#but be cognizant of what you're looking at when you do.

[eenochian]

it’s very funny how this fandom suddenly cares so much about sensitivity, meanwhile no one was up in arms about folks calling valeria shit like “cartel mommy” and simping for her. and, if you point this out, you get told that it’s “less important” or incomparable. way to tell victims of cartel violence that they don’t matter. y’all can’t preach about sensitivity and mindfulness while doing the exact opposite of that.

sensitivity is something that needed to be brought up a long time ago. people need to be mindful about the content they’re engaging with and producing. COD and its characters are based on very real issues and very real situations, mindfulness is needed for every single character.

seeing this only be brought up in the context of makarov and graves is honestly so, so frustrating. they’re not the only problematic characters that you need to consider when making content. western militaries like the US and UK are incredibly controversial and have devastated vulnerable people and their countries. price, ghost, soap, gaz— any member of the military, especially the special forces, is problematic. they’re not good people and should not be treated like saints, nor should they be idolized for what they do.

that all being said, the concepts of “be mindful and sensitive when making content” and “let people enjoy problematic media” can absolutely, 100%, co-exist. art is not meant to be a paradigm of moral goodness, it has always been a medium for people to explore things that are considered "taboo" in a safe space. there's a reason why "dead dove: do not eat" exists as a genre – with proper warning and precautions put in place, people can explore darker topics. for some, it's morbid interest. for others, it's a way of coping with trauma and experiences they've had in real life.

i want to repeat this just to make it very clear: be mindful and sensitive with the content you're producing. do not romanticize topics that should not be painted in a good light. don't minimize the impact of characters' actions or act like people are in the wrong for being uncomfortable with them. in this fandom especially, people treat atrocities like jokes because we're becoming desensitized to them. it's up to every individual to ensure that they don't forget how impactful a lot of this stuff is in real life. war is not a joke. terrorism is not a joke. people dying is not a joke. do not romanticize any of these things in your content, even if you're exploring the different sides of the people behind these things.

humanize the characters all you want. horrible people are still people, after all. humans are not one-dimensional beings. humanize them, but do not romanticize them.

be kind to victims, be sensitive, and be mindful about what you engage with. no one is perfect, no thing is perfect, but we can always do better. we need to approach every topic through this lens instead of picking and choosing who to support. everyone is deserving of it, everyone is entitled to basic respect. we don't need to compete and argue over who has it worse, we just need to be better across the board. support real victims. don't let media warp your perceptions of reality. be conscious of the content you make and consume.

[lxvvie]

Simon Riley is a frustrated man.

And you're the cause of it.

This... thing simmering between you two, he can't place it. Can't put a name on it, and when surety, something that took years to fine-tune, flies out the window, frustration rears its ugly fuckin' mug.

The last time Simon felt this way, he'd just enlisted. He sure as hell can't drink or fuck the feeling away—he's tried—and it pisses him off even more because all he can do is sit and feel his frustration. And stare. At you.

Fuck.

You don't stare back. At least, you don't stare back when he wants you to. He feels your eyes burning holes in his back, though. He knows you feel the same way; he can see it when he does manage to catch your gaze. You're close but never close enough. You're here, there, everywhere with him, even when you're not, and he wants to reach out and touch. Simon wants to touch you, wants to hold and handle you with care just like the military taught him how to handle his gun (bloody hell, what the actual fuck, Riley?)

He wants to touch and hold and handle you with care and he wonders how your lips would feel against his scars and fuck fUCK FUCK.

Fuck it. If you won't come to him, he'll come to you.

And when he gets the chance, he corners you. Simon feels the heat between your bodies, and you're pressing yourself against him whether you realize it. But you still won't look at him. Bloody fuckin'—

"Look at me, sweetheart," he grunts out. Not a suggestion, an order. After a beat, you do. And Simon holds your stare. He holds your stare, looks for confirmation, and when he finds it, that's when you strike.

You strike and press your lips against the corner of his mouth, against an old scar, and Simon's a fucking puddle of goo because it's everything he thought it would be and more. He leans against you, cognizant of his body weight, but it doesn't fuckin' matter, not with the way you've welcomed him with open arms.

Simon still can't put a name to the feeling. Not yet. Frustrated with you, consumed by you, fuck if he knows.

He reasons you two have all the time in the world now to figure it out. Together.

[bizbat]

He Realizes He Loves You - JJK x Reader

~ Reader is implied to be under 6ft but appearance is otherwise not mentioned.

~ Reader is implied to be fem and is explicitly fem + afab in Toji's part.

~ Including: Toji Fushiguro, Megumi Fushiguro, Satoru Gojo, Kento Nanami, Suguru Geto, Choso Kamo, and Sukuna Ryomen (in order).

~ Feel free to request a character not included!

~ Smut included for multiple characters.

~ You can find more of my works here.

~ Thank you to (@starlight5cat, @s0ph1a7, @koiromii, @totallydestiny, @local-hopeless-romanic, @dalis-raines,@ryosuku, @liargh, @llotusfeet1, @crustychoco, @cult-of-norman, @broccolihater80, @bringmethewolves, @sohstayshawol, @therealisttheillest, @midnightxsecretary, @skullzgarden, @tiatasha-01, @sardonyx005, and @dimpled-peach) for all the characters they suggested!

~ Cw: Creampie (Toji), Slight Anal (also Toji), Pet Names (also also Toji) :( Mild Groping (Choso), Slight Yandere/obsessive behavior (Geto)

He realizes he loves you.

Toji - Explicit Smut, Wc: 315

The way you're squeezing him like you don't want him to pull out, calling his name like a hymn, God he might just cum right then and there. He's losing his mind as his hips slam against your ass, his thumb in your other hole, gripping the fat of your cheek while using it as leverage to pull you pack onto him.

