#and at the corner of your eye you see something dark on his hand

[luveline]

hi lovely, was wondering if you would be able to write any hotch x bombshell!reader ? maybe before they got together or any scenario/prompt you feel like!

take care of yourself and have a great day!!💝💝

The problem with Aaron Hotchner is that he’s too lovely for his own good. He might not think of himself that way. Not many, if any, of the office would agree. Morgan thinks Hotch is a hard-ass and Elle likes him in her way, but she rolls her eyes when he gets snippy, and Spencer… well, you think you and Spencer are probably on the same page. 

Hotch is kind, and a good man, and if he looks handsome when he’s frustrated that’s just how nature intended it to be. 

“Stop it.” 

“No.” 

“Stop.” Hotch levels you with a look over his computer. You’re surprised he knows how to use it, considering the semi-permanent callus on the pointer finger of his right hand. You must’ve watched him pen a thousand case files, consults and forms in a love letter to the old ways. 

He types slowly, but you’ve decided to keep your comment about it to yourself. “You’re looking at me like you know something I don’t,” he says. 

“Maybe I do.” 

“I’m sure you do. Stop bragging.” 

You lean on your elbow on the desk. He’s got a file open in front of him he’s transcribing for the sake of security. It details a case from a few months ago, and each line of the investigation is printed in Hotch’s neat script, lilting to the left over time. He frowns as he turns a page and realises it’s practically margin to margin with detail.

You want to offer to do it for him, but he’ll say no. You want to slide your foot up the leg of his slacks to see if he’ll blush as he did last Friday when you’d done the same thing, Gideon in the doorway none the wiser and somehow disapproving regardless. 

And Hotch, he’d laughed like a kid when the door closed, not turned on in the slightest but endeared by the guts it took you to try. Then he’d sort of enticed you around the desk somehow —you don’t remember the before of it, only slinking to his side with your heels tumbled on their sides under the desk still, his palms wide and open as you settled on a wooden corner. 

“I’m pretty good on the computer.” 

“I know,” Hotch says. “I authorised your computing and communications technology seminar myself.” 

“I was good at it before the mandatory company training garbage,” you say without heat, wondering how you might entice him over your side of the desk. Flirting aloud doesn’t work. Neither does footsie, and besides, what fun is that for you? But he’d looked at you in this strange way, none of his commanding sternness about him. A smile lingered on his lips; he can’t have known he was smiling at all, or it wouldn’t have shown. He’d left something honest there for you to see. 

Maybe it’s in your best interest to let down your own walls for a minute, too. 

“I could help,” you say. “Perhaps not from the same file, but I can get the laptop and start on the Maryland stuff. If you like.”

He looks at you steadily over the computer. His eyes seem lighter, the suspicious set to his mouth oddly close to smiling. “What do you want?” he teased quietly. 

“Nothing. Just figured it would make your life easier.”

“When have you ever made my life easier?” 

Your smile slips before you can stop it. Immediately, Hotch isn’t smiling either. The, “Oh, I didn’t mean it like that, honey,” almost doesn’t reach you, over that sharp second of hurt. 

“It’s fine.” You plaster on a smile again to save him the trouble. “I know you didn’t.” 

“No, really. I didn’t mean that.”

“Hotch,” you say, thumbing over his name slowly, “I know. We were teasing.” 

“Flirting,” he corrects. 

Your smile is real, then. “Flirting?” you ask. “That’s rather forward. Flirting might imply we like one another enough to, oh, I don’t know, help each other with our overflowing workloads?” 

He looks at you, all dark and him, steady, strong, all the stupid things that draw you in. You’re not just in it for his arms, however tightly corded they might seem when he’s pulling off his tie after a long day. “You do more than enough for me just sitting there,” he says, holding your gaze with a careful casualness that has your heart tripping in your chest. “Can you do that for me?” 

“Do what? Just sit here looking pretty?” 

His shoe touches your ankle. “Exactly,” he says quietly. “Just sit there exactly as you are. I promise I don’t need anything else from you.” 

Warmed from the inside out, you sit back in your chair. Grinning like a fool. “Why didn’t you just say that?” you ask. Any chance at sounding casual is lost when your voice comes out gossamer thin. 

He looks you over appraisingly. “See?” he says, turning back to his case file. “Thank you, honey. You’re a big help.” 

You swing one leg over the other to get comfortable, crossing your arms over your stomach smugly. “I know.” 

[shy-writer-999]

Subby Ace + aphrodisiacs: your top turned bottom!

Summary: Poor Ace has gotten into something with sex pollen in it. He's a mess and you're the only person who can help him. There's something delightful about seeing your very dominant boyfriend reduced to begging, whining, and even crying for a crumb of your pleasure. CW: straight up SMUT. very very pathetic needy filthy whiny ace. afab reader w/gendered language ('princess'); sex, edging, masturbation, blow job, hand job, dacryphilia, overstimulation, you name it. countless orgasms from ace, use of 'good boy' and 'pretty boy.' minors do not interact - nsfw content!

Ace is so dramatic and sensitive in bed. It gets worse when he goes on an outing by himself, and just so happens to get exposed to some form of sex pollen. He staggers back to the ship and comes straight to you.

He just won’t stop cumming. He can’t stop cumming.

His face is twisted up in anguish and he’s frowning, genuinely so miserable you think he’s about to cry.

“Baby, please help me, I’m going crazy.”

His erection looks bigger than usual—you didn’t think that was possible, and for a split second you’re worried that it won’t fit at all. But of course it will. It has fit countless times before.

“I need you. I’m begging you, sweetheart, please.” He frowns and does puppy dog eyes at you. Your heart melts, but you have to set him straight.

“Ace,” you tut. “You don’t ever need to beg for me.”

“Can I, though?” He smiles back, and it looks like a bit of a grimace.

“I’ll allow it. But you have to do what I say, okay?”

Ace nods. “Of course.” He’s thrilled at the idea of you being in control.

You sit down on the bed next to him and rest a hand on his thigh. He flinches.

“Fuck.” You can see his cock jump through the fabric of his underwear.

A simple hand on his skin like this is enough to make him squirm? It’s going to be a fun night. He looks pathetic and miserable right now. His brows are bent at the middle and he’s doing the cutest, saddest little pout you’ve ever seen.

“Touch me more, beautiful,” he murmurs and closes his eyes, mouth hanging open in concentration. His mind is fixated how your cool skin feels against his, how soft your hand is, how close you are to his throbbing hard on.

Your fingers wander over his skin, conjuring goosebumps and shudders, eliciting whimpering sounds from Ace’s pretty lips. The whimpers quickly turn into muted sounds of pleasure.

Precum seeps through the fabric of his underwear and you pity him, reaching your fingers upwards to pull the waistband down. When his cock springs out, sure enough, it’s bigger than usual, a fact which is both troubling and tantalizing.

The tip of his long shaft is red, inflamed, and defined. It glistens in the light from the dim lamp in the corner of his cabin, highlighting the precum that smears his head and continues to seep out—it’s a ridiculous amount of precum. You’ve never seen this much before.

You take a moment to admire him. Your eyes wander from his erection to his defined abs and dark, thin happy trail. Your eyes meet his. His pupils are huge and there’s a visible sheen of sweat on his forehead that mats down the hair around his temples.

Ace is trying not to be impatient, but it’s hard because his body is screaming for attention.

“Please, princess. Use me. Do anything you want to me.” His voice comes out as a whisper, tinted in reverence, and bathed in lust.

When you hum in reply, you stand up, slipping off your underwear and bra. He scoots back onto the pillows and his thighs widen while you get on top of him. Your lower yourself down to sit on top of his erection. You don’t fuck him yet, though. You just lay his shaft flat on your core and stay there for a second.

Some teasing couldn’t hurt. So, you slowly start to roll your hips, rubbing yourself on Ace’s wet shaft. It’s starting to get you worked up, too, and before you know it, you’re soaking wet.

Gasp after gasp tumbles out of his mouth and no less than thirty seconds later, he starts to seize up below you, cumming on his lower abdomen. His breaths are shallow and ragged, and he’s lying there panting.

“Don’t stop,” he chokes out, again begging for something he knows he’ll get if he only waits patiently. “Please don’t stop.”

“Poor thing.” You lean down and kiss him. Even the mere feeling of your lips on his makes him let out the softest groan. He feels like his whole body is on fire, but it’s in a way he’s never felt before, different from the logia fire he’s so accustomed to.

His kisses quickly turn greedy and sloppy, and every drag of your aching core over his cock makes him let out repressed puffs of air in your mouth. Soon, he’s moaning straight into your mouth.

God, he’s so worked up it’s starting to be more fun than you imagined.

Lining up his sticky wet tip with your entrance, you finally start to sink down onto his cock, going deliberately slow so he doesn’t cum again (yet). But when he bottoms out, his hips buck up inadvertently, hitting your gooey hot spot inside.

“F-fuck, fuck,” Ace groans again. “Feels, ah, feels so good.”

He’s practically keening at this point, back almost arching off the bed, fingers digging into the skin of your hips.

You start to ride him slowly. Whatever way feels best. Sometimes you pull yourself up his shaft so only the tip is inside and plunge it back in, other times you keep him inside of you and grind your hips back and forth. One moment, you brace your hands on his chest for more leverage; the next moment, you lean in and kiss his neck, leaving love bites in a trail from his neck to his shoulder. The contact draws out a body-wracking moan from the dark-haired man beneath you—the sounds he’s making are delicious.

He cums aggressively again, hips jerking upwards. Each press of his cock up hits your g-spot and when he feels your body shift in response it drives him crazier.

Ace’s fingers are pulling you downwards, pushing himself deeper inside of you.

“Need more,” he chokes out.

When your legs start to burn, he does all the work for you. Muscly, rough hands come under your thighs, moving you effortlessly up and down until you’re the one cumming, writhing in ecstasy on top of him.

But Ace still doesn’t want to stop. “Keep going, please.”

He has the habit of saying please in bed. It’s endearing. When he asks so nicely, it’s hard to say no.

So, your hips move more. And more. And more. Until they’re numb and he’s fucking you stupid.

You’ve collapsed on top of him now, mewling in his neck from each thrust. “C’mon baby, give me another.” You murmur in his ear, voice seductive and honeyed. It’s all he needs to hear before he literally cums on command.

He’s usually an animal in bed. Buy boy, whatever sex pollen or aphrodisiac he ran into today is doing a number on him. You, very obviously, have no issue with it.

Feral sounds escape his lips while Ace pumps more of his hot seed inside. It’s seeping out of you, creeping down the sides of his body, and saturating the fabric of the bedspread below him. It’s going to leave a massive, milky-white stain. And he isn’t done yet.

“Keep going,” he looks absolutely pathetic. “Please, please, I—I’m going crazy.” He can barely get the words out, so pussydrunk and out of it that he’s on the verge of drooling.

You smile and kiss him on the cheek. “Missionary. But you’re going to go nice and slow, okay?”

Ace nods vigorously in return. He repositions. One of his warm hands is on your waist now, while the other gropes upwards to massage and caress your chest.

He takes his time, just like you told him. From this angle, you can see his face more—and it’s glistening, evidently he’s been crying. He’s been crying because of how good it feels. Something about the idea is wildly erotic. He wants pleasure so badly that he’s begging and crying over it, literal tears from those pretty brown eyes.

Every orgasm feels better than the last. He shoots more seed inside of you again, quickly, almost immediately upon entering you. But there’s a rebound period before his second orgasm where you decide to be a bit cruel.

“Slower, Ace.”

He complies, hips shaking, moving centimeters at a time. There’s so much cum inside of you that it’s almost sloshing out, squelching so loud you’re thankful no one is around to hear. His eyes are glued to where the cum seeps out of you, drinking up the sight of his cock disappearing inside of you with every pass.

Gravelly, obscene groans tumble out from him every second—it’s almost a constant stream.

“Wanna go faster,” he rasps, eyes snapping up to yours. You see more tears gathering on his lash line.

“Not yet, baby. Be a good boy and wait for it, okay?”

When he hears you call him that—good boy—a strangled sounding gasp erupts from his lips and his hips shudder. “Fuuuuhhhccckkk.”

Desperate, heaving breaths accompany his extreme efforts. He’s trying not to cum, trying not to buck and rut haphazardly and mindlessly into your cunt like some animal in heat.

A couple more moments of agonizing slowness pass. When you’ve decided he’s behaved, and when you’re similarly desperate enough, you give him the go ahead.

“Faster.”

His hips snap into action and he’s cumming again within a couple seconds. It’s amazing that he still has cum to give, that he’s not completely shooting blanks at this point, that he hasn’t drained his balls completely yet. But, surely, he’ll get there.

“Mmmpppphhhh,” he moans, deafeningly loud. “Ah, ah, fuck, f-feels so good, fuck.”

“Keep going, ‘m close,” you keen his name and his hips pick up the pace. Each time his cock pushes on your sweet spot it makes you see stars. You’re getting close and he’s getting overstimulated.

When you cum again the pleasure is white-hot and euphoric, buzzing every nerve in your body. Ace does the same—he’s too sensitive, can’t handle the feeling of your walls squeezing and milking him for long before he’s careening into his own wave of euphoria.

He slows down and starts to nuzzle into the crook of your neck. He’s sweaty and his body is hot. Looks like the sex pollen is making his devil fruit powers a bit harder to control.

“You want some more, handsome?” You ask, and he nods eagerly. When you move from underneath him, you ask him to lay on his back. Rifling through a bedside drawer, you bring out your vibrator. You usually keep it in his cabin because that’s where you get the most use out of it. But today, instead of using it on yourself, you’re going to try something new.

While you’re grabbing the toy, Ace reaches a hand down to start touching himself but you tell him to knock it off.

“You need to sit there and be good for me. Don’t touch yourself and don’t cum unless I say so, okay?”

When he hears your stern tone, Ace puts his hands behind his head, and peers down to see what happens next. It’s hard for him to stay still, but he tries his very best.

Situating yourself between his thick thighs, you turn the vibrator on and bring it to the head of Ace’s cock. He almost immediately starts to seize up. He’s going to cum again. But where would the fun be if you just let him?

You take the vibrator away and frown. “Do I need to tell you again? Don’t cum until I say so, sweetheart.”

He pouts and nods. You bring the vibrator back and put it on the lowest setting setting. He’s hardly holding on as is, but when you turn the vibrator’s speed up, he starts to writhe in pleasure.

“’m close,” he whines, biting his lip.

You take the vibrator off again, met with a strangled sounding cry of frustration from Ace. He takes a few minutes to cool back down until he’s ready for you to start again.

Twenty, no, thirty minutes pass like this until he’s on the verge of tears again. When you finally let him have it, he asks so nicely. It’s not like he hasn’t been asking nicely before, but this time his voice cracks and you can see the tears in his lash line.

“C-can I please, please cum?” He’s being so sweet and needy. It’s crazy to think this is the strong, courageous man who has protected you countless times. Reduced to a sniveling mess, asking for another orgasm.

You say yes. He’s being so polite, so why not?

After this orgasm, he’s almost ready to tap out. He can use his safe word, obviously but… he really doesn’t want to. It feels too good. He’ll keep going for as long as he physically can.

“You still have another couple to give me, right? Don’t you want to be good for me and keep going?” You say, looking up from between his thighs. The tip of his cock is inflamed from the relentless vibrating, and his abdomen is coated in a sheen of his own cum. He’s at the point where he doesn’t care about anything, fucked-out with his mind empty.

When he nods his head mindlessly, you take your turn. You sink down on his cock (again) and ride him for as long as it takes you to orgasm. For the record, it doesn’t take long, but Ace has lost track of time.

He’s being louder than usual. Every few seconds he lets out some form of a whine, a whimper, a “fuck,” a “please,” or a “’s too much.” His cheeks are bright red, accentuating those cute freckles, and his eyes are half-lidded. He’s so handsome it makes your stomach flip. He’s falling apart with minimal effort, and he’s all hands, too. He grabs handfuls of the plush skin of your hips and ass, kneading and getting himself more wound up.

Ace cums once while you’re working up to your own orgasm, then again when you’re cumming on his cock, and then a third time, when you pull yourself off his length and wrap a hand around his shaft. Every time he cums, you encourage and praise him. It drives him crazier.

“There’s a good boy,” you say. “Keep going for me. Don’t stop.”

You talk dirty to him while you give him one very long hand job. He eats it up, loves the idea of you speaking filth to nobody but him. Before you started seeing each other, he couldn’t imagine you had this sort of mouth on you—not in his wildest dreams. It’s his delight every time you’re in bed that you feel comfortable enough with him to talk like this.

“You’re just too sweet I can’t stop Ace,” your voice oozes in desire. “And you’re being so good for me.”

“’s good?” He slurs, holding your eye contact as much as he can manage.

“Mmmhm. Tell me what it feels like. Use your words, okay?”

His eyes flutter and his voice comes out as a whisper. “So good. F-feels so fucking good.”

You coo in his ear and bite his earlobe softly. “Don’t I always make you feel so good?” He nods in a silent reply, rocking his hips up to fuck himself with your fist.

As you milk more cum from him, he reaches a hand up—you initially think he’s going for your chest, but his hand falls on your cheek and he attempts to pull you into a kiss. He’s a bit weak in his current state, so you oblige him by leaning in.

It’s just gut-wrenchingly cute of him to be fucked dumb like this and still want to get kisses from you. He’s just thanking his lucky stars that you, of all people, is who he ended up with.

While you explore his mouth with your tongue, and cup his face with your free hand, his heart feels like it’s going to burst.

He cums again. The fact that he still has cum to give is preposterous in itself. You’ve lost track of time at this point, too.

You make him eat you out and he’s (understandingly) sloppy with it. His hot mouth feels just right on your core, and he pays just enough attention to your clit. Feeling you pull on his hair makes him feel more aroused than he thought possible.

So, he’s ready to fuck you again. He goes for another round in missionary, then puts you into a mating press. Afterwards, he gets tuckered out and you figure that he has one good one left in him, or, rather, he probably has more to give but he really should give it a rest after that. It would be way too cruel to make him keep going after this one, right? You’ll decide the answer to this question after he cums for you again.

“One more, Ace,” you pet his ruffled up hair and grace him with kisses. “You can do that for me, can’t you, pretty boy?”

He nods obediently.

“There you go,” you purr and start to trace your lips down his abdomen, licking up a small portion of the very large mess he’s made on himself.

His eyes widen as he realizes he’s about to get one of his very favorite things—a blowjob from none other than yourself.

He lifts his head up and watches in awe as you lick a long stripe up his shaft and then take him whole, hollowing your cheeks before you start to suck him off. You’re gentle at first, until he starts moaning louder, then you figure fuck it, he can cum. You let him off easy this time. He’s just been so good for you.

When you look up from your position between his legs, you make eye contact, nod, and then hum. It sends him over the edge. Ace’s fingers snake into your hair and he holds your head down as he cums down your throat.

“C-cumming, ‘m cumming, ah, fuck, fuhhhcckkk that feels good,” his groans are harsh and loud.

He’s so sweet afterwards that it’s heart melting. You know that he must be tired, but he doesn’t act the part. Not when you’ve been so good to him, when you’ve praised him, taken your time with him, coddled and kissed him. It almost makes you feel guilty how affectionate he is.

Pulling into you a long, tender kiss, he so sweetly says, “fuck, you’re perfect. I can’t believe someone like me gets to be with someone like you.”

You cup his cheeks and tell him to cut it out. Of course someone like him gets to be with someone like you. He’s perfect, after all. You cuddle him in bed for a while before he, again, very politely, asks if you’d help clean him up. He’s positively covered in cum and doesn’t want to stain anything else more than he already has. Seems like this is another pair of bedsheets that can be considered properly soiled. Not like that will stop you from doing the same thing in the future.

Now, where did he come across that sex pollen again?

this style of writing for me (when i just write straight up smut with no plot) is akin to a sort of slop. i am the lunch lady handing out scoops of questionable and most likely unsatisfying mush BUT sometimes on a good day it is delicious... i can only hope the slop today did not disappoint... >_> cant say this one is my absolute fave so apologies if it's trash T-T but i love the idea of him being so whiny like this..!!

check out my masterlist and also the best piece i've written on ace so far, if you liked this one!

dividers by @cafekitsune

taglist @eggrollforyou

[rainydayathogwarts]

Bloody quills and teary eyes - George weasley x potter!reader

summary: george comforts you after your first detention with umbridge wc: 0.7k+

George tapped his foot on the floor in front of him tirelessly, his homework lain untouched on the table. Fred and Ron played a quiet game of chess, with the occasional comment thrown, and Hermione’s face was dug in a book. You and Harry? Well, the Potter siblings just always seemed to be in detention, and today was no different. The portrait to the common room swung open and Harry walked in, quick footsteps beelining him straight to his dorm giving away his poor mood. George looked back and forth between the closing portrait and your brother, wondering where you had to be. 

Ginny trudged down the stairs, footsteps attracting Ron’s attention. While Ron was turning away from her and back to the game, he caught sight of George, eyebrows furrowing slightly.

“You alright George?” He asked, pulling Fred’s attention from the game. “Yeah. She said she’d meet me back here after detention but Harry just came back alone.” Ginny plopped down on the couch next to him, offering him a candy. He declined. “She being the missus?” Ginny asked, chewing slowly. George nodded. “She’s by the Black Lake. I could see her from the window in my dorm.” She explained, watching her brother’s reaction carefully. The Black Lake was never a positive place to be on a cold, dark afternoon, and especially not after a detention. George stood up, ready to come find you when the portrait swung open once more.

Your focus was solely on that awful Umbridge woman’s face. If you could turn around right now, you’d go and beat her up, but unfortunately your stronger hand seemed to be injured. You thought sitting by the Black Lake would help you calm down, and momentarily, it had, allowing you to shed a few silent tears. But the second you began your trek back to the common room, your blood boiled with anger once more. Through teary eyes, you found your path up to your dorm, slamming the door shut behind you before slumping down on the floor against your bed. You brought your hands to your face, and immediately, your chest wracked with a painful sob.

George stared at the corner you disappeared behind from where he was stood, hearing the loud slam of your door all the way down to the common room. “How awful was that detention?” Questioned Hermione, a concerned look on her face. George ignored her, following you up to your dorm. He gently knocked on your door three times, listening for your call to come in, but it never came. Instead, he received a “Go away!” and he felt his heart break on the spot, hearing the pain in your voice.

“My love? You sound hurt, please let me comfort you.” George begged softly, resting his head against the door. He didn’t get a response, only hearing more sobs from the other side of the door, and he let himself in. “Oh sweetheart…” He started, immediately sitting down next to you and bringing you into a hug. You let George hold you close to his chest, and you cradled your hand close to yours, feeling the painful throb left by the evil witch’s blood quill. “I didn’t even check on Harry.” You cried when your sobs began to subside, wiping your tears away. “Why do you need to check on him, what happened?” You pulled away from George’s hug, meeting his eyes for the first time that night. You almost didn’t have the courage to tell him. You swallowed harshly, putting your hand up to show him the dried blood on your hand spelling out ‘I must not question authority.’ George gasped, carefully bringing your hand in his. He hand his thumb over a patch of skin where you’d desperately tried wiping your blood off, leaving a red tint to your skin.

“That bitch. I’ll tell Professor McGonagall tomorrow, she’ll do something.” He said, bringing you in a hug again. “Don’t listen to that bitch anyway. Questioning authority is what makes you stand out. Everyone just goes along with what people tell them to do, but you? You make rules of your own.” He told you. “Is that why you like me? Because I’m a rule breaker?” But you suppose you shouldn’t have asked that question because George went off telling you about all the reasons he loved you, and the last thing you heard before you fell asleep was “And one day I’m going to marry you for those reasons.”

taglist: @ravisinghs-wife, @starry-remus, @pain-in-the-ashe

[beloveds-embrace]

Thinking about designationless!reader au, how the boys would spend HOURS searching for candles that properly represented their scents so reader would feel included in the nest

Anyway just wanted to say I LOVE your writing and you've got me inspired to write my own little designationless!reader au (which if I ever do post, I will tag you for credits ❤️❤️), its just has so many possibilities

Every time I see you post, blog, wtver this website wants to call it, my day gets a little brighter :)

-👽

omg thank you so so so much anon?? you are so very sweet!! i am very happy to know you like my stuff and felt inspired by it!! i hope you enjoy this, your idea was wonderful! <33 omegaverse masterlist

The idea had started innocently enough.

Gaz had mentioned it one night while they were snuggled in the nest, you nestled warm and comfy between them all. You’d fallen asleep on Price’s chest, Soap’s arm thrown over your waist, Ghost’s steady breathing brushing your temple, and Gaz quietly watching from the edge.

“She can’t smell us,” Gaz had murmured, musing and cutting through the peaceful silence. “But… what if she could? Just a little? For the nest.”

It was a seed of an idea that quickly took root in all of them.

The next day, they found themselves walking through shops they’d normally never step foot in- boutiques, candle stores, even a few farmers’ markets. Price looked utterly out of place amongst rows of colorful jars, his gruff demeanor clashing with the delicate scents wafting around him. Soap, on the other hand, took to it with a determination that made the staff wary as he sniffed candle after candle, holding them up to Gaz and Ghost for confirmation.

“This one’s close, isn’t it?” he asked, holding up a jar labeled Amber Woods. He shoved it under Ghost’s nose, earning an irritated growl.

“Too sweet,” Ghost muttered then, shaking his head. “Try again.”

Gaz was off in another aisle, holding up a candle labeled Vanilla Bourbon and frowning. “This isn’t right either. It’s too… fake.” He sighed, setting it down with a heavy thunk. “How’s it this hard to find something that fits?”

Price stood in the corner, his brow furrowed as he examined the names on the candles. He knew and had been told many times his cedarwood scent was sharp and earthy, grounding in a way that none of these synthetic imitations could capture. He picked one up- Smoked Cedar- and took a deep inhale.

“Not bad." He said after a moment, setting it aside in their “maybe” pile.

They spent hours combing through the store, moving from candle jars to wax melts to essential oil blends. They argued with each other quietly, then with the amused store employees, their tones growing increasingly frustrated with each other as they tried to find scents that truly represented themselves.

“It’s just a candle, sirs,” One employee, clearly annoyed with them, chuckled, running a hand through his hair. “Does it really matter this much?”

Ghost’s dark eyes snapped to him, his voice low and dangerous, not helped by the balaclava and cap he wore. “It’s not just a candle. It’s for someone.”

That shut the employee up quickly.

Eventually, after what felt like an eternity and much sniffing, they settled on a few options.

When they brought the candles back to the nest (oh, how they loved that you were beginning to spend more and more of your free time there), you blinked up at them, confused by their triumphant expressions and the little bag Price held in his hand. They looked a little too proud of themselves.

“What’s all this?” You asked, sitting up from your spot. I

“Something for you.” Price said simply, his voice soft as he placed candles on the table.

Soap grinned, almost vibrating with excitement and pride as he gestured for you to come closer. “Go on, lass. Smell ‘em.”

You leaned forward, hesitantly uncapping the first candle. The cedarwood hit you first, earthy and grounding, and your eyes fluttered shut as you hummed in delight. You glanced up at Price when you heard a deep rumble you've come to understand as prideful.

“This is.... you, isn't it?” you realized, earning a small nod from him.

You went through each one, inhaling the soft citrus of Soap’s, the richness of Ghost’s smoky scent, the soothing vanilla of Gaz’s. By the time you finished, you stared at them with something akin to more awe than the sun has for its orbiting planets.

“You did this... for me?”

“Of course,” Gaz pressed a kiss to your temple. “Wanted you to feel like you’re part of us. Always.”

You didn’t know what to say, but as they lit the candles and pulled you back into the nest, you felt surrounded by them in a way you never had before.

And for the first time, you felt as if you could... be like them. For once, you understood what their scents were like- a part of their world for just a moment.

You will be keeping those candles.

[urhoneycombwitch]

Hi, cutie 😘 Slutty metalhead for your thoughts?

oh SO many thoughts but u know the main one rn is… nostalgia 😭 look at that fresh faced baby boy. made me think of revisiting that spot in your later years with Eddie… back in town for a wedding, mayhaps…? I love u sooooo much sarah!!! muah muah muah 

(cw: drug & alcohol mention, R wears heels+ a dress and has breasts, fade-to-black sex SOZ mdni +18 as always!!)

Eddie looks so good in a tux. Except right now, he’s yanking at the loop of his tie like it’s choking him (it isn’t, he’s being dramatic), and shedding the confines of his smart black tailcoat into a messy pile in the back of the van (on loan from Uncle Wayne for the duration of your visit, the engine still running miraculously smooth after all these years).

Nancy and Jon aren’t getting married until tomorrow so now that the rehearsal dinner is done with, everyone is under strict instructions to rest up for the big day- but based off the gleam in Eddie’s eye and the corners he’s taking at light speed, you’re guessing the guest bed at the trailer isn’t the main destination right now.

You get comfy, too, kicking off your heels, tucking your feet up underneath the silk of your dress train, giggling as Eddie talks a mile a minute. It feels like old times; the passenger window gets rolled down, cool spring night air of Hawkins breathing life back into the both of you. 

It was stuffy, hot, and crowded in the main hall, a raucous ball of light and music and hugs over tables loaded with food; you both went delirious with happiness at seeing everyone in one room again.

Even so, the stark contrast of the still, dark forest is a relief. Eddie parks at the edge of trees just outside Hawkins High, pools of light from the parking lot swallowed by the thick perimeter of sycamores. 

You’ve never been on this side of the forest before- the two of you were friends, in highschool, but Eddie was a deft hand at keeping you away from his less savory dealings back in the day. 

Now, he takes your hand, confident and sure-footed, your bare feet pressing into the soft underbrush as you follow close behind. 

