body remained tense as you continued to guide him away, his breathing gradually evening out. the sounds of laughter and music from the bonfire seemed distant and muted in comparison to the pounding of your heart.

the path away from the bonfire was dimly lit, the shadows of the trees casting eerie shapes on the ground. as you walked, the cool night air began to soothe your heated emotions.

you glanced over at felix, his jaw tight, his gaze fixed forward. he looked lost in thought, but there was something fragile about the way he walked, his posture not quite as solid as usual. he wasn’t the carefree, laughing felix you knew, and that made your chest ache.

just as you were about to open your mouth to say something, anything, you heard a voice call out behind you.

"hey, guys!"

you both turned, startled, to see the bagel girl from this morning hurrying toward you. her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, and she was wearing the same hoodie from earlier. you hadn’t even seen her at the bonfire, but now here she was, catching up to you with a concerned look on her face.

"are you two okay?" she asked, her voice soft but filled with genuine worry.

you blinked, the sudden intrusion snapping you out of the fog of anger and confusion. you hadn’t expected anyone to notice, let alone come looking for you.

felix stood a little straighter, but his expression was guarded, his eyes scanning her for a moment. “yeah,” he said slowly, though his voice lacked conviction. "we’re fine. just... needed to get away for a bit."

the girl shook her head, clearly still upset. “i’ve known griffin since grade 3,” she said, her voice growing more heated, “and he’s always been a jerk. i can’t believe he almost hit you, honey.” she grabbed your hands, her grip warm and reassuring. "are you sure you're okay?" she asked, her gaze searching yours for any sign of discomfort. you felt her concern washing over you, and something in your chest softened.

“yeah,” you said with a smile, though it was small, still shaken from the tension of the past few minutes. “i’m fine. just... everything happened so fast.”

she cooed softly, her eyes full of sympathy as she pulled you into a warm hug. "aw, sweetie. i’m so glad you’re okay. please, if you need anything, talk to me, alright? you know where i’ll be."

the embrace felt so genuine, and in that moment, you couldn’t help but feel a rush of affection for her. you smiled into her shoulder, feeling comforted by her warmth. “thank you, i love you.”

she pulled back just enough to look at you, her lips curling into a soft smile. "love you too," she said. “okay, good night. i’m gonna go talk to that dick. he’s gonna hear it from me.”

she gave you one last reassuring smile before walking off, her figure disappearing into the darkness as she made her way toward griffin. felix’s gaze lingered on her for a moment, but then he looked back at you, his face unreadable.

you both started walking again, the silence hanging heavy between you. finally, the weight of it was too much, and you couldn’t hold back any longer. “i still can’t believe that happened,” you muttered, your voice thick with frustration. “griffin is such a dick. i can’t believe he said that stuff. and lying to you about the beer? how can someone be so reckless and insensitive?”

you exhaled sharply, your mind spinning as the words poured out. “and being racist? seriously, who talks like that? he’s got no respect for anyone, no decency.” you shook your head, the anger still simmering beneath the surface.

as you looked over at felix, you realized he wasn’t paying attention. his gaze was distant, his expression almost blank, and it felt like you were talking to the air.

you stopped walking for a moment, taking a deep breath and forcing the frustration to settle in your chest. “nevermind,” you muttered, your voice quiet now. you fell into a heavy silence, your steps slow as you resumed walking beside him.

the only sounds were the crunch of your footsteps on the pavement and the distant murmur of the bonfire party, which felt so far away now. you didn’t know what was going on in felix’s head, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t quite right.

“felix?” you asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper as you stopped and stood in front of him. his eyes, glossy and unfocused, met yours, and you felt an unexpected pang of concern.

he wiped at his eyes with a trembling hand, but it only made the tears smear across his cheeks. “i think i’m drunk,” he said, his voice quivering, the weight of his emotions slipping through the cracks of his carefully built exterior.

you tried to keep the situation light, offering a small smile as you nodded. “that’s highly possible,” you agreed gently, but the smile didn’t quite reach your eyes as you studied him. “but what’s wrong?”

felix took a shaky breath, his shoulders hunching slightly as if the weight of his own emotions was almost too much to bear. "chris always tells me i cry after i drink,” he said, his voice barely a whisper now, like it was something he hadn’t allowed himself to admit until just this moment.

"come here," you murmured, your voice gentle but firm, as you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him. his body was still trembling, and you could feel the vulnerability radiating from him in waves. it was such a contrast to the usual felix, the one who always seemed to hold everything together.

he hesitated for a moment, then spoke in a quiet, shaky voice, “is anyone watching?”

you pulled him in a little tighter, your fingers brushing over his back, trying to offer him some sense of comfort. “no one’s watching, felix,” you said softly, giving him a reassuring squeeze. it wasn’t that you were lying—it was the truth. the streets were empty, and the bonfire party felt miles away, a distant memory now.

you knew him better than anyone. you’d seen him cry before, and you knew how soft his heart was. it made sense that this was how his body was reacting to the alcohol.

“y/n…” his voice wavered, the words slipping out in a slow, slurred confession. “i love you. to the ends of this earth. i’m gonna marry you one day.”

you froze for a split second and you could tell from the way his words stumbled that this wasn’t a moment of clarity—it was the liquor talking.

you pulled back slightly, looking up at him. “not right now, felix.”

“no please,” he quivered, almost in a whine.

"we can talk about this tomorrow, okay?" you stopped and stood in front of him, putting your hands on his chest.

he nodded, his eyes earnest. "promise?" his fingers lightly touching your waist.

"i promise,"

78 notes · View notes

sleepynoons · 4 months ago

Text

Made for You

You're a patisserie, and now, also the proud co-owner of your own restaurant, Zhuming Dessert Bar. You're new to this whole CEO thing, and you're hoping to seek some support from those around you – like the head chef next door!

patisserie!f!reader x chef!jiaoqiu, modern!au, sfw

word count: ~9,100

cw: explicit language, use of poisons, a lil slow burn lol

notes: i haven't played through the full story quest, so sorry if jiaoqiu is slightly ooc lol but he is blind and can only eat spicy foods yeet otherwise, wanted to write smth fluffy for this tragic, tragic man. and i also wanted to geek out about delicious east asian food yep.

thank you so much to @lychniis for beta-reading and for helping immensely with the pacing of this piece! @pawpiefawn i hope this story is at least 1/1000th as sweet as you are, and welcome to the hsr hell hole <3

I. TARO Macarons and Winter Melon Cookies

Crush almonds. Toast and grind sesame seeds. Mix egg whites with brown sugar. Skin, cut, mash taro root. Bring water to a boil. Top cookie dough with candied winter melon.

The sun starts filtering in through the window.

Steam soy milk until it foams. Melt gelatin. Frost thinly. Turn off the oven and stove. Slice coconut jelly into thin, small squares. Put everything into the fridge.

The day of a patisserie begins early – 4:30AM for you. Although you’re the head of your restaurant, the Zhuming Dessert Bar, you’re unable to separate yourself from the habitual duties of prepping, cleaning, getting a head start. To be fair, it would also be improper of you to leave such a task to your teammates. After all, these macarons and cookies are a gift for your neighbors, a first impression to the locals of not only the dessert bar, but primarily, the food it serves. The taste and presentation have to be perfect, and there’s no need to burden everyone else with an otherwise tedious and irrelevant task.

The Zhuming Dessert Bar is located in a busy food district, where there are various other diners, cafés, hole-in-the-wall gems, all waiting to be discovered and savored. After a long process of bidding and negotiating, you managed to snag a larger space, a one-story building sandwiched between a complex that housed several small businesses and a well-established hot pot spot. Unsurprisingly, a large majority of the stores in the district aren’t open in the morning, due to the lack of customers, and you only have to make a few runs.

As the time approaches 7AM, you begin to make your way out.

“Good morning, everyone!”

Those are the first words exchanged between you and your team, aside from the occasional “behind” or question, and you giggle as you’re greeted with a chorus of tired moans and lazy waves.

You ask, “I’m gonna head out – no more than two hours. Can someone meet with the vendors while I’m gone?”

Someone next to you nods, and you beam at them as you leave with a few boxes of the treats you made.

You only have three stops this morning – a trendy café co-owned by two college drop-outs, a Japanese, lunch-only spot run by an elderly couple, and a Western brunch place known for its omelettes.

The college drop-outs, acting much like their age, cheer when you hand over their sweets and quite literally gobble them up in front of you. By the time you leave, you’ve been unofficially adopted as their favorite “next-door aunt.”

When you arrive at the Japanese restaurant, only the wife seems to have arrived, and she pauses from her prep work to bring you inside to chat over cups of steaming green tea. Though the conversation is brief, the two of you quickly go down a rabbit hole, discussing the best brand for knives, how to tell when a daikon is ripe, which fruits are in season at the moment. As your exchange wraps up, you promise her you’ll return, at which she slips a napkin into your palm that has “Free Meal Coupon” scribbled on it with haphazard handwriting.