After a minute, your eyes adjust- at dizzying heights, the trees split apart to reveal the sky, twinkling pinpricks of stars lighting your path to the centre of the woods. Eddie’s laughing while he recounts the time an old gym teacher caught him out here, and points out the exact tree he had to scramble up to get away. 

Your fingers are warm, weaved in between his, and it’s either the champagne or the love that makes you tipsy, leaning into the twine of arms, resting your forehead against his shoulder- “Wish I could’ve seen it.”

“Nah.” Eddie kisses the crown of your head, strokes his thumb over your knuckles as the picnic table appears into view. “Glad you stayed out of trouble and let me be the one to get into it.”

The wood table is decidedly much older than in its heyday as a pharmacy counter, but in good enough condition to hold your weight as you sit right on top, leaning back into your hands- “Got into plenty of trouble, I was just a bit better at hiding it, s’all.”

“That right?” Eddie comes to stand between the v of your spread legs, hem of your dress climbing along with his hands that settle on either side of your bare thighs. In the moonlight, the sleek black of his hair glows, backlit in white like a halo.

He’s grinning. You are, too, no sense in playing coy- but you’ve got another card to play, before the chase is up. 

“Actually, I kind of brought you out here for something.” You sit up, pressing the length of your body against his, breasts to chest, nose notching to the side of his own; Eddie sucks in a painfully sharp breath. 

When your leg hooks at his hip, pelvis pulling flush with yours, his grip tightens.

You kiss your way up the column of his neck, then whisper, “I was kinda hoping I could buy some weed off you.”

“I- whuh?” Not quite words, Eddie talks around a tongue that’s gone limp; his head swims from the feeling of your teeth behind his ear. “You wanna… I don’t. I won’t charge you.”

You tsk, pulling away just far enough to give a reproachful look- “Come on, did you give up the goods this easy for every pretty girl who asked?”

“Nope. Just for you.” An easy and honest answer. Eddie slots himself further into the warmth of your body, the growing bulge in his slacks making contact with the strip of wet fabric between your thighs; you moan into his kiss, tongues a greedy slide of want in the others’ mouth.

Trying to keep up some semblance of the roleplay, you gasp out- “You didn’t even… let me offer to pay- oh, fuck, there- with an alternative method…”

Eddie gets a hand past the cup of your bra, massaging the fat and catching your nipple in a twist between thumb and forefinger. Your spine arches into the touch, giving Eddie’s other hand ample room to press against your low back, keeping you rocking forward in a slow grind.

“Let me guess.” His breath is a ragged heat at the side of your neck. “Was sex on the table?”

“Exactly.” 

With a tug to his roots, Eddie follows you down flat against the creaking wood, laughing at your quick wit, relaxing into your body- there’s nothing scary about these woods anymore. 

[theballadofharkness]

She makes me laugh

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x fem!reader

Summary: At a coven meeting you are cornered by Jen and Alice who question just why someone as sweet as you could be the lover of infamous witch-killer Agatha Harkness which allows you to take a trip down memory lane.

Word count: 2K

A/N: In his version Agatha never lost her powers after going up against Wanda and is still doing her Witches Road con with reader 💜

Present Day

The room is dimly lit, a mix of flickering candlelight and the soft glow of a fire crackling in the hearth. Agatha, perched in an armchair near the fireplace, is deep in discussion with Billy, her new pet to mentor, who is peppering her with an endless stream of questions about runes and hexes. You’re standing by a side table, fingers idly tracing the edge of your teacup. The warm, herbal scent of your brew is comforting, but the moment doesn’t last.

"Mind if we join you?"

You glance up to find two witches Agatha and Billy had invited who ‘if memory serves you right, were called Jen and Alice standing before you, their expressions a mix of curiosity and thinly veiled skepticism. Jen, tall and imposing with sharp features, crosses her arms. Alice, smaller but no less intimidating, tilts her head, her dark curls bouncing slightly.

"Sure," you say softly, gesturing to the empty chairs nearby.

They don’t sit. Instead, they step closer, effectively boxing you in against the side table.

"So," Jen begins, her tone casual but with an edge. "We’ve been wondering about something."

"Yes," Alice chimes in, her voice saccharine but her eyes sharp. "How exactly does someone like you end up with someone like Agatha Harkness?"

You blink, caught off guard. "Someone like me?"

"You know," Jen says, gesturing vaguely at you. "A green witch. Soft-spoken. Sweet. The kind of person who probably rescues injured birds and talks to houseplants."

Alice glanced over at your partner. "And then there’s Agatha. Infamous witch killer. Master manipulator. She’s—"

"Agatha," you finish for her, your tone calm but firm.

Jen raises an eyebrow. "Exactly. How does that even work? What could you possibly see in her?" Their words are laced with skepticism, curiosity, and maybe a hint of judgment.

Their question echoes in your mind as you pause, your gaze drifting toward the fireplace. Agatha is gesturing animatedly as she explains something to Billy, her smirk firmly in place as she counters one of his endless questions. Even from across the room, you can feel her presence—commanding, magnetic, yet somehow still comforting. You smile as you find yourself slipping into a reverie, memories of you and Agatha unfurling like the petals of a flower.

~

Boston, Massachusetts~ 1902

When you first began exploring your gifts as a green witch, you’d been hesitant, unsure of yourself. Your magic felt wild, unpredictable, and you’d doubted if you’d ever truly master it.

But Agatha saw potential where others saw uncertainty.

The forest was alive with whispers. Leaves rustled overhead, their sound blending with the soft hum of insects and the distant hoot of an owl. You stood in the center of a small clearing, your hands trembling slightly as you tried—again—to coax the stubborn seedling in front of you to bloom.

Agatha leaned against a nearby tree, her arms crossed, watching you with an amused glint in her eyes. She was patient, but her smirk betrayed her confidence that you’d get it eventually.

“Darling, you’re overthinking it,” she said, her tone somewhere between teasing and encouraging. “Magic isn’t something you wrangle like a wild horse. It’s something you become.”

You frowned, glancing at her. “Easy for you to say. Your magic just... works. Mine feels like it has a mind of its own, and it’s not listening to me.”

At that, Agatha pushed off the tree and strode over, her boots crunching softly on the forest floor. She crouched beside you, resting a hand on your shoulder. Her touch was firm, grounding, and you immediately felt some of the tension ease from your body.

“You’re not trying to control the plant, are you?” she asked, her voice gentler now.

You hesitated. “Maybe a little.”

She laughed softly, her breath warm against your cheek as she leaned closer. “That’s not how green witches work, my love. Your power comes from connection, not control. Feel it. The seedling doesn’t need to be told to grow—it needs to be invited.”

Agatha’s hands slid over yours, guiding your fingers to gently brush against the delicate leaves of the seedling. “Close your eyes,” she murmured. “Feel the life inside it. The roots in the earth, the sun above, the pulse of the world around it.”

You did as she said, her voice a soothing anchor. At first, you felt nothing but your own nerves, a jittery buzz beneath your skin. But then, as her steady presence grounded you, you began to sense it—a faint thrum, like a heartbeat, nestled in the tiny plant.

“That’s it,” Agatha said, her tone laced with pride. “Now, give it a little nudge. Not with force—with love.”

You exhaled slowly, releasing the last of your tension, and let your magic flow. A soft green glow emanated from your fingertips, and before your eyes, the seedling began to grow, unfurling into a vibrant flower.

Agatha chuckled, her pride unmistakable. “I told you, darling. You’re extraordinary.”

For the first time, you believed it.

~

London, England~ 1934

The coven was gathered in a large, ancient hall, the air thick with magic and tension. Agatha stood at the center, commanding the attention of every witch present. Her presence was magnetic, her violet magic crackling faintly at her fingertips as she outlined her plans for the coven’s future. You sat off to the side, a little nervous but determined to support her. You were still new to gatherings like this, still finding your footing among witches who had centuries of experience over you. But tonight, you felt steadier, bolstered by the way Agatha had kissed your temple before the meeting and whispered, “You belong here. You belong with me.”

The murmurs in the room grew quieter as Agatha continued to speak, her sharp wit and undeniable power holding everyone in thrall. But not everyone was as respectful.

“So, what’s she doing here?”

The voice cut through the room like a dagger, dripping with condescension. You turned to see its owner: a tall, haughty witch with a cascade of dark hair and a sneer fixed firmly on her face. Her name was Evelyn, one of the oldest and most arrogant members of the coven that Agatha decided to target.

Agatha’s speech faltered for only a moment before her gaze snapped to Evelyn, her smile vanishing.

Evelyn didn’t seem to notice—or care. She gestured toward you dismissively. “She’s a green witch, isn’t she? What could someone like that possibly offer on the road to a coven like this? Much less to you, Agatha.”

A ripple of unease spread through the room. You felt your cheeks burn with embarrassment, but before you could respond, Agatha’s voice cut through the silence, sharp and dangerous.

“Careful, Evelyn,” she said, her tone cold as ice.

Evelyn smirked. “I’m only saying what everyone’s thinking. Green witches are... quaint. Charming, perhaps. But hardly worth—”

“Enough.”

The word cracked like a whip, and the entire room seemed to hold its breath. Agatha stepped forward, her violet magic sparking to life around her hands.

“You dare question why she’s here?” Agatha hissed, her voice rising with fury. “She’s here because she’s my witch. That alone makes her more powerful than you could ever hope to be.”

Evelyn opened her mouth, but Agatha raised a hand, silencing her.

“And if you had even a fraction of her talent,” Agatha continued, her voice dripping with venom, “you’d understand that green witches are not quaint—they are essential. Especially on the road. Their connection to life itself is magic in its purest form. And this one?” She turned, her piercing gaze softening as it landed on you. “This one is extraordinary.”

Evelyn faltered, her bravado crumbling under Agatha’s glare. Without another word, she slunk back into the shadows.

When the meeting ended, Agatha found you near the doorway, her smirk returning as she leaned close.

“Don’t let her words get to you, darling,” she said, her voice smooth. “She’s just jealous. And you know...” She paused, her grin sharpening. “I’ll take particular pleasure in draining her magic when the time comes. No one disrespects my girl.”

Her words sent a shiver down your spine, but you couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips. With Agatha, you always felt safe. Always seen. Always loved.

~

Brooklyn, New York~ 1966

It was late, one of those evenings where time seemed to stretch lazily. You’d been in the kitchen, preparing tea, when Agatha waltzed in, still dressed from the day but barefoot, her hair slightly mussed. She had that playful smirk on her face, the one that always meant trouble—or fun.

From the little radio on the counter, Donovan’s "Season of the Witch" began to play. Agatha’s eyes lit up as she sauntered over, her hand outstretched.

“Dance with me, darling,” she said, her voice low and inviting.

“Here? Now?” you asked, but the smile creeping onto your face betrayed your feigned protest.

“Of course here, and always now,” she quipped, pulling you into her arms before you could resist.

You’d laughed as she twirled you around the small kitchen, her movements both elegant and ridiculous. She hummed along to the tune, spinning you until the world felt like a blur of candlelight and laughter. When the song slowed, her hands slid to your waist, her forehead resting gently against yours.

“In this moment,” she whispered, her voice unusually soft, “there’s no one else in the world. Just you and me.”

~

Westview, New Jersey~ 2023

One rainy afternoon, as the two of you sat curled up on the couch, Agatha decided to entertain you with her “wicked witch” routine. She stood dramatically, throwing her shawl over her shoulders like a cape, and cackled so convincingly you almost spilled your tea.

“My pretty!” she screeched, pointing a finger at you. “And your little garden, too!”

You’d laughed so hard you cried, clutching your sides as she pranced around the room, mimicking the exaggerated gestures of the Wicked Witch of the West.

“Do you know,” she said, finally flopping back onto the couch beside you, “that character was based on me?”

“Oh, really?” you teased, still catching your breath.

“Absolutely,” she said with a grin. “I was the blueprint. Too bad they didn’t get the look right- I felt downright insulted at the nose they went with.”

You laughed so hard your sides ached. Her ability to make you laugh, even on the darkest days, was one of the many reasons you’d fallen so deeply for her.

~

Back to the present

You can’t help but smile, your fingers tightening slightly around your teacup as Jen and Alice exchanged a glance, clearly impatient.

"Well?" Alice prompts. "What’s the big secret?"

You look back at Agatha just as she catches your eye. Her smirk softens, and with a theatrical flair, she blows you an exaggerated kiss. You giggle despite yourself, shaking your head.

Turning back to Jen and Alice, you simply say, "She makes me laugh."

Alice blinks, clearly taken aback by the simplicity of your answer.

"That’s it?" Jen asks, incredulous.

You shrug, your smile unwavering. "That’s everything."

Before they can press you further, Agatha’s voice cuts through the air.

"Darling!" she calls, her tone dripping with exaggerated affection. "Don’t let those two bore you to death. You’re far too precious for that."

The room chuckles, and you can’t help but laugh along.

Jen mutters something under her breath, but Alice just shakes her head, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Well, I guess if she makes you happy..."

"She does," you say firmly, your gaze drifting back to Agatha as your heart swells with affection.

And for the rest of the evening, as the coven continues their meeting, you sit a little taller, secure in the knowledge that the love you and Agatha share is as fierce and enduring as it is unexpected.

Masterlist

[thefrontmanscockwarmer]

Obsession (part 4)

Player 001 x Reader [SMUT]

Masterlist <- Comment on this post to be added to the tag list

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Tw: stalker!In Ho, rape is implied, Dark content.

The sound of the door locking didn’t come, but the lights turned out one by one. In Ho walked around your house, ensuring that you really were sleeping. Your phone light wasn’t on either, you were asleep.

In Ho opened the front door quietly. He shut it behind him and crept through the house silently. He heard the sound of pattering echo the walls. He froze slowly backing up into a darker corner. He saw the cat, a sigh of relief escaping him as they stared at each other.

“Hello, kitty” he crouched to pet him. The cat purred as he rubbed In Ho legs jumping up to reach his knee. Circling through the his parted legs, In Ho stands up. “Take me to Mommy’s room (c/n).” He said as the cat trotted away.

Following silently, In Ho looked at the decor on the walls. He entered your room. Watching you sleep soundly as he towered over you. Watching as you slept. He planted a kiss on your lips. Harsh and vile. Waking you up from your slumber.

“In Ho?” You asked. “What’re you doing here? Get out of my house!”

“Relax, I just wanna sleep with you” he growled. He sat on your torso, ripping his tie off his neck. “Just fucking relax (y/n). I’m not going to hurt you” he began tying your hands up.

“In Ho, I don’t want this.” You said.

“Yes you do. Stop denying me” In Ho said as he ripped the blanket from you, revealing the thong you were wearing. He groaned loudly as his cock raged in his slacks. “I heard you moan for me.”

“Wha- how did you see that video?!” You shout in embarrassment.

“Oh bunny, I saw all of them. Every single one where you begged for me, came for me, told me you were going to cum on my fingers, asked me to fuck that pussy like I was going to die. All of them” he declared evilly.

“In Ho, please” you begged. “Please”

In Ho's fingers plunged into the your pussy, his touch rough and unyielding. He didn't care about your pleasure; all he cared about was asserting his control. You felt a surge of arousal mixed with pain as In Ho's fingers stretched you wide, his fingertips scraping against their walls.

“Oh good girl, so wet for me” he said. “You’re tied up, doing something you apparently don’t want, and here you are, soaking wet and drenching my fingers” you turned your face from him.

He pumped his fingers in and out, his pace relentless as he drove you closer and closer to climax. You felt your body tensing up, your muscles coiling tighter and tighter as you neared release. But just as you were about to tip over the edge, In Ho stopped.

You cried out in frustration, your body trembling with need. "Please, In Ho" you begged, your voice shaking with desperation. "Let me cum."

In Ho just laughed, his eyes glinting with cruelty. "No," he said, his voice cold and unyielding. "You don't get to cum yet."

You pleaded with him, begging him to let you release. But In Ho just shook his head, his fingers still buried deep within you but motionless. You felt like you were being torn apart by your own desire, your body screaming for release but denied it by In Ho's merciless touch.

"Maybe later," In Ho said finally, pulling his fingers out of your throbbing pussy and leaving you feeling empty and unsatisfied. "But for now... you're going to have to wait."

Your wrists were bound, the silk fabric digging into your skin as In Ho pulled it tight. You felt a surge of fear mixed with arousal as you realized they were completely at his mercy. And you loved it. In Ho's eyes gleamed with a sadistic intensity as he gazed at you, his chest heaving with excitement.

You felt a jolt of shock as In Ho's fingers dug into your hips, holding them in place. His cock was rock-hard, and he slammed it into you without warning, making you cry out in shock.

The neck tie bit into your skin as you struggled against their bonds, but In Ho just laughed and held you tighter. He pounded into you relentlessly, his thrusts brutal and unforgiving. You felt like you were being torn apart, your body stretched to its limits as In Ho rammed into you again and again.

You came close to climaxing multiple times only to have him pull back at last second leaving you hanging before finally allowing you release after what seemed an eternity you screamed out loud shuddering from head-to-toe feeling utterly spent.

“I’m not done with you yet” he said. You cried loudly from the over stimulation of cumming and still enduring his cock.

In Ho's grip on their hips tightened as he pulled you closer, his cock still buried deep within. He leaned in close, his breath hot against your ear as he whispered "you're mine now... I'm going to bury my cum so deep inside you that your only choice is to just take it". You felt a surge of panic mixed with arousal as you realized you were completely at his mercy.

And then it happened - In Ho came inside your belly hot seed spurting deep within making you feel utterly helpless while declaring through gritted teeth "you're going to carry my child... and there's nothing you can do about it". He spoke harshly.

He planted hard kisses on your lips, as tears ran down your face.

“I need more” you begged. “Please give me more. More of you, I need more” you began to cry. “I haven’t had you in 5 years and all I need is you again, like I did in the games”

“Well, you have me, for the rest of our lives.” He spat laying next to you. Stripping his clothes till he was naked.

“I want you inside me” you whispered. “Please” he smiled. His plan worked out perfectly. He couldn’t deny your poor pussy his delicious cock. He laid beside you. Catching his breath.

“Soon, little bunny, soon.” He sighed. “I need to calm down before I can do this again”

Tag list:

@syraxnyra @colorwastaken @vkeyy @christinamadsen @sebbymybaby21

[midnight-mourning]

Polar Frights

ignore this is a few minutes late, ignore this is a few minutes late-

agh, anywho, had a lot of fun with this, i saw the prompt and kknew immeditately what i wanted to write. It also tied in with something i've been wanting to do for ages, so it all worked out!

So, here's a little something for @wyervan's Yuletide au! I fell in love with them and their designs the moment I saw them and have been itching to write something for ages now (hi it's me the 'not santa' anon from a literal month ago lol). Hope you all enjoy, and if you see this wyervan, hope i did your boys justice ^^

Word Count: 1474

Words used: frigid, polar, caverns, frostbitten from @divinit3a's cafe prompts

Frigid. 

That would best describe the weather currently, as you traverse through the snow. The wind whips around you, cutting against the exposed skin of your face. Your eyes sting with tears, but you keep pushing forward, footfalls heavy as you move across the landscape. 

You'd rather be anywhere but here right now, the howling of the wind reminding you of that as you move. But, you weren't going to stop now. You'd come too far to turn back now, you weren't going to let it be in vein. 

You know what you saw, you were sure of it. Even if everyone else would call you crazy if you tried to explain, you know what you witnessed last night. 

You'd been worried about her, the blacksmith's daughter, Opal. You'd seen less and less of her since her father had caught on to you slipping her meals, playing games, and so on. You'd been so careful, but it hadn't been enough obviously. 

When you realized it had been days since you'd laid eyes on her it was late while lying in bed. It'd been haunting you, and so you decided the only course of action was to simply go and check. Sure you didn't know how, but you argued that you'd figured it out during your half-awake stumbling to their home. 

So when you turn the corner and happen to peer up onto the roof, spot a pair a of glowing red eyes upon a hulking form, well, you weren't prepared for that, to say the least. The beast doesn't notice you, not at first. Instead, it's focus is on a certain bedroom window, one you knew belonged to Opal, and the hair on your skin stands up. 

You want to say something, do anything as it takes a clawed hand and creaks open the window. But with it's large, curled horns and cloven hooves, you very much fear you're seeing the devil himself. Your frozen in your fear, unable to act as the monster ducks inside momentarily and back out with the sleeping girl in his arms. 

Your body finally responds then, in the worst way. You let out a small gasp, barely a whisper, but you still slap your hand over your mouth. 

Somehow, it heard, whipping to look in your direction. You once again stand motionless, eyes locked on that piercing crimson gaze. It makes a noise, a mix between a huff and a growl, eyes narrowing to small slits. Then, Opal stirs, and you both shift your focus to her.

She settles again, and with a final look to the, the beast is gone. It was so quick you're still not certain if it leaped off into the darkness, or just vanished into thin air. 

Regardless, you know what happened was real, at least in some part, as the blacksmith casually mentioned his daughter as 'under the weather' the very next morning. A quick search of his home by the other villagers however proved otherwise. And as soon as you heard the news, you knew what you had to do. 

You remember the stories you'd heard as a child. Children who misbehaved were punished for their wrongdoings, snatched up by the likes of a demon as penance. But you knew with all your heart that Opal was nothing of the sorts. 

A mistake, it had to be. One you had to make right. Or else.

You only had a vague idea of where you were going, there wasn't much out in this polar wasteland besides the trees and snow, but you knew the legend. If you traveled far enough, to the point your feet ached and your body was near ridden with frostbite, until you were at your absolute limit and felt the strongest desire to turn back, there would be something. What? You weren't certain. You don't think anyone was. 

As you come across another open clearing, more nothingness in your sight, your heart begins to sink a bit. With the current state you’re in, you need to find shelter soon. Despite your layers and extra precautions, you were starting to feel the chill sink in, more than usual that is. 

Just as you stop to plan what to do next, there's a sound above you of... something shouting?

You dare to glance up. 

Standing out against the stark white sky is a sleigh of bronze. Even from down here you can take note of all the intricacies of the metalwork, but you can't even focus on that when you realize attached to the sleigh are nine massive reindeer. They too gleam like the bronze, but with the steam emitting from the, along with how they effortlessly glide through the sky, it seems impossible to consider them as machine. Their movements far too alive. 

If that wasn't enough, another shout interrupts your baffled thoughts. As the sleigh passes overhead, you finally take note of its driver. Humanoid, but much like the rest of the company, he's also a machine of some sort. An automaton, you realize. Spikes encircled his head, giving the impression of a sun. His red fur coat seems unnecessary to you, but you're far past the point of questioning something so, simple, at this point. 

You rush out into the field to get a better view as it disappears off into the distance, only to realize that after a certain point, the sleigh stops getting further away. It's turning around, coming back. 

And seemingly, is heading straight for you. 

You panic, suddenly gaining a burst of energy to keep moving. You don't know what that thing wants with you, but you're not sticking around long enough to find out. 

As you cross the field you hear more yelling from behind you, he's trying to speak to you, you realize. But with the wind and your own fear blocking out your senses, you can't even begin to comprehend what he might be saying. 

As you make it to the opposite side, you see the mouth of a massive cave and not having many other options, decide to head straight for it. 

Once you make it inside, you keep going, your feet moving of their own volition as you travel further and further into the dark. It's cold, but not as cold as outside. You only stop moving when you physically collapse to the ground, exhausted. 

Taking deep breaths, you feel around in the darkness for the cave wall, crawling over and laying back against it as you try and catch your breath. 

Despite the sprint you just completed, the cold starts to seep in again immediately. You shiver, teeth chattering as you huddle your arms against yourself. You have no way to make a fire, it occurs to you. You'd been in such a rush that besides bundling up and packing a small amount of food, you'd forgotten to gather the supplies for it. 

Interestingly, either because of hypothermia overtaking your now—likely—frostbitten body, or of an unexplainable natural phenomenon, the ground below you is startingly warm. You can't make hide nor hair of it. 

You seep it up as much as you can, having nothing else to keep you warm at the moment. The cavern around you is near silent, you can just make out the wind blowing outside. 

So when you hear the clack, clack, clack, of steps against the ground, you tense. 

You can't see a thing, only able to curl in on yourself and pray it's someone friendly. Though given where you are, you doubt that. 

The steps end just in front of you, a huff of hot air blows down on you after a moment, followed by a low chuckle. 

You whimper, not daring to look up. 

A low voice echoes all around you. "Persistent, aren't you?"

Something compels you to speak up, despite your terror. 

"Have, have to be. Need to, to find her, make sure she's okay." Your teeth clack as you tilt your head up, meeting the gaze you were almost expecting. "Wouldn't be able to live with myself if I didn't."

Despite the darkness, you can pick up on the surprise in the beast's eyes. Then, you hear a slight jingling noise as he nods once. He extends a clawed hand down to you. 

"Come along then, it'll do her no good to see you freeze."

You stare at the offering, uncertain. 

A snort. "We don't have all day, kid. It's only a matter of time before you get frostbite. And I'd rather not hear him complain about that."

"O-okay." You take his hand, feeling the warmth even through your glove. 

He pulls you into a stand, and starts to walk deeper into the cavern. You don't know where you're going, but you suppose you don't have much a choice. 

You just hope you’ll end up somewhere warm. 

Should have definitely started this sooner but alas, got busy. BUT, at least i finished it, and i like how it turned out :) Excited to keep these up for the end of the month, but for now, thanks for reading!

Tag list (if you would like added, see this post for more info, you can also dm me!):

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[atleastpleasetelephone]

28!! feeling for each other in the dark with 50s E🥹

A/N: Sorry this has taken me so long!

Afraid of the dark

Pairing: 56!Elvis x innocent reader

Word count: 835

TWs: None really. Fluff and a little kiss.

“Honey?” Elvis calls out, stepping forward and bumping into a cupboard. 

“Elvis?” Your voice is small and scared. The power had gone off suddenly and now it’s pitch black in the kitchen. This is not the way you’d expected your first date with Elvis to go. He hadn’t even got you a lemonade before all the lights went off. 

“H-honey, w-where are ya?” 

He stumbles about in the opposite direction to the one he’d just tried and almost falls over. 

“Here!”

He tries to listen and figure out which direction here is, but it’s not getting him anywhere so he decides to try a different tack. 

“There’s some candles in this drawer somewhere…”

Rummaging about, he holds various items up to his face and then discards them noisily. Eventually he finds what he’s looking for, and then there’s another lot of noise whilst he tries to find matches too. 

“Uh, honey. Can you try the drawer closest to you? For the matches.”

“W-what drawer?” You ask, aware your voice is wobbling a little. You swear you’re a woman now you’re eighteen, but something about the dark gets to you like you’re still a little girl. 

“Ya must be near one, honey.”

“I’m not!” 

There’s more loud banging and crashing and then suddenly something collides with your hip and you just about scream. 

“Hey!” His voice is soft as his arms envelope you. “It’s jus’ me. No need to be scared.”

He’s warm and he smells good, and you press your cheek against his shirt as your arms encircle his waist. You feel him kiss the top of your head as you puff out a raggedy breath. You’d barely even held hands before your date, but now you’re clinging to him like a liferaft. 

“I-I… I don’t like the dark, much,” you whisper, into his shirt. “I-it’s silly, I know…” you can feel yourself blushing and you thank God that at least the darkness is covering that up. 

“It’s not silly,” he tells you, gently, kissing the top of your head again. “I’m not gonna let anything hurt ya, I promise.” 

He tilts your chin up with his finger, and you can just about make out his face in the darkness. 

“You believe me?”

You nod and he smiles. 

“Okay then, let’s try an’ find these matches…”

Keeping one of his arms around you, he fumbles about for the handle of the drawer, eventually finding it and then rummaging through the contents. You stay close, your body pressed up against his as you watch his face scrunch up with concentration. You’ve never been this close to a man before, and part of you thinks it’s not very ladylike. The other part, the part that’s currently winning, loves the way he makes you feel safe and protected in his arms. 

“Finally!” He exclaims, as his fingers wrap around the small rectangular box. 

It only takes him a few seconds to open it, take out a match and strike it. The flame lights up his face and you’re suddenly confronted by his beauty up close. It almost takes your breath away. He lights the candle and then looks down at you again. 

“There. Feel better now?”

You nod, transfixed by his big red lips now that you’re so near him and you can actually see again. “Yessir,” you whisper. 

He giggles. “Ain’t no need to call me sir, I’m barely older ‘an you are.”

Your heart is beating faster and faster and you can feel yourself tremble as you keep looking at him. Staring into his eyes, and then down at his mouth. You don’t seem to be able to stop yourself. 

“Sorry,” you whisper again. “I feel better now we’ve got the candle.”

Holding it in one hand, he pulls you in closer with the other. “Kinda romantic, don’tcha think?”

A tiny smile plays at the corners of your mouth. “Yeah. A little.”

“Romantic enough for me to kiss ya?”

You think your heart actually skips a beat.

“I-if you want to.”

“Oh honey, I want to. Been dyin’ to since you walked in the door.” 

Placing the candle on the countertop, he cups your cheek with one big hand and tilts your face towards him, plush lips pressing against yours. A tiny moan escapes your mouth as his tongue pushes inside experimentally, tangling with your own. Your hands are on his chest, and your fingers claw lightly at his shirt. He smiles into the kiss, before pulling back to look at you. 

“You enjoy that?”

You’re breathless and flushed and all you want to do is keep kissing him forever. You nod quickly. “Can we… do it a-again?”

He grins, looking decidedly like the cat that’s got the cream. “We sure can, darlin’. Jus’ as long as you like.” He gently curls a strand of your hair around your ear, his thumb stroking your cheek. 

As his mouth brushes against yours again he mumbles, “kinda hope the lights don’t come back on,” and somehow you agree. 

***

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[seospicybin]

TASTE.

CHAPTER IV: DECADENT.

Lee Know x reader. (s,a)

TASTE MASTERLIST

Synopsis: When Minho is hired as the head chef of Farfalle, a prestigious Italian restaurant, expectations are high for him to elevate its reputation and bring it to new heights. However, no one anticipates the drastic changes he implements in the kitchen—including his strict rule that that there'll be no women and no romance in his kitchen. (21,5k words)

Author's note: Congratulations on surviving the week. Pls enjoy the new chapter and don’t forget to share what you think of it ♡

Decadent /ˈde-kə-dənt/ (adj) characterized by or appealing to self-indulgence.

We've all heard the phrase: "You are what you eat." Have you ever considered, however, that what you eat might also affect how you feel? Certain foods are filled with compounds that have the potential to make you happy, for example, dark chocolate. You always start your mornings with a cup of coffee and you never forget to drop in a chunk of dark chocolate. It’s your little treat to yourself, a tiny boost of serotonin that makes even the busiest mornings a bit sweeter. Today is no exception, but as you finish your coffee in a hurry, there’s a lightness in your chest that has nothing to do with the chocolate.

It’s going to be a good day. You grab your bag and step out of your apartment, locking the door behind you. Just as you turn around, you see Minho stepping out of his apartment. Your heart skips a beat, the sight of him adding another unexplainable surge of serotonin to your morning.

You lift your hand to wave, but before you can, Minho strides toward the elevator, his pace hurried. He reaches it just in time, stopping the doors from closing, and slips inside without even glancing your way. You pout, your hand dropping back to your side. He didn’t see me…

But then, just as the doors are about to close completely, his head pops out. “Why are you just standing there?”

A grin spreads across your face. Without a second thought, you jog to the elevator, slipping inside to stand beside him.

The space is small, quiet, but the silence doesn’t feel awkward. It feels charged, alive with unspoken words and a giddiness you can’t seem to shake. You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, your smile returning before you can stop it. The memory of last night rushes back, unbidden but vivid. The warmth of his touch, the sound of his laughter, the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the world.

You feel the heat creeping up your neck and quickly look away, trying to steady your thoughts. But when you glance at him again, you notice something—a tiny imperfection in his otherwise perfect look. Without thinking, you reach for him, your fingers brushing the collar of his shirt, straightening it for him.

Minho tilts his head slightly, watching you with an amused glint in his eyes. “If you keep doing things like this in the kitchen, people are going to figure it out,” he says, his tone teasing.

You blink up at him, feigning innocence. “Figure what out?”

His lips twitch, and he looks away for a moment, as if to keep from laughing. “It’s written all over your face,” he replies, his voice lower, softer.

You shake your head in denial, but the smile pulling at your lips betrays you. Minho’s gaze lingers on you for a moment longer, and then he smirks. “Stop being so obvious,” he says, his voice playfully scolding.

You lower your head, trying to stifle your laughter. “Yes, Chef,” you reply formally, biting back your grin.

The silence that follows barely lasts a second before you both break into smiles again, the sound of your laughter filling the elevator. Minho lets out a playful groan and gently shoves your shoulder. “I’m serious. Stop.”

You scoot closer to him, your smile turning mischievous. “Make me,” you tease, linking your arm with his.

Minho shakes his head, his eyes crinkling at the corners, reaching to untangle your arm from his. But instead of letting go, he lets his hand slide down to yours, his fingers lacing with yours in an easy, natural motion.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. The only sound is the soft hum of the elevator. Your heart beats wildly in your chest, but you don’t let go. Neither does he. And just like that, the day feels even brighter.

-

Lunch service is in full swing, the kitchen alive with clattering pans, sizzling oils, and the hum of orders being called out. Minho stands at his chef’s table, his eyes sweeping across the room like a hawk, watching every station for mistakes or signs of slacking off. His expression is calm, composed, the perfect picture of control. But no matter how hard he tries, his gaze keeps drifting your way.

It’s distracting, this magnetic pull toward you, as if his eyes are betraying his better judgment. He stiffens when you approach his table, balancing two plates of aglio e olio in your hands. The precision in your movements catches his attention, but it’s your face he’s scanning for remnants of last night—some telltale blush, a lingering glance, anything. But you’re calm. Too calm.

“Chef?” you ask, your voice low enough that only he can hear over the chaos of the kitchen. “Is there a problem?”

Minho blinks, caught off guard. You look at him with innocent eyes, and for a moment, he’s annoyed—not at you, but at himself for expecting something different. You’re good at hiding your feelings, he realizes, far better than he is.

“No,” he mutters, grabbing a cloth and wiping the edge of the plate with unnecessary care. He keeps his eyes on you as you turn and head back to your station, his chest tightening with a strange, inexplicable pull.

Even with the entire kitchen between you, Minho feels drawn to you, like a magnet he can’t resist. He tells himself he’s just observing your cooking—making sure your technique is flawless—but the truth is harder to admit.

Before he knows it, he’s walking toward your station, aiming to stand behind you. But just as he gets close, you step away, heading toward the freezer without sparing him a glance. Minho halts awkwardly mid-step, cursing himself for his obviousness.

Quick to recover, he veers toward Felix, glancing over the risotto Felix is stirring. “Too much thyme,” Minho comments curtly, masking his unease. Felix frowns, his lips twitching as if to argue, but Minho doesn’t give him the chance.

“Yes, Chef,” Felix quickly responds to avoid being scolded.

Returning to his chef’s table, Minho’s phone vibrates in his pocket. He pulls it out, his heart skipping when he sees your name on the screen.

He glances up, and there you are, emerging from the freezer, carrying a container of grated Parmesan. So that’s why you went there, he thinks, a smirk tugging at his lips. He opens the text and reads it quickly: Don’t make it obvious.

Minho scoffs, shoving his phone back into his pocket. Too late, he thinks, though he’d never admit it. You’ve gotten under his skin more than he cares to acknowledge, and it’s showing. It’s time to remind himself—and you—that he’s still in charge.

“You!” he calls out loudly, his voice cutting through the kitchen like a whip. Heads turn as you straighten up at your station. “Table 18 and 21, you take them all. Now. And if you can’t get them out in time, I’ll hang you upside down like a bat.”

You put on a feigned look of horror, widening your eyes and pouting slightly. “Yes, Chef!” you reply, your tone both dutiful and teasing.

Minho’s lips twitch, but he keeps his expression sharp. From the corner of his eye, he sees Felix glaring at him, his brows furrowed in silent question.

“Why is Chef being so harsh with us?” Felix whispers to you when he gets the chance.

You shrug, offering him a coy smile. “I have no idea,” you say lightly, but there’s a glint in your eyes, one that only Minho can decipher.

He watches you with a faint smirk, his irritation dissipating as quickly as it had come. You’re playing your part perfectly, and even though he started this game, he knows you’ll always find a way to win.

-

The idea of meeting Minho outside work feels thrilling, like a secret only the two of you share. You take off your jacket and step out of the restaurant during idle time, excitement bubbling inside you. You shove your hands into your jacket pockets, walking casually down the street, your mind already imagining his expression when you see him.

Out of nowhere, Chris appears beside you, matching your stride. "Where are you off to?" he asks, his tone light but curious.

Startled, you quickly pull yourself together. You hadn’t expected anyone to catch you leaving. Thinking fast, you point down the street and mumble, "Oh, just heading that way. What about you?"

Chris grins, his dimples deepening. "Same direction, actually."

You nod, trying to mask your unease as the two of you continue walking side by side. But as you near the convenience store, your chest tightens. Panic creeps in—how are you going to explain this to Minho?

Slowing your steps, you turn to Chris and say, "You can go ahead. I’ll catch up."

Chris chuckles, bumping your shoulder playfully. "What’s the rush? I like walking with you."

You force a laugh, your nerves showing. "Are you sure you’re not following me?"

He scoffs, amused by your accusation. "Don’t flatter yourself."

You pick up your pace, hoping to lose him, but Chris keeps up effortlessly. To your dismay, he follows you right into the convenience store.

Minho is already there, sitting on a stool and leaning casually against a counter, his sharp gaze softening slightly when he spots you—until he notices Chris trailing behind. His expression shifts to one of barely concealed annoyance.

You shrug sheepishly, pretending to be surprised. "Oh, Chef! What a coincidence," you say, your voice overly cheerful.

Chris walks past you, oblivious to the tension, heading straight for the freezer section. Minho’s glare sharpens, and he jerks his head slightly, gesturing for you to sit on the stool next to him.

As you do, he discreetly slides a chocolate bar under the table. You catch it and quickly tuck it into your jacket pocket, mouthing a grateful "thank you" as a small smile tugs at your lips.

Chris returns, holding three ice creams. He places one in front of each of you before sitting down next to you.

The three of you unwrap your ice creams in silence, the sound of crinkling wrappers the only noise. You take a bite, the cold sweetness melting on your tongue.

After a while, Chris is the first to break the quiet. "It’s payday. Shouldn’t you be treating me to something?"

You chuckle, nodding your head. "Sure, I’ll pay for the ice creams."

Minho slightly swivels his stool and cuts in. "Why should she be the one paying?"

Chris smirks, clearly enjoying the back-and-forth. "Then why don’t you pay for it, Chef?"

Minho sighs, leaning back and gazing out the window. "You are indeed an interesting person," he mutters. "You own a fine dining restaurant but come all the way here for ice cream."

Chris turns to you with his signature dimpled smile and playfully bumps your shoulder. "But it's good, right?"

You nod, grinning. "It’s good."

Minho’s glare swings to you. "Is it good?" he asks, his tone pointed.

You meet his eyes and smile sweetly. "It’s good, Chef."

Minho exhales sharply but doesn’t say more. The three of you finish your ice creams in relative quiet, the tension between Minho and Chris oddly amusing. Despite the unexpected company and how far the situation strayed from your plan, you find yourself enjoying it. Minho’s sharp wit, Chris’s warm charm—they’re such opposites, yet somehow the dynamic works. For now, you savor the moment, the sweetness of the ice cream and the peculiar balance of the company around you.

-

Minho steps into his office, his jaw tightening as he recalls how his intended rendezvous with you had been derailed by Chris’s untimely appearance. The faint annoyance gnaws at him as he tosses his coat over the chair and heads for the small coffee station in the corner of the room.

Making coffee has always had a strange way of soothing him. He finds a rhythm in the grind of the beans, the steady hum of the machine, and the rich aroma filling the space. It’s methodical, like cooking, but without the chaos of the kitchen. Once the cup is brewed, he brings it to his desk, its warmth radiating through the ceramic against his palms.

Settling into his chair, Minho takes a slow sip, savoring the bitterness. The smell alone brings him comfort, but today, it also stirs memories of the previous night. Just you and him. No distractions. No interruptions. He closes his eyes briefly, replaying the way your laugh had sounded, how you’d looked at him with that softness in your eyes that made his chest tighten.

Minho leans back, letting the moment linger longer than he should. He knows better than to dwell, yet the thought of being alone with you again is too tempting to ignore. He’s drawn out of his reverie when Taesoo enters the office and strikes him like a lightning in the middle of the day.

“I saw you kiss her in the kitchen last night.”

He stares at Taesoo, who stands before him looking like he regrets every word he’s just spoken. But there is no taking it back. The damage is done.

Minho straightens, his voice low and controlled. “Does anyone else know?”

Taesoo shakes his head quickly, his hands rising in defense. “No, no one. I swear.”

Minho’s jaw tightens as he steps closer, his shadow falling over Taesoo. “Then make sure it stays that way.”

The younger one nods, his face pale. “I didn’t mean—”

“Go back to the kitchen,” Minho interrupts, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Taesoo hesitates for only a moment before bowing and hurrying out of the office, leaving Minho alone once again with his thoughts that swirling in his head like a raging storm.

By the time dinner service begins, the weight of Taesoo’s insinuation hangs heavy on Minho’s mind. He works with precision, shouting orders and keeping a close eye on the line, determined not to let it show.

Amid the controlled chaos, a service staff approaches, momentarily breaking his focus. “Chef, a customer wants to personally thank the chef for the meal.”

Minho adjusts his apron, preparing to meet the guest, but the staff quickly adds, “Actually, they asked to see Sous Chef Seojun. He made the dish.”

Minho nods curtly, signaling for Seojun to handle it. He watches as the sous chef heads to the front, a mix of pride and frustration swirling within him. Normally, he’d take satisfaction in seeing his team praised, but tonight, his thoughts are elsewhere.

Just as Minho turns back to the station, Sara appears beside him, her voice low but firm. “We need to talk later,” she says, her tone serious.

Minho glances at her, his brow furrowing. She doesn’t elaborate, simply giving him a meaningful look before stepping away.

His grip on the edge of the counter tightens as the night presses on, the burden of unspoken words, secrets, and mounting suspicion weighing heavily on him. Minho pushes through service, but the once-controlled rhythm of his work feels off-kilter, his mind plagued by everything he’s trying to keep hidden.

-

Minho finishes changing into his casual clothes, buttoning the cuffs of his shirt when a knock echoes on his office door. Without needing to ask, he knows who it is. "Come in," he calls out, his voice steady but laced with curiosity.

The door opens, and Sara steps in, her usual composed demeanor intact as she casually takes a seat on the single sofa in his office. Minho raises an eyebrow at her boldness, leaning against his desk with his arms crossed. "You look a little too comfortable in my office," he remarks, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

Sara doesn’t flinch. Instead, she smirks, tilting her head. "You should get used to it."

Minho narrows his eyes but gestures for her to get to the point. "So, what is it you want to talk to me about?"

She reclines slightly, crossing her legs as she starts. "It’s about Sous Chef Seojun."

Minho’s brows furrow. "What about him?"

Sara doesn’t miss a beat. "He might be leaving the kitchen soon."

Minho's eyebrow raised at that and he straightens as the weight of her words settling in.

"The customer who asked for him earlier—he’s opening a new Italian restaurant. I’m willing to bet Seojun’s been offered the head chef position," she explains, her tone calm but with a hint of gravity. "And if that happens, he’ll probably take his people with him."

Minho takes in her words, the implications running through his mind. He knows Sara’s right; it’s not just a possibility—it’s a likelihood. The thought of losing key members of his team, of having to rebuild the kitchen dynamics, gnaws at him.

Minho steps out of the back entrance into the cool night air, his eyes scanning the parking lot. Seojun’s car is still in its spot and he sees Seojun sitting inside with Seungwan and Hyunwoo. The three of them are animated, their laughter spilling into the quiet night. Minho doesn’t need to hear the conversation to guess what it’s about—they’re probably already dreaming of leaving his kitchen behind.

Minho’s mood sours further as he heads home. By the time he steps into his apartment, the weight of everything—Taesoo’s suspicions, Sara’s warning, Seojun’s likely departure—feels unbearable. The suffocating stillness of his apartment does nothing to help. On a whim, he grabs his phone and sends you a text, telling you to come out.

A moment later, your apartment door creaks open, and there you are, smiling the moment you see him. That smile—it’s enough to ease the tension in his chest, even if only slightly.

"Were you sleeping?" Minho asks, his voice softer than usual.

You shake your head. "No, not yet. Why?"

He hesitates, the temptation to spill everything clawing at him. He wants to tell you about Taesoo, about Seojun, about how everything seems to be crumbling around him. But he stops himself. That’s not why he’s here.

Instead, he smirks, his tone shifting to something lighter. "Have you eaten the chocolate I gave you?"

You giggle, shaking your head again. "Not yet."

Minho stares at you, feigning disbelief. "Why not?"

You grin, teasing him. "Because it’s from you. I don’t want to eat it."

Minho hisses through his teeth, pretending to be annoyed. "Eat it," he orders, though there’s no real bite in his tone.

You respond with a playful, formal tone, "Yes, Chef."

Minho steps closer, leaning in until his lips are near your ear. His voice drops to a whisper. "And don’t share it with anyone else."

Your cheeks flush as you nod, a smile tugging at your lips. Before pulling back, Minho brushes his lips against your cheek, lingering for just a second longer than necessary.

"Go back inside and sleep," he murmurs.

You look up at him, your smile warm and soft. "Goodnight, Chef."

Minho watches as you retreat into your apartment, the door clicking shut behind you. He turns and walks back to his own apartment, the warmth of your smile and the memory of your laughter lingering in his chest, making the weight of the night just a little easier to bear.

-

The locker room is quiet when you enter, the faint scent of metal and detergent lingering in the air. You open your locker, placing your things inside methodically, your mind half on the day ahead and half on the memory of Minho at your door last night. His touch, his words, the subtle vulnerability in his eyes—it all lingers, warm and heavy in your chest. But you can’t also deny that you noticed something in his eyes, something troubling that he refused to share with you.

The sound of footsteps echoes in the room, pulling you from your thoughts. Voices follow, familiar and distinct. Seungwan and Hyunwoo, you realize, accompanied by Sous Chef Seojun. They always arrive together, carpooling to work.

Your locker is on the opposite side of the room, and they won't know you're there unless you make a noise, their conversation carries clearly in the space.

"Did you guys get your resumes ready?" Seojun’s voice cuts through.

"Yeah, I emailed mine last night," Seungwan replies, his tone light with excitement.

"Same," Hyunwoo adds, chuckling. "I can’t wait to work in a real kitchen, where we can actually create something."

Seojun hums approvingly. "Good. The owner’s expecting them today. This is going to be big for us."

You pause, your heart sinking. Their words start piecing together a puzzle you hadn’t even realized existed. Something that bothers Minho’s mind—this must be it. His team is planning to leave him.

Minho may act like it doesn't bother him but you can see it, especially during the lunch service. The kitchen is at its usual chaos, orders are flooding in and the rhythm is relentless. Sara’s triple-flavored pasta is still the crowd favorite and the demand is testing her limits.

Next to you, Sara wipes her brow, exhaling sharply. "This is insane," she mutters, glancing at you as you plate the last vongole for your station.

"Is that your last one?" she asks, her voice tinged with urgency.

"Yes, Chef," you reply, your tone calm and steady as always.

"Can you take three of my orders?" she asks, her gaze sharp but pleading.

You nod, placing the vongole on Minho’s chef table before moving to Sara’s station. She’s already started another order, her hands working swiftly as she talks you through the steps. You follow her lead, watching every motion, memorizing each detail.

When the first dish is ready, you bring it to her for approval. Sara takes a bite, her expression thoughtful as she chews. Then, a smile breaks across her face.

"The dough, the sauce, temperature and tenderness... it's all good," she says, nodding in approval.

Relief washes over you, and you smile back. "Thank you, Chef."

Sara laughs, a rare lightness in her tone. "I better watch my back. You’re going to catch up to me soon."

You laugh softly, returning your focus to the task at hand. The kitchen fades around you as you concentrate on perfecting the dish, tuning out the chaos that swirls like a storm. It isn’t until Minho slams his hands on his chef’s table and his voice booms across the room that you snap out of your focus.

"Sous Chef!" he barks, his tone sharp enough to cut through the noise. "How could you spaced out in the middle of cooking! Can't you hear your meat crying out to you? Can't you tell what to do from the color and the smell? You should know by now."

You glance over, catching sight of the sous chef scrambling to salvage the charred meat with his thong.

"And you! What good is this meat if you treat it like third class meat?" Minho continues, turning to Hyunwoo. "Top grade meat does not need anything but salt to melt in your mouth. It does not need any chef to cook it well."

Minho taps Hyunwoo’s pan with a wooden spatula as his voice raises louder as he continues talking. "A true chef is the one who can make low class meat taste like the top grade. But even with a top grade meat, I don't know what you've been thinking but you've made the meat go tough. You are ruining the food!"

He turns at Seungwan next as he prepares a salad on his plate. Minho grabs his container of cilantro, showing him how they're wilting against the temperature in the kitchen.

"Didn’t I tell you to give them some water and cover them with a wet cloth. I told you so many times but you just wouldn't listen to me."

Seeing the defiance in them seem to only anger Minho, he inhales air but it doesn’t help him anymore. "Do you think at a restaurant where there is a luxurious dining hall, and a grand kitchen would make you a top chef? Is that it, huh?"

Minho’s fury is palpable, his frustration spilling over. The entrée line is a mess, their movements sluggish and half-hearted. It’s clear their minds are elsewhere—already dreaming of the new kitchen Seojun promised them.

"GET YOUR BRAINS BACK TO YOUR HEADS!"

The tension in the kitchen mounts, heavy and suffocating. You steal a glance at Minho, his jaw tight, his eyes blazing as he tries to regain control. Despite everything, he doesn’t falter. He keeps shouting orders, his voice commanding as he refuses to let the kitchen crumble under his watch.

But you can see the strain in him, the weight of it all bearing down on his shoulders. And it makes your chest ache, knowing just how much he’s carrying.

-

The kitchen is eerily quiet after the lunch service ends, the usual clatter of pans and voices replaced by the hum of the exhaust fans. One by one, the cooks file out, muttering farewells or simply disappearing without a word. All except Seojun.

Minho stays rooted at his chef table, arms crossed, his sharp gaze trained on the sous chef still standing at his station. Seojun doesn’t move, his posture stiff, as though he’s bracing himself.

For a long moment, neither of them speaks. The silence hangs heavy, charged with unspoken words and simmering tension. Their eyes lock, an unyielding standoff.

Finally, Seojun breaks the silence. "You said first class chef can make the third class food to top class," he begins, his voice low but steady, "According to your theory, if you're a top class chef, shouldn't you also be able to make us into first class chef as well?"

Minho tilts his head slightly, his expression calm but sharp as a blade. "Are you saying it’s my fault that you’re third-class chefs?"

Seojun’s jaw tightens, his shoulders stiffening. "So, is it because we are third class cooks that you don't want to cook with us?"

Minho lets out a soft exhale, leaning slightly against the table. His voice is measured, deliberate. "You think I’m just sitting here, doing nothing? You’re like third-rate meat, full of fat and sinews. It needs to be pounded, poked, and tenderized to become top-grade. If you resent being called third-class, then try harder. Endure the process. If I slap your left cheek, offer me the other so that you can learn. This is how I cook in my kitchen."

Seojun clenches his fists, the muscles in his jaw twitching as he grinds his teeth. "You think that’s all it takes?" he says, his voice rising. "You think burning us down and grinding us up will make us better?"

Without breaking eye contact, Seojun grabs a nearby bottle of wine, yanking it open. He strides to the grill, tipping the bottle and splashing a stream of wine onto the hot surface. Flames roar to life, licking the air in a brilliant burst of heat and light.

Seojun turns back to Minho, the fire reflecting in his eyes. "No matter how good the meat is, it’ll burn if you keep cooking it on high heat," he says, his tone biting.

The flames die down, leaving only the faint scent of charred wine in the air. Seojun sets the bottle down with a sharp thud. "Stop setting everything on fire," he says, his voice quieter now but no less forceful.

And with that, he turns on his heel and walks away, leaving Minho standing alone in the silence.

Minho remains still, his expression unreadable as he watches Seojun’s retreating back. Resistance isn’t new to him—cooks have come and gone, each one thinking they could challenge him, break him. But there’s something about Seojun’s words that lingers, digging beneath the surface like an itch he can’t scratch.

-

The day at the restaurant is long and grueling, but it ends like it always does—everyone pulling through to close out another service. Minho is heading back to the kitchen when he spots Seojun walking toward him from the opposite direction.

Their eyes lock, the unspoken tension between them thick in the air. Minho knows he can’t leave it as it is—not with the quiet defiance in Seojun’s gaze. He stops him by standing in front of him, crossing his arms over his chest, his stance commanding.

Seojun halts, his posture stiffening slightly.

"I’m not good at beating around the bush, so I’ll just say it," Minho begins, his tone blunt. "If you want to leave this kitchen, then leave after I fire you. Or leave after you beat me."

He steps closer, leaning in until there’s barely any space between them. His eyes narrow, his voice lowering to a near-growl. "Leave after you surpass me. Got it?"

The air between them is heavy with challenge, neither of them moving, neither willing to back down. Finally, Minho straightens, his expression unreadable, and strides past Seojun without another word.

When Minho enters the kitchen, he isn’t surprised to find you there. You’re bent over the counter, carefully squeezing the filling onto flat sheets of pasta dough, your movements deliberate and precise.

He leans against his chef table, watching you in silence. There’s something calming about the way you work, even in the quiet hum of the now-empty kitchen.

After a moment, he approaches, stopping just close enough for you to notice. "Are you busy?" he asks, his voice casual.

Without looking up, you nod. "Yes. Chef Sara asked me to make 100 ravioli tonight."

Minho hums in response, staying where he is and watching as you cut the dough into perfect circles. But he isn’t one to let things go easily. He straightens and moves closer again, his voice soft but teasing. "Come play with me."

You glance at him briefly before turning back to your task. "Can you see I’m busy?" you reply evenly.

Minho tilts his head, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Come, play with me. You can work later."

You shake your head, your tone light but firm. "I can’t. You’re too scary."

He chuckles, the sound low and warm. "You don’t look scared of me," he counters smoothly.

"I have to finish these ravioli first," you remind him, keeping your focus on your work.

Minho nods slowly, though the mischievous glint in his eyes doesn’t fade. "You’re right—you have to do it to learn. But you also have to learn with me."

Before you can argue, he grabs your bag and jacket from the chef table, holding them out to you. "Let’s go," he says, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You open your mouth to protest, but Minho is already heading for the door, your bag slung over his shoulder. With no other choice, you sigh and follow him, your heart racing as you step out of the restaurant together.

-

The silence in the elevator is broken only by the soft hum of its movement. You trail slightly behind Minho, who stands calm and unreadable, his finger having pressed the button for the 14th floor. You glance at him, curiosity getting the better of you, and playfully nudge his side with your elbow.

“If you told me you were taking me on a date, I’d have come without a second thought,” you whisper with a grin.

Minho turns his sharp gaze to you, narrowing his eyes. “It’s not a date,” he states firmly. “I told you I want you to learn something tonight.”

You let out an exaggerated sigh, dramatically pouting. Minho doesn’t spare you another glance, stepping out as the elevator doors slide open.

He leads you to a restaurant on the hotel balcony, the cool night air mingling with the soft glow of city lights. Despite the late hour, the kitchen is still open. The waiter, seemingly assuming you’re a couple, seats you at a table with the best view.

Minho orders right away, his confidence making it clear he’s familiar with the menu. When the server brings over a tray of bread, you light up, hunger gnawing at your stomach since you haven’t eaten anything all day.

But just as you’re about to grab a piece, Minho’s voice cuts through your excitement. “Don’t eat the bread,” he warns.

You freeze, confused. “Why not? I’m starving.”

He crosses his arms, his tone firm. “You’ll ruin your appetite. You’ll fill up on bread and won’t appreciate the main dishes. Unless it’s to soak up the leftover sauce, don’t touch it.”

Reluctantly, you sigh and set the bread back down, earning a brief approving nod from him.

Moments later, the server returns with your first course—a shrimp and avocado salad. You and Minho share the plate, each picking up your forks. Minho takes one bite before setting his fork down, his expression immediately souring.

“How does it taste to you?” he asks, his tone sharp.

You hesitate before answering honestly, “It’s not that bad.”

Minho raises an eyebrow, incredulous. “Not that bad? The shrimp is overcooked—it’s a pink sponge that smells like shrimp. If you cooked like this in my kitchen, I’d make sure you grew horns on your head, like a shrimp.”

You sigh again, reluctantly putting your fork down as Minho insists you stop eating.

Soon, the main course arrives: crab meat ravioli in a tomato basil sauce. You’re thrilled, digging in right away, but before you can enjoy your first bite, Minho stops you.

“Hold it,” he commands, gesturing with his knife toward the ravioli on your plate. One has burst open in the back, spilling its filling.

“What’s the purpose of making ravioli?” he asks rhetorically. “To keep the filling intact. This ravioli has lost its purpose in life.”

You roll your eyes, setting your utensils down again. “Why didn’t you just ask them to recook it then?” you challenge.

Minho scoffs. “That’s the last thing I want to hear as a chef, and I won’t say it to another chef.”

“Then just eat it,” you reply, exasperated.

“I don’t want to,” he retorts stubbornly.

You groan, leaning back in your seat. Minho continues to mutter, lamenting the quality of the dish and feeling pity for the customers paying for this food.

“I should call the chef out and shove this plate down his throat,” he mutters darkly.

Shaking your head, you sigh. “You know, I’m just grateful anytime someone else cooks for me. I hate having to cook for myself at home.”

Minho leans forward, fixing you with an intense stare. “Are you saying that if you lived with someone, you wouldn’t cook for them? That you’d let your partner starve in the morning or fall asleep without making dinner?”

You smirk, propping your chin on your hand. “My partner can cook for me.”

Minho scoffs, smirking back. “What man in his right mind would cook for a partner who’s a chef?”

You flash him a sly smile. “Then I’ll just marry a chef.”

Minho gasps dramatically, his disbelief exaggerated but amused. He leans back in his chair, his eyes studying you with a mix of delight and curiosity.

Suddenly, he shouts for a server nearby, clearly intending to complain about the food. You sink lower into your chair, already feeling the heat of embarrassment creeping up your neck.

Minho's complaints echo in your mind as you sit stiffly in the car beside him. The memory of him criticizing the food so openly to the server makes your cheeks burn. You glance out the window, trying to shake off the embarrassment, but it lingers.

Unable to hold it in any longer, you turn to him. “Why did you do that?” you ask, your tone sharper than you intended.

Minho keeps his eyes on the road, his expression unbothered. “Because if I didn’t, it’s like telling those chefs to never improve. To just stay stuck in the same place their entire lives.”

You sigh, glaring at him, though he doesn’t look your way. He still seems to feel it, though, because he spares you a quick glance.

“What now?” he asks, clearly exasperated.

“I’m hungry!” you whine, your tone full of complaint.

“Then why didn’t you eat earlier?”

That does it. You snap, your voice rising. “Because you told me not to!”

Minho pauses, processing your words before letting out a long breath. “Fine,” he mutters, turning the car sharply.

Before you know it, you’re at his place. Minho ushers you inside, moving straight to the kitchen.