The American brunch restaurant is already bustling with noise, and a sous chef comes to welcome you at the front door. He’s polite, a little younger than you, and has the excitement of someone just starting off their career. You tell him good luck, and he responds likewise, wishing your dessert bar success.

Everyone seems pleasant and friendly, and you feel a rush of eagerness to hurry back to your restaurant.

When you return, you can’t help but pause in front of the Zhuming Dessert Bar. You admire the spray-painted logo on the windows, the clean and modern architecture of the building, the little signboards out in front with chalk writings of recommendations and prices. Yesterday was your dessert bar’s opening day, and now, you and your team are about to embark on your first full week. Instead of feeling the daunting weight and pressure, you’re restless, hands and wrists itching to pick up a spatula, mouth salivating at all of the syrups and icings you’ll have to taste-test, feet poised to navigate through a crowded kitchen. After a few more seconds of admiring, you can’t hold back any longer and burst in through the back door, absolutely needing to get back to work.

Time passes quickly for all chefs. Even though you’re surrounded by timers that count down to precise milliseconds, the minutes and hours add up, and by the time service has ended, you truly don’t feel the passage of the day until you loosen the apron wrapped around your waist and sit down for a brief break. But you’re not done with all of your work quite yet, and you leave the cleaning and tidying to the others so you can make your last runs of the day.

You had taken a brief intermission after lunch to make the majority of your visits, so the only remaining restaurant on your list is the hot pot place right next door. If you remember correctly, the restaurant’s actually part of a larger chain, Yaoqing Hot Pot, that’s known for offering the spiciest yet most mouth-watering Szechuan flavors.

You jog over to the entrance, and peeking through the glass, you can see a man with peach pink hair sitting at the bar. He’s not wearing a uniform or eating, so he’s neither a cook nor a customer. That must mean he’s either a welcome guest or the manager.

You knock on the door, hoping to grab the attention of the man. His head does perk up, and he faces the door – but makes no effort to get up. You wait for another minute or so, before knocking again. Finally, the man rises from his seat, still facing you, before grabbing a cane and making his way over to you. As he approaches, you can see that his eyes are closed, and you almost fluster with humiliation.

As the man opens the door, you immediately bow, 90 degrees at the waist. “I am so, so sorry for bothering you!”

With a light laugh, the man replies, “No problem, but unfortunately, we’re not taking any more customers for the night.”

You straighten up and hold the box out in front of you. “I’m not a customer, actually. I’m from next door, we just opened.” You quickly introduced yourself and explained the contents of the box to him.

He pauses before slowly extending his palm, face up, out in front of him, on which you place the packaged macarons and cookies.

“Please enjoy! And have a good night!”

Fearing that you’ve not only inconvenienced the man but also taken up too much of his time when his restaurant’s still crammed with customers, you bow again, despite knowing he won’t see, and scuffle away, only peering behind your shoulder once to see the man still at the door and “looking” down at the box.

II. Anmitsu

“Chef!”

The kitchen’s always loud, from boiling pots of syrup to whirring mixers kneading dough to blenders grinding up crackers, but never because of the people. It’s rare, in the first place, for someone to look for you unless you’re requested to taste a component or item being served that night, but the urgency of the call tells you it’s something different this time.

You rush over to the back door, where one of your pastry chefs, a fresh graduate from culinary school, is frowning beside an equally distraught vendor.

You pat your chef on the shoulder and wave cheerily at the vendor, “Hey, whatever the problem, there’s a way out. What’s going on?”

“We’ve run out of geomeunpat,” the chef responds.

The vendor chips in as well. “There wasn’t an order for the black adzuki beans, and I don’t have any extra. I’m so sorry!”

You nod in understanding. “Don’t apologize. Gimme a second to think.”

Geomeunpat, or black adzuki beans, is crucial to making white adzuki bean paste, which in Korean cuisine, is used to make rice cakes and other confectionery. Adzuki bean paste is also an irreplaceable ingredient for anmitsu, a Japanese dessert that typically consists of sliced fruit, kanten jelly, and rice flour dango. Given that it’s summer, your tasting menu has a few limited specials, and geomeunpat is needed for almost all of them.

You ask, “Do we have any canned red bean paste?”

Your pastry chef goes to check the pantry and returns to report a number of cans.

“Alright, let’s do this.” You turn to the vendor. “We’re so sorry. Thanks for all of your help, and we’ll see you on Friday at this time, right?” The vendor confirms before leaving. Then, you turn back to your pastry chef. “Let’s substitute with the canned anko for today, but can you call me when you’re making the mitsu? We might need to adjust the sugar content of the syrup, or else it might be too sweet otherwise.”

“Yes, chef!”

“In the meantime, I’ll run to the market to see if there are any raspberries or cherries that can cut through the taste of the anko. Be right back.”

True to your word, you dash the few blocks to the farmer’s market, located at a nearby park with an open field and seating. It’s already mid-morning, so it’s likely that all of the best batches are gone, but there should be enough left over for you to find sufficient ingredients.

As predicted, the market crowd is waning, with many customers having already finished their shopping and gone home or enjoying their purchases at the picnic benches and tables. You look around, skittering around here and there, as if you’re a little child playing hide-and-seek, constantly changing your hiding spot.

This one’s no good either. Just as you take a step back, though, you bump into someone – wait, no, you step on something.

You look down, and you notice you’ve stepped on the ball of a white cane.

“Oh, shoot, sorry!” You jump away and nervously look at the owner of the cane. Your nervousness, though, is quickly replaced with something else, your eyes widening and brows raising.

You blurt, “You’re from Yaoqing Hot Pot!”

Behind the pink-haired man is a younger girl, brown hair tied into long, streaming pigtails and eyes piqued with childish wonder and unbounded curiosity.

The girl asks, “Chef, do you know this person?”

“I’m not quite sure.”

You speak up. “Yes, we have! Only very briefly, though. I dropped by with some treats, on behalf of the Zhuming Dessert Bar.”

Suddenly, the girl lets out a scream, at which you and the man wince. “Wait, did you bake those? They were delicious!” The girl clamors over to you and grabs you by the shoulders, shaking you back and forth. “How did you know to pair the taro filling with toasted sesame seeds? And the winter melon cookies were a spin on the traditional lao po bing, right? How did you come up with these ideas? Just hearing about them made my mouth water, but the real deal was –“

“Sushang,” the man interrupts sharply, “you’re being rude.”

“Oh, right, sorry.” The girl, Sushang, releases her hold on you with an awkward chuckle before returning to the man’s side.

You shake your head with a bright smile. “No, not at all! I’m glad you enjoyed them.”

Sushang gleams at you. “No, but seriously, they were delicious. You said you were from the Zhuming Dessert Bar, right? Are they sold in-store?”

“Yes, I’m the head chef at the dessert bar. Unfortunately, we don’t plan on putting them on the menu for a while because they still need some work.”

“More work?” Sushang’s jaw drops wide open in disbelief, and you shrug.

The man says, “Sushang, you should know that every item on a tasting menu is chosen with utmost patience and care. It can take months to perfect a new item.”

“Yes, chef, but I just can’t imagine how you could do even better.”

You chuckle. “I’m glad, then. If they ever make it on the menu, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

With happy claps, Sushang cheers. As for you, you turn towards the man.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” you say, “I never quite got your name.”

He gives you a small smile in the form of pursed lips. “Jiaoqiu, head chef at Yaoqing Hot Pot, though I don’t do much of the cooking anymore.”

“Well, Jiaoqiu, it’s very nice to meet you. Do you happen to have any thoughts on those treats I gave you?”

Before Jiaoqiu can respond, Sushang answers first on his behalf. “Oh, our chef never eats anything made by other people! He doesn’t even try my cooking, so I don’t even know how to improve!”

The chef nudges an elbow into his employee’s ribs, who winces and whimpers at the pain.

You simply just watch the interaction before saying, “No worries, I get it. Though, I feel like your name is familiar, Jiaoqiu…”

You tilt your head, attempting to recall. His name reminds you of a news headline, something about culinary school and graduation, but nothing else beyond that. Sushang looks like she can barely contain herself, but the set expression on Jiaoqiu’s face prevents her from actually spilling the truth.

Regardless, you move on. “No matter. Anyway, I’m guessing the two of you are grabbing some ingredients, yeah?”

“Yes,” Jiaoqiu affirms. “We always source our fruits locally. How about you?”

“Oh, I’m also looking to buy some fruit!”

“Then come with us!” Sushang suggests. “We know the best vendors in town.”

Before you can even ask if that’s alright with the Yaoqing’s head chef, you’re already pulled along by the arm and tugged towards a tent near the end of the market street.

III. Penghu Salty Biscuits

“Two beers please.”