-

As Minho places the plate of grilled cheese in front of you, the aroma hits you like a warm embrace: toasted bread, melted cheese, and a hint of nuttiness. Your mouth waters at the sight, and your stomach growls in anticipation. One bite and you know—it’s not just a grilled cheese. It’s a masterpiece.

Minutes later, you set the empty plate down on the coffee table, leaning back with a contented sigh. Then reality hits, and you groan. “Ugh, I still have to finish the ravioli tomorrow morning.”

Minho, lounging beside you, raises an eyebrow. “So?”

You turn to him, giving him your best pleading look. “Help me with it?”

His response is instant and firm. “No.”

You pout, but he doesn’t budge. “Why would I waste my energy making ravioli for Sara?” he adds, sounding almost offended.

Your shoulders slump in disappointment. “Mean,” you mutter under your breath.

Minho leans back further, running a hand through his hair as he lets out a low sigh. “And why should I waste my energy on people who want to leave me anyway?”

The words hang in the air, and your ears perk up. Something in his tone—calm but heavy—gives you pause. It hits you then: he indeed knows about Souschef Seojun.

You turn to him sharply. “So, you knew about it?”

His gaze shifts to yours, and his eyes are piercing. “And you didn't tell me about it.”

You hesitate, feeling cornered. “I like Souschef,” you admit. “I want to keep working with him, but… I also think he should take this opportunity for himself.”

Minho clicks his tongue, his expression darkening. “You’re a professional two-timer,” he says with a scoff.

The jab stings, but before you can respond, he stares at the ceiling, his voice quieter now. “It’s the hardest thing... moving up to chef from sous chef. Most don’t make it.”

You study his face, the frustration he tries so hard to mask. He’s bothered, even though he won’t outright say it. The fact that Minho thinks about it means he actually cares more than he let on.

A question forms in your head and in a softer tone, you dare yourself to ask but keeping your tone soft, “Why do you push away the people who like you and push even harder the ones who don’t? Who’s going to stay by your side if you keep doing that?”

Minho turns his head, his eyes locking with yours. A smirk tugs at his lips as he answers, “I have you.”

The words hit you harder than you expect, your heart skipping a beat. Without thinking, you slip your arm around his, holding it close to your chest.

“That’s true,” you whisper, smiling softly. “I’ll always stick by your side.”

Deep down, you hope he believes you and that it's not some words you said to please him. You hope he knows you’ll stay by his side, no matter what.

-

The next day, Minho strides purposefully through the restaurant, his mind already racing with the tasks of the day. His feet carry him toward Chris's office, but he pauses as he notices Seojun approaching from the opposite hallway.

Their eyes meet, and they exchange a brief, puzzled look. Neither says a word, but the shared confusion is clear: why are they both heading to the same place?

When they reach the door, Seojun glances at Minho and knocks. Chris’s voice calls out, “Come in,” and they step inside together.

Chris is seated at his desk, scribbling his signature onto a stack of papers. He doesn’t look up immediately, merely gestures for them to sit. Minho and Seojun take the seats across from each other, the silence stretching as they wait for Chris to finish.

Finally, Chris sets his pen down and moves to the small sofa in the corner of the office, gesturing for them to stay where they are. He leans forward, hands clasped, his face serious but unreadable.

“A customer has requested the restaurant’s service after business hours,” Chris begins, his tone measured. “They want to hold an event at midnight tonight.”

Minho raises an eyebrow, glancing at Seojun, who looks just as perplexed. “What could they possibly want to eat at midnight?” Minho asks, skepticism laced in his voice.

Seojun leans forward slightly, echoing Minho’s confusion. “Did the customer ask for me specifically?”

Chris nods, addressing both of their concerns. “I don’t know why the event is at midnight, but yes, they specifically asked for you, Souschef.”

Seojun’s eyebrows knit together in confusion, and Minho narrows his eyes, trying to piece together the puzzle.

Chris continues, “I need both of you to oversee this request. You’ll also need to pick an assistant to help you with the prep and execution.”

Minho leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. He studies Chris’s expression, searching for clues, but his boss remains as inscrutable as ever.

The room falls silent for a moment, the weight of the request sinking in. Midnight. A private event. A specific request for Seojun.

As they stand to leave, Minho’s thoughts churn. What kind of event requires such secrecy and precision at this hour? And why does it feel like tonight is going to change everything?

-

When Minho tells you to stay after dinner service tonight, you don’t expect to find yourself assisting in what feels like a culinary duel. He and Seojun go head-to-head, cooking the same dish—grilled lobster bisque—for a special customer order. As you move between them, handing over ingredients, wiping surfaces, and following their instructions, you can’t help but notice how starkly different their approaches are.

Minho works with practiced precision, each movement calculated and efficient, while Seojun experiments, adjusting on the fly. At one point, Minho catches your eye and smirks, his expression practically saying, This is child’s play for me. You bite back an eye roll, handing him a cloth to wipe the edge of his plate.

When they finish plating, Minho and Seojun each carry their dishes to the dining hall. You trail behind, quietly observing as they serve the customer. The man sits alone at the large table, his demeanor calm but unreadable. As Minho and Seojun approach, you catch the brief flicker of surprise on Seojun’s face. It’s then you realize—this must be the man trying to recruit him for the new restaurant.

The customer greets them with a polite smile and sets a napkin on his lap. Before he can say anything, Minho asks the question lingering in everyone’s mind. “Why did you order the same dish this late at night?”

The customer smiles dismissively. “Shouldn’t that remain the concern of the guest?”

Minho keeps his face neutral, though you can sense his annoyance bubbling beneath the surface.

The customer tastes Minho’s dish first, nodding slightly but offering no comment. He then moves on to Seojun’s, taking a single bite before pausing. “Why didn’t you use higher-quality extra virgin olive oil? Was it the cost?”

Seojun hesitates, clearly caught off guard. He stammers out a response, but Minho cuts in smoothly. “It’s not about the cost. Extra virgin olive oil burns too quickly on the grill. It’s a matter of technique, not expense.”

The customer arches a brow. “But I still prefer the expensive oil.”

You see the muscle in Minho’s jaw twitch, though his smile remains intact.

The customer takes another bite, then comments on the sauce. “The flavor is quite good. Did you use the lobster shell?”

You blink, recalling the cooking process. Seojun didn’t use lobster shells. Without thinking, you blurt out, “It’s shrimp, not lobster.”

The room goes silent. Your stomach sinks as you realize you’ve spoken out of turn. Quickly, you lower your gaze and stammer an apology.

The customer turns to Seojun. “Why would you use shrimp shells when lobster shells were available?”

Before Seojun can respond, Minho steps in again. “It’s not about cost-cutting. Shrimp shells retain a better flavor profile than lobster shells.”

The customer dips his fork into the sauce and frowns. “The sauce... It’s too salty.”

Seojun forces a sheepish smile. “I’ll keep that in mind for next time.”

Minho, clearly at the end of his patience, interjects, “The sauce is meant to be eaten with the lobster and salad. It’s balanced when combined.”

The customer raises an eyebrow. “Should I?”

Minho’s smile strains further. “Yes, you should.”

As soon as he excuses himself to leave, Minho storms off, heading for the stairs. You scramble to catch up, struggling to match his furious pace. He reaches the top of the steps, then stops abruptly, spinning around to march back down. You quickly dart in front of him, blocking his path.

“That pompous idiot!” he hisses, his voice rising. “Acting like he knows everything when he knows nothing!”

“Chef,” you whisper urgently, glancing nervously toward the dining hall. “He’ll hear you!”

“I don’t care if he hears me!” Minho snaps, his voice growing louder.

Panicking, you grab his arm, pulling him back. “You can’t go back down there!”

His eyes blaze as he glares at you, his chest heaving with frustration. “That kind of person is the one I hate the most!”

You tighten your grip on his arm and press your forehead against his shoulder, desperate to calm him down. “Chef, please. Just let it go.”

He lets out a harsh sigh, running a hand through his hair. After a tense pause, he finally turns and continues climbing the stairs, muttering under his breath. You follow closely, silently praying he doesn’t change his mind and storm back down.

In the car ride home, Minho grips the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turn white. His jaw is clenched, his eyes fixed on the road ahead as he navigates through the dimly lit streets. His anger still simmers, radiating off him in waves.

“Shake it off already,” you say gently, hoping to lighten the mood.

He lets out a long, frustrated sigh but doesn’t glance at you. “I’m going to be even harsher on them from now on so they won't leave,” he declares firmly.

“Why are you so sure they won’t just leave?” you ask, genuinely curious.

Minho finally responds, his tone steady but loaded with conviction. “Chefs need to know how to negotiate with the owners. Our souschef might look tough, but he’s a softie inside. He doesn’t have the backbone to stand firm. If he stays obedient, he’s going to get eaten alive by someone like that.”

He pauses, his grip tightening slightly. “Owners always push the blame back onto the chef. Even if you follow their orders to the letter, they won’t take care of you when things fall apart. That guy tonight—requesting some bizarre, last-minute order at midnight? He’s exactly that type. It’s not about the food with him; it’s about control.”

Minho’s voice lowers, but the intensity remains. “The real power struggle in a restaurant should be with the customer’s taste buds—not with the owner of the restaurant. Do you get it?”

You sit quietly, absorbing his words. Tonight suddenly makes so much more sense. This wasn’t just about the grilled lobster bisque; it was a test. The customer wanted to see what kind of chefs Minho and Seojun are. While Minho stood firm in his principles, Seojun seemed eager to comply without pushing back.

For a moment, you admire him in silence, impressed by his confidence and determination. But as the awe settles in, you can’t resist teasing him. “Still, I have to say… I like our owner’s taste.”

Minho’s head snaps toward you, his brows furrowing. “What?” he shrieks.

“I like Chris,” you say, a sly grin spreading across your face. “The more I see him managing the restaurant, the more I like him. He’s great.”

Minho slows the car as the light ahead turns red. He turns to you, his expression unreadable. “Come closer,” he says softly, his tone suddenly sweet.

You narrow your eyes suspiciously. “Why?”

“Just come closer,” he coaxes, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

With a small, mischievous smirk of your own, you lean in, wondering what he’s up to. The second you’re close enough, he flicks your forehead with his finger—hard.

“Ow!” you yelp, jerking back as you cradle your forehead. “What was that for?”

Minho’s expression is deadpan, but there’s a hint of amusement in his eyes. “Shut your mouth,” he says bluntly, then shifts his focus back to the road as the light turns green.

You rub your forehead, pouting as you whine, “That hurts, chef.”

Minho doesn’t respond, but the corners of his mouth twitch upward, betraying the faintest of smirks.

-

The kitchen hums with the usual midday chaos, everyone focused on getting the last few lunch orders out. Pans sizzle, knives clatter against cutting boards, and the air is thick with the aroma of sauces and seared meats. You keep your head down at your station, working quickly to finish plating.

A service staff member steps in, calling out, “A customer wants to see the sous chef.”

Minho doesn’t even lift his head. He knows exactly who it is. His sharp gaze cuts across the kitchen, landing on Seojun, who hesitates for a moment. They share a silent exchange, and Minho gives a small, almost dismissive nod, granting permission.

From your station, you notice Seungwan and Hyunwoo exchanging a look, their smiles widening with excitement. They’re already celebrating in their heads, assuming Seojun is about to confirm their move to the new kitchen.

After service slows, you and Felix retreat to the locker room, escaping the heat and noise of the kitchen. You sit together on the small sofa—Felix lost in a game on his phone, headphones in, while you scroll through your own phone.

Curiosity gets the better of you, and you start researching the new Italian restaurant that Seojun has been eyeing. It doesn’t take long for the pieces to fall into place—the owner of this restaurant also owns the hotel restaurant Minho took you to the other night. Everything suddenly makes sense.

You don’t say anything, though. The room starts filling with people—familiar voices drifting in as Seungwan and Hyunwoo enter, their excitement still palpable.

“They probably have state-of-the-art equipment,” Hyunwoo says, his tone brimming with enthusiasm.

“And a bigger kitchen,” Seungwan adds, practically glowing at the thought.

Taesoo chimes in, skeptical. “Are you two really thinking about leaving this kitchen?”

Felix finally glances up from his game, pulling out one earbud. “What are they talking about?” he whispers.

You hurriedly cover Felix’s mouth with your hand to stop him from talking. “Shh...”

The door opens again, and Seojun walks in. Seungwan and Hyunwoo practically pounce on him, bombarding him with questions about their supposed future kitchen.

Seojun clears his throat, his expression a mix of discomfort and apology. “The owner said... I’m not ready to be a head chef yet.”

The air shifts as Seungwan and Hyunwoo’s excitement fizzles into confusion.

“What?!” Seungwan blurts out. “Why would you make us think this was happening if it’s not?”

Hyunwoo crosses his arms, frowning. “Yeah, what was the point of all this?”

Seojun’s shoulders slump slightly, and he rubs the back of his neck. “I’m sorry,” he says sincerely, looking genuinely guilty. “I really thought it was going to happen. I didn’t mean to get your hopes up.”

You watch the scene unfold in silence, piecing everything together. Minho was right. Seojun may act tough, but inside, he’s soft and earnest—a far cry from the steely ambition that fuels most chefs. And yet, it’s that softness, that genuineness, that sets him apart.

-

Minho leans back against his desk, a steaming cup of coffee in his hand, enjoying the rare moment of peace in his office. The faint hum of the kitchen filters through the closed door, but it’s a comforting background noise, a reminder of the controlled chaos he thrives in.

The knock on his door pulls him out of his thoughts. He isn’t expecting anyone, but he calls out, “Come in,” assuming it’s Felix, likely here to pester him with some nonsensical question or pointless chatter.

But when the door opens, it’s not who he expected—it’s Seojun.

Minho straightens slightly, surprised. Seojun steps inside, his hands clasped in front of him, his demeanor uncharacteristically hesitant. Minho studies him for a moment, noting the look in his eyes, the way he’s clearly turning something over in his head.

“What is it?” Minho asks, setting his coffee down on the desk. “Just say whatever’s on your mind.”

Seojun offers a soft smile before speaking. “Chef, what gave you the biggest push to become a head chef?”

Ah. So that’s where this is going. Minho smirks, recognizing the underlying intention. Seojun isn’t asking out of idle curiosity—he’s looking for direction, for some kind of encouragement.

Minho crosses his arms, his smirk deepening. “I had a nasty chef when I was a sous chef. Absolute piece of work. Thought he knew everything, never let anyone else have an opinion.”

Seojun looks at him with interest, clearly not expecting such a blunt answer.

“I endured it all,” Minho continues, his voice calm but firm, “because I wanted to be better than him. To prove to myself—and to him—that I could do it my way and do it better.”

He glances at Seojun, raising an eyebrow. “Why do you ask?”

Seojun smiles sheepishly, shaking his head just enough to be noticed. “I should get back to work,” he says, his tone polite and respectful, but there’s a quiet determination in it.

Minho watches him leave, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. He doesn’t need Seojun to say it outright—it’s clear he’s decided to stay. Minho knew Seojun wasn’t the type to jump ship easily.

As the door closes, Minho leans back against his desk again, his smirk softening into something almost thoughtful. If Seojun is going to stay, Minho will make sure he gets that push he’s looking for, whether he knows it or not.

But now, with the matter of the cooks settled, Minho’s thoughts shift to something else, something that’s been nagging at him. It’s time to deal with another issue that’s been bothering him—and this one isn’t work-related.

-

Minho strides confidently ahead, carrying a couple of bags over his shoulder while leaving you with the bulk of the load. The stairs creak under your feet as you haul the bags of food he made you carry, your arms aching with the weight.

"Where are we going?" you finally ask, trying not to sound as annoyed as you feel. It’s late, the air is cold, and you’re in a neighborhood you don’t recognize.

Minho glances over his shoulder, his face annoyingly nonchalant. "Just keep going," he says dismissively.

That’s it. You stop abruptly, dropping the bags onto the steps with a huff. "I’m tired," you whine, crossing your arms over your chest. "I’m not moving until you tell me where we’re going."

Minho sighs audibly and turns back, walking down a couple of steps to stand in front of you. "We’re taking care of someone," he says cryptically, his tone flat and unreadable.

Your eyes widen in horror, your mind immediately jumping to the worst conclusions. With Minho, it’s impossible to tell when he’s joking or being serious. "Taking care of someone?" you repeat, your voice an octave higher.

Minho doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he looks at you with an expression that’s halfway between amused and deadpan. Then, out of nowhere, he says, "Taesoo knows."

You blink at him, utterly confused. "Knows what?"

"About us," Minho replies, his voice low but calm. "About the kiss. In the kitchen."

Your stomach drops. You feel faint all of a sudden, your knees wobbling under you. "Why didn’t you tell me earlier?" you ask, your voice trembling as your panic rises.

Minho tilts his head slightly, his gaze sharp as he studies your reaction. "Are you scared?" he asks simply.

You nod meekly, unable to form words as your fear takes over. "What should we do? We got caught too fast..."

Minho smirks, his eyes glinting mischievously. "Don’t be scared," he says, stepping closer. "If the other cooks find out, we’ll just leave the earth together. But first—"

"First?" you echo nervously.

"We’ll sew Taesoo’s lips shut so he can’t tell anyone," Minho says matter-of-factly, as if it’s the most logical solution. He leans in slightly, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial tone. "You can be the thread, and I’ll be the needle. Together, we’ll make sure he stays quiet."

You stare at him, unsure if you should laugh, cry, or run for your life. His words do nothing to ease your anxiety, and the amused look on his face only makes you more uneasy.

"Chef…" you start hesitantly, but the words die in your throat.

He steps back, his smirk widening as he gestures for you to pick up the bags. "Come on," he says, as if he didn’t just suggest something completely unhinged. "We’re almost there."

Still uneasy, you grab the bags reluctantly, your mind racing with questions. Whatever Minho has planned, you’re not sure you’re ready for it.

-

The rooftop feels colder than you anticipated, the crisp night air wrapping around you like a thin sheet of frost. The lights in Taesoo’s apartment are out, and after knocking on the door a few times to no response, you and Minho are left to wait. You sit together on a weathered wooden bench outside, the city sprawling below you. The view is breathtaking, the glow of city lights mimicking the stars above, both twinkling in their own rhythm.

You scoot closer to Minho, partly for warmth, partly because the moment feels intimate in a way you can't quite put into words. Your shoulder brushes against his, and the contact grounds you. The silence stretches on, comfortable but heavy with unspoken thoughts. You decide to break it.

“Chef,” you start softly, your breath forming faint clouds in the cold air. “Working in your kitchen, I’m more afraid of disappointing you as a cook than anyone finding out about… us.”

Minho’s gaze shifts to you, his sharp eyes softening slightly in the dim light. Encouraged, you continue, “I can take the scoldings, the whispering, all of it. But I don’t want to lean on you when I’m not good enough. I don’t want to be the weak link in your kitchen.”

You look down at your hands, suddenly aware of how vulnerable you’ve made yourself. But then you glance up at him and press on. “I like you and I want to lean on you, but I also want to stand on my own. It’s just… so hard to stand on my own sometimes.”

He smirks, the corner of his mouth tugging up in that infuriating, teasing way of his. “If it’s that hard, should we just give up?”

You know he’s joking, but you still pout at his words. “We haven’t even done anything yet!” you protest.

Minho raises an eyebrow, amused. “What haven’t we done?”

Instead of answering, you throw the question back at him. “What have we done?”

He clicks his tongue, leaning back against the bench. “What is it you want to do, then?”

“Everything,” you reply without hesitation.

“Everything, huh?” he repeats, his tone light but his gaze lingering on you. “You sure about that?”

“Everything,” you confirm, crossing your arms stubbornly.

Minho chuckles under his breath, shaking his head. “Fine, let’s do everything. But we’re going to be pretty busy sneaking around the kitchen.”

You burst out laughing, the sound ringing out into the quiet night. Without thinking, you playfully punch his chest, and Minho counters by wrapping his arm around your shoulders and pulling you into his side. His voice drops to a low murmur, teasing, “Doing it in the freezer is that what you’re saying?”

The bubble of your shared laughter is suddenly burst when Taesoo appears, his voice cutting through the moment like a knife. “Oh, don’t mind me,” he says dramatically as he plops himself down between you and Minho, forcing you apart.

Minho glares at him, his irritation evident. “Where the hell have you been? Do you know how long we’ve been waiting?”

But Taesoo cups his hands around his mouth and shouts loudly enough for the whole city to hear, “Chef Lee is dating in the kitchen!”

Minho claps his hands mockingly, clearly unimpressed. “Louder. Let the entire neighborhood know.”

Taesoo grins and obliges, shouting even louder, “CHEF LEE IS DATING IN THE KITCHEN!”

Minho leans back, shaking his head in mock exasperation before casually wrapping an arm around Taesoo’s neck. “Now that the world knows, you have to keep it to yourself in the kitchen.”

When Taesoo doesn’t respond immediately, Minho tightens his arm around his neck in a playful headlock. “Got it?”

“Y-yes, Chef!” Taesoo splutters, tapping out in defeat.

Taesoo settles down between you and Minho, a mischievous grin plastered on his face after his dramatic outburst. Minho loosens his grip around Taesoo’s neck and lets out a mock sigh. “You’re lucky I don’t kick you off this rooftop right now.”

Taesoo laughs, rubbing his neck theatrically. “Relax, Chef. Your secret’s safe with me.”

Minho raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Oh, is it? After you just announced it like that?”

Taesoo grins wider but then glances at you, his playful demeanor softening just a touch. “I wouldn’t actually tell anyone, you know.”

Minho crosses his arms skeptically, but you lean in, curious. “Why not?” you ask gently.

Taesoo shrugs, looking uncharacteristically shy. “Because you’re the nicest to me in the kitchen. You’re the only one who treats me like I’m more than just a kitchen assistant. You talk to me like I matter, and... I’d feel bad if I went around blabbing about your business.”

The sincerity in his voice catches you off guard, and you blink at him for a moment before smiling warmly. “Taesoo... thank you. That really means a lot.”

Minho looks between the two of you, his expression unreadable, but there’s a flicker of something softer in his eyes. “Well,” he says after a beat, his tone still teasing but less sharp, “I guess you’ve got one redeeming quality after all.”

“Only one?” Taesoo shoots back, grinning again.

You laugh, pulling out the food you brought and setting it on the bench between you. “Alright, enough with the compliments or Taesoo’s head won’t fit through the door. Let’s eat before everything gets cold.”

The three of you dig into the impromptu feast, the atmosphere light and comfortable. You feel relieved to know that only the three of you know about this secret, oh and maybe the billion of stars blinking at the night sky tonight. But you can count on them to keep it safe for you too.

-

The faint light of dawn paints the horizon in soft golds and pinks, bathing the streets in a tranquil glow. Minho grips the steering wheel loosely as he drives home, feeling uncharacteristically light. Tonight had been... cathartic, in a way he hadn’t expected, and now, as the city slowly stirs to life, he feels at peace for the first time in weeks.

He doesn’t need to glance to his right to know you’ve fallen asleep in the passenger seat. The steady rise and fall of your breathing fills the quiet car, a soothing rhythm that matches the calm of the morning. Minho allows himself a rare smile, pleased to see you resting after such a long day.

When he pulls into his parking spot, he cuts the engine and sits there for a moment, glancing over at you. Strands of hair have fallen across your face, and without thinking, Minho leans over, brushing them aside with a featherlight touch. Your face is serene, lost in some peaceful dream, and for a brief moment, he’s tempted to let you stay like this. But he knows it’s not good for you to sleep in the car too long.

“Wake up,” he says softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “We're here.”

Your forehead creases as your eyes flutter open, a sleepy haze still clouding your gaze. Minho watches as you try to orient yourself, finding it strangely endearing. Gently, he tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

“What time is it?” you mumble, your voice still thick with sleep.

“Early,” Minho replies simply, his lips quirking upward at the corners.

You blink a few times, then, in your drowsy state, ask, “What do you usually do at this hour?”

He chuckles lightly. “Wash up, hit the gym, sometimes I have breakfast... sometimes I don't.”

That earns a small laugh from you. “Same,” you say with a little grin, as though you’ve uncovered some shared secret.

Minho shakes his head, amused. “It doesn’t take much to make you happy, does it?”

You roll your eyes but smile back, the kind of smile that lingers. “I just think it’s nice we have something in common.”

“Well, if it makes you this happy,” Minho teases, “should we have breakfast today?”

The offer takes you by surprise, and you tilt your head at him, curiosity glinting in your eyes. “Huh?”

“Yeah,” he replies coolly, leaning back in his seat. “Come over later. We’ll have breakfast together.”

You hesitate, your brows knitting together slightly as though unsure if he means it.

“Come on,” Minho coaxes, his tone playful now. “Make breakfast with me. I want to see if you can cook something other than pasta.”

Your lips twitch into a sassy smile as you shoot him a side-eye glance. “I can cook plenty of things besides pasta, thank you very much.”

“Good.” He smirks, satisfied. “Then come over and prove it. We’ll head to work together after.”

Your hesitation melts away, replaced by a shy but bright smile that warms something in Minho’s chest. “Okay,” you agree softly.

Minho plays it cool, gesturing toward the door. “Alright, get out of my car. You’re drooling on the upholstery.”

You laugh and swat at him lightly before stepping out, still smiling as you close the door behind you. Minho watches as you walk away, unable to help the small smile that lingers on his own face.

-

There’s no time to waste once you step into your apartment. Dropping your bag onto your bed, you head straight to the bathroom, craving the refreshing wake-up of a quick shower. The water washes away the weariness of the long night, and when you emerge, you feel lighter and more alert.

Stepping out, you spot Sara already dressed, her appearance neat and polished despite the early hour. She glances up and smiles faintly at you.

“Good morning,” she greets softly.

You return her smile, wrapping your towel tighter around you. “Morning. You’re up early.”

She hesitates, then says, “Can I have a word with you?”

Something about her tone makes you pause, but seeing no harm in it, you nod. “Sure. Let me just—”

“Here,” she interrupts, pouring coffee into a mug and offering it to you.

You accept it with a quiet “Thanks” and follow her to the living room. The air feels heavier than it should for such an ordinary start to the day.

Sara settles into the couch, taking a slow sip of her coffee. You mirror her, letting the warmth seep into your hands as you wait. She doesn’t speak immediately, and you realize she’s stalling. Her smile is polite but thin, her eyes flitting between you and the coffee in her hands.

Finally, she breaks the silence. “Where were you and Minho coming back from?”

Her question catches you off guard. Your heart skips as you realize she must have seen you together—either in the parking lot or in the car.

“Taesoo’s place. We had some food together,” you answer simply, careful to spare her the details.

Sara nods, her gaze briefly dropping to her mug. She takes another sip, prompting you to do the same.

“I think you already know,” she starts slowly, her voice laced with hesitation, “that Minho and I didn’t just study together in Italy.”

You say nothing, sensing she isn’t looking for a response.

“We were... deeply in love,” she continues, her words steady now, as if she’s rehearsed them. “We were in a relationship. Rivals, yes, but also partners. We had dreams of becoming chefs in Italy together.”

She pauses, her eyes scanning your face. You remain quiet, cradling the mug in both hands as if its warmth could shield you from the vulnerability of the moment.

“But I made a mistake,” she admits, her voice softer. “I was greedy, and I lost him.”

Her gaze hardens slightly as she leans forward. “But Minho... he’s the only man I’ve ever wanted to be accepted by. As a chef. And as a woman.”

You feel your chest tighten as her words sink in. She’s not just baring her past—she’s staking her claim.

“And earlier,” Sara adds, her voice sharper now, “I saw the same look on your face.”

Your eyes widen slightly, and she presses on.

“I wanted to ask sooner,” she confesses, “but I was cautious. We work together. Live together. But now, I have to ask—do you like Minho?”

Her gaze pierces through you. “Is that how you feel, or am I mistaken?”

Your heart races, but you force yourself to stay composed and hold her gaze firmly as you answer, “No. You’re not mistaken at all.”

The confidence in your voice surprises even you. You’ve suspected for a while now that Sara’s return wasn’t just about proving herself as a chef but also about rekindling something with Minho. And while you don’t owe her an explanation, it feels like she’s doing this on purpose—To mess with your head.

Sara blinks, her expression faltering for a split second before she nods slowly. “Ah, I see,”

She opens her mouth to say something else—probably to cut you down—but you don’t give her the chance.

“I'm sorry but I need to get ready for work,” you say briskly, standing up. “Thanks for the coffee.”

Without waiting for a response, you head to your bedroom, closing the door firmly behind you but it seems like Sara is already succeed on messing with your head.

-

Minho leans against the counter in his apartment, staring at the now-cold plates of food he had meticulously prepared. The aroma of the breakfast he’d been looking forward to had faded hours ago, replaced by an unsettling quiet that seemed to echo his disappointment. He had waited long enough, but you never showed.

Sitting alone, Minho ate in silence, each bite more hollow than the last. Your absence lingered in his mind, nagging at him like an itch he couldn’t scratch. Did something go wrong? Did he misread the situation? His chest tightened at the thought that something might have happened to you.

Now at the restaurant, Minho stands in the hall, his arms crossed as he keeps an ear out for the sound of footsteps. When he finally hears them, his heart skips—but it’s only Taesoo. The younger man approaches, his usual meek demeanor replaced by an uncharacteristic confidence. They exchange a knowing glance, and Taesoo silently zips his mouth shut with a gesture. Minho nods in acknowledgment, watching as Taesoo disappears into the locker room without another word.

Still, Minho stays where he is, debating whether to call you. Then, finally, he hears more footsteps coming up the stairs. His heart leaps, and he straightens up as you appear at the top. But something’s different.

The brightness he’s grown used to seeing in your face is gone, replaced by a faint scowl that unsettles him. Your shoulders are tense, and your expression is clouded, as though a storm is brewing behind your eyes.

Minho’s heart sinks further when you don’t even glance his way, heading straight for the locker room as if he doesn’t exist.

“Hey, you!” He calls, his voice steady despite the unease creeping into his chest.

You stop but don’t turn to face him until his fingers gesture for you to come closer. Reluctantly, you obey, stepping forward without meeting his eyes.

Lowering his voice, Minho asks, “Why didn’t you come over for breakfast?”

You stare at him, your silence louder than any words could be. There’s something raw in your eyes—something that makes his stomach twist.

“What’s wrong?” he presses, his tone softer now. “Did something happen? Are you hurt? Did someone hurt you?”

Your voice is quiet but sharp as you reply, “Yes. Someone did hurt me.”

Minho straightens, alarm flashing across his face. “Who?” he demands, his voice firm. “Who hurt you?”

You look at him, your gaze cutting like a blade. “You did.”

The words hit him like a slap. His eyes widen in disbelief.

“Me?” he shrieks, his voice higher than intended. “When did I—what are you talking about?”

You don’t answer. Instead, you mutter something under your breath—too low for him to catch—then clamp your mouth shut, as though the words are too dangerous to say aloud.

Before Minho can ask again, you punch him square in the chest. Not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to startle him.

“What the—” Minho stares at you, flabbergasted.

“You deserved that,” you say, your voice trembling with something he can’t place—anger, hurt, or maybe both.

Before he can recover, you turn and walk away, leaving him standing there in stunned silence.

Minho watches you go, his chest still stinging—not from the punch, but from the sharp, cutting weight of your words. He stands frozen, replaying everything in his mind and if something wrong happened in between this morning and now.

-

Minho stands at the chef’s table, surveying the bustling kitchen as the lunch service begins. The usual energy fills the air, but his eyes are drawn to you. Your glum expression hasn’t changed since you walked into the restaurant this morning, and it’s unsettling.

Pushing personal concerns aside, Minho claps his hands to gather the kitchen’s attention. “Listen up! It’s graduation and admission season, which means family gatherings are in full swing. People want separate pasta dishes rather than full-course meals, so expect an overload of pasta orders today.”

The staff murmurs their acknowledgment, and Minho continues. “Pasta line will handle all the orders without help from entrée chefs unless absolutely necessary. It won’t be easy, but I trust you’ll manage.”

The kitchen erupts into motion as the first few orders come through. Minho shouts them out, and the organized chaos begins. As predicted, pasta orders flood in, pushing the pasta line to their limit.

You approach Minho’s chef’s table, placing two plates in front of him. “How many more?” he asks, inspecting the dishes.

“I still have four more after this, Chef,” you reply, your tone distracted.

Sara steps up, placing her plates on the table. “I’m done with my orders,” she announces, glancing at Minho. “Give me orders!”

Minho nods and redirects some of your orders to Sara, sending you back to your station. But as he observes you, it’s clear that something is off. Your movements are out of rhythm, uncharacteristically sloppy. Clams slosh out of your pan and onto the floor.

“You!” Minho snaps, his voice cutting through the clamor. “Did the clams come all the way here just to dive onto the kitchen floor?”

“I’m sorry, chef” you mumble, quickly picking up the pace.

But it doesn’t get better. Your cooking remains erratic, and Minho’s patience wears thin. He strides over to you and extends his hand. “Give it to me,” he orders, eyeing the pan.

You shake your head, gripping the handle tightly. “I’ll do it, Chef. I'll do it myself.”

Minho stares at you, his frustration mounting. “Do it right, then,” he mutters, stepping back to watch.

When you finally place the dish on his table, Minho takes one look and frowns. The pasta glistens with an unappetizing sheen, and the clams sit lifelessly atop it. He picks up a fork, poking at the dish before placing it down with a sharp clink.

“What’s the matter with you?” he demands, his voice rising. “The pasta and oil aren’t emulsified. Your hands and your mind aren’t working together—just like this dish. Now, what’s wrong with you?”

The kitchen falls silent. All eyes are on you as you stand there, head bowed. Minho’s stomach twists, guilt creeping in despite his annoyance.

“I’m sorry, chef” you whisper, your voice barely audible. “I’ll do it again.”

“No,” Minho says firmly. He turns to Sara. “Take over the rest of her orders. Total of six, go!”

You nod, defeated, and return to your station. Minho watches as you scrape the failed dish into the trash, the weight of his scolding visible in the slump of your shoulders.

He sighs and calls you back to the chef’s table. You approach hesitantly, clasping your hands in front of you.

“Do you know why we stir these clam shells in the frying pan when we can't even eat them? You think we put in those shells that are ten times their size so we can eat the tiny bit of clam in them?” Minho begins, keeping his tone steady. “It is to keep the clam juice inside the shell. As it opens up, it should release fresh clam juice. For that reason, you have to stir at the same speed with the same strength so that all clams get cooked and opens up simultaneously. That is the key to make vongole.”

You nod but don’t meet his gaze.

“Aren't you going to answer me?” Minho presses.

“Yes, chef,” you reply softly, still avoiding his eyes.

The meekness in your voice is jarring, so unlike your usual spirited self. Minho waves you back to your station, but the sight of your retreating figure only deepens his confusion. What in the world is going on with you?

-

Minho’s head is already swimming with frustration as he walks toward Chris’s office after the dinner service. The last thing he wants is another conversation with the restaurant’s manager, but the summons was clear. He drags his feet, feeling the weight of the long day pulling at his shoulders.

Reaching the door, Minho knocks half-heartedly and waits until Chris’s voice grants him permission to enter. He steps in to find Chris tidying up his desk, moving stacks of papers into neat piles.

“Please, have a seat,” Chris says, gesturing to the sofa across the room as he joins Minho there.

Minho sits, his patience thin, and looks at Chris expectantly.

Chris wastes no time. The second he's seated on the sofa across from him, he asks, “How do you feel about sharing the chef’s office with Sara starting tomorrow?”

Minho’s brow furrows, the question catching him off guard. “Is that an order?” he asks flatly.

Chris leans forward, clasping his hands together. “Sara’s a chef, just like you. I don’t think it’s right for her to share a room full of guys who clearly don’t make her feel welcome. It’s only fair she has a better environment to work in.”

Minho doesn’t hesitate. “I don’t want to.”

Chris blinks, surprised by the blunt rejection. “It’ll help you two work better together. Sharing the space will make communication easier and—”

“I don’t want to,” Minho interrupts firmly, his voice low but resolute.

Chris leans back, exhaling in exasperation. “Sara deserves the same respect and facilities as any other chef. She has every right to use that office. Am I the one not making sense here?”

Minho leans forward, his eyes sharp as he looks around Chris’s spacious office. “Your office is nice and big,” he remarks, his tone laced with sarcasm. “Why don’t you bring Sara here instead? Let her share this space with you. Or is this really about what’s best for her? Maybe it’s more about what’s best for you.”

Chris’s face tightens, but he doesn’t respond immediately. Minho stands, brushing off invisible lint from his jacket.

“You can start by being honest about that,” Minho says coldly, heading toward the door.

“Chef,” Chris calls out, his tone final. “You’ll be sharing the room with Sara starting tomorrow.”

Minho doesn’t stop walking, his hand gripping the door handle. Without looking back, he steps out of the office and into the hallway.

Chris can insist all he wants, but Minho isn’t going to give in easily.

-

The parking lot is quiet, with only the faint hum of distant cars breaking the silence. Minho walks briskly toward his car, his thoughts scattered. He tries to focus on the day ahead tomorrow, but his mind drifts back to you—your distant expression, your unsteady hands, your reluctance to meet his gaze. He shakes his head, frustrated with himself for letting it bother him so much.

Just as he turns a corner, he spots you. Sitting on the steps leading to the dining hall, you’re hunched forward, your shoulders slightly slumped as if the weight of the day is pressing down on you.

Minho’s steps slow instinctively. Before he knows it, he’s approaching you. He stops three steps away and clears his throat to make his presence known.

Your head snaps back, startled, and then you quickly bow slightly. “Thank you for your hard work today, Chef,” you say, your tone polite but distant.

Minho clicks his tongue softly. He’s used to this—your tendency to put up a professional front when there’s something deeper bothering you. He sits on the steps, his posture relaxed, but his gaze fixed on you.

“Are you upset because I scolded you earlier?” he asks, his voice steady but probing. “It’s not like it’s the first time you’ve been yelled at.”

You sigh, your gaze dropping to your hands. “It’s not just that,” you admit quietly. “Getting scolded... hurts my pride now.”

Minho tilts his head slightly, clicking his tongue again. “That’s a good thing,” he says, as if it’s obvious.

You glance at him, frowning slightly, but you continue. “It feels even worse now because... it felt like I was being compared to Chef Sara. Like I’ll never measure up.”

Understanding dawns on Minho, and he nods subtly. He remembers those days—when he was the one being compared, his pride crushed over and over until he thought he’d break.

He leans forward slightly, resting his arms on his knees. “Getting your pride hurt is how you get better,” he says, his voice firm but not unkind. “If you just think your seniors are naturally better than you, you’ll never improve. Not in a million years.”

You look at him, your lips slowly curling into a faint smile.

“Being compared to someone better than you is what pushes you to catch up,” Minho continues. “And trust me, you will catch up. But you’ll only get there if you let that comparison push you, not break you.”

Your smile widens a little, and Minho feels a small sense of satisfaction. “From tomorrow on,” he warns with a smirk, “I’m going to compare you to Sara even more. I’m going to crush your pride even worse.”

Despite his words, your smile grows wider, your eyes softening as you look at him. “Yes, Chef,” you say softly, the words carrying a warmth that lingers in the air.

Minho moves down the steps, sitting next to you now. His voice lowers, the usual sharpness replaced by something more intimate. “Just because I like you doesn’t mean anything changes,” he says quietly. “You’ll still have to swallow your pride. More than ever.”

Your gaze flicks to him, a soft smile playing on your lips. “Yes, Chef,” you repeat, and Minho chuckles softly at the words he’s grown to love hearing from you.

Silence falls between you, but it’s the comfortable kind. The night air is cool, and the world around you feels distant, like it’s just the two of you in this moment.

After a while, you break the silence, your voice soft. “Having your pride wounded... is that really a good thing?”

Minho glances at you, his smirk returning. “Yes,” he says simply. “When you’re in trouble or your pride’s hurt, don’t get sad. Get even. Stand up tall and be jealous—it’s better than wilting like a dead plant.”

You chuckle softly, the sound light and genuine. “Yes, Chef.”

Minho raises an eyebrow. “What did I tell you to be?”

“To be jealous,” you reply, your smile growing.

“That’s right,” Minho says, his signature smirk deepening.

Silence falls again, but this time, it feels even more intimate. The tension between you is almost palpable, and when you turn to him again, your eyes meet his.

“I’m going to become a chef you can be proud of,” you say, your voice filled with quiet determination.

Minho’s chest tightens at your words, a wave of affection crashing over him. The sincerity in your eyes, the way you want to make him proud—it’s endearing, almost too much to bear.

If you weren’t here, at the restaurant, he’d kiss you right here, right now. Instead, he reaches for your hand, his fingers curling around your writst.

“It's cold. Let’s go home, mmh?” he says softly, standing and pulling you to your feet. You follow without hesitation, your hand still in his as Minho takes you home.

-

The moment the door to Minho’s apartment clicks shut behind you, the air between you shifts, charged with tension that had been simmering for weeks. You barely have time to glance around his apartment before Minho steps closer, his dark eyes fixed on yours.

“Finally,” he mutters, his voice low and rough with impatience.

Before you can respond, his hands cup your face, and his lips crash onto yours with a fiery intensity. The kiss is urgent, almost desperate, as if he’s been holding himself back for too long. Your hands instinctively clutch at his shirt, gripping the fabric as his lips move against yours, soft yet insistent.

Minho’s fingers slide down to your waist, tugging you closer until there’s no space left between you. His touch is firm but gentle, his hands warm as they settle on your hips. He pulls back for a fraction of a second, his breath mingling with yours as he stares at you, his pupils blown wide.

“You have no idea how much I’ve been holding back,” he murmurs, his voice a husky whisper.

Before you can reply, he bends slightly and scoops you up effortlessly, one arm under your knees and the other supporting your back. You gasp softly, your arms wrapping around his neck for balance as he carries you to the sofa.

Minho lowers you onto the cushions with care but doesn’t waste a second before leaning over you, his hands framing your face as he captures your lips again. This time, the kiss is deeper, hungrier, and you respond with equal fervor, your fingers tangling in his hair.

The heat between you is palpable, every touch and kiss filled with emotions he’s kept bottled up—desire, affection, frustration, and something deeper he hasn’t yet put into words. His lips trail down your jawline, leaving a scorching path as he presses open-mouthed kisses along your neck.

Your breaths come faster, your heart pounding as his hands roam, his touch leaving sparks in its wake. Minho pulls back just enough to look at you, his gaze intense and filled with an emotion that makes your stomach flip.

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he whispers, his voice barely above a growl.

You shake your head, breathless, and he leans in again, brushing his lips against yours in a kiss that’s softer this time but no less consuming. His hands find yours, intertwining your fingers as he presses you deeper into the sofa.

Every kiss, every touch feels like a confession, a way for Minho to pour out all the feelings he’s been holding back. And as you kiss him back, just as fervently, you let him know without words that you feel the same.

-

Minho hovers over you, his eyes roaming your face, drinking in every detail. Your flushed cheeks, the slight parting of your lips, the way your chest rises and falls rapidly—it’s enough to drive him mad. Slowly, deliberately, his hands move to your shirt, fingers brushing your skin as he lifts it over your head and tosses it aside.

His breath hitches as he takes in the sight of you, his lips curving into a faint smirk. His hands move with purpose, tracing over your shoulders and down your arms, leaving goosebumps in their wake. When his fingers find the clasp of your bra, he pauses, his gaze flickering to yours for permission. The soft nod you give him is all he needs. With practiced ease, he unhooks it, sliding the straps down your arms and discarding it.

Once the bra is out of the way, Minho glides his hands up to your ribcage and moves them to the side to cup your soft mound, fingers lightly rubbing the hardening buds, but his eyes... they remain locked with yours. They're dark and wide, filled with lust.

You mirror his movements, your fingers fumbling slightly as you unbutton his shirt, pushing it off his shoulders to reveal the taut muscles of his chest. Your touch is hesitant at first, but as your hands run over his warm skin, Minho lets out a low hum, his eyes darkening with desire.

Piece by piece, the barrier of clothing between you disappears. Minho watches you with a mix of admiration and hunger, his hands grazing your bare skin, memorizing every curve, every dip.

He leans in, his lips pressing softly against your collarbone. From there, he works his way down, leaving a trail of kisses along your skin, each one lingering longer than the last. When his lips find the sensitive spot on your neck, you gasp, your fingers tightening on his shoulders.

“Mine,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice possessive as he leaves a mark there, a reminder of this moment.

Minho doesn’t stop there. His lips travel lower, over your chest, your stomach, your hips, your thighs... each kiss filled with reverence and passion. Every mark he leaves feels like a promise, a declaration of everything he can’t put into words.

“Mine, mine, mine,” that's all Minho can mutter with his lips pressed to your skin.

When he returns to your lips, his kisses are slower, deeper, as if he wants to savor every second. His hands cradle your face, his thumb brushing your cheek as he whispers your name.

“You are mine,” he says, his voice raw with emotion, before pressing his forehead to yours.

The next thing you know, your back resting on his chest, your legs parting open and Minho’s hand relentlessly touching, teasing your bundle of nerves. You're squirming against him, moans spilling out of your mouth and Minho tries his best to contain it by kissing you.

As you spill your release on his hand, you turn your head to the side and he immediately captures your lips in a hard, deep kiss that steals your breath away.

Swiftly, he turns you over, having you lying on your side next to him. His hand curves around your thigh before lifting your leg over his, allowing him the access to penetrate you from the back. His fingers have no problem finding your clit, applying gentle pressures on it as he pushes his length inside you. Your moans are low and sultry, the kind that he won’t get tired of hearing over and over again, spilling out from your mouth until he's fully sheathed inside you. He then pulls you close until your body molds into his, becoming one.

With gentle but deliberate movements, Minho guides you into a rhythm, his touch and kisses all-consuming. Every movement feels like an unspoken conversation, his body communicating what words can’t: desire, care, devotion.

In the quiet intimacy of his apartment, with only the sound of your breaths and the occasional murmured name, Minho makes love to you, pouring everything he feels into every kiss, every touch, every whispered word.

-

Minho pulls a blanket from the side of the sofa, unfolding it with careful hands. The fabric is soft and worn, a perfect cocoon for the two of you. He drapes it over your bodies, tucking it around your shoulders before settling back against the cushions. There isn’t much space on the sofa, but that’s what he likes about it. No gaps between you, no room for anything but closeness. Every small movement has your skin brushing against his, your warmth sinking into him.

As your chest rises and falls with each breath, Minho unconsciously syncs his breathing with yours. The rhythm is soothing, intimate, as though your bodies are speaking their own language. Your head rests on his chest, one hand folded beneath your chin, and he can feel the softness of your eyelashes grazing his skin whenever you shift slightly.

“Hey,” he calls softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

You tilt your head up, your eyes locking with his almost immediately. For a moment, he forgets what he was going to say, caught in the quiet brilliance of your gaze. His hand lifts to brush his hair back, steadying himself before he continues.

“From now on,” he begins, his tone even and measured, “I’m going to scold you non-stop in the kitchen.”

You blink at him, waiting for more.

“That way,” he adds, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, “no one will get suspicious about us.”

A smile blooms on your face, and you nod. “Yes, Chef.”

Minho chuckles softly. “When I scream at you, just remind yourself—it’s my way of showing affection, okay?”

You nod again, that playful glint in your eye as you reply, “Yes, Chef.” But then, after a pause, you tilt your head, your lips quirking into a teasing smile. “So… the more you scream, the stronger your affection?”

Minho’s smirk deepens, his eyes glinting with amusement. “Exactly.”

You giggle, the sound light and infectious, and he can’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction at how easily he can amuse you. Your hand reaches up, fingers gently curling under his chin as you hold his face still.

“What about when you’re being nice?” you ask, your tone soft but teasing. “Does that mean you don’t like me then?”

“No,” Minho shakes his head, his gaze steady. “It means I like you too,” he answers simply.

You giggle again, your face lighting up as you lean closer. “So basically, you’re going to show me affection all day long.”

A smile breaks across his face, warm and genuine. “That’s right,” he says, his voice dropping slightly. “I’m going to shower you with so much affection, you won’t even have time to complain. And if all that love and affection doesn’t make you better, then you’re in serious trouble.”

His eyes lock onto yours, an intensity in his gaze that makes your breath hitch. “Got it?”

Your lips curve into a smile as you answer in that soft, melodic tone he’s come to adore. “Yes, Chef.”

The way you say it melts something in him, because to him, it's not just an expression of obedience but also devotion, and before he can stop himself, he leans in, pressing his lips to yours. The kiss is soft, tender at first, but he pulls away for only a second before diving back in, capturing your lips in a long, lingering kiss.

When he finally breaks away, it’s only to pull you closer, tucking you firmly against him. The two of you stay like that, wrapped in each other’s warmth, until sleep gently claims you both.

-

You step out of the bedroom, still stretching the remnants of sleep from your limbs, and head toward the kitchen. The comforting hum of the coffee machine fills the quiet apartment as you prepare to make your morning coffee.

The front door creaks open, and Sara walks in, looking flushed and energized, like she’s just finished a workout. You offer her a polite smile and a soft, “Good morning.”

She returns the smile, her expression kind but guarded. “Good morning.”

“Coffee?” you ask, gesturing toward the machine.

Sara shakes her head. “No, thanks.” She moves to the other side of the counter, grabbing herself a glass of water.

For a moment, the kitchen is quiet, the only sound the faint gurgling of the coffee machine. Sara breaks the silence, her voice measured but clear. “I thought about what I said to you yesterday—whether it was wrong to tell you.” She pauses, taking a sip of water. “But now that I’ve said it, I think it was the right thing to do.”

You slowly turn to face her, leaning back against the counter as you meet her gaze. The warmth of the brewing coffee lingers in the air, grounding you.

“Thank you,” you say, your tone calm but sincere. “For being honest with me. For telling me the truth.”

Sara’s lips curve into a faint smile, and she takes a step closer, though she’s careful to maintain a respectful distance.

“I think the only way to do this is for us to do things our way,” she says, her voice steady and confident. “And because I promised Minho when I came to Farfalle that I’d be fair, I’ll only play fair and be honest—in everything. Including in getting him back.”

Her words are bold, but there’s no malice in her tone. It’s a simple declaration, as straightforward as a chef presenting a dish: no frills, no pretenses.

You tilt your head slightly, listening intently. There’s something admirable in her directness, her willingness to lay everything bare without disguising her intentions.

“If not,” she continues, her gaze unwavering, “then this victory wouldn’t mean anything to me.” She takes another sip of her water, her expression unreadable. “What do you think?”

You can see it now, the unspoken challenge in her words—a duel not fought with knives and flames in the kitchen, but with hearts and intentions.

You allow a small smile to form, meeting her eyes with a steady gaze. “Okay.”

Your single-word response hangs in the air, an agreement, an acceptance of the unspoken competition between you. Sara nods slightly, her expression firm but not hostile.

And as the coffee machine beeps, signaling your cup is ready, you can’t help but feel a quiet determination settling in your chest. Sara might be better in the kitchen than you but you’re competing for a whole different thing now and you're ready for it.

-

Minho’s good mood evaporates the moment he steps into his office and finds two members of the service staff maneuvering a desk through the doorway. His eyes narrow as he takes in the sight of them positioning it into the corner of the already cramped space.

“What are you doing?” Minho snaps, his voice sharp enough to make the workers pause mid-action.

“The manager told us to move this in here,” one of them answers hesitantly, gesturing toward the desk.

Minho clenches his jaw, the muscles in his neck tightening. He distinctly remembers telling Chris he didn’t want to share his office, but it seems like Chris doesn’t care about what he wants.

Storming out of the room, Minho makes a beeline for Chris’s office, his steps quick and deliberate. Before he gets there, though, he spots Chris in the dining hall, clipboard in hand, inspecting the setup.

Minho stops in front of him, crossing his arms. “I told you I don’t want to share the office,” he says, his tone low but laced with irritation.

Chris looks up, meeting Minho’s intense gaze without flinching. “And I told you this was going to happen.” His voice is calm, almost infuriatingly so.

Chris doesn’t back down, holding Minho’s stare with equal intensity. “Why are you being so narrow-minded?”

Minho’s jaw tightens further. “Why are you narrowing my space?”

The two engage in a fiery standoff, their gazes locked in a silent battle of wills. Minho feels his patience wearing thin, his frustration bubbling dangerously close to the surface. If this goes on any longer, he knows he’ll explode.

Without another word, Minho turns on his heel and storms away, opting for a different tactic. If Chris won’t listen, maybe Sara will.

He heads to the kitchen and spots her near the stock station, carefully stirring a pot of broth. Minho stops in his tracks, his frustration momentarily replaced by a flicker of professional instinct. The kitchen has been having issues with the stock lately, and he knows it needs to be addressed.

Deciding to step back, Minho retreats to his office and pulls out his phone. He fires off a quick text to Felix, asking him to meet in the office to discuss it.

A few minutes later, Felix strides into the office, his usual laid-back demeanor intact. He stands in front of Minho, hands in his pockets, waiting for him to speak.

Minho leans back in his chair, folding his arms. “We need to make a decision about this stock problem. Either we give in to Sara’s way, or she gives in to ours.”

Felix doesn’t hesitate, his answer immediate. “It's only right if she gives in. That was the only possible conclusion from the start.”

Minho raises an eyebrow at the certainty in Felix’s voice.

Felix shrugs. “If I thought I was going to give in, I wouldn’t have left the kitchen in the first place. I stand by what I said.”

Minho takes that in, nodding slightly. “Do you like the taste?”

Felix pulls a face, cringing dramatically. “It’s not that good, and I didn’t like it at all. Honestly, she’s just trying to win the power struggle.”

Minho nods again, this time slower, as if processing Felix’s words. “Alright,” he says, dismissing Felix with a slight wave of his hand.

Felix leaves without another word, and Minho leans back in his chair, staring at the desk that now occupies the corner of his office. He needs space—not just physically, but mentally—to figure out how to deal with both the office and the stock problem. But regardless of that, Minho has a feeling that Sara will still win, one way or another.

-

You finish tying the knot on your apron as you step out of the locker room, ready to start your shift. The sound of hurried footsteps behind you is your only warning before Felix grabs your arm, practically dragging you toward the kitchen.

"Felix, what—" you begin, stumbling slightly to keep up, but he interrupts you, speaking in a hushed tone.

"Chef asked me about Sara’s stock earlier," he says, his voice urgent. "And I, uh, might have told him I tasted it."

You stop dead in your tracks, eyes widening in horror. "What?! You lied about tasting it?"

Felix pulls you forward again, muttering, "It’s not lying if I already know what chicken stock tastes like."

"Felix!" you hiss, your voice rising slightly in panic. "That’s a fatal mistake! You know how thorough Chef is—how could you mess that up?"

"I panicked, okay?" Felix defends himself as the two of you step into the kitchen. "And it’s not like I’m completely wrong. Chicken stock is chicken stock."

You let out a frustrated groan, heading straight for the stove where Sara’s pot of stock still sits. Grabbing a ladle, you pour some into a small bowl, taking a spoonful to taste. The flavor hits your palate, and your stomach drops.

"This… this isn’t chicken stock," you say, turning to Felix with wide eyes.

Felix leans closer, frowning. "What do you mean? It tastes like it."

"It’s not," you insist, setting the bowl down. "Come on, we need to test this properly."

The two of you set to work, comparing Sara’s stock with the vegetable stock the kitchen has been using. You each cook three pastas, pairing them with white, red, and cream-based sauces. Once everything is plated, you spread them across Minho’s chef’s table, ready to taste and compare.

First, you both try the white sauce pasta. You twirl a forkful around and take a bite, chewing thoughtfully. "It’s not bad," you admit, "but the wine in the sauce stands out more than the stock. It doesn’t blend as well."

Felix nods, echoing your observation. "Yeah, it’s… okay. But not groundbreaking."

Next, you move to the cream sauce. Felix takes a bite first, his expression neutral. "The cream’s so rich, it overpowers everything else," he says.

You taste it for yourself and nod in agreement. "Yeah, there’s barely a difference."

Finally, you both dig into the red sauce pasta. The moment the flavor hits your tongue, you and Felix exchange wide-eyed looks.

"Wow," you breathe, genuinely impressed.

Felix lets out a low whistle. "She was right. The stock brings out the tomatoes’ savoriness, and the aroma—it’s so much better."

He runs a hand through his bleached blonde hair, ruining his already messy bun, and groans. "We should’ve tasted this before deciding anything."

You immediately snap your head toward him. "We? You’re the one in trouble here, Felix. Don’t drag me into your mess again."

Felix pales, realization dawning on him. He grumbles, "If Chef finds out we objected without even tasting it first, he’s going to make us take our uniforms off."

You let out a long sigh, tasting more of the red sauce pasta as Felix spirals. "Let me correct you again—you’re the one who’s in trouble, not us and definitely not me."

Felix continues to grumble under his breath, but you’re too focused on the food in front of you. As much as you hate to admit it, you’re impressed with Sara. Despite everyone being against her, she didn’t back down—and she proved herself. You take another bite, silently marveling at how bold and unwavering she was. Whether you like it or not, she’s earned a little respect.

-

The lunch service begins with the usual chaos brewing in the air, the kind that buzzes with both adrenaline and tension. Sara strides confidently to her station, placing a container of her stock front and center as if it were her crown jewel. Felix lets out an audible scoff beside you, muttering under his breath, "We don’t even have space for that."

You can’t tell if he intended for Sara to hear, but she does. Her lips curl into a smirk as she turns her head slightly, saying with calm confidence, "Why don’t we just unify it into one stock? Though for now," she adds, "I’ll only be using it for my triple-flavored pasta."

Caught between them, you feel the tension simmering, and a nagging thought creeps in—Felix's truth, or rather his lie, is bound to come back and bite him at some point.

Minho’s commanding voice pulls everyone’s attention to the chef’s table. "It’s graduation day," he announces, his presence radiating authority. "There'll be a flood for pasta orders. I want you to move your pans so fast that they're just a blur to me. Are we ready?"

"Yes, Chef!" the kitchen replies in unison, and the hum of anticipation turns into a full-blown symphony as the first tickets begin to roll in. The energy shifts instantly as the kitchen comes alive, the sound of sizzling pans and clattering utensils filling the space.

As you juggle pans in both hands, Minho appears at your station, his sharp gaze locked on your movements. He watches silently for a moment before stepping closer, reaching out to hold your wrists. His hands guide yours as he says, "Keep the rhythm fast but steady."

It’s impossible to keep your heartbeat calm with his touch commanding so much of your focus, especially when it’s in full view of the bustling kitchen. You glance at him, your lips twitching into a sly smile.

"Yes, Chef," you manage to say, hoping your voice sounds steadier than you feel.

He nods, releasing your hands, but not before reminding you, "Use your wrist for balance," before moving to Felix’s station.

From the corner of your eye, you see Minho’s sharp instincts kick in the second he watches Felix work. "Add more sauce," Minho orders, his tone direct. Felix, flustered, grabs a ladle from the container but accidentally knocks the entire thing over. The vegetable stock spills onto the stove and cascades onto the floor in a steaming mess.

The room freezes for a split second before Minho’s voice cuts through the chaos like a whip. "What are you doing? Don't you know how busy we are right now?"

Felix stammers out an apology, scrambling to clean up, but Minho is already turning to Taesoo. "Taesoo, why are you just standing there? Get him more stock!"

Taesoo hesitates, his brows furrowing. "Chef… that was the last of the vegetable stock. I was planning to make more after lunch... during prep time."