You sigh, setting down the hardcover menu on the table. Yaoqing Hot Pot is packed with people, even though it’s late at night, 11PM. To be fair, the hot pot chain is a combination of a hot pot buffet and bar, so it makes sense that the store’s open until the unruly hours of the night. But while all of the customers seem to be partying and having the time of their lives, you and your co-owner, Yukong, sit tiredly across from each other.

“How is it only the third week,” you groan as you drop your forehead onto the table.

A waiter comes over to drop your drinks off, and Yukong takes a quick gulp from her chilled mug.

“Tell me about it,” she sighs.

Yukong co-founded the Zhuming Dessert Bar with you. In fact, the two of you grew up together, and have been inseparable ever since elementary school. When she transferred middle schools, you begged your parents to transfer you as well. When you both were preparing for college entrance exams, you chose the same university as your top pick. When you went to baking school, she got into a neighboring MBA program so that the two of you could continue rooming together. And when you both came up with the idea of starting a restaurant together, the logistics and enthusiasm naturally fell into place.

“That customer just wouldn’t back off,” Yukong grumbles. She takes another drink before picking up her chopsticks, skewering a slice of fatty beef, and dropping it into the boiling tomato broth. “He clearly already got a serving of the ice cream – I saw it with my own eyes! But he just wouldn’t stop lying and making a fuss.”

“I know,” you bemoan. “I’m just glad I have you to handle these kinds of customer problems. I would’ve just cried on the spot.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t.” She captures the beef with a flick of her wrist and drops it into her sauce bowl. “I just feel bad for Yunli. You know how she is, hot-tempered and impatient, but even she wouldn’t dare speak up against a customer. But you could tell it was taking every inch of her strength to not, just, yell back.”

“Yeah, Yunli was completely out of it for the rest of her shift.” You shake your head as you ladle a knotted bunch of Konjac noodles onto your plate.

The tomato soup, despite being completely plant-based, is rich, almost too aggressive in its flavor. But when soaked up, the oil and fragrance of the broth fuse seamlessly into the unseasoned nature of hot pot ingredients, so much so that you can arguably eat everything without dipping it in sauce. Still, you drench half of the noodles into your mixture of sesame oil, peanut sauce, green onions, and garlic. When you take your bite, you hum so happily, the chewiness of the Konjac providing great texture while heat permeates throughout your entire body, melting away the knots and strain in your muscles.

“This is so good,” you garble through a mouthful. Yukong’s also entranced with her bite of fish cake, and can only nod in agreement.

Once you finish the Konjac noodles, you slide in a platter of cabbage slices, balls of shrimp paste, and tofu squares.

“Anyway…,” you start. “Next time, I don’t think we should even bother. Most of our customers are reasonable, anyway, and it’s honestly not worth it.”

Yukong frowns at the suggestion. “Are you sure? Because, on the other hand, I don’t think we should tolerate this behavior at all.”

“I know, but I don’t want the other pastry chefs to worry about stuff like this. Besides, we always make enough of everything. Otherwise, the extras would all go to waste, and I can’t keep giving Granny Toka and the college kids our leftovers.”

Yukong huffs and crosses her arms, a pointer finger tapping impatiently at the juncture of her elbow. Yet, Yukong can’t seem to come up with a response, so she acquiesces.

“Yukong…,” you mumble. You look at her, a little expectantly and a lot more nervously.

She slides her arm across the table, a gesture for you to do the same. As you put your hand on top of hers, she says, “I’m not angry. I’m just frustrated. You and the other chefs are our top priority, and I understand you want to avoid causing them as much stress as possible. I’ll keep that in mind next time.”

Yukong’s always been like this – able to read your mind, say the reassuring things you need to hear at the right time, find the best solution without compromising anyone’s feelings. You rub your thumb over the back of her hand lovingly before someone calls out your name.

“Hey, you managed to come!”

You turn to the side to see Sushang. You exclaim, “Yes, we did! Thanks for having us! The food’s amazing!”

“Of course! If you ever want another discount, just let me know.” Sushang wiggles her eyebrows, and you and Yukong laugh at her antics.

“This is Yukong, my co-founder,” you introduce.

Sushang steps aside, and only then do you realize someone’s behind her. Which is odd, because the man’s absolutely looming over her, but something about his quiet demeanor must’ve concealed his presence.

Sushang says, “Nice to meet you, Yukong! This here is Moze, one of our sous chefs. Moze, she made the macarons and cookies we had a few weeks ago.”

Moze stiffly nods, but as soon as Sushang mentions your desserts, a hopeful glint in his eyes appears.

“You know,” Sushang continues, “I’ve only seen Moze talk so much about someone’s cooking, like, literally a handful of times. He rarely compliments other people, but he totally ranted when he ate those sweets of yours.”

Moze scoffs and knocks Sushang on the back of her head. “We’ve told you so many times to not run your mouth.”

You and Yukong exchange warm looks. You say, “Sushang’s just incredibly honest. But I’m glad they were to your liking, Moze.”

Yukong speaks up as well. “We’d like to return the favor, too. Feel free to drop by the Zhuming Dessert Bar, free of charge.”

Sushang yells so loudly that some of the adjacent customers glance at your party. “Are you for real?! Moze, we need to go. Immediately.”

“By the way,” Yukong interrupts, tone more formal now, “is your head chef, Jiaoqiu, around? And is it possible for us speak to him?”

Puzzled, you glance towards Yukong. You came for a simple dinner, and Yukong never informed you of other plans.

Moze answers this time. “The head chef’s in the back. Can I ask what you plan on discussing?”

“Actually, I’m a family friend of Feixiao’s. I’d like to personally meet her right-hand man.”

It seems as if the world has stopped spinning. Yukong knows Feixiao? She knows the owner of Yaoqing Hot Pot? Personally? Huh? It seems Moze and Sushang are both stunned as well, and after a few sluggish seconds, Moze excuses himself, presumably to find his boss.

Jiaoqiu appears in no more than five minutes.

“Miss Yukong, it’s good to meet you in person,” Jiaoqiu greets. Yukong reaches her hand out for a handshake, and only when Moze guides Jiaoqiu’s hand forward does the head chef reciprocate.

“Oh, apologies, I didn’t know you –,“ Yukong begins.

Jiaoqiu cuts her off succinctly. “No worries. It’s only been a few years, after all. I also told Feixiao not to inform others of my condition in the first place.”

“I see.”

Jiaoqiu then redirects the conversation skillfully. “Speaking of Feixiao, I’m sure the two of you have come up with something that requires my assistance? I’d be happy to help out in any way that I can.”

You slide deeper into the booth so that Jiaoqiu can sit beside you. From this proximity, you can make out the sweat lining his forehead, the thick rubber band pulling his hair back into a ponytail, and the creases of his sleeves where they were once rolled up.

Yukong clears her throat, a habit of hers right before negotiations begin.

“The Mid-Autumn Festival’s coming up in a little over a month, and since both of our restaurants are based on East Asian cuisines, Feixiao and I are considering a collaboration. Do you think that’s something your team would be interested in?”

Surprisingly, despite his thoughtful nature, Jiaoqiu doesn’t even take a second to consider. “If Feixiao’s eager about the idea, I don’t see why not.”

“Great. So far, the plan is to add a few of our desserts to your existing menu, while we add some of your appetizers to ours. How does that sound?”

At this suggestion, Jiaoqiu hums with dissatisfaction. “That could ruin the flavor profiles of each of our own stores.”

“Right, of course. We considered that, and that’s why we think it’d be best if both of our restaurants created new items that’d fit both the theme of the Mid-Autumn Festival, as well as our respective offerings.”

“I see.”

From your periphery, you can see Moze looking at Yukong, trying to decipher her intentions, while Sushang’s rocking on her feet, cheeks puffed up with anticipation. You, on the other hand, have no problem with this idea either and simply accept the fact that the next two months are going to be very busy.

Jiaoqiu asks, “I think this idea’s not bad. How do we plan on executing it?”

Yukong gestures at you, so you perk up. “Uh, well, I guess we can just meet to hash out the details? I know you’re very busy, though, so that might not work.”

“No, it’s fine.” Jiaoqiu seems to sigh, almost as if he’s giving into defeat. “If both Feixiao and Miss Yukong think this is a worthwhile business project, then it’s my job to see it through. We should begin promptly.”

You nod and begin exchanging contacts with the Yaoqing folks. As you’re typing in Moze’s contact, though, you suddenly get a call from one of your chefs.

You excuse yourself, walking out of the noisy restaurant to answer the call.

“Yunli, what’s up?” you chirp.

You hear very panicked voices until Yunli directly replies. “Chef, the HVAC’s broken. The refrigeration doesn’t work. At all.”

You feel goosebumps snake down your arms and back. Suddenly, your throat feels entirely parched, and you’re not even able to swallow to alleviate the dryness. For once, when it comes to work, your body’s freezing up, rooting you to your spot on the sidewalk, preventing you from running into the kitchen.

Fuck.

“I’ll be there in a minute.”

You rush back into Yaoqing Hot Pot, inform Yukong of the situation, and the two of you scramble back to the Zhuming Dessert Bar.

That night, you make several runs home, but you don’t actually get to unwind until well past 2AM. Not only did you have to make several emergency calls to your property manager and repair services, but you also had to drive back and forth to transfer the ingredients to your own fridge and freezer. Simply put, everyone who stayed past service to clean up the dessert bar was utterly exhausted. It was arguably one of your worst nights since the Zhuming’s opening.

It took the whole weekend for the HVAC-R system to be repaired, which meant the cancellation of two days’ worth of reservations. The cancellations impacted the store’s sales significantly for the week, and you were forced to revise several recipes to accommodate for cheaper ingredients. While your other teammates could take the time off, you had to come in to experiment and adjust the taste of each menu item, which is always a painstakingly arduous and tedious process. At times, you felt a hint of nostalgia, reminiscent of your times in pastry school, but those flashbacks only left a bitter aftertaste in your mouth.

Your meetings with Jiaoqiu also began the following week. On Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays, you head over and enter Yaoqing Hot Pot through the back door so you can directly walk to Jiaoqiu’s office. Inside his office, there’s a small desk which he sits at, while you situate yourself on a small, plush bean bag that was brought in by Sushang. So far, the two of you have drafted initial ideas, and tonight, Jiaoqiu will be presenting the first iterations of the Yaoqing’s appetizers to you.

Like the first time you met him, you knock on the door twice. As always, when he greets you, he gives you a tight smile. Tonight, though, his expression appears more grim than usual.

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

“I’m afraid the dishes have not come out as expected.”

You see a porcelain white plate on his desk. In the center, there are a few strips of tofu, topped with finely diced pieces of thousand-year-old eggs, scallions, and garlic. There are streaks of red and black as well, no doubt the Yaoqing’s signature spicy sauce. Beside the plate is a small bowl. You take a step closer to see chunks of cabbage, ginger, radish, and carrots, all of the pieces slightly wrinkled, accompanied by a sharp smell of acid. Both are classic Szechuan dishes: spicy cold tofu and pickled vegetables.

Using the chopsticks laid out on a napkin, you take small bites of the dishes. You’re personally not too good with spicy foods, so you can only hope that Jiaoqiu hasn’t gone overboard with the seasonings.

The thousand-year-old eggs are chewy and dense, in delightful contrast to the softness of the tofu, which practically melts on your tongue. However, the garlic, scallions, and spicy sauce penetrate through and remain as the final aftertaste. Then, you pick up a piece of the pickled cabbages. The water and vinegar brine has been completely absorbed, and you notice that there’s a stark lack of peppercorns, which is usually a key component of this dish. With a crunch, your teeth pierce through the leaf, and you’re impressed by how tender the inside of the cabbage is. You pick around to try the other ingredients.

When Jiaoqiu hears you place your chopsticks down, he asks, “I’m sorry if they’re lacking.”

“No worries. Maybe we should call in Moze, so I can share my thoughts?”

Jiaoqiu does as you request, and a few minutes later, the sous chef joins the two of you.

You give a brief rundown of your suggestions.

“The Zhuming Dessert Bar is known for its milder flavors, and the two appetizers taste great as is but simply don’t make sense in the broader context. I was thinking, maybe for the spicy cold tofu, we can mash the eggs into almost something like a paste? I think it’d provide an interesting texture, and we can use fresh scallions to keep that hint of bite if needed. To be honest, I think there should be way less garlic. Maybe even no garlic at all.

“As for the pickled vegetables, I think this one’s pretty close to done, actually! I think the cabbage is perfect, and I like that there are no peppercorns in the presentation. I was thinking that maybe we can make this dish a little more – how do I put this – refreshing? For instance, instead of using radish, we can use cucumbers instead? The water content might pose an issue, but I think cucumbers could add a ‘clean,’ crisp touch, which I like the sound of. Oh, we should also take out the ginger.”

When you finish, Jiaoqiu and Moze look at you as if you’ve just committed a murder in front of them.

Moze can barely conjure a sentence. “Are – are you – can you not handle spicy foods? Are these too spicy for you? Wh – what are you –“

Jiaoqiu has to interrupt him. “Without the ginger or garlic, you’re essentially asking us to abandon core aspects of Szechuan cuisine.”

You try to justify yourself. “I know it’s a cardinal sin, I get it. It’s like asking pastry chefs to not use sugar or flour or whatever. But the appetizers are just too strong, and none of the desserts we have, including our Mid-Autumn Festival specials, will complement them. Maybe a subtractive method isn’t the best approach, but I honestly don’t know enough to propose any other ideas.”

Jiaoqiu tilts his chin, thinking. Finally, he states, “I think I have one.”

At the next meeting, the head chef presents you the same two dishes, but they look vastly different than before.

Jiaoqiu explains that, for the tofu, he listened to your suggestion and mashed the thousand-year-old eggs into a paste. Within the paste, he also incorporated the garlic, which should be diluted by the natural pungency of the aged yolk. The scallions and chili sauce are filled in a separate container, allowing customers to pour as little or as much as they want.

As for the pickled vegetables, Jiaoqiu added a rather unique ingredient.

“Why lotus root?” you ask.

He explains, “Lotus root is in season right now, and we took inspiration from the classic Yunnan lotus root salad. We soaked the lotus root in a one-to-one ratio of rice vinegar and water to extract the starch, before blanching the slices. We also added ginger and a bit of sugar to the brine, so there wouldn’t be a need to keep the ginger slices in the dish itself. The one thing I want you to check is if we added too much peppercorn and salt.”

One bite of each dish, and you’re grinning ear to ear.

“This is it,” you whisper, in sheer awe. You can’t help but take two more mouthfuls of each appetizer. “In just one night, and you made such vast improvements. Jiaoqiu, you’re a genius.”

What was supposed to be a celebratory moment seemed to be ruined instantaneously by your comment. Moze’s face drops and Jiaoqiu can’t help but wince, to your confusion.

All of a sudden, very shy and embarrassed, you mumble, “Did I say something wrong? The food’s great, Jiaoqiu, is there something that’s not to your liking?”

Moze states, rather gruffly, “No, we’re very happy that you enjoy the dishes so much. After all, it’s been a while since Jiaoqiu has cooked something by himself.”

“But that doesn’t explain why you both look so upset. What’s going on?”

“It’s nothing.” Jiaoqiu sighs. “Then, these two are a go. One more left.”

From then on, your interactions with Jiaoqiu become stiff and rigid. Not that you had made much progress in the first place, but at the very least, the two of you could speak in the same fluid prose of ingredients and techniques and practically anything related to cooking and baking. Now, the two of you barely speak outside the context of the collaboration, and even the feedback you receive doesn’t come straight from him. Sushang had mentioned this earlier, and she’s absolutely right – Jiaoqiu doesn’t touch your cooking at all. In fact, Moze’s the one who munches away at your samples, while Jiaoqiu only asks for his opinions.

Are you frustrated? Absolutely. But it’s not like you can call off this project for such a small reason. It’s not like Moze doesn’t offer great advice, but it’s not up to the level of expertise that you need. So, not only do you feel frustrated, you also feel directionless, and your creative juices are running out.

You hate to admit it, but this sucks.

IV. Taiwanese Pineapple Cake

You should’ve prepared for all hell to break loose because “busy” doesn’t even begin to describe your current state.

The Mid-Autumn Festival Is approaching in a week, which means the collaboration’s also set to launch in just a few days. But before that, it seems you have other, more urgent issues to address first.

“Wait, why isn’t Lingsha here?” You look around, hoping for someone to know. You have a full house tonight, and you need all the helping hands you can get.

Yunli, who’s busy shaping some fondant, responds, “I think she’s sick.”

Alarmed, you quickly shoot Lingsha a text, asking her about her condition, in addition to a reminder to please, please, please let you know next time.

“That’s fine, but we’re going to need someone to take over her station…”

There are two halves to your team. Since the dessert bar is split between a morning bakery and an evening tasting restaurant, you’ve placed your less experienced chefs on the morning shifts. This could be a good opportunity for one of them to learn, you think.

“Huo Huo,” you call out, “can you stay for the rest of the day? I’ll make sure Yukong pays you overtime.”

A small, green-haired girl squeaks at the sound of her name. Even from a distance, you can see her body begin to shake and tremble.

“Y-yes,” she stutters as her knuckles pale from gripping onto a hand mixer so tightly.

You shoot her two thumbs up and a gentle smile. “You’ll be great, I just know it, Huo Huo. You’re in charge of presentation, so all you have to worry about is not breaking any dishes, alright?”

You, in fact, did have to worry about broken dishes that night.