Minho’s eyes flick to Sara’s pot of stock, then back to Taesoo. "What is that then?"

"That’s Chef Sara’s stock," Taesoo meekly answers.

Minho’s jaw tightens, conflicted. "Change the stock now!"

Taesoo stutters as he asks Minho for confirmation. "To Chef Sara’s stock?"

"Then are you going to cook the pasta without stock?" Minho snaps, his patience running thin.

Taesoo complies, placing the container in front of Felix, whose face pales as though he’s staring at a loaded gun. He glances at you, muttering something you can’t catch.

You glare at him and through your gritted teeth, you say, "Don’t look at me. You dug this hole. You deal with it."

Felix grimaces as he reluctantly dips the ladle into Sara’s stock and pours it into his pan. Minho, ever perceptive, notices the brief exchange between you two. Without hesitation, he steps in between, dipping his wooden spatula into Felix’s pan to taste.

His expression falters for a moment, and he immediately tastes the stock on its own. The room feels heavy with silence as Minho’s piercing gaze lands on Felix, daggers practically shooting from his eyes. You exhale quietly, grateful beyond words that it’s not you standing in Felix’s shoes right now.

-

The rooftop air bites with cold, sharp gusts of wind cutting through the stillness, but Minho’s anger burns hotter than the chill. Felix and Taesoo stand before him, Felix’s defiance cracking at the edges, while Taesoo’s confusion is written all over his face.

What pisses Minho off the most about this isn’t just about Felix lying about Sara’s stock, it's because Felix lied about something he asked for his genuine opinion on and Felix let his petty hatred for Sara cloud his judgment like that. Minho takes a deliberate, unrelenting step toward him. His voice is low but sharp, like the edge of a knife as he asks, “You lied about the taste and you call yourself a chef?”

Felix flinches, his jaw tightening, but says nothing. Minho presses on, his voice rising. “While Sara spent hours, days, perfecting her recipe—while she was working, what were you doing? Criticizing? Lying? Wasting my time?” His arms fold tightly across his chest. “Do you honestly think you deserve to make pasta if this is how you act?”

Felix opens his mouth to defend himself, but Taesoo suddenly raises his hand hesitantly, like a schoolboy caught off guard. “Chef, I don’t mean to interrupt, but… why am I here?”

Minho shoots him a glare that could freeze fire. “You’re here because you didn’t make enough stock in the first place! What kind of kitchen runs out of stock during lunch service, huh? You’re supposed to anticipate these things!”

Taesoo shrinks under the weight of the scolding, muttering, “Yes, Chef.”

Minho’s voice drops to an icy tone. “Both of you—take your uniforms off.”

Felix’s eyes widen, his face going pale. “Chef, are you firing me?” he asks, panic creeping into his voice. “I know I was wrong, but— I left everything and came back from Italy when you asked me for help. How could you fire me like this?”

“Who said I was firing you?” Minho cuts him off, his tone as sharp as a blade. “I said take off your uniforms. Now.”

Taesoo blinks, his confusion deepening. “But, Chef… it’s cold.”

“I don’t care if it’s freezing,” Minho snaps. “Take it off! NOW!!!”

Reluctantly, Felix starts undoing his necktie, while Taesoo removes his chef hat. Slowly, they unbutton their chef coats, the icy wind biting at their exposed skin. Minho watches them without flinching, his expression unyielding.

The rooftop door creaks open, and you step out, pausing to take in the bizarre scene. Felix and Taesoo are shivering, with nothing covering their upper half bodies, while Minho stands before them like a judge handing down a sentence. He doesn’t acknowledge your arrival.

“How does it feel to take your uniforms off? Do you like it?” Minho asks, his tone dripping with disdain.

“No, Chef,” they reply in unison, their voices shaky as they hug themselves.

“Do you want to keep them off and stop cooking?”

“No, Chef.”

Minho steps closer, his gaze piercing. “If I catch either of you pulling something like this again, I’ll make sure you’ll never put those uniforms back on. Understood?”

“Yes, Chef,” they answer, trembling in the cold.

After letting the silence hang for a moment, Minho delivers the final blow. “Each of you owes me 100 push-ups. Start now.”

Felix groans under his breath, but neither dares to protest. They drop to the ground, their voices echoing across the rooftop as they start counting their push-ups.

Minho finally turns to you, sitting on the bench. You wordlessly hand him a lollipop, which he takes with a small, amused smirk. For a while, the two of you sit there, savoring your lollipops as Felix and Taesoo struggle through their punishment.

You glance at Minho. “What are you going to do now, chef?”

He withdraw his lollipop out of his mouth and raises a brow at you. “What?”

You pull your lollipop out of your mouth, twirling it between your fingers. “You’re going to have to acknowledge Chef Sara’s stock now that the sauces tasted better with it.”

Minho narrows his eyes, though there’s a faint conflict in them. Before you can press further, he turns his attention back to Felix and Taesoo. “Count louder! I can’t hear you!”

Their voices rise, and Minho leans back, savoring the sweet taste of his lollipop that masks the bitterness on having to accept his defeat to Sara.

-

Minho’s fingers drum rhythmically against the empty desk in his office, the sound filling the silence. The restaurant had another successful day, but exhaustion hangs heavy over him, though his thoughts weigh even more. Your question keeps looping in his mind, gnawing at him. What are you going to do now?

He sighs, staring at the desk like it might provide an answer. It doesn’t. His finger tapping grows sharper, almost impatient, as he wrestles with his thoughts. He hates it—admitting someone else is right. But Sara was right about her stock, and as much as it grates him, Chris’s words echo too. She deserves the same respect as a chef.

After another moment of frustration, Minho lets out a resigned huff and pulls out his phone. He types a short text to Sara, his fingers moving quickly: "Meet me in my office."

It doesn’t take long before there’s a knock at the door. Minho straightens, pushing himself off the desk. “Come in,” he calls out.

Sara steps in, the faint smile on her lips betraying none of the exhaustion he feels. She approaches confidently, her posture relaxed yet professional, her eyes meeting his.

Minho leans back against the desk, crossing his arms. “Your stock is good,” he says simply, his tone steady but measured.

Her smile widens slightly, though she keeps her response modest. “Thank you, Chef. I just finished perfecting it yesterday.”

He nods. “How long did it take you to get it right?”

“A very long time,” Sara admits with a soft laugh, her voice lighter than he expects. “But I pushed through because…” She hesitates for a moment, then continues, “...because I had you beside me. It motivated me to do better.”

Minho stiffens slightly, the personal undertone in her words prickling at him. His gaze sharpens as he leans forward, making sure there’s no room for misinterpretation. “This has nothing to do with our personal lives,” he says firmly. “I hope all you want from me is to be accepted as a chef, and you deserve that. So let’s share it—the kitchen and the office. Let's do it together.”

To emphasize his point, Minho extends a hand toward her. “Chef Choi Sara,” he addresses her with deliberate formality.

Sara takes his hand without hesitation, her grip firm and her expression warm. “Thank you, Chef Lee Minho,” she replies just as professionally.

Their handshake is brief but significant, a silent agreement between them. Minho watches her closely, his jaw tight but his expression softening just slightly. He hopes she understands what this means—nothing more, nothing less. Just professionalism, for the sake of the kitchen.

He releases her hand and straightens his posture. “That’s all. You can go now.”

Sara nods, offering him one last small smile before turning to leave. As the door closes behind her, Minho exhales deeply, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly.

He looks at the desk again, then shakes his head. This is the right decision, he tells himself. But as he moves to gather his things, a flicker of uncertainty lingers in the back of his mind.

-

The next morning, Minho steps into his office, pausing when he notices the subtle changes to the space. Sara’s desk, which was bare just yesterday, is now decorated. A small potted plant sits in one corner, a neatly arranged stack of books in another. The sight makes him purse his lips, though his attention is quickly drawn to the pile of books.

Curiosity wins out, and he picks the one on top, flipping it open. It’s Sara’s recipe book. The pages are filled with detailed sketches of dishes, annotations, and scribbled ideas in the margins. Despite himself, he’s impressed by the level of detail.

The door opens, and Minho looks up to see Sara stepping inside. Her gaze lands on him holding her book, and she tilts her head, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Planning to steal my ideas, Chef?”

He snaps the book shut and hands it back to her without hesitation. “Do whatever you want with it,” he says curtly, turning toward his desk.

Sara takes the book, setting it back on her pile. “Actually, I was thinking of sharing it with the cooks here.”

“Like I said,” Minho replies without looking at her, “do as you wish.”

Settling into her chair, Sara glances at him. “You should share your recipe book too, Chef.”

Minho lets out a dry scoff, shaking his head. “So you can copy my recipes? No thanks.”

Sara laughs lightly, unbothered by his sarcasm. “Well, I can’t say no to that offer.”

Minho shoots her a flat look. “I’m not sharing it.”

She shrugs, adjusting her chair and continues organizing her desk. “It might not be easy sharing an office at first, but we’ll get used to it.”

Minho raises an eyebrow at her, skepticism written all over his face. “I don’t see how it can be better than using the office by myself.”

Sara leans back, watching him with a faint smile. “Are you bothered by me, Chef?”

To be honest, yes, but Minho isn’t about to admit that. Thankfully, a knock on the door spares him from responding. “Come in,” he says.

The door creaks open, and Hyunwoo hesitantly steps inside, his expression uncertain. “May I… come in?”

Minho gestures for him to enter. “Sure. What is it, Hyunwoo?”

Hyunwoo shifts nervously but eventually speaks. “I wanted to ask if I could work in the pasta line.”

Minho exchanges a brief glance with Sara before focusing back on Hyunwoo. “What’s the reason?”

Hyunwoo looks down as he musters up the courage to honestly answer to the question. “I don’t know if I can become a chef with my background, but in the future, I dream of opening a small Italian restaurant to support my family.”

Minho narrows his eyes. “So you don’t want to make pasta because you love it, but because it’s a way to earn a living?”

Hyunwoo defends himself quickly. “Chef, being a chef is a profession. It’s not unreasonable to think that way. And pasta is one of the most popular dishes in Italian restaurants. I need experience if I want to succeed. But I noticed you only put your people in the important positions.”

Minho’s jaw tightens as he crosses his arms, offended by Hyunwoo’s words. “People who make good pasta get to make pasta. People who are good at grilling get to grill. That’s how it works.”

Hyunwoo avoid Minho’s gaze but his voice grows more determined. “All I’m asking for is a fair chance, Chef.”

Minho looks at Sara, who meets his gaze evenly. Finally, Minho turns back to Hyunwoo. “You may go.”

Hyunwoo bows slightly and leaves the office, closing the door behind him.

Once he’s gone, Sara lets out a sigh, leaning back in her chair. “I don’t like switching people around on the pasta line. It’s just now starting to run smoothly.”

Minho nods, considering her point. “Keeping people in their current roles could be a little selfish on our part, though.”

Sara tilts her head, studying him. “True. We should think about it and decide what’s best for the team.”

Minho leans back against his desk, arms crossed. His gaze lingers on Sara for a moment. This isn’t just about Hyunwoo, he realizes. It’s also a test of how well he and Sara can work together. And though he won’t say it out loud, that thought weighs heavier on him than he’d like to admit.

-

As everyone else is having lunch, you slip out of the restaurant to a café a few blocks down from the restaurant. This time, you glance around as you walk, making sure no one from the restaurant followed you this time. The memory of your last close call still makes you cringe to this day.

The café is quiet, a comforting hum of soft chatter and the occasional clink of cups filling the air. You sit at a small table tucked into the corner, the bag containing your surprise securely nestled in your lap.

The door chimes, and your heart skips when you see Minho step inside. Dressed impeccably as always, his sharp eyes scan the room. You raise your hand, catching his attention.

“Over here!” You shout, excitingly waving your hand in the air.

He spots you, and you notice the way his lips twitch, almost betraying a smile before he reins it in. It makes your heart warm—he’s always trying so hard to maintain his composed front.

As he approaches, you offer, “Do you want to order coffee, Chef?”

“I already had coffee,” he replies nonchalantly, pulling out a chair and sitting across from you.

Since he's already here, you pull the bag onto your lap and take out the small box. Without saying a word, you place it on the table, sliding it toward him.

Minho looks at it, and this time, he doesn’t fight the smile. It tugs at his lips as he glances at you.

“Chocolates? Are we kids?” he teases, but there’s no malice in his tone.

You tilt your head coyly. “What’s wrong with it? I’ve always wanted to do this on Valentine’s Day.”

Minho lifts an eyebrow but says nothing, his fingers brushing over the box. You point at the small card you tucked on top of the package. “Read it,” you urge.

He smirks, shaking his head. “You read it.”

You shake your head back. “Nope. You have to read it yourself.”

Minho leans forward slightly, his eyes narrowing playfully. “What did you write?”

“Just take it and read it when you’re alone,” you insist, suddenly shy.

He tilts his head, studying you. “Did you write it from the heart?”

You giggle, nodding. “Of course.”

Something flickers in his eyes, softening his expression. He takes the card and tucks it into the inner pocket of his jacket, then focuses back on the box. You catch a fleeting look on his face, something you’ve never seen before—wonder, almost awe.

“No one’s ever given me something like this,” he murmurs, his voice quieter than usual.

The admission surprises you, and your heart swells knowing that you get to be the first for him, you can't help but feeling special.

Minho opens the box, and a genuine laugh bursts out of him. The sound is rich and warm, the kind of laugh that you rarely hear from him.

You grin, unable to contain your own laughter as he looks at the chocolates inside—the assortment of truffles arranged around the word “Chef” written in chocolate, flanked by little heart-shaped pieces.

“Don’t just stare at them,” you say, chuckling. “Try one!”

He picks up a piece, pops it into his mouth, and chews slowly, his eyes locked on you. His expression is unreadable at first, but then he nods, swallowing. “This must be why people fall in love.”

The words take you by surprise, and you feel your cheeks heat. You reach for one of the chocolates, but he swats your hand away, pulling the box closer to him.

“They’re mine,” he says, his tone mock-serious. “You can’t have any.”

You pout, feigning an unamused expression and then lean back in your chair. “Ugh! Fine.”

As you watch him, your eyes linger on his face. You’ve admired Minho before—his sharp jawline, his perfectly shaped lips, the way his eyes seem to catch the light just right—but sitting here, facing each other in this quiet moment, you feel like you’re seeing him in a new light. The usual sternness in his expression is gone, replaced by a softer, more relaxed version of him.

It strikes you how beautiful he looks when he lets his guard down. His smile, rare as it is, transforms him completely.

“What?” he asks, catching you staring.

“Nothing,” you say quickly, looking away. But deep down, you know that this moment, with the two of you sitting together and sharing something simple yet special, will stay with you for a long time.

-

The chilly air brushes against Minho’s face as the two of you walk side by side, the world around you quiet save for the faint sound of your footsteps. Moments like this, stolen and fleeting, remind him how much he cherishes your presence. He glances your way, and when you catch him looking, you smile—a bright, unguarded expression that makes his chest tighten.

Minho shoves one hand deep into his coat pocket, clenching his fingers into a fist to resist the urge to reach for your hand. Touching you, kissing you—it’s all he wants to do, but even walking next to you like this feels like a rare treasure.

In his other hand, he carries the box of chocolates you gave him, and every time he looks at it, he feels an inexplicable elation. It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? How something so small, so simple, could make him feel like this? His mind drifts to the card tucked inside his jacket. Curiosity simmers beneath his composed exterior, but he tells himself to wait. He’ll read it once he’s back in the safety of his office, away from prying eyes.

But the warmth in his chest is shattered in an instant.

The restaurant’s main entrance swings open with a loud clang, and Taesoo bursts through the door. His face is a twisted mix of panic and horror, his chef hat crumpled in his trembling hands. He stops dead in his tracks, eyes darting between Minho, you, and the restaurant behind him.

Minho’s brows furrow as he straightens up. “What’s wrong?”

Taesoo’s gaze flickers nervously, his breaths uneven. His mouth opens, but no words come out at first. Minho’s patience snaps.

“What’s wrong?” he accidentally raises his voice at him out of impatience.

Taesoo finally blurts it out, his voice rising in a mix of alarm and disbelief. “What have you two been doing?”

Your eyes widen, and Minho feels the tension radiate from you as you stammer, “What are you talking about? What’s happening?”

Taesoo’s voice breaks as he takes a step closer. “You’ve been caught!”

The words hang heavy in the air, freezing both you and Minho in place.

“Caught?” Minho repeats, his voice dangerously low, though his heart is pounding in his chest.

Taesoo nods frantically. “Everyone in the kitchen knows now about... you two!”

You gasp audibly, your hand flying to your mouth in a dramatic gesture. “Everyone?”

Taesoo nods again, his expression a mix of disbelief and regret, as if he wished he could have been the bearer of better news.

Minho exchanges a wide-eyed look with you, his mind racing. He can feel the weight of the moment pressing down on him, the precarious balance of secrecy teetering on the edge of collapse.

“What do you mean everyone knows?” Minho asks, his tone cold and unyielding, though his voice falters ever so slightly.

But Taesoo doesn’t answer. Instead, he steps back toward the door, leaving you both standing in stunned silence.

You turn to Minho, panic clear in your eyes. “What are we going to do?”

Sadly, Minho doesn’t have an answer for that but he feels as though the ground beneath him has crumbled, and all he can do is brace himself for the inevitable fallout.

-

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[dreamlanderin]

You don't see me, part 2 (Sam x reader)

Summary: Sam gets hurt during a hunt and you have to face a truth. Follows after part 1

Warning: Blood, demons, monsters, angst.

Words: 5.8k

The bunker had never felt smaller. Maybe it was the way the silence had grown heavier, pressing down on your chest, or the way your footsteps echoed louder in the empty halls. You didn’t know when it had started—this slow unraveling between you and Sam. Maybe it had always been there, waiting for the right moment to pull you apart.

The days blurred together now, a fog of old books, flickering fluorescent lights, and the faint hum of the world above. Sam had been distant—more so than usual. At first, you told yourself it was just the weight of another hunt or the endless parade of nightmares he carried like second skin. But it wasn’t that. It was her.

Ruby.

You’d caught them together a few days ago, though "caught" wasn’t the right word. There was nothing secretive about it, no hurried whispers or hidden glances. Ruby stood in the hallway just outside the war room, her arms crossed, her smirk sharp enough to cut. Sam leaned against the wall, his body tilted toward hers.

You’d come around the corner, your boots scuffing softly against the tile, and stopped short when you saw them. Ruby’s voice was low, almost soothing, as she pressed something into his hands—a small, unassuming vial filled with a dark, swirling liquid. You couldn’t hear what she said, but the way Sam’s shoulders relaxed, the faint nod of his head, told you everything you needed to know. She was helping him. Again.

Ruby’s eyes flicked up, catching yours before you could move. Her smirk deepened, slow and deliberate, and for a moment, you swore she could see right through you.

You didn’t stay to hear the rest. You turned on your heel and walked away, your stomach twisting as her laughter followed you down the hall. Sam hadn’t come after you, hadn’t even noticed you were there. It shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did, but it did. God, it did.

The days after were worse. Sam barely spoke to you, his attention focused on his laptop or his phone. He was chasing leads, he said, though you wondered how much of those leads came from Ruby. You tried not to think about it, tried to drown yourself in lore and research, but the silence between you two grew louder with each passing day.

Dean noticed, of course. He wasn’t exactly subtle about it, either.

“You two havin’ a spat or something?” he asked one afternoon, leaning against the doorframe of the library as you flipped through an ancient bestiary.

“No,” you said, too quickly.

Dean raised an eyebrow, chewing on the toothpick that had somehow become a permanent fixture in his mouth. “Right. And I’m the Pope.”

You shot him a glare, but it lacked bite. “Drop it, Dean.”

He shrugged, pushing off the doorframe. “Just sayin’. If you need to vent or whatever, I’m around. Not great at the whole feelings thing, but I can pretend.”

You offered him a faint smile, more out of politeness than anything. “Thanks.”

He nodded, leaving you to the books and the oppressive quiet. As much as you appreciated Dean’s attempts at comfort, you couldn’t bring yourself to talk about it—not to him, not to anyone. Instead, you buried yourself deeper in research, hoping the pages of ancient lore would dull the ache in your chest: I didn't ask you to wait for me.

In the midst of all this you found yourself reminiscing about certain things. Like how your life was before the boys: I was definitely less dramatic, that is for sure. When you had joined the boys you had made a promise to yourself, to make a difference in the world. You couldn’t help but wonder if somewhere you'd missed that, and a quiet guilt had started to settle within you.

✦────────────────────✦────────────────────✦

The call came a few days later—a case in Colorado. A string of unexplained disappearances in a small mountain town. The locals were terrified, whispering about shadowy creatures lurking in the woods. The sheriff was tight-lipped, but the pattern was unmistakable. Whatever it was, it wasn’t human.

“Sounds like a wraith,” Dean said, tossing the sheriff’s report onto the table.

“Could be,” Sam agreed, though his tone lacked conviction. He glanced at his phone, his thumb hovering over the screen. You knew who he was thinking about, who he was probably texting.

“I’ll pack the silver knives, just in case,” you said, standing before the conversation could veer into dangerous territory.

“I’ll grab the UV lights,” Dean added, shooting Sam a look you couldn’t quite decipher. “Think you can peel yourself away from that phone long enough to load the gear?”

Sam blinked, startled, and slipped his phone into his pocket. “Yeah. Sorry.”

You avoided looking at him, busying yourself with the bag of weapons in the corner. Still, a little smile tweaked on your face from Dean's comment. Seems you weren't the only one annoyed with them. So much so that the air in the room felt thick, like something unspoken was hanging between the three of you. You didn’t have the energy to deal with it, not today.

The drive to Colorado was long and uneventful. You sat in the backseat, staring out the window as the scenery blurred by. Dean had his music cranked up, Metallica blasting through the speakers, but it did little to drown out the thoughts swirling in your mind.

Sam was quiet, his gaze fixed on the passing landscape. He’d barely said two words to you since the trip started, and you couldn’t tell if it was guilt or indifference keeping him silent. Either way, it didn’t matter. You weren’t in the mood to talk to him, either.

Instead, you focused on Dean. He kept the conversation light, cracking jokes and recounting old hunts in vivid detail. You laughed when he wanted you to, nodding along even when your mind wandered. It was easier this way—easier to pretend everything was fine.

But even without Sam or Dean. There was still that guilt. That selfishness that had started to fester, saying: you were wasted here. That you had not fulfilled that promise. You were not making a difference because of a boy.

Is it...true?

You shook it off, though. Ignoring the little voice.

The first night in Colorado, you got your answer fast enough. The creature wasn’t a wraith—it was something worse. Locals called it a "Shadow Stalker," an ancient spirit that preyed on fear. It slipped through the darkness like smoke, its form shifting and flickering like a dying flame. Victims reported feeling an overwhelming sense of dread before they vanished, their bodies never found.

“This thing’s bad news,” Dean said, flipping through the notes you’d compiled. “How do we kill it?”

“Fire,” you replied, your voice steady. “It’s bound to the forest, but if we can trap it and burn the remains, we should be able to destroy it.”

Sam nodded, his expression thoughtful. “Ruby gave me something that might help.”

Your stomach clenched at her name, but you didn’t say anything. Sam pulled out the vial she’d given him, holding it up to the light. The liquid inside swirled like ink in water, dark and unyielding.

“She said it can weaken spirits,” Sam explained, his tone defensive. “It might give us an edge.”

Dean frowned, eyeing the vial with suspicion. “You sure about this? I don’t trust anything that comes from her.”

Sam bristled, his jaw tightening. “It’s worth a shot.”

You stayed silent, your gaze fixed on the notes in front of you. Arguing with Sam about Ruby never ended well, and you didn’t have the energy for another fight. Still, the thought of relying on something she’d provided made your skin crawl. You couldn’t help but think Ruby was adding something to the table... were you?

The plan was simple: lure the Shadow Stalker to a clearing, trap it with salt and sigils, and set it ablaze. It should have been straightforward. But plans rarely accounted for the chaos of reality.

The forest was dark, the towering trees blotting out most of the moonlight. The air was thick with an unnatural stillness, every snap of a twig or rustle of leaves setting your nerves on edge. The Shadow Stalker was faster than any of you had anticipated, its form flickering in and out of sight like smoke caught in a draft.

The three of you had split up, trying to corral the thing toward the trap. It wasn’t ideal, but the forest was too dense to move as a group, and the creature seemed to thrive on dividing its prey.

You heard Dean shout, his voice sharp and urgent, followed by the unmistakable sound of a branch snapping. Heart pounding, you sprinted toward the sound, your silver knife gripped tightly in your hand. The underbrush snagged at your boots, branches tearing at your jacket, but you didn’t slow down.

When you found him, the creature had Dean pinned to the ground, its glowing eyes burning like embers. Its form was humanoid but wrong, its limbs elongated and twisted, its shadowy body shifting and flickering with every movement. Dean was struggling beneath it, his knife just out of reach.

Without hesitation, you charged forward, shouting to get its attention. The creature turned, its eyes locking onto you, and for a moment, you thought you’d succeeded. But it moved faster than you could react, lunging at you with a guttural hiss.

You swung your knife, but it passed through the creature’s body like smoke, offering no resistance. Before you could recover, the thing lashed out, its claws raking across your side. Pain exploded through your ribs, hot and searing, and you stumbled back, hitting the ground hard.

The creature loomed over you, its form shifting and solidifying as it prepared to strike. Your breath came in short, sharp gasps, your knife slipping from your fingers as your vision blurred. You thought about Dean, about Sam, about everything.

And then Sam was there.

He came out of nowhere, throwing himself between you and the creature without a second thought. The Shadow Stalker shrieked as his body collided with its form, his momentum knocking it off balance. It turned on him immediately, its claws sinking into his shoulder and chest before tossing him aside like a ragdoll.

“Sam!” you screamed, scrambling to your feet despite the pain.

The creature advanced again, but your eyes fell on the small vial lying in the dirt a few feet away. Sam must have dropped it when he fell. You lunged for it, ignoring the way your side protested, and snatched it up with trembling hands.

The Shadow Stalker was almost on you, its twisted form flickering in and out of focus. You didn’t think—you just threw the vial at its feet, the glass shattering against the ground. A burst of light erupted from the impact, engulfing the creature in a brilliant glow. It screamed, its body writhing and twisting as the light consumed it, until finally, it dissolved into ash.

The forest fell silent.

You turned, your chest heaving, and saw Sam lying motionless on the ground. Dean was already there, his hands pressed against Sam’s chest in a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding.

“We gotta move,” Dean barked, his voice tight with panic. “Help me get him up.”

You nodded, adrenaline overriding the pain in your side as you rushed to help. Together, you and Dean hauled Sam to his feet, his weight heavy and unyielding between you. He was conscious, but barely, his head lolling against your shoulder as he mumbled something you couldn’t make out.

“Hang on, Sam,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “Just hang on.”

Please be okay

The drive back to the motel was a blur. Dean drove like a man possessed, the Impala’s tires screeching as he tore down the winding roads. You sat in the backseat with Sam, your hands pressed firmly against the wounds on his chest and shoulder. Blood seeped through your fingers, warm and sticky, but you didn’t let go.

“Stay with me, Sam,” you pleaded, your voice barely audible over the roar of the engine. “Don’t you dare pass out.”

Please

His eyes fluttered open for a moment, his gaze unfocused. “You… okay?” he rasped, his voice barely a whisper.

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat making it impossible to speak. “I’m fine,” you lied. “Just hold on.”

He had reached his hand out, seemly wanting to touch you, but it fell down before his eyes closed.

When you finally reached the motel, Dean barely waited for the car to stop before he was out and pulling Sam from the backseat. You followed, your legs shaky as you helped him get Sam inside.

Dean laid him on the bed, his movements swift and precise as he grabbed the first aid kit from his duffel. “Get me some water and towels,” he ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You moved without thinking, grabbing what he needed and returning to his side. Dean worked quickly, cutting away Sam’s blood-soaked shirt to reveal the gashes across his chest and shoulder. They were deep, the edges ragged, and the sight of them made your stomach churn.

“Damn it, Sammy,” Dean muttered, his jaw tight as he cleaned the wounds. “What the hell were you thinking?”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you sat on the edge of the bed, your hands gripping your knees as you watched Dean work. Occasionally handing him something after a barked order. The room was silent except for the sound of his muttered curses and the soft, labored breaths coming from Sam.

For a moment, you let yourself breathe. You’d saved him. That was all that mattered.

Please be okay, please.

✦────────────────────✦────────────────────✦

The knock at the door came sharp and impatient, like someone who wasn’t used to waiting. Dean shot you a look, his hand instinctively reaching for the gun on the table. You tensed, the adrenaline from the hunt still coursing through your veins as the room went unnervingly still.

Another knock, louder this time.

“Who the hell—” Dean started, but his words cut off as he swung the door open.

Ruby stood on the other side, her arms crossed and her expression set somewhere between irritation and boredom. She stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, brushing past Dean like he wasn’t even there.

“Of course,” she muttered, glancing around the room before her gaze landed on Sam. “You idiots managed to get him hurt.”

“Nice to see you too,” Dean snapped, slamming the door shut behind her. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Ruby turned to face him, her dark eyes narrowing. “What do you think I’m doing here? Cleaning up your mess. Again.” Her gaze flicked to you, letting out a scoff “What happened?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but Dean cut you off. “None of your damn business.”

Ruby rolled her eyes, her hands going to her hips. “Right. Because clearly, you’ve got it all under control. That’s why he’s lying there bleeding out.”

“He’s not bleeding out,” Dean snapped, though his jaw tightened as he glanced at Sam. “I stitched him up.”

Ruby snorted. “And you think that’s enough? This thing wasn’t just any monster, Dean. You have no idea what kind of damage it’s done.”