Frankly speaking, Huo Huo was all over the place. She confused some of the dishes with each other, so the presentation wasn’t right at times. She also spilled glaze, so those desserts had to be tossed. The most tragic of her mistakes was that she forgot basic kitchen etiquette and almost got burned in the face with a blowtorch. Yunli’s tolerance was clearly waning, and you had to pinch her multiple times to prevent her from unleashing all of her rage.

You can’t help but think this is all your fault.

And as you trudge to Jiaoqiu’s office, your stomach sinks further. You feel the fatigue coursing through your veins, and despite your usual patient and easy going temperament, you can feel your thread of optimism thinning, dangerously close to snapping.

You just never expected it to break so soon.

“Uh, where are your samples?” Moze asks.

You can only close your eyes and cover them with your palms. You feel so weak in the knees. You want to keel over.

The burning sensation at your waterline doesn’t help either, and even though you can’t breathe, you hold back so as to not let anyone hear your sniffles.

You’re an actual patisserie now. No more groveling and self-pitying – you left all of that behind at baking school and your previous stages. You’ve made it so far, and you can’t fumble it. You need to be on top of things and be professional. Why are you even upset? What’s wrong with you? Keep. It. Together.

Jiaoqiu mutters, “Moze, leave us for now.”

With barely audible steps, you feel Moze walk away, and Jiaoqiu slides his office door closed behind you. Though it takes him a bit, he manages to feel his way down the wall so that he’s stooping beside you.

“Guess it’s my turn to ask you what’s wrong.”

“Everything,” you say, voice muffled as you hide your head with your forearms, tucking your chin to your chest.

“Yeah, running a restaurant never gets easier.”

You peek up at him. “But you never seem to be sweating over it.”

“Everyone has their worries.”

You take a deep breath. At this point, it doesn’t even matter if you cry or not because Jiaoqiu doesn’t seem to be the kind of person to care.

You ask, “I feel like I don’t know how to lead my team properly. We managed to get everything out in time, but the kitchen was an entire mess. We also had to get repairs done a few weeks ago, even though the property’s new and all. And remember when we ran into each other at the farmer’s market? It’s because someone forgot to properly do inventory. Like – these are all basic procedures. What am I forgetting to teach them?”

“From my experience, it just comes from routine reminders during meetings, and being ruthless when it comes to firing people.”

You roll your eyes. “Jiaoqiu, I’m afraid not everyone has the luxury of an inbox overflowing with hiring and employment requests.”

“Then, you have to do the hard thing and train them. Over and over again, until they finally get it right.”

You take another inhale. He’s right.

The stooping’s becoming uncomfortable, so you let yourself fall back and onto the ground.

“Thanks, Jiaoqiu. I think I’ve got my shit together again.”

“Of course. Then, I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

You begin to get up but end up deciding otherwise. You suggest instead, “Let’s just talk for a bit, if you have the time. We’ve been seeing each other so often, and I feel like I know practically nothing about you.”

You see a flash of suspicion cross his face, but Jiaoqiu doesn’t reject the idea either.

You help Jiaoqiu to his desk before finding your usual spot on the bean bag, and ask, “So, tell me. What about Yaoqing Hot Pot is stressing you out?”

“The new hires. I trust Moze, but it’s hard for him to handle everything by himself. I would ask Sushang, but it’s more important that she concentrates on honing her own skills right now.”

Something Moze said rings in your head.

“And…,” you start. “I’m guessing you can’t help either because you haven’t cooked in a while?”

Jiaoqiu remains silent. More hints from previous conversations seem to pop into your head.

You ask again, tone much quieter and more polite, “You told Yukong your blindness is relatively recent. Is… is that why you’ve stopped cooking?”

“I’d get in the way of too many people. Plus, I can really only trust Moze to help me in the kitchen, but that’d hinder his own growth as a chef. I couldn’t ask that of him.”

“So those appetizers –“

“That was a one-time thing. The others know how to replicate them by now.”

“But I want to eat your food.”

The words fly out before you can think about them. You gasp at your audacity, hands flying to seal your mouth, and Jiaoqiu has a surprised look on his face.

It takes a few moments before Jiaoqiu breaks the silence with huffs of chuckles. “You called me a genius the other day, didn’t you?”

You nod at first, but remembering that he can’t see, affirm vocally.

“It’s just a personal peeve of mine, but I detest being called that.”

Furrowing your brows and scrunching your nose, you try to think of why.

Jiaoqiu… Blind… Genius… Hate… Feixiao…

You let out another audible gasp, this time horrified.

“I remember,” you hiss.

No wonder his name’s familiar.

You’ve never paid much attention because you were so entrenched in your own work, but a few years ago, Jiaoqiu was a superstar in the culinary world. He was winning awards left and right, despite not having even graduated culinary school. But then, he suddenly disappeared, and all of the tabloids were speculating as to why. He didn’t come back into the limelight until he joined Yaoqing and became Feixiao’s right-hand man.

“You don’t have to tell me anything, but…”

“I was poisoned.”

You gape at him.

He continues, indifferent to your loud reactions. “Being a ‘genius’ comes with its own share of problems. I had classmates who were envious of my achievements, and one of them slipped methanol into a dish they wanted me to try.”

The story’s horrifying itself, but what leaves you completely stunned is Jiaoqiu’s nonchalance. He’s speaking as if he’s reading the news, as if this terrible thing happened to some stranger and not to him.

“Oh, Jiaoqiu…”

“It’s alright. I owe Feixiao for entrusting much of Yaoqing to me.”

“Thanks for sharing these painful memories with me…”

Jiaoqiu simply nods. “I hope the Zhuming Dessert Bar sees better days.”

V. Fuqi Feipian

Everything does seem to calm down, though there’s never truly a peaceful day when you’re working in the restaurant industry.

Lingsha returns in good shape, and with her and Yunli’s help, the three of you begin to offer additional training sessions after work to better prepare the newcomers. You’re a small team, after all, so it’s only right that you have each other’s backs.

The launch of the Mid-Autumn Festival goes as well as Yukong and Feixiao predict. Revenue streams are the highest they’ve ever been for the Zhuming Dessert Bar, and the food seems to be well-received. There are always a few pesky hate comments on social media platforms, but those can’t be helped.

Most importantly, your relationship with Jiaoqiu has improved dramatically. You first tested the waters by sending him an hour-long ASMR video of cat purrs, and he replied likewise with a five-minute compilation of foxes yipping and laughing. Also, even though there’s no reason to meet anymore, you still drop by and bother the pink-haired chef whenever you have the time. Mostly, it’s just you pestering him to make you food and him refusing, but after ten minutes or so of pointless bantering, he relents and you help him around the kitchen, setting timers, fetching ingredients, and making sure he doesn’t cut himself.

For the most part, he does well even without your assistance. His sense of taste is incredibly acute, and his hands seem to remember how to slice at different angles, widths, and shapes, all from rote memory. Still, it seems that having you there provides an additional layer of safety, and you’re more than happy to oblige.

“What are you going to make for me this time?”

You’re holding Jiaoqiu by the hands, steering him towards the industrial fridges standing tall to one side of the kitchen. Unlike the narrow and rectangular layout of the Zhuming Dessert Bar’s kitchen, the Yaoqing’s is much more spacious and has sufficient walking room.

“The freezer should have a piece of beef shank.” You let go of one of his hands to open the door, and as he said, there’s a plastic-wrapped chunk on the top shelf. You take it out, and then walk the two of you over to the central island, where there’s a large cutting board and knife.

“Knife to your right, beef to your left. Is there anything else I should grab?”

“Can you get some sesame seeds, chili oil, and a stalk of celery?”

As you collect the items, you watch him from the corner of your eye. Jiaoqiu picks up the beef shank by the fingertips, and using his other hand to roughly measure out the length of the cutting board, sets the meat down near the center. Then, with fleeting touches, he feels for the wooden handle of his knife.

“The blade’s facing downwards,” you call out.

“Thanks,” he replies.

With his left hand, he traces the shank until he reaches the edge, where he backtracks by a few millimeters and curls his fingers in so that the first joints are tucked away. With steady movements, he brings the knife over with his right hand until the flat of the blade meets his curled fingers, and now he knows where to cut. Though he’s slow, much slower than a professional chef should be, every slice is done without hesitation. There’s no wavering, no stopping, no interrupting the motion of the knife being plunged down onto the cutting board. He continues, procedurally shifting his left hand back and right hand forward, until he’s divided the chunk of beef into beautifully thin slices.

You only come back when he’s set his knife down.

“You still haven’t told me what you’re making.”

“The name’s a little misleading,” he says, “but it’s a dish I grew up eating quite frequently. Do you think you’re up to trying something spicy?”

You roll your eyes. “Oh, please, when have you made something not spicy?”

His lips break into a small, genuine smile. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Grab a bowl with a short rim, will you?”

“Yes, chef!”

Into the bowl, he transfers the beef shank and pours spoonfuls of chili oil, salt, and white sugar on top. He mixes everything, ensuring that the tips of the chopsticks don’t puncture through the meat, and sets the dish aside.

He then picks up the knife again, which you follow up by placing the celery stalk onto the cutting board.

“Center middle”

“Leaf intact?”

“Yes.”

He searches for the end of the stalk, and when he finds it, he chops the leafy section off. He makes diligent work of the rest, first splitting the stalk in horizontal half before chopping it vertically into small bits. When he’s finished, he transfers the celery pieces into the bowl, giving the ingredients a good mix again, before returning to mince the celery leaves.

When he’s finished, he pushes the bowl away from the cutting board. He says, “You’ll realize that Szechuan food is quite simple to put together. This dish is called fuqi feipian.”

“You said the name was misleading.”

“Well, its literal translation means ‘husband and wife lung slices.’”

You can’t help but chuckle at the name. “I don’t know if that’s supposed to be romantic or gory.”

Jiaoqiu smirks and crosses his arms. “Either way, it’s spicier than all of the other things I’ve cooked for you. Take a bite.”

Mentally, you prepare for the numbing bite of the spices and chilis as you eat a slice of beef. The acidity of the oil and celery leaf garnishing hit you immediately, and you almost choke at the sudden impact of flavor.

You cry out, “Spicy!”

“I told you.”

You quickly swallow before picking out pieces of celery and peanuts to soothe your tongue.

“Seriously, Jiaoqiu, how can you eat this all the time?”

He simply shrugs. “I can’t really taste anything else.”

“Wait, what?”

“I started losing my sense of taste in culinary school. The doctors said it was probably due to stress from the competitions and media appearances. Now, I can only really eat very strong and spicy flavors.”

You almost drop your chopsticks onto the floor.

“Jiaoqiu,” you choke, “you can’t keep dropping these severely depressing facts about yourself out of nowhere.”

“Oh, sorry, should I have mentioned a trigger warning or something?”

You huff unhappily before taking another bite, barely managing the stinging heat at the back of your throat.

Jiaoqiu suddenly asks, “Did you enjoy culinary school?”

You pause to reflect. “I kinda took an unconventional path. I actually have a Bachelor in something completely unrelated to cooking, but I couldn’t find a full-time job after graduating and decided to give baking a shot. Baking school was hellish, though, I can’t lie.”

He makes a noise of surprise when you finish.

“You didn’t enjoy baking school?”

You scratch the back of your head. “I mean, it was tough. I don’t remember much besides crying a lot and feeling very incompetent. It’s hard being surrounded by really young and accomplished people all the time.”

“I thought you were going to say you had the time of your life.”

“Why?”

“Well…,” Jiaoqiu starts, though he turns to face away from you for some reason. “You seem very optimistic and easy to get along with. People like you thrive in social environments, like school.”

You try to muster your usual smile, but you can’t will your mouth to stretch or your cheeks to lift. “I guess, and it’s not like I hated my experience. I was just… I was too concerned about making up for lost time.”

You don’t want to think about this anymore, so you take another bite.

Through a mouthful, you pivot the conversation. “By the way, there’s no way I can finish this all by myself. Have some, too!”

You tap Jiaoqiu on the shoulder so that he turns to face you again, and you tightly grip the chopsticks so that the food doesn’t drop.

Jiaoqiu tries to deny at first. “No, no, I already ate dinner.”

“But Jiaoqiu, please! You made so much, and it’d be such a waste to keep it overnight. C’mon, just one bite, it’s right in front of you.”

He opens his mouth and leans forward, but either because your hands are shaky or because he simply cannot reach, he keeps missing.

You ask with slight amusement, “May I?”

“Just hurry and give it to me.”

You slide your free hand underneath his chin and hold his head in place. Initially, he sputters out of shyness and embarrassment, but finally relents as you tell him to keep his mouth open.

When he’s chewing on it, you say, “Really good, right? You should cook for yourself more often.”

“It’s fine. Could be better,” he replies. “Besides, it’s dangerous cooking by myself.”

You shrug. “I can always come over and help, like I did tonight.”

He sighs. “You’re so demanding. You just want more free food.”

You giggle with glee and clap at his shoulders. “Of course not!” You feign hurt. “I just want to spend more time with a good friend!”

Jiaoqiu huffs and you think he rolls his eyes. “Friends,” he mutters, “don’t eat from the same pair of chopsticks.”

You feel your face burn, having been completely unaware of the implications of your actions.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” you retort, though there’s really no bite to your words. “You haven’t even tried my desserts once.”

VI. Sweet Run Bing

On the last day of the Mid-Autumn Festival, you come over with some leftovers to hand to the Yaoqing staff. You’ve gotten to know them quite well, and of course, Sushang and Moze are the first ones to appear.

“What’d you bring this time?” Sushang sing-songs.

You set the boxes on a counter and list everything out. “There’s coconut cake, a Taiwanese rendition of French custard tarts, some of our special mooncakes, and sweet run bing. There’s more than enough for everyone!”

You try to take a step back so that all of the Yaoqing chefs can reach your desserts, but you bump into somebody.

Or more specifically, someone holds you by the shoulders.

You look over to find Jiaoqiu resting his hands on you, face turned towards the commotion in the center of the kitchen.

He muses, “Sweet run bing? Isn’t it usually salty?”

You laugh. “Yes, but it’s pretty popular in Taiwan to add ice cream and nuts to make a sweeter version of it.”

The question always floats in the air but is usually left unaddressed. This time, though, Jiaoqiu surprises you.

“Can I try?”

A sense of pride and satisfaction pumps through your entire body. “Of course!” you exclaim. “Let me get you one!”

The two of you retreat to the calmer corner of his office, and you watch him intently as he holds the run bing close to his nose.

“I smell peanuts, almonds, and vanilla. There’s also something sweet?”

“Yes, we added some of our homemade canned peaches!”

“I see. Let me try it.”

Slowly, methodically, Jiaoqiu rolls up the crepe and takes a bite from it. You gulp and can almost feel beads of sweat forming at your temples from the anticipation and anxiety.

Then, something in his features softens.

“The texture’s great.”

At his compliment, you bound out of your seat, whooping and cheering.

“I’ll take it! Next time, I’ll make something you can actually taste. I roasted the nuts to create a smokey flavor and to add some crunch, but I didn’t want it to be too overpowering, so I also added some herbs, like ground coriander and –“

“Wait, there’s coriander in this?”

You comically pause in the middle of your celebrating. “Uh, yes?”

It’s your first time seeing the man… so frightened.

You can’t help but glare at him. “Don’t tell me you don’t like coriander.”

Jiaoqiu doesn’t move.

“Isn’t coriander supposed to be important in Szechuan cuisine? You were the one nagging my ears off weeks ago –“

“First of all, I wasn’t nagging you. Second, I personally don’t like to eat it, but that doesn’t mean I don’t use it.”

“Sure, fine, but the run bing doesn’t taste bad, does it?”

Jiaoqiu grimaces. “It tastes fine… even if there’s coriander in it.”

You smugly croon at him. “What other foods do you hate? I’ll convince you otherwise.”

Jiaoqiu takes another big bite of the run bing, before replying, uncharacteristically serious, “I’ll eat whatever you give me.”

You flush at his words, rendered unable to speak. In fact, you have to clear your throat a couple of times in order to respond. “And… you’ll cook for me, too?”

He nods, with firm intent. “For as long as you want me to.”

You feel like the vanilla ice cream in the run bing, melting and dripping, positively overheating.

#honkai star rail #hsr #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #honkai star rail fluff #hsr fluff #jiaoqiu #hsr jiaoqiu #jiaoqiu hsr #honkai star rail jiaoqiu #jiaoqiu honkai star rail #jiaoqiu x reader #jiaoqiu fluff #carrot cake!#nereids' realm #house of solis occasum

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thereoncewasagirlnamedjane · 2 months ago

Text

wrapped in red.

PAIRING — ari levinson x f!reader

CONTENTS — oneshot, fluff, tiny bits of angst if you squint really hard, xmas/holiday themed, making new traditions, strangers to friends to lovers, reader is not physically described but is very asian-coded

SUMMARY — all he wanted was some takeout, yours was the only restaurant still open on christmas eve, and ari gets so much more than he bargained for.

W/C — 4.1k

NOTES — not expecting a lot of excitement for this one tbh, but I was very excited to write it. this is for my fellow asian girlies out there and everyone else who’s looking for some good old fashioned christmas fluff <3

✩ read on ao3 ✩ janie’s masterlist ✩ library blog

It took him a total of eighteen minutes to decide to leave the house.

The sky was pitch black it was so late, and he knew trying to find a place open this late was a long shot, but his fridge was empty save for half a stick of butter and a jar of pickles. He really didn’t think he could fast for a whole other day, nor did he think himself talented enough in the culinary arts to slap together anything edible out of those two ingredients.