Her words made your stomach twist, and you looked at Sam, his face pale and damp with sweat. He was breathing, but it was shallow and uneven, his chest barely rising and falling beneath the bandages.

“I can fix him,” Ruby said, her tone matter-of-fact, as though she were offering to change a tire.

Dean took a step closer, his eyes narrowing. “Why the hell should we trust you?”

“Because you don’t have a choice,” she shot back, her voice sharp. “You want him to survive or not?”

Dean hesitated, his fists clenching at his sides. “What’s the catch?”

Ruby sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose like she was dealing with a particularly slow student. “There’s no catch. I need him alive as much as you do.”

“That’s not an answer,” you said, your voice low but steady. Ruby’s eyes flicked to you, and for a moment, the room felt colder.

“Look,” she said, her tone softening just enough to be almost convincing, “I don’t care if you trust me or not. But if you don’t let me do this, he’s going to die. So stop wasting my time and move.”

Dean glared at her for a long moment, his jaw working as he weighed his options. Finally, with a muttered curse, he stepped aside. “Fine. But if you pull anything—”

“Yeah, yeah, you’ll kill me, I get it,” Ruby interrupted, brushing past him to kneel beside Sam. She examined him quickly, her movements brisk and efficient, before standing and turning back to Dean.

“I’m going to need something,” she said. “A specific herb. Should be in one of those backwater shops you like to call hunting supply stores.”

Dean’s brow furrowed. “What herb?”

“It’s called witch’s balsam. Ask for it by name,” Ruby said impatiently. “Now, unless you want him to keep circling the drain, I suggest you get moving.”

Dean looked at her, then at you, his expression torn. “You gonna be okay here?”

You nodded, though you weren’t sure if you believed it. “Yeah. Go.”

Dean hesitated for a moment longer, then grabbed his jacket and stormed out of the room, muttering curses under his breath. The door slammed shut behind him, leaving you alone with Ruby.

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the sound of Sam’s ragged breathing. Ruby didn’t seem to notice—or maybe she just didn’t care. She moved to the table, rummaging through the supplies Dean had left behind with a look of mild disgust.

“Amateurs,” she muttered, shaking her head.

You stayed by the bed, your hands clenched into fists as you watched her. There was something about the way she carried herself, the way she seemed so at ease in the chaos, that made your skin crawl.

“What do you want?” you asked finally, your voice sharper than you intended.

Ruby turned, raising an eyebrow. “What do I want? I want to keep him alive. That’s what you want too, isn’t it?”

Her words hit a nerve, but you refused to let it show. “Why are you really here?”

She crossed her arms, leaning back against the table with a smirk. “Because he called me. Don’t act so surprised—he always calls me before a hunt.”

Your chest tightened, the words cutting deeper than they should have. “We didn’t need your help.”

Ruby laughed, low and mocking. “Right. Because you were doing such a great job on your own.”

You clenched your jaw, biting back the retort that rose to your lips. She wasn’t worth it. Not now. Not when Sam was lying there, barely holding on.

Ruby must have sensed your hesitation, because her smirk softened into something almost sympathetic. “You know,” she said, her tone quieter now, “you should be grateful. I’m the reason he’s still breathing.”

"No, it's because of me and Dean that he is still breathing"

"Really? And how did you manage that?"

Your eyes flicker away for a second, thinking about that vial. She gave you a knowing smile, the kind you really wanted to slap off her face.

She moved toward the bed, her hand brushing against Sam’s arm as she looked down at him. “You care about him,” she said, her voice low and almost contemplative. “I get that. But here’s the thing—you can't protect him because you don’t know him like I do.”

Your heart pounded in your chest, anger bubbling beneath the surface, but you stayed silent.

“I’ve seen the darkness in him,” Ruby continued, her gaze never leaving Sam. “I’ve seen what he’s capable of. And if you think you can save him from that, you’re deluding yourself.”

Her words hung in the air like a challenge, daring you to respond. But all you could do was stare at her, the weight of everything crashing down on you in a way you couldn’t quite process.

Ruby smirked again, satisfied, and turned back to the table, leaving you standing there with nothing but the sound of Sam’s shallow breaths to keep you company.

You didn’t move from your spot by the bed, your fists clenched so tightly at your sides that your nails dug into your palms. Ruby’s words echoed in your mind, cutting deep into every insecurity you had managed to bury until now.

“What the hell do you mean by that?” you asked, your voice low but trembling with barely restrained anger.

Ruby turned slowly, the smirk on her face growing sharper. “What do you think I mean? You’re playing house, acting like you’re his savior or something. It’s pathetic.”

Your breath hitched, the venom in her tone hitting harder than you cared to admit. “I’ve been here for him,” you said, your voice cracking slightly. “Every damn day. I’ve patched him up, kept him going when he couldn’t keep himself together. You don’t get to walk in here and act like you know him better than I do.”

Ruby laughed, the sound cold and biting. “Oh, sweetheart, you think bandaging him up makes you special? That it makes you important? You have no idea what’s inside him. You wouldn’t last a second in his world.”

“This is my world too,” you snapped, stepping forward despite the icy fear curling in your stomach. “I’ve fought beside him, bled beside him. I know what he’s been through.”

“Do you?” Ruby tilted her head, her eyes narrowing. “Do you really? Because all I see is someone who thinks they can fix him by sticking around long enough. But here’s the thing: Sam Winchester doesn’t need someone to hold his hand. He needs someone who understands him—who isn’t afraid of what he’s capable of.”

“I’m not afraid of him,” you said through gritted teeth.

Ruby took a step closer, her dark eyes boring into yours. “Maybe you should be.”

Her words sent a chill down your spine, but you refused to back down. “I don’t believe you,” you said, your voice trembling but defiant. “You don’t care about him. You just use him to get what you want.”

Ruby raised an eyebrow, her smirk fading into something colder, more dangerous. “And what are you doing, exactly? Sticking around, waiting for him to notice you? Hoping one day he’ll look at you and see more than a tagalong?”

The words hit like a slap, sharp and cruel, and you felt the air leave your lungs. You opened your mouth to respond, but nothing came out. Ruby smiled, clearly pleased with herself.

“Let me save you some time,” she continued, her voice soft but dripping with malice. “He doesn’t see you. Not the way you want him to. And he never will.”

“That’s not true,” you whispered, but the words felt hollow even as you said them.

Ruby laughed again, the sound low and mocking. “You think I’m lying? Look at him.” She gestured toward Sam, lying pale and unconscious on the bed. “Even now, he’s dreaming about something—someone—and it’s not you. It’s never you.”

Tears burned at the corners of your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. You refused to let her see how deep her words had cut. “Why are you doing this?” you asked, your voice barely audible.

“Because someone needs to wake you up,” Ruby said simply snapping her fingers in your face. “You’re wasting your time. And in this line of work, time is something you don’t have much of.”

You shook your head, stepping back as her words settled like lead in your chest. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know enough,” Ruby said, crossing her arms. “I know you’re not strong enough for this. You’re not strong enough for him.”

You felt your knees weaken, your entire body trembling as the weight of her words bore down on you. For a moment, you thought about yelling, about throwing something, about doing anything to drown her out. But instead, you turned away, your breath coming in short, shallow gasps.

“I don’t need to prove anything to you, you're just a demon” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Ruby smirked, leaning back against the table with an air of satisfaction. Your comment not having an effect on her, “You’re right. You don’t. But you’re not trying to prove it to me, are you? You’re trying to prove it to him.”

Her words hung in the air, suffocating and unrelenting. You couldn’t stay in the room any longer. The walls felt like they were closing in, the sound of Sam’s shallow breaths and Ruby’s mocking laughter echoing in your ears.

Without another word, you turned and walked out of the room, the door clicking shut behind you. You stayed in cheap motel bathroom, looking at the mirror.

I didn't ask you to wait for me

You're just a tagalong

Her words seeping deeper into you replayed in your mind, one thought cut through the haze of pain and anger: Maybe she’s right.

You winch, feeling that throb on your side. With all the chaos and Ruby, you'd forgotten that you too were hurt.

✦────────────────────✦────────────────────✦

The room was unnervingly quiet except for the steady sound of Sam’s shallow breaths and the faint rustling of Ruby shifting as she stood by the table, her arms crossed and her expression one of thinly veiled impatience.

You'd come out of the bathroom a little while ago, still a little riled up from everything. You'd patched yourself up as best you could, luckily it won't scar and it's not nearly as bad as Sam's wounds, the only proof you were ever injured at all was the red stain on your shirt. But overall you'd decided that you didn’t care about her right now—your focus was entirely on Sam.

He stirred, letting out a soft, pained groan as his head shifted against the pillow. His eyelids fluttered, and for a moment, you thought he wouldn’t wake. Then his eyes cracked open, hazy and unfocused, scanning the room with a confused squint.

You leaned forward instinctively, your chair scraping softly against the floor. “Sam?” you said gently, your voice barely above a whisper.

His gaze landed on you briefly before sliding away, his brow furrowing as he tried to make sense of where he was. “What… happened?” he rasped, his voice raw and weak.

“You got hurt,” you said, keeping your tone steady, though the memory of his body hitting the ground sent a sharp pang through your chest. “The Shadow Stalker… you saved me, Sam. But it got you pretty bad.”

He blinked slowly, his eyes trying to focus on you, his confusion still apparent. “You… okay?” he mumbled, his voice barely audible but laced with concern.

Your heart twisted at the question, and you forced a small smile. “I’m fine,” you said softly. “Thanks to you.”

His lips twitched into the faintest semblance of a smile, but his head tilted back against the pillow, exhaustion pulling at him. You watched his chest rise and fall unevenly, and for a moment, the words caught in your throat.

“Sam,” you said, leaning closer. “I need you to stay awake for a bit, okay? Just for me.”

His brow furrowed slightly, but he forced his eyes open again. “M’trying,” he murmured.

You exhaled shakily, your fingers tightening on the edge of the chair. “You scared the hell out of me, you know that? Throwing yourself in front of that thing…”

His gaze met yours, and for the first time, there was something clear, something raw in his eyes that made your breath hitch. His lips parted, and his voice was soft, almost fragile, as he said, “You… matter.”

The words hit you like a jolt, your heart pounding in your chest. “Sam…” you whispered, unsure if you were about to laugh, cry, or crumble.

“You matter to me,” he said again, his voice faltering slightly. “Ruby…”

Your chest constricted as his words trailed off, her name cutting through the warmth of the moment like a blade. Your breath caught, and you shook your head instinctively, the ache in your chest spreading like wildfire.

“No,” you said softly, but firmly, leaning closer until he couldn’t look away. “It’s me, Sam. Not Ruby.”

His eyes searched yours, confusion flickering in their depths.

"What?" He was too groggy, too out of it to understand the weight of what he’d just said. His head sank deeper into the pillow, his lashes fluttering as he started to drift again.

You sat back, your chest tightening with a mix of pain and anger. The room seemed smaller now, the walls pressing in around you as the weight of everything settled over your shoulders.

Ruby, on the other hand, looked smug. She didn’t say a word, but the faint curl of her lips was enough to send a fresh wave of anger coursing through you. You turned your gaze back to Sam, your heart aching as you watched him sink deeper into unconsciousness.

You opened your mouth to respond, to say something—anything—but the sound of Dean clearing his throat behind you snapped you back to reality. You hadn’t even heard him come in.

“Got the herb,” Dean said, his tone clipped as he dumped a small bag onto the table beside Ruby. “Let’s get this over with.”

Ruby stepped forward, taking the bag and inspecting its contents with an air of impatience. “Finally. Took you long enough.”

“Yeah, well, sorry I don’t have a Rolodex of shady suppliers,” Dean shot back, his glare sharp enough to cut.

Ruby ignored him, turning her attention to Sam. “This’ll help,” she said, her tone brisk. “But it’s not gonna be pretty.”

You glanced at Sam, who was already drifting off again, his face pale and damp with sweat. Your hand tightened around the edge of the chair, a mix of fear and helplessness churning in your stomach.

“I’ll handle it,” Ruby said, her gaze flicking to you briefly before settling back on Sam. “You can sit this one out.”

Dean shot her a look but didn’t argue. Instead, he turned to you, his expression softening just enough to make your chest tighten. “Why don’t you take a break?” he suggested. “You’ve been sitting here all night.”

You hesitated, your eyes lingering on Sam, but eventually, you nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

As you stood, your legs felt unsteady beneath you, the weight of everything threatening to pull you down. You took one last look at Sam, his face etched with exhaustion, and then stepped away, your heart heavier than ever.

You matter to me... Ruby

✦────────────────────✦────────────────────✦

The motel hallway was eerily silent, the faint hum of the fluorescent lights overhead the only sound breaking the stillness. You stopped just outside the door, leaning heavily against the wall as your legs threatened to give out beneath you. The weight of everything that had happened pressed down on you, squeezing the air from your lungs and leaving you dizzy.

He’d said your name. He’d said you mattered. But then he’d said hers.

Ruby.

Her name felt like poison in your veins, eating away at every shred of hope you’d held onto. You didn’t even blame him, not really. Not when you’d known all along where his heart lay. But hearing it, having it thrown in your face at your most vulnerable moment—it hurt more than you could have imagined.

You pressed a hand to your chest, as if you could physically hold yourself together. The ache behind your ribs had grown sharper, deeper, with every passing minute. It wasn’t just the exhaustion from the hunt or the fear of losing him. It was the realization that no matter how much you gave, no matter how many pieces of yourself you sacrificed, it would never be enough.

Not for him.

Sliding down the wall, you sat on the worn carpeted floor, your knees pulled up to your chest. The world outside the window was quiet, the stars faint against the inky black sky. It felt like you were the only person left in the universe, alone with your thoughts and the jagged shards of your heart.

You matter to me.

Did you? Were you making a difference with the boys? Like you promised yourself you would when you joined them.

The words played on a loop in your mind, soft and haunting. I never asked you to wait for me. You're just a tagalong. You matter to me, Ruby.

For a moment, you’d believed them. For a moment, you thought maybe he’d finally seen you. But then he said her name, and the illusion shattered.

Maybe Ruby was right. Maybe you were just a placeholder, someone to keep him company while he chased something else. The thought made your stomach twist, a nauseating mix of anger and shame bubbling to the surface.

But no. That wasn’t fair. You weren’t some fragile, desperate thing clinging to his attention. When you first joined them, you wanted to make the world a little better than you had found it. You had stayed because you cared, not because you thought he needed you. But now… now you weren’t so sure. Had you become selfish with Sam? Had your fixation on him cloud your orginal mission?

Maybe all you were doing was hurting yourself.

You leaned your head back against the wall, staring up at the cracked ceiling tiles as your thoughts churned. You’d spent so much time trying to be what he needed—his support, his anchor, his friend. And yet, here you were, drowning in your own pain while he lay in that room, dreaming of someone else.

You couldn’t keep doing this.

The realization hit you like a cold slap to the face. You couldn’t stay, not like this. Not when every glance, every word, every unspoken promise was slowly tearing you apart. You needed space. Time. Time to heal, to figure out who you were without him. Time to get over this. Over him.

And that meant leaving.

The thought scared you, but it also felt… freeing. Like a weight you hadn’t realized you were carrying had suddenly been lifted. For the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to think about what life could be like outside of this—outside of him.

Would it hurt? Absolutely. But staying here, watching him drift further away with every passing day, was killing you. And you refused to let it.

You wiped at your face, surprised to find tears you hadn’t realized had fallen. Taking a shaky breath, you pushed yourself to your feet, your legs weak but steady enough to hold you. You glanced toward the motel room door, your chest tightening as you thought about the people inside.

Should you tell them first? No... no. Dean would stop you and Sam; with him you'd cave just from seeing him. You'd have to rip it off like a band-aid, without notice.

Dean would understand, eventually. He always did. Sam… well, Sam would survive. He seemed to be fine without you.

You turned and walked toward your room, the weight of your decision settling in. Tomorrow, you’d leave. You didn’t know where you’d go or how long you’d be gone, but that didn’t matter. All that mattered was moving forward. Letting go.

You were done waiting. Done being a tagalong. You had spent too long letting others define your worth.

If you stayed, you’d lose yourself. And you weren’t ready for that. Not yet and besides, you’d made yourself a promise, a long time ago. And it was time to keep it.

So you wrote it down in a letter, left it on the nightstand, and let them find it in the empty room the next day. The road ahead was uncertain, but as you started walking—hitchhiking back toward an old friend—you felt a quiet certainty.

You didn’t have all the answers, but you were finally choosing yourself. You did matter. And that, for now, was enough.

✦────────────────────✦────────────────────✦

There will be a part 3. (Sorry it was so long; I got carried away)

Hope you enjoyed, Feedback is always welcome.

[marsmaximoff]

🪩; club pentagon 𖦹₊⋆☾

content warning: ‘long haired’ fem!reader. suggestive. drugs, alcohol.

word count: 1.4k 💜

author’s note: y’all idk what’s happening to me. like i swear when i watched the show i didn’t care about him. in fact i didn’t even like him. and now i can’t stop thinking about his hot face and hands 😔 expect more fics to come cause i’m going crazy. btw, i apologize for the possible mistakes as english is my third language. enjoy <3!

divider by @strangergraphics <3

the colorful lights create a shiny veil over the club. the music reverberating throughout the place, accompanied by loud, excited screams and intoxicated voices, acts as a barrier to the real world.

while i wait for my friend to come back from the bathroom, a guy catches my eye, separated from the rest, in a corner. he must be around my age, a bit older. and i don’t know what it is exactly, but something immediately lures me in. something about his aura, his vibe.... maybe it’s the dark hair, or the tattoos on his arm, the way he’s talking to the man next to him like he’s important... 

he looks hot. and like a total dick too. 

“you like him?” your friend inquires cheekily, noticing your stare. “i haven’t seen him before.” you don’t forget someone like him. his tall frame and dark clothes adding to the arousing pull i’m feeling. “he’s the reason we’re here. i found the club through him; he promotes it.” “do you know him?” there’s a growing curiosity inside of me, to know more, “not at all”, to get closer. “he looks like a playboy,” she declares, to which i can only agree. “an attractive one, tho.”

on cue, as if he had heard us -impossible given the distance- he takes his eyes from that man and locks his gaze on mine, sending a flutter through my stomach. but i don’t shy away, seeing his eyes go down my body, checking me out, unashamedly. a hussy grin accompanies the action while i keep the intense eye contact going for some time before turning around and heading back to the dance floor. as i do, i feel his gaze slide over my body and smile to myself, satisfied, trying to sensualize my walk a bit.

the night continues as usual: drinks, dancing, some flirting here and there, all that still carrying a boost of confidence from that previous interaction. 

eventually, i take a break sitting by the counter, and almost in no time, a smell of cigarettes, alcohol, and something else surrounds me. 

“hey” he speaks with confidence and a certain ego; the grin is back where it had been before. he leans on the bar and studies me, daringly, carefully. that seems to fuel my boldness, because my hand moves almost instantly towards his face, slowly. he doesn’t back away or stop me; he doesn’t even flinch. i gather the remaining white powder from the warm skin right over his upper lip with a finger and lower it, showing it to him. “oops, my bad,” he says playfully while grabbing my wrist. then, he brings it to his mouth and licks it off my fingertip without one of us breaking eye contact for a single second. holy. fuck. afterwards, he laughs softly, my heart rate going crazy, “want some? i only have the best.” i shake my head, choosing to keep my drifting lucidity. 

my gaze travels down his body until reaching his tattooed arm. “you like ‘em?” “i dont see many people around who have them” “yeah…bunch of pussies. these didnt hurt at all, you know.” the smugness of his words an obvious sign of his eagerness to impress. “you got more?” “oohh, someone’s interested…” i scoff finding his teasing annoying, yet unable to deny the way i have to press my lips together to hold back a smile. “i love tattoos” “yeah? wanna touch?” his comments come off so nonchalantly, flirting a natural habit of his. “i mean, you've already gone for my mouth...” his voice lowers a bit, having the clearly much-expected effect on me, and i give in, my yearning taking my fingers to his arm. the smooth and steamy flesh welcomes me with a satisfying shiver, and the hitch of his breath makes me slow down, caressing softly, seductively. 

i don't know if he's trying to contain himself, or enjoying it too much, but i see him biting his lip, and it feels so good to find a tiny crack in his confident facade, the growing heat in my belly seconding it. the initial trace of ink becomes a search of his now more prominent veins, up and down. “i like how it looks.” i give him a final graze, but this time it’s my hand that strokes his arm all the way down his slender, ring-adorned fingers which i hold and toy with before letting go to replace them with my drink, leaving him all greedy for more. his skin on fire. 

he’s affected now, trying to break the spell, attempting to somehow regain control while his breathing’s all over the place. cute. 

the drink sugars my senses, but it’s not nearly as sweet as the feel of him. 

“you like the club?” he goes back to his usual self, his comfort zone, something he can proudly show off. “yeah, i like the ambience”  “i can show you around…this place’s my second home.” i know what he's doing, using an excuse to move this somewhere quieter, more private, more comfortable…. but i decide to play a bit with him. “i don’t know… i'm really enjoying this area.” he smirks, “and it only gets better, we don't leave the best within reach of just anyone”, getting closer. “so you’re saying you'll make it worth my time?” he pokes his cheek with his tongue, turning me on even more. fucking tease. “in fact you'll regret it if you don't come.”  “mmm…im not sure…maybe i need a preview….” his face is mere millimeters from mine, giving me a perfect view of the mischievous look that takes over his. then, he grabs a small bag from his pocket -more white powder- and pushes my hair away from my shoulder, the contact leaving goosebumps everywhere. when the bareness pleases him, an unfamiliar feeling covers my skin. and then i realize, he’s pouring it on me. jesus christ. he leaves a shivery trail up to my neck, molding it to get a perfect line. his hot breath is getting me dizzy, his hand enveloping the other side of my neck, his allure a dangerous mix with the alcohol. he snorts the line in one, the tip of his nose tickling my burning skin. “yesss, shit baby”, he groans huskily underneath my ear, adding a bit of pressure with his hand, and i feel my wetness starting to become uncomfortable. 

he’s laughing when he pulls back, “how’s that for a preview?”, finishing rubbing the remains of his nose. but i can only focus on his fingers, fuck. i need more. “not bad” i try so hard to think of something witty, flirty, to keep the back and forth going, but i can’t. my brain is foggy, my body is flaming, and my belly is killing me with all those damn backflips. “not bad? that’s not nice of you….imma have to do something about that attitude of yours…” i stand up from the stool, suddenly desperate to get out of there. “maybe i do need that tour, a change from the loud music and everything” god i’ve truly become pathetic. and it seems to amuse him, “yeah? i thought you liked the ambience here….” “and i thought you said you’d make it worth my time” i make him smirk again, what a damn sight, and before i know it he’s taking me who knows where.

the moment the door closes behind us, my back is pushed to the wall, his arms caging me. this time, his eyes stay on my lips while he bites his. “fuck, you’re so hot” i can’t hold it anymore. the praise gets to him and makes him snap, harshly pressing our mouths together. the kiss is rough, desperate, as if we were running out of time. i let out a muffled moan as he brings me closer to his warm body and slides one hand towards my neck, adding some pressure. i’ve never had such a messy, intense kiss before, it makes my legs weak. he keeps asserting dominance the whole time, and bites my lip before pulling back and heading towards my neck. 

my moans get louder as i feel him leaving hickeys all over my skin. “it’s namgyu”, he corrects me, hovering over my flesh. but the blood is already pounding in my ears. “huh?” 

 “i want you to know what to moan”

[creeperkiwi]

ghost of you | Tim Drake x ghost!reader ᯓ★

sumarry: Tim Drake was inspecting the building where one of the most wanted villains of the last month was found. He knew there were strange things going on, but meeting a ghost boy was not in his plans, much less being smitten by his beauty.

male reader, word counter: 3330

masterlist

The building lay in ruins, abandoned to its fate like a forgotten skeleton in the heart of Gotham. Dampness clung to the cracked walls, and the echo of dripping water from a partially collapsed ceiling sounded like whispers of ancient secrets. Darkness gripped every corner, pierced only by the faint light filtering through broken windows and sagging beams. Tim Drake moved cautiously, his flashlight revealing invisible paths among the dust suspended in the air, like stars trapped in a shadowy universe.

There was something peculiar about the place. Beyond the signs of struggle and the traces of the villain captured there weeks ago, the atmosphere felt heavy, almost watchful. Tim was no stranger to the strange, but this sensation was different—an eerie chill that crawled down his spine like cold fingers.

He advanced into a room where time seemed to have stopped. A dilapidated piano sat at its center, its yellowed keys covered in dust. Around it lay fallen books, broken furniture, and air that smelled of dampness and despair. The young hero frowned. Something didn’t add up.

Then he saw it.

At first, he thought it was just another shadow, a trick of the flashlight. But as he adjusted the angle, the figure took shape—a boy, no older than himself, sitting in a corner. He seemed almost translucent, as if he didn’t belong to this world. His pale skin emitted a faint glow, and his disheveled, snow-white hair fell over eyes that held oceans of sorrow.

Tim took a step back, unsettled. There were no signs of entry or exit in the room, and his equipment hadn’t detected anyone else. Yet, there he was, a specter among the ruins.

“Who are you?” Tim asked, his voice firm but not aggressive.

The boy looked up, startled, as if he hadn’t expected to be seen. He didn’t answer. His lips quivered but formed no words. There was a void in his gaze, an absence that spoke of lost memories and an existence barely hanging on.

“You’re not alive... are you?” Tim muttered, more to himself than to the boy.

The ghost shook his head, almost imperceptibly. Then, he raised a hand and pointed to something behind Tim. The young hero spun around immediately, searching for the threat, but all he found was a wall covered in graffiti. When he turned back, the specter was no longer in the corner but standing a few steps away. He seemed to be watching Tim with a mixture of curiosity and fear, as if Tim were the apparition and not him.

“Why can only I see you?” Tim asked, narrowing his eyes, trying to analyze the situation logically. But there was something about the ghost’s presence that defied all reason. It wasn’t hostile, at least not outwardly. And yet, there was a sadness so profound in its features that Tim felt a knot tighten in his chest.

The ghost opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Frustrated, he brought a hand to his throat and shook his head. Tim understood immediately—he couldn’t speak.

“Great,” Tim muttered sarcastically. “A mute ghost. This just keeps getting better.”

The boy tilted his head, as if unsure whether to feel offended or intrigued. Then he extended a finger and pointed at Tim. The young hero raised an eyebrow.

“What? Me?” The ghost nodded slowly. “Perfect. A mute, cryptic ghost. Sure, why not.”

For some reason, Tim’s deadpan expression made the specter crack a faint smile—barely a hint, but enough for the young hero to notice. For a brief moment, something warm seeped into the icy atmosphere of the room.

“I guess I’ll call you ‘Ghost Boy’ until you remember your name, huh?” Tim said, tucking the flashlight into his belt and crossing his arms. “Don’t get too close. I still don’t know if you’re safe.”

The ghost didn’t reply, but his eyes seemed to speak for him. Tim felt a different kind of chill this time—one not from the surroundings but from something deeper. There was beauty in that ethereal figure, a fragility that unsettled him and made him want to look longer than he should.

In the days that followed, the specter became a constant presence in his life. Always nearby, silently following him like a shadow. At first, it annoyed Tim, but he soon began to grow accustomed to it. He watched as Ghost Boy observed him with a mix of shyness and growing trust, as if being close to Tim gave him something he’d long lost—a purpose.

Their conversations became a game of deduction. Tim would speak, and the ghost would nod, shake his head, or point, creating a makeshift system of communication that, though frustrating, worked. There were moments when Tim, exhausted from patrols and sleepless nights, would throw sarcastic remarks at him just to see the ghost roll his eyes or flash a fleeting smile.

“What are you doing here, following me?” Tim asked one night while reviewing documents at the Batcomputer. The ghost stood beside him, watching with a curious expression.

The boy raised a finger and pointed at Tim, as he had the first time. Then he touched his own chest, as if trying to convey something.

“You need me?” Tim ventured, tilting his head. The ghost nodded.

A charged silence fell between them, broken only by the hum of the machines. Tim, almost without realizing it, let out a sigh.

“I can’t promise anything,” he murmured, more to himself than to the specter. “But I guess I can try to help.”

The ghost didn’t say anything, but his expression spoke volumes. And for the first time in a long while, Tim felt that maybe—just maybe—his exhausting life as a hero could be set aside, only for a moment.

Days passed, and Tim’s routine became strangely shared. The ghost boy was always there, watching him with that silent calm that could be both reassuring and unsettling. Tim wouldn’t admit it, but he had started to grow accustomed to his presence. At times of utter solitude, he even found himself speaking aloud, addressing the specter as if it were a confidant.

However, not everyone in the Wayne family was as used to Tim’s new habits.

“You look worse than usual,” Damian grumbled one morning in the kitchen, eyeing his adoptive brother with a mix of irritation and poorly disguised concern. “When was the last time you slept?"

Tim barely looked up from the coffee mug clutched in his hands. The ghost boy stood near the window, invisible to the others, observing the interaction with his sad, large eyes.

“I’m fine,” Tim replied, his tone sharper than necessary.

Bruce, seated at the end of the table, set his newspaper aside and studied him with his usual analytical gaze. He said nothing at first, but his silence was more eloquent than any verbal reprimand.

“You’ve been talking to yourself a lot lately,” Dick commented from the other end of the kitchen, trying to lighten the tension. “And I don’t mean thinking out loud. I mean full conversations with someone who isn’t there.”

“What are you insinuat—” Tim began, cutting himself off when he noticed the way they were all looking at him.

“What we’re insinuating,” Bruce finally interjected, “is that you’re overworking yourself, Tim. The building case, your patrols, your work as Red Robin… You can’t do everything without consequences.”

Tim pressed his lips together, feeling frustration bubble under the surface. He couldn’t tell them the truth. How could he explain that he wasn’t talking to himself, but to a ghost? Even to him, it sounded absurd.