So Ari drove around the city until he found a place with its lights still on, the open sign hanging askew on the door, and was relieved to see it was a Chinese restaurant. Who didn’t like Chinese food?

He thought he knew what to expect when he pulled up to the Lantern House. He could see through the storefront window walls painted dark crimson, brightened up just a touch by several umbrella chandeliers.

Once inside, he saw watercolour paintings of lotus flowers and mandarin ducks and leather dining booths separated by large wooden screens. Carefully-folded cloth napkins were resting on top of plates made of fine china, chopsticks and soup spoons stacked in plastic containers at each booth, and lazy Susans spinning around porcelain tea sets and bottles of chilli crisp, soy sauce, and sesame oil.

There was a lucky cat perched on the corner of the hostess’s stand, waving at him mechanically as he picked up a menu from the neatly stacked pile. He looked around for the hostess, or any wait staff, but there was nobody else here. He heard someone rummaging around in the kitchen, could see the figure of someone hunched over the stove through the open door.

Ari perused the menu quickly, glancing up and down the laminated pages, only to realize this wasn’t the kind of Chinese food establishment he was used to.

Rather than the usual combination fried rice, orange chicken, and beef with broccoli, he was met with menu items like Hainanese chicken and rice, egg bean curd and fried gluten served in a sizzling hot pot, snow pea tips and goji berries in garlic sauce, chilli fried turnip cakes, and—was he reading that right?—blood jello congee.

What the hell was congee?

Or blood jello, for that matter?

“I know,” a voice said all of a sudden, following by the rhythmic tapping of a pen against the edge of a notepad. “Lots’a weird stuff in there, huh?”

“Uh—” Ari began, not knowing what to say without uttering something inadvertently offensive, halting immediately when he looked up to see you leaning against the doorway of the kitchen.

His cheeks grew warm for some reason. Maybe because he’d been half-expecting a woman donning a red qipáo with gold threading, her hair twisted up into a bun. Instead, you stood there staring back at him in a black t-shirt and jeans, your midsection covered by a plain red apron, smirking as if you could read his stupid mind.

He cleared his throat awkwardly and broke eye contact, mentally chiding himself that he should know better. He was no stranger to being stereotyped either, after all. God, he should just order something quick and just high tail it out of here before he embarrasses himself further.

But then you laughed good-naturedly, stepping forward and reaching out a hand to help him flip to the next page. You smelled like salt and spice and orange blossoms as you pressed yourself to his side, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, peering down at the pages while he stared at the top of your head in wide-eyed bewilderment.

“It’s not all weird, I promise,” you said, your voice tinged with amusement. “Any food allergies, sir?”

“No,” he managed to say once he found his voice, “but I like to keep kosher.”

“Ah, so shrimp and pork are out of the question then,” you nodded, not missing a beat, and he almost wanted to kick himself for not correcting you with his name instead. Then you looked up with an almost mischievous grin and a peculiar glint in your eye, and Ari felt his grip on the menu slacken just a bit. “You’ll need to trust me, stranger.”

Ari considered this for a moment. He was already here, and he likely wouldn’t find another place that was still open, so he decided that yes, he would. He was nodding before the thought had even finished forming in his head.

“How do you feel about grouper?” You asked and he blinked a few times before shrugging, not really feeling any way about it one or the other. You then proceeded to excitedly go through the menu items with him, pointing out the specials but also ones that you thought wouldn’t be too adventurous for a first-timer.

You promised to be right back, giving him one last smile before disappearing back into the kitchen. Ari shoved his hands into his pockets, glancing around the restaurant before sliding into a nearby empty booth while he waited for his order of salt and pepper fried grouper and Cantonese-style beef chǎo miàn, all of which came with a free hot and sour soup.

The place was quiet. Strange for any regular Tuesday night, maybe, but he suppose it wasn’t all that strange for Christmas Eve.

Most people were at home with their loved ones, sitting by warm fires and festively-decorated trees, eagerly awaiting the time for opening presents and dipping carefully-iced sugar cookies into steaming mugs of hot chocolate.

Feasts of their own had been prepared as they welcomed visitors of all kinds, some they saw often and others they hadn’t seen in a while, not many deciding to brave the cold and snow in search for takeout.

Except him, evidently. Well, not just him.

Because the door suddenly opened, triggering the chime of your security system, revealing a middle aged man and two small children brushing freshly fallen snow off each other’s shoulders.

“Excuse me,” the man called out hesitantly in an accent Ari couldn’t quite place. “You are open, yes?”

“Yes, we are!” Came your muffled reply from the kitchen, and a few seconds later you came running out with your notepad and pen. You rushed past his table, doing a double take before asking if it was okay if his order took a few minutes longer. Ari agreed amicably, it’s not like he had anywhere else to be.

He watched as you quickly ushered the family inside, seating them in a booth by the window so the children could watch the snow and twinkling lights outside. Ari tried to mind his own business as you poured them steamed hot cups of tea—an oolong blend that he would later learn was a favourite of yours, named after the iron goddess of mercy—and took their orders while they told you of their holiday plights.

The man’s wife and the children’s mother was unfortunately stranded in another part of the country due to the snow. She wouldn’t be able to get a train ride home until Christmas night, and as a result they had to postpone their family dinner. Thank goodness you were still open, because he couldn’t cook to save his life!

Ari couldn’t help but smile when you handed the kids some festive red envelopes to lift their spirits, each containing a chocolate coin wrapped in shiny gold foil.

And as the night wore on, only a handful more customers passed through the doors. With each visitor, Ari felt the world shift.

You waved goodbye to the small family as they piled into their car parked just outside the restaurant, not turning away until they were out of the parking lot and out of sight.

You smiled and listened attentively to the stores of a lonely older gentleman, who had lost his wife just months prior, and was spending the holidays alone for the first time in fifty years.

You cooed at a fussy toddler balanced against the hip of a frazzled-looking young woman who couldn’t have been much older than twenty, all the while packaging up their leftovers with practiced ease.

They all thanked you with smiles, some clutching your hand with shining eyes before they left, wishing you a merry Christmas and blessing your heart, as if trying to convey something else they couldn’t quite voice.

Ah, Ari thought as he glanced down at his table, noting the sign in your window that announced you would also be open on Christmas Day.

Even though most of the world was effectively on pause, you couldn’t close your doors yet. Not when there were people out there, no matter how few and far in between, who needed this place, who needed this small beacon of light on one of the darkest and coldest nights of the year.

For people like you and him who, for any number of reasons, weren’t celebrating today, or for whom it was just any other day, and who came in search of a warm meal when they had no one or nothing else.

Ari stayed after all, too caught up in the spirit of the season even though he’d never paid much attention in previous years. His earlier awkwardness and apprehension was quickly forgotten when you arrived with his order, smiling kindly when he didn’t move to leave and brought him a cup of tea, and he ate every last steaming morsel, slurped up every last noodle, and gulped down every last drop of broth.

Only when his takeout containers were clean and empty and his stomach was full did he actually stop and look up, and you were watching him with this proud little grin. He was helpless but to return the gesture.

“What’s your name, stranger?” You asked him before he went home, handing him the check on a small tray with a few mints in shiny red and gold wrappers.

“Levinson,” he said, so used to reciting his last name first. He quickly corrected himself, “Ari.”

“Okay then, Levinson,” you chuckled, your fingertips brushing against his open palm as you gave him his change. Then you looked at him with the softest smile, your eyes genuine, “Drive safe out there, okay?”

He nodded politely, popping a mint into his mouth even though he usually never partook. He would only realize later that it was out of instinct, quickly trying to stop his heart’s frantic escape. The minute they hit his tongue, however, he found that they were candies.

The entire drive home was milky and strawberry sweet, even if it ended with him slumped over with his forehead resting against the steering wheel when he remembered he hadn’t asked for your name in return.

And so it took him a few more days to decide to return, right before the new year, with only half the reason being the amazing food. The restaurant was much busier this time, but you still brightened visibly when he walked through the door.

“Levinson, Ari!” You shouted over the noise of conversation, over the hustle and bustle of your busy staff, all of whom turned to look in his direction, “you made it back!”

You were once again his server, flitting between tables before stopping at his, and he asked hesitantly why you didn’t wear a name tag. You blinked slowly at him a few times, before realizing with a surprised laugh that he didn’t know what to call you. You said it to him while beaming, Ari’s own cheeks almost flaming in a way he hadn’t experienced since his youth, nodding when he repeated it back to you in a quiet voice.

He made sure you didn’t see him pull out his phone, updating the entry for the restaurant’s number in his contacts.

How do you feel about grouper?

Without context, it was a strange question to fall in love to.

Because, looking back, Ari thinks he might have begun that sweet yet treacherous descent from that moment on.

It took him another six months before he managed to try everything on the menu, after you made substitutes for everything specifically so he could try them. Pork was switched out for chicken or beef, shellfish set aside and fish tossed into the mix in its place, even though they changed the flavour of the original dish.

“I hope you know what a big deal this is for me,” you’d joke, playfully shaking your head and rolling your eyes at him. But Ari always clocked the way you watched him with bated breath as he tried them, your eyes wide and hopeful without even realizing. He would later wish he would’ve told you that yes, he did know. Did you know how grateful he was?

Instead, he’d stare blankly at you as he chewed, only faltering and grinning when you groaned in frustration and impatience, practically stomping your feet as you whined, “Just tell me what you think already!”

And he would cave. Maybe not everything was to his liking, he admitted, but enough of it was that it kept him coming back.

Among other things.

It wasn’t long after that that he spontaneously asked you to join him late one night. He was up at odd hours of the night, so it wasn’t uncommon for him to swing by to pick up his order only minutes before closing. You began insisting he could eat there while you cleaned up, and while he watched you mopping the floors and closing the till, he glanced down at his meal and couldn’t help but wonder if you’d eaten.

It would be nice, he thought, if you sat down with him for a change. When he asked, his heart stuttering at the way you paused and looked so taken aback. When was the last time someone looked after you instead of the other way around?

There was no one else in the restaurant, the sign on the door already flipped over to say you were closed, and Ari, with all the boldness he could muster, gestured to the opposite side of his booth in invitation.

You glanced at him a little hesitantly, before looking away and smoothing a hand over your slightly disheveled hair and glancing quickly down at your plain yet sensible attire. With a bit of coaxing, though, you finally put aside your mop and decided to sit across from him after all.

And if he’d felt the world shift that first night, this was the night he felt it flip completely upside down.

Ari wished he didn’t have a penchant for leaving things unsaid, that he would have told you what he’d really thought then. You didn’t ever need to be self-conscious; he’d thought you beautiful since the moment you met, and this was how he always wanted to see you. And with each visit, it was just as thrilling to learn you were as beautiful on the inside.

Instead of the usual cups of tea, you brought out a bottle of chilled plum wine and a set of beautiful glasses that looked like they were saved for special occasions. You giggled when he pointed it out, whispering even though no one else was around that you’d bought it for dirt cheap at a flea market.

Ari smiled wide then, and soon all decorum between restaurant owner and customer was forgotten as he told you, through a mouthful of ground chicken and chives and a tangy black vinegar dipping sauce, “If I could only have one food for the rest of my life, it would be these fuckin’ dumplings.”

“Ari,” you chided, using your chopsticks to pick up a rice noodle roll stir fried in a fragrant satay sauce. He thought that it was the first time you’d said his first name, and that it might have been the best sound he’d ever heard. That was until you laughed, the musical little sound making his heart leap.

And even though he used to joke to his colleagues about how useless of a day Christmas was for him, even though he always used to say it was just another day, it seemed that even he wasn’t exempt from the makings of holiday traditions.

Because for years after, even when it wasn’t Christmas, you and Ari would sit together sharing meals in an empty restaurant late into the night. He got to know your regulars just as much as you—

Silas and his boys, the family who had come into the Lantern House the same Christmas he did and began making their own traditions of having family dinner here every now and then.

Mr. Han, who lives just across the street and always brings home an order of shāomài as an offering for his late wife.

Traci with an ‘I’, a college student and single mom, whose little girl loved your restaurant’s freshly steamed mǎ lā gāo.

—and you’d tell him that it reminds you of when you were a kid, when your neighbours all knew each other and took the time to catch up over steamed sticky rice dumplings and fried dough sticks wrapped in rice noodles.

And when Christmas Eve did come around, Ari would show up at your door like clockwork. Your staff would exchange knowing smiles behind your back, shooing you towards his table despite your protests of how busy it was, more than happy to take on the work in your stead for a change before heading home to their own families.

So, you would warm him up with a cup of tiěguānyīn and a kiss on the cheek. You would welcome him with open arms, literally, holding him close enough to let his heart beat right next to yours for just a few seconds, but it was enough. More than enough.

You would point to pictures pinned against the walls of your beloved restaurant, the ones that told your own story in a series of snapshots—tales of parents who were enjoying retirement as they zipped all around the world and sent you endless flurries of postcards, of lifelong friends who you either see often or hardly ever see anymore because life just gets so preoccupying, of the regulars who continued to be drawn in by the promise of hot meals and a warm heart.

Ari’s eyes would then land on one photograph in particular, swallowing hard to see his own blue eyes staring back at him from your wall, his smile easy and bright despite his normally serious disposition. It was taken on your third Christmas together, and you were leaning close to him in the shot, tucked right against his side just like that very first meeting.

He wanted you to give him permission, to tell him that his arm always had a place around you so long as he wanted it. And he wanted it all the time, he realized.

But Ari was never on leave for long.

The first time he told you about his job, minus all the unnecessary details that were incredibly classified, you did your best to send him off with a smile and well wishes. His work was important and he helped people, and he knew you would never consider asking him not to do it, even if it was rife with danger and uncertainty, even if he could see the part of you that worried he might never come back.

As the years went on, with each goodbye, you stared up at him as you pulled away from a hug, as if trying to memorize the lines and edges of his face, before tugging him back into embraces that always felt like they might be the last.

“How will I ever know if something happens to you out there?” You would say, trying to keep your voice light and smiling wryly but looking like your heart was catching in your throat.

“Aw, you worried about me?” He would joke, even though he knew he looked just as stricken and scared, wanting to say something else altogether.

As far as the world knew, you and him were nothing to each other. But to him, this was it. He didn’t care what, if anything, ever came of it, or whether it would remain just like this forever. This was all he ever dared to hope for.

He wanted this to be the only place he ever came home to.

He wanted to be the one to greet you with a kiss hello, smile as he tasted the sweet mango pudding on your lips.

He wanted to be the one to wish you sweet dreams with a kiss goodnight, then grumble about the way his mouth tingled with the leftover spice from whatever you had for dinner.

He wanted so desperately to be the one with the intimate knowledge of how you kissed first thing in the mornings.

And each time you bade him goodbye, he swore you were breaking off a piece of yourself to tuck into his carry-on.

Because no matter how far or how long he went, you never really left him. You flooded his memories the same way the smell of winter melon and pork bone soup flooded his nostrils as it boiled away on your stovetop, right from the moment he stepped inside your kitchen.

“Just because you abstain doesn’t mean I have to,” you’d tease before slurping noisily from your spoon and making obnoxious yummy noises.

You stayed with him the same way the sound of sliced rice cakes sizzling enticingly on oil-covered frying pans never left him until he’s had a bite. You tried teaching him how to make them one time, to less than desirable results.

“No, I swear it’s good!” You looked at him with wide eyes as you chewed. He would glance back at you, unimpressed.

“They’re not even fully cooked,” he’d say, but his cheeks were warm as he watched you finish them all.

And even though you weren’t with him, the thought of you still made him smile the same way he’s seen you grin to yourself, satisfied, after enjoying a mouthful of savoury and spicy dándán noodles.

“Obviously, I have to try them before I can serve them!” You mumbled through grease-covered lips. “It’s called quality control, Ari.”

“Obviously,” Ari agreed facetiously with a slight roll of his eyes, but the edges of his mouth always quirked up into a half-smile. “You bottomless pit.”

And when his plane finally lands, hours after the clock as struck midnight and signalled the arrival of another Christmas Day, his car makes the familiar turns and detours down the streets. He’s almost breathless when he arrives in a vacant parking lot, and the lights to his very own personal lighthouse are still on.

The doors open, greeting him with the sharp smoky scent of incense permeating the walls and tablecloths. You’ve told him on numerous occasions that you only light them now out of habit more than anything else, but you still promised to light one for him every now and then.

“A little prayer won’t hurt, will it?” You’d reasoned with a sheepish smile the very first time you lit one in front of him. “Just in case there is some deity out there actually listening, I need them to know you need protecting.”

Ari is going to tell you tonight, the very first chance he gets, that he knew he loved you then.

And with an offering of your now cold pan-fried dumplings placed onto the table next to the burning incense, he’s certain that all the gods are probably scrambling to hear your prayers for just a taste. Or maybe you thought the smell of his favourite food and the lights from the Lantern House in the otherwise moonless night would help guide him back.

Either way, perhaps it’s okay to think he’s alive because of them. Because of you.

When you step out of the kitchen, still wearing your apron, wrapped in red just like the very first night he ever saw you, Ari drops his bags to the floor with a careless thud. You open your arms and he falls into them, his hands finding their place on your back to press you close, and he feels like he can finally breathe again.

His lungs expand with something even lighter and sweeter than air—the smell of salt and spice and orange blossoms. He kisses away your grateful tears one by one under the watchful eye of a nearby lucky cat and falling snowflakes until your mouths touch, and then he’s whispering it between your lips.

Ari promises to always come back, every single Christmas until time stops and even thereafter, come hell or high water.

And every year, without fail, you will always be the light that guides him home.

fin.