“I’m fine,” he repeated, this time with a tone of exasperation. He stood abruptly, leaving his mug on the table. “I just need space.”

The ghost boy followed him as he left the kitchen, gliding after him like an ethereal shadow. Tim walked to his room, shut the door behind him, and collapsed into the chair at his desk, running a hand through his dark hair in frustration.

“See what you’re doing to me?” he muttered to the specter, who hovered near the window. His tone wasn’t truly angry, more resigned. “They think I’m losing my mind from lack of sleep.”

The ghost lowered his gaze, guilt and helplessness mixing in his expression. He hadn’t meant to cause problems, but he didn’t know how to disappear either.

Tim sighed, resting his elbows on the desk and dropping his head into his hands. The connection between them was inexplicable but increasingly difficult to ignore. Sometimes, it felt like the ghost understood him better than anyone, which terrified and comforted him in equal measure.

“It’s not your fault,” he finally said, his tone softening. He looked up at the specter, who seemed relieved by his words. “Just… if we’re going to keep doing this, I need to find a way to prove I’m not crazy.”

The ghost didn’t respond, but he floated closer to Tim, as if trying to offer reassurance. Tim felt the familiar chill that always accompanied his presence, but this time, instead of being bothered, he found it almost comforting.

“We’ll figure out who you are and why you’re here,” Tim promised, leaning forward to look at him more closely. “But I need you to help me not lose my own mind in the process.”

The ghost nodded slowly, a spark of trust in his eyes—a silent promise that he would be there to uncover his truth and protect Tim from the chaos he had brought along.

The abandoned building remained a key location in their investigation. Tim had inspected it thoroughly, but the ghost boy insisted on pointing out certain places as if trying to guide him toward something important. That evening, Tim returned, fully equipped and on high alert.

“Show me again where you saw it,” Tim requested, holding a scanner in one hand.

The ghost pointed to a crack in the floor where a piece of wood jutted out among the debris. Tim knelt, carefully clearing away the rubble. His fingers brushed against something solid: a small, rusted medallion with barely legible engravings.

“Does this mean anything to you?” Tim asked, holding it up for him to see.

The specter studied the object intently, his expression shifting to one of anguish and recognition. He stepped back, as if the sight of it affected him deeply.

“Well, it’s something,” Tim muttered, sealing the medallion in a bag on his belt. He stood, observing the ghost carefully. “We’ll figure this out, whatever it is.”

The ghost looked at him with a kind of gratitude that didn’t need words, but there was also a shadow of sadness in his eyes, as though he feared what the search might reveal.

Back at the Batcomputer days later, Tim examined the medallion. It belonged to an orphanage in Gotham that had closed over a decade ago. As he read through the files, the ghost remained by his side, as silent as ever but intently focused on the screen.

“Does this place mean something to you?” Tim asked, pointing at the image of the orphanage.

The ghost nodded slowly, moving closer. Tim glanced at him, trying to ignore the cold air that always seemed to surround him.

“We’ll go tomorrow,” Tim said, leaning back in his chair. He ran a hand through his hair, tired but determined. “But I need some sleep first.”

The ghost seemed restless, as if he didn’t want to wait. He took a step toward Tim, instinctively lifting a hand toward his face. It was an odd gesture, almost as if he were trying to comfort him.

And then it happened.

For the first time, Tim felt the ghost’s touch: an intense cold that sliced through his skin like a blade of ice. He froze, eyes wide, as the ghost’s hand briefly rested against his cheek. The contact was fleeting, barely a second, but enough to make Tim’s heart race.

“How…?” he whispered, but before he could finish, the connection broke.

The ghost looked just as startled, staring at his own hand as if he didn’t understand what had happened. He stepped back, his form flickering faintly as though losing stability. Tim reached out, but his hand passed through the specter as usual.

“Great. Another mystery,” Tim muttered, lowering his hand in frustration.

The ghost watched him, guilty, but Tim just shook his head.

“It’s fine. It was… weird, but it’s fine. Just don’t try it again until we know why it happened. I don’t want you disappearing or something worse.”

The ghost nodded, his expression serious. Tim wasn’t sure what had just happened, but a part of him couldn’t shake how human that touch had felt, like there was something more to the ghost that tethered him to this world.

The next day, while inspecting the orphanage building, Tim decided to take a risk. They had found a journal among the rubble, and though the ghost couldn’t touch it, it was clear it held some importance to him.

“All right, let’s try this,” Tim said, holding the journal in one hand and extending the other toward the specter. “If you could touch me before, maybe you can do it again.”

The ghost looked at him uncertainly but nodded. Slowly, he raised his hand and reached toward Tim’s. For a moment, they both held their breath, as if the entire world had paused.

But this time, there was no cold, no sensation at all. The ghost’s hand passed through Tim’s as it always did, leaving no trace. The specter stepped back, his expression disheartened, while Tim glanced down at his own hand, frustrated.

“It doesn’t matter,” Tim said, trying to brush it off, though his voice betrayed a hint of disappointment. “We’ll figure out how it worked the first time.”

The ghost looked at him, his dark eyes filled with unspoken apologies. Tim just sighed and tucked the journal into his backpack.

“Come on, we’ve got work to do. This isn’t going to stop us.”

As they walked through the dark hallways of the building, Tim couldn’t stop thinking about that fleeting moment of contact and how something so brief could feel so significant.

The journal they found didn’t turn out to be the key they’d hoped for. Instead of revealing who the ghost was, its pages spoke of another victim: a young woman who had been trapped and murdered by the villain who used the building as his lair. Her accounts of fear and despair were like a dagger to Tim’s heart, but for the ghost, they were a brutal reminder of his own tragedy.

As they read through the journal’s final entries together, the specter brought a hand to his temple, as if something was breaking inside him.

“I remember,” he whispered suddenly.

Tim looked up, surprised to hear his voice.

“What do you remember?”

The ghost closed his eyes tightly. His form flickered faintly, as though he was on the verge of vanishing.

“My death... It happened here. He... chained us all to the walls, and every week, one of us would die and...” The specter faltered, his barely audible voice breaking into a murmur. “I don’t know who I was before that, but I remember everything. The pain. The fear.”

Tim set the journal aside and stepped closer to the ghost, feeling the air grow colder around him. The specter looked more vulnerable than ever, like a fractured reflection of something that had once been human.

“You don’t need to remember everything,” Tim said softly, his voice cutting through the heavy silence of the room. “You don’t need to know who you were before this.”

The ghost opened his eyes and looked at him, confused.

“How can I move forward without knowing?”

Tim crossed his arms, studying him with a mix of determination and compassion.

“Because you’re not what they did to you. You’re not just your death. You can start over. Be someone new.”

The ghost seemed to consider his words, his lost expression softening little by little.

“Do you really think I can?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Tim nodded.

“I believe in you.”

A heavy silence fell between them, but something had shifted. The specter took a step closer to Tim, and this time, when he extended his hand, it wasn’t to pass through him like before. Tim felt the cold yet firm touch of the ghost’s fingers against his own.

“It works,” Tim murmured, unable to hide the surprise in his voice.

The ghost pulled his hand back, looking at it as if he couldn’t believe what had just happened. Then he lifted his gaze to Tim, his uncertain expression transforming into a faint smile.

Tim slowly raised his hand and gently placed it on the ghost’s cheek, their breaths mingling as their lips met, catching the specter off guard.

The ghost let out a brief laugh—the first Tim had ever heard from him. And for the first time, the air between them didn’t feel cold or heavy. It felt, strangely, like a new beginning.

The tranquility of Wayne Manor was shattered one night when Dick decided to pay Tim a surprise visit in his room. As usual, he barged in without knocking, a carefree grin on his face.

“Tim! Did you know that—?” The words died in his throat.

There, standing by Tim’s desk, was the ghost boy. His ethereal figure glowed faintly under the light of the monitor, and his expressionless face turned toward Dick with an unsettling calm.

Dick jumped back, hitting the door with a loud thud, his eyes wide as saucers.

“WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?!” he yelled, pointing at the specter with a mix of horror and confusion.

Tim, who was sitting at his desk going through files, turned slowly, frowning.

“‘That’? He’s my… friend,” he replied, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

The ghost tilted his head slightly, staring at Dick without a word.

Dick started pointing frantically between the ghost and Tim.

“I thought Damian was lying when he said you had a ghost boyfriend! But… Oh my God, he was right! IT’S REAL!”

Tim groaned, covering his face with his hand, letting out a deep sigh of resignation.

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Then what is he?!” Dick flailed his hands dramatically, clearly on the verge of a meltdown. “Because I swear, if he moves through walls, I’m going to scream louder than Damian does when he loses a chess match!”

The ghost, completely unfazed, seemed almost amused by Dick’s overreaction—probably the first time anyone had found an adult in blue spandex so comical.

“He’s harmless,” Tim said, trying to calm Dick as he stood up from his chair. “And the whole ‘ghost boyfriend’ thing is ridiculous.”

“Sure, sure,” Dick replied, raising his hands in mock surrender as he edged toward the door. “I just want it on record that if he starts moving objects or possessing people, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Before he could leave, the ghost stepped forward and, with a smooth motion, pushed a book from the edge of Tim’s desk toward Dick. The book hit the floor with a loud thud.

“I KNEW HE WOULD MOVE STUFF!” Dick shouted, bolting out the door.

Tim watched his older brother sprint down the hallway, while the ghost, for the first time, showed a faint, mischievous smile.

“You really shouldn’t have done that,” Tim said, though his tone made it clear he was more amused than annoyed.

The ghost merely shrugged, his eyes glinting with playful mischief.

“Well,” Tim muttered, leaning forward against the desk, placing his hands on either side of the ghost, effectively trapping him. “At least now Damian won’t be able to use the whole ‘ghost boyfriend’ thing against me just to annoy me.”

The ghost didn’t reply, but something in his expression hinted that he was enjoying the closeness far more than he should.

[onlyquinns]

JACKED AND KIND, m. rempe

pairing: matt rempe x fem!reader, fluff!

content: you and matt take part in the ‘jacked and kind’ tiktok trend, with a slight twist

notes: this is my first fanfic on here so i’m super super nervous 😭🙏🏻 i hope you guys like it tho!! this was written in honor of his goal from jan. 21 😮‍💨

matt lays on the couch, his long legs stretched over one of the arm rests. it was his day off, a rare occurrence lately now that he was back on the rangers. you giggle at the sight of him, enjoying how he looked in a pair of sweats and a rangers tee, his chin tucked into his chest and his other hand occupied with his phone.

you wiggle out of your spot in the loveseat adjacent to him, making your way over to the entertainment center to set up your phone against the tv. matt looks over at you, his eyes drawn away from his own phone.

“what’re you doin’, baby?” he asks, pulling himself into a sitting position, his legs still draped over the couch’s arm rest.

you turn around and grin at him, your hands bunched up into the hem of your shirt to contain your excitement. “wanna’ record a tiktok with me? all you have to do is stand there.”

matt slung his legs off the arm rests, settling his feet into the living room’s plush carpet. “yeah?” he asks, one brow raised. “you sure that’s all i gotta’ do, baby?”

you blow air into your cheeks as you think. “mm… well, you have to stand next to me and then pick me up and put me on your shoulder when i tell you to.” you pout your lips at him, downturning your brows to really tie the look together.

matt laughs, the corner of his lips quirked upward in a delicious smug smirk. “alright, i can do that.” he hauls himself off the couch and stands next to you, waiting in his spot with his hands snug in the pockets of his sweats. he smirks as you start the recording and back up next to him.

music plays loudly from your phone, filling the apartment living room with a pop song he’s heard a few times from your phone already. matt looks down at you, smiling unabashedly at the way you sway your hips back and forth before you lift your arm and tug on his t-shirt sleeve.

“now!” you say and he immediately bends down and picks you up as if you weigh nothing. he hauls you onto his shoulder with a wide smirk as he listens to you giggle loudly, easily maneuvering your body.

“okay, okay!” you say, lightly gripping the top of his head, your fingers curled around the strands of brown hair. “that’s good—put me down, matty!”

matt grins, “nah,” he tells you, “i think i’m good, babe.” he squeezes your calves, his hands warm through the thin layer of your black leggings. before you can say something else, matt does a quick succession of spins, laughing loudly with you, his hold tight enough to ensure you don’t fall.

“matty!” you squeal as he stops spinning. you glance at your phone and see that it’s still recording. you grin mischievously, remembering another tiktok trend.

you shake matt’s grip off of your legs, his arms immediately moving to catch you in the event that you fall. you wrap your arms around his neck and shoulders, your tongue peeking out in concentration, and throw one of your legs over his shoulder so your pelvis is pressed into his ear.

matt’s laughter fills your ears, unsure and shy, “what’re you doin’ there—?” he tries to ask before you start humping the side of his head, your palms pressing his head further into your body.

you laugh loudly as he scrambles to grip your thighs, quickening your movements against his brown hair. his fingers splay across your lower back and thigh as you begin to slip, your frantic movements causing your body to slide off his shoulder. matt catches you around the waist, stumbling slightly before he settles the both of you into a heap on the floor. laughter erupts from the both of you, your tiktok recording long forgotten and over.

“damn, babe, you set a brutal pace,” matt manages to say through his laughter. his dark eyes are alight with humor as he looks at you. he presses his lips to the top of your head, the action firm and grounding.

you turn in his arms and peer up at him through your lashes, batting them innocently, “learned from the best,” you teasingly purr, pressing a hand to his chest. the thump of his heartbeat under your palm further grounds you, allowing you to catch your breath.

matt’s hand comes up and grips the hand you have splayed on his body, long fingers dwarfing your’s. his eyes deepen into a darker shade of brown and his tongue swipes out quickly to wet his lips. his lips quirk upwards into a cocky grin and his grip on you tightens, fingers moving from your’s to slip underneath your shirt. “hm… think you might need another lesson, yeah?”

[heliosunny]

HI!! I saw your recent yandere soshiro hoshina! I'm wondering if can I have requested for yandere! soshiro hoshina with a reader who's been a childhood friend of his?

They're both from a renowned clan and both grew up together and also fell for each other but unfortunately to the reader, she (or they) been arranged marriage with Soshiro's older brother and soshiro didn't like that.

YANDERE!SOSHIRO HOSHINA x Reader

The Hoshina estate was vast, a labyrinth of pristine gardens and ornate halls that echoed with centuries of tradition. You’d spent your childhood wandering those halls, your hand firmly held by Soshiro Hoshina, the second son of the clan. Back then, he was your best friend, your confidant, and the only person who could make the weight of your family’s expectations feel lighter.

It began under the cherry blossoms.

You were only five when you first met. Your families had arranged a meeting to discuss some matter of alliance, though the details were lost on children. While the adults spoke in hushed tones, you wandered off into the garden, drawn by the soft pink petals raining down like snow. That’s where you found Soshiro, sitting cross-legged beneath the largest tree, his wooden practice sword resting beside him.

“What are you doing?” you asked, tilting your head.

He glanced up, surprised but not annoyed. “Waiting. For someone to challenge me.”

You laughed, the sound like wind chimes in the spring breeze. “Why would anyone want to challenge you?”

His dark eyes sparkled with a mix of pride and mischief. “Because I’m the best. Want to try?”

From that day on, you were inseparable. Together, you explored every corner of the estate, turning mundane corridors into battlefields and gardens into secret hideaways. He taught you how to wield a wooden sword, though he always let you win. You teased him endlessly about his serious demeanor, calling him “Little Lord” until he cracked a rare smile. For years, you thought your bond was unshakable, a fortress no one could breach.

But your friendship wasn’t without its shadows.

Soshiro’s older brother, Soichiro, was everything a first born son of the Hoshina clan should be: strong, composed, and destined for leadership. Though he was kind to you, his presence always seemed to stir something in Soshiro. Whenever Soichiro joined your games, Soshiro would grow quiet, his smiles more forced. On one occasion, during a sparring match, Soichiro complimented your technique, and Soshiro’s response was to strike harder, his wooden blade whistling through the air with a ferocity that left both you and his brother stunned.

“You’re being reckless.” Soichiro said, frowning as he blocked another strike.

“Am I?” Soshiro retorted, his tone sharp. “Or are you just not trying hard enough?”

Later that day, when you asked him why he’d been so upset, he avoided your gaze. “You wouldn’t understand.” he muttered, the bitterness in his voice lingering long after the conversation ended.

As the years passed, Soichiro’s interactions with you became a source of quiet tension. He was polite and considerate, always treating you with the respect befitting your status. But every compliment he paid you, every gesture of kindness, seemed to carve deeper lines of jealousy into Soshiro’s soul. It wasn’t long before you began to notice how Soshiro’s gaze would darken whenever Soichiro entered the room, how his hand would tighten around yours as if to stake a claim only he could see.

_________

You were eighteen when the news came.

“You’re to marry Soichiro Hoshina” your father said, his tone leaving no room for argument. The words fell like a guillotine, slicing through the fragile peace you’d built in your heart. You’d always known your marriage would be arranged, but you’d dared to hope… to dream…

When you told him, his reaction was everything you feared and more.

“What did you just say?” he asked, his voice unnervingly calm. Too calm.

“I’m… I’m to marry your brother,” you whispered, unable to meet his gaze.

For a long moment, there was only silence. Then, the sound of his tea cup shattering against the floor snapped your head up. His hands trembled, clenched into fists at his sides, and his dark eyes burned with an intensity that stole the breath from your lungs.

“No” he said flatly. “That won’t happen.”

“Soshiro…”

“Do you love him?” he demanded, stepping closer. “Do you love my brother?”

“I don’t have a choice.” you replied, your voice breaking. “You know how our clans work. This is bigger than us.”

“Don’t.” His voice cracked like a whip. “Don’t talk about duty and tradition. This isn’t about them. This is about you and me.”

“Soshiro, please…”

“No.” He stepped even closer, his presence overwhelming. “I won’t let this happen.”

________

From that day forward, Soshiro changed. The calm, composed boy you’d grown up with was gone, replaced by someone you barely recognized. He began to appear everywhere, in the halls, in the gardens, even outside your chambers late at night. At first, it was comforting, a reminder of the bond you shared. But soon, it became suffocating.

Another day, a gift arrived: a ribbon from a duel he’d won years ago, stained with blood. When you confronted him, he only smiled, his calm exterior masking something far darker.

“Everything I do is for you.” he said, his voice soft but unyielding.

As the wedding drew closer, his behavior escalated. He intercepted you whenever you tried to speak with his brother, his hand gripping your wrist just a little too tightly. His eyes never left you, even when you thought you were alone. And then, the night before the ceremony, everything came to a head.

__________

The garden was quiet, the only sound the rustling of cherry blossoms in the night breeze. You’d come here seeking solace, hoping to calm the storm raging in your heart. But you weren’t alone for long.

“There you are.”

His voice sent a chill down your spine. You turned to find Soshiro standing beneath the largest cherry tree, his silhouette framed by the pale moonlight. He looked as composed as ever, but his eyes… they betrayed the turmoil within.

“Soshiro..” you began, but he cut you off.

“Run away with me!” he said, stepping closer. His voice was low, urgent. “We can leave this place. Forget the clans, forget my brother. Just you and me.”

Your breath caught in your throat. “I can’t… I can’t do that.”

His expression darkened, and for the first time, you felt true fear. “Why not?” he asked, his tone dangerously soft. “Because of duty? Tradition? Him?”

“This isn’t about him!” you cried, your voice trembling. “This is about us. About what’s right.”

“What’s right?” He laughed, a bitter, hollow sound. “You think it’s right for them to take you from me? To give you to him? ” He stepped even closer, his hand reaching out to cup your cheek. “You belong to me. You always have.”

Tears welled in your eyes as you shook your head. “Soshiro, please…”

“If I can’t have you,” he whispered, his lips brushing against your ear, “no one will.”

_________

The day of the wedding arrived, a spectacle of tradition and grandeur. The Hoshina estate had never looked more magnificent, adorned with silks and blossoms in hues of red and gold. Guests from both clans gathered in the grand courtyard, their conversations buzzing with excitement. You stood in the bridal chamber, dressed in ornate layers, your heart heavy with resignation.

But Soshiro had other plans.

The chaos began with a deafening roar that shattered the ceremony. Smoke and flames erupted in the distance as an enormous shadow loomed over the estate. Guests screamed and scattered, the ground trembling beneath what seemed to be a kaiju attack. In the midst of the panic, Soshiro appeared, his expression calm but his eyes alight with purpose.

“Come with me.” he said, his voice cutting through the chaos. Before you could respond, he grabbed your wrist and pulled you into a hidden corridor.

“Let go of me!” you shouted, struggling against his iron grip. But he didn’t falter.

“You don’t understand” he said, his tone eerily calm. “This is the only way.”

When you reached the outskirts of the estate, you dug your heels into the ground, breaking free for a moment. Spinning around, you glared at him, your chest heaving. “This isn’t love, Soshiro!”

He stepped closer, his dark eyes softening for the briefest moment. “You don’t mean that. I’ve done all of this for you. For us.”

You lunged at him, your fists pounding against his chest in a futile attempt to fight back. But he caught your wrists easily, his strength far surpassing yours. His grip tightened, and you cried out in pain, your struggles growing weaker.

“Stop fighting me” he murmured, his voice almost tender. “You can’t win. You belong to me.”

Tears streamed down your face as you realized the truth: there was no escape. He lifted you effortlessly, carrying you to a waiting car. Despite your protests and struggles, he held you close, his grip unyielding.

Hours passed as he drove into the wilderness, the estate and its chaos fading into the distance. He brought you to a secluded cabin deep within the mountains, its isolation suffocating.

“Welcome home” he said softly, setting you down but keeping a firm hold on your arm. “No one will find us here. No one can take you away.”

You tried to run, but he was faster, stronger. Pinning you against the wall, he cupped your face, his dark eyes filled with a twisted mixture of love and possession.

“I told you” he whispered, his voice both soothing and chilling. “You’re mine. Forever.”

And as the door locked behind you, sealing you away from the world, you realized that this was your new reality, a prison built from love, obsession, and a darkness you could never escape.

--------

FINALLY! KAIJUNO8'S REQUEST! I WAS YEARNING FOR 1!!! Hope you like it~

[doodle-pops]

Just A Hug…And One Kiss

Námo x reader

Request: Hello! Could you please write a fic with Namo? Something sweet and fluffy, maybe reader drags him from work to a date night, with a romantic dinner and cuddles afterwards? Our lovely judge needs some love and affection. Thank you and have a beautiful day!

A/N: Thank you the request so I can write more Námo content, anon!

Warnings: none, fluff

Words: 1.5k

Synopsis: You convinced your overworking husband to let go for one evening and relax.

Masterlist | Navigation

You found yourself standing in the grand chamber where he often spent long hours contemplating and recording the fates of the dead. The space was vast and imposing, its stone walls carved with intricate patterns that glowed faintly with an otherworldly light. There, Námo sat at a large stone table, his dark hair flowing over his shoulders as he pored over yet another decision. His piercing green eyes were fixed on a glowing scroll before him, his sharp features illuminated by its soft light. He looked every bit the formidable Judge of the Dead, but to you, he was simply Námo—the one who had captured your heart.

“You’re working late again,” you said softly, breaking the heavy silence.

Námo’s head lifted slightly, his eyes meeting yours. He did not sigh, nor did he frown, but you could see the faintest flicker of weariness in his gaze. “There is much to be done,” he replied in his deep, measured voice. “It cannot wait.”

You stepped closer, the hem of your robes brushing against the smooth stone floor. “It can wait for one evening,” you insisted gently, placing a hand on the edge of the table. “You’ve been at this for days without pause. You need a break.”

Elegantly, he raised a brow, his lips pressing into a thin line. “The souls entrusted to me do not rest, nor do they delay in arriving. My duty is to—”

“Your duty,” you interrupted, though your tone was soft and teasing, “will be there tomorrow. Tonight, however, your duty is to me.”

His expression shifted slightly, the faintest hint of amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Is that so?”

“Yes,” you said firmly, reaching out to grasp his shoulders and massage his tense muscles. You felt him stiffened slightly before relaxing under your touch as your fingers worked. “You work harder than anyone I know, but even the Judge of the Dead deserves an evening to himself now and then. Let me take care of you for a change.”

“I have responsibilities—”

“And I have plans,” you interrupted with a firm tone yet affectionate. “Plans that involve you, my dear husband, stepping away from all of this,”—you gestured at the desk piled high with documents—“and spending an evening with me.”

There was the barest hint of a smile threatening to break through his stoicism. “And what, may I ask, do these plans entail?”

You leaned down, placing your chin on his shoulders, and slid your hands down his arms. “Dinner,” you said softly, “a proper one. Followed by a quiet night together. No scrolls. No souls. Just us.”

For a moment, he said nothing, simply studying you with those piercing eyes of his. You could see the conflict there, the instinct to protest warring with the desire to give in to your request. Finally, he sighed—a sound that was more resigned than exasperated. “You’re persuasive.”

You grinned, straightening and holding out your hand to him. “Only because I love you. Now, come on. Don’t make me drag you out of this chair.”

With a quiet chuckle, Námo took your hand and allowed you to pull him to his feet. His tall, imposing frame towered over you, but the way he gazed at you—gentle, almost reverent—made you feel as though you held all the power in the world.

The dining room you had prepared was far removed from the austere grandeur of Mandos. It was warm and inviting, lit by the gentle glow of candles placed in elegant holders. A table stood in the centre of the room, adorned with a simple yet charming arrangement of flowers and a delicious spread of food that you had painstakingly prepared. The scents of roasted vegetables, freshly baked bread, and spiced wine filled the air, creating an atmosphere of comfort and intimacy.

Námo followed you into the room, his sharp features softening as he took in the sight. “You did all this for me?” he asked quietly with a touched of genuine surprise.

“Of course,” you replied, smiling as you guided him to a seat. “You deserve it.”

“I can’t imagine you cooking all this yourself,” he teased.

“Excuse me,” you retorted, feigning offence and lifting a hand to your chest. “I’ll have you know I spent hours on this. Blood, sweat, and tears, my love. Blood, sweat, and tears.”

“Is that so?” he replied, one dark brow arching. “I suppose I should commend your effort, then.”

“You should,” you said, nodding emphatically. “And if you’re not careful, I might make you do the dishes.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, and you could have sworn you saw the ghost of a smile. “I shudder to think of such punishment. The Great Doomsman washing dishes,” he humorous muttered. “How poetic. If my brother ever catches a whiff of me washing dishes, I will never know peace.”

He sat down, his movements as fluid and precise as ever, but you noticed the way his posture relaxed slightly as he settled into the chair. You took the seat opposite him, pouring wine into his goblet before filling your own. The two of you clinked glasses, the sound ringing softly through the room.

As the meal began, Námo allowed himself to enjoy the food, his usual restraint giving way to a more relaxed demeanour. You chatted easily, steering the conversation away from his work and instead focusing on lighter topics—the beauty of the stars that evening, a memory from your shared past, a funny story you had heard earlier in the week. And he listened intently, his lips curving into a faint smile at your words.

At one point, when you reached across the table to brush a crumb from his cheek, he caught your hand, pressing a gentle kiss to your fingertips. The simple gesture sent a shiver of warmth through you, and you couldn’t help but smile.

“You spoil me,” he said with a tinged of rare vulnerability.

“Someone has to,” you teased. “And I’ll do it as often as I can.”

“I had forgotten how pleasant it is to simply...be,” he admitted after a while, his voice thoughtful. “To enjoy a meal without the weight of responsibility pressing down.”

“That’s why I wanted to do this for you,” you said softly. “You give so much of yourself to others, Námo. It’s only fair that someone gives back to you.”

His fingers instinctively tightened around yours, his touch warmer now after the meal. He looked at you with a desire that made your breath catch, his viridian eyes filled with a depth of emotion he rarely showed. “You are a gift,” he said quietly, his words carrying a weight that made your heart swell. “One I do not deserve, but one I am endlessly grateful for.”

You felt a heat rise to your cheeks, but before you could respond, Námo rose from his seat, holding out his hand to you. “Come,” he said. “Let us leave this table behind and simply enjoy each other’s company.”

As he led you out the dining room, you two of you ended up in a smaller sitting room, where a plush sofa and a warm hearth awaited. He sat down first, his long, dark robes flowing around him as he leaned back against the cushions. You joined him, curling up at his side as he wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close.

The fire crackled softly, casting flickering shadows across the walls. The warmth of the flames and the steady rise and fall of Námo’s chest beneath your hand created a cocoon of comfort and peace. For a while, neither of you spoke, content to simply exist in each other’s presence.

“I cannot remember the last time I felt so at ease,” he admitted eventually. His fingers traced idle patterns on your arm, his touch light and soothing. “You have a way of quieting even the most restless parts of my spirit.”

You smiled, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “That’s what love does,” you replied. “It makes even the heaviest burdens feel lighter.”

He was silent for a moment, his gaze fixed on the fire. Then he turned to you with an expression uncharacteristically open and vulnerable. “You remind me of the light before the first music,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Pure, untainted, and full of endless possibilities. When I’m with you, it feels as though I am standing in that light once more.”

“You and your rare, sweet words,” you chuckled as you reached up to run your finger along his jawline. “What would I do without them.”

His lips curved into a small, affectionate smile as he leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours. In response, you tilted your head up, your lips brushing his in a kiss that was soft and tender. There was a fleeting moment when you sensed the final weight on his shoulders dissipating.

When you pulled back, his eyes were closed, casting a serene expression. “It seems I have received far more than I deserve tonight.”

You laughed softly, resting your head against his shoulder. “You deserve everything,” you said firmly. “And I’ll spend every day reminding you of that if I have to.”

“You have humbled me, my love,” he whispered. “I do not know what I did to deserve you, but I will spend every moment I have trying to be worthy of you.”

“You already are,” you reassured. “And you always will be.”

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