Fuck, have you always sounded so sweet? And have you always been this pretty? He can't remember. All he knows is that he's not sure he's ever felt this good. He knows he's not thinking straight when his hips stutter, his cock throbbing inside you, and instead of slowing down, he speeds up. If he was a bit more cognizant, he'd consider pulling out, but who is he kidding?

You're too sweet to him, he knew it from the day you met. If he was a less selfish man, he'd have walked out of your life the second he felt his pants tighten at the sound of your voice. But, he's thankful he's not less selfish. "Gonna let me cum inside ya, baby?"

But, at the end of the night, he can cum in any broad willing to spread her legs for him. The second he blows his load, he'll be heading out the door. He's done it a million times. Veni, vidi, veni. Sometimes he'll turn a one night stand to a two night stand, but he never does more than twice.

Wait, how many times has he been over to your place again? Nevermind, he's cumming now. He doesn't still his hips as the thick, creamy white substance spills out of your cute little cunt. But his brain is fried, so when your juices coat his thighs, and your fingers squeeze his forearms, all while pressing your glossy lips to his . . . How's he supposed to help himself?

"F-Fuck, love you baby."

~

Megumi - No Smut, Wc: 265

He's never been the type to "jolt" out of bed. He usually slowly comes to consciousness, his body acting as a natural clock. Tsumiki would always say he was the early bird of the two. It was always just his routine.

But today, for some reason, the second he wakes up he snaps up and out of bed, his back straight as an arrow. It takes a second for his brain to register why. It's you. Here you are, peacefully laying in his bed beside him, his sheets covering everything but your face. You must have fallen asleep here after you and the other first years had movie night.

His eye twitches as he considers what to do. He doesn't wanna wake you, you look like a little angel, granted, you have a bit of drool dripping out of the corner of your mouth, but an angel nonetheless! He doesn't wanna tell Gojo, lord knows he'd never let him live it down. He doesn't want the higher-ups to find out and get you in trouble.

His brain moves damn near a mile a minute as he thinks of possible solutions. If you were awake you'd probably tease him about the smoke coming out of his ears. His eyes anxiously dart across his room, as if something in there could possibly fix his problem-

Until you roll over, your arm limply draped across his lap. It's not really a problem, is it? Gojo can handle it, he thinks to himself as he slips back under the covers, letting you hold onto him as you sleep in.

~

Gojo - No Smut, Wc: 334

Satoru doesn't do it for praise. While the sound of his sweet girlfriend's voice thanking and complimenting him is practically music to his ears, it's not his sole motivation. He's not sure what it is.

Maybe it's the sparkle in your eyes when he gives you your favorite type of pastry, he went out of his way to visit your favorite bakery, even though it was out of his way. Or maybe it's how tightly you hold him when he brings you a new bottle of your favorite perfume, even though the manufacturer stopped selling it. Maybe it's the way you squeal his name with joy and surprise when he appears at your doorstep, a cute little kitten in his arms, a bright blue bow tied around its neck.

He's not sure. It could be all of them for all he knows. Don't get him wrong, it's more than enough to get him out of bed every day. But it might actually be the fact that you almost . . . disregard his gifts afterwards. Maybe that's not the right word, but you're so casual about everything (except the kitten ofc). The necklace he got you last month, the one with his and your initials inside of a gold heart? You wear it everyday. Never say a word about it.

The watch he dropped at least a band on, the one that has five sets of hands and tells the time in Japan and your home country? You keep that in its case next to your bed. In the entire time you've dated, he doesn't think you've ever asked him for anything material. Maybe to do the dishes or take out the trash

Maybe that's it, actually. The fact that you'd rather spend time with him. That you see him as the biggest gift of all, it plays into his ego, sure. But there's something different about the way you cherish him, versus how the world does. Regardless, the thought makes him smile, makes his heart swell.

~

Nanami - Mild Smut, Wc: 336

Nanami has a lot of regrets in life.

He regrets every missed opportunity, every untaken chance, every day he's taken for granted, when others have to struggle so much to get half as far. Sometimes, he worries the thing that will finally do him in is grief. He has nightmares about choking on all of his remorse, and his biggest fear is that the second he gets something good, he'll be too distracted to hold onto it. But he has no regrets about you. He can feel it, even when he was still a student. Nanami knows how special you are. He sees it in the way your soft hands hold his face every morning and every night. In the way your lips curl and your hips wiggle in a little dance when you eat your favorite food. In the way your voice always rasps a small "good morning, my love," even before your eyes have opened.

God, you're special to him. And he knows better than to let you get away without knowing that. So when he has you in his arms, naked as the day you were born, your eyes tired and your skin sticky, he lets you know. He leans down, his nose pressed into the crook of your neck, his lips just barely ghosting against your skin. He thrusts his hips gently, your soft smile and tiny moans encouraging him. He doesn't need to realize he loves you, he already knows that, but until now, right this very second, he didn't realize he was in love with you. And it hits him like a truck. He hadn't realized that your laugh is his favorite sound in the world, that he could eat your cooking until the day he dies, that you could scream at him for hours and hours, and he'd still think you had the voice of an angel.

But God, you're special. He mumbles into your collarbone, something he's always ment, but never fully grasped. "Ngh~ God, I love you."

~

Geto - Implied Smut, Wc: 352

You're so blessed. You have his head resting in your lap, his hair loose as your fingers card through it, his robes barely hanging onto his muscled form. He's so beautiful, you can't believe you're only getting to see him up close now. His dark eyes stare penetratingly into your soul, his soft smile making your heart feel like it's on fire.

He has invited you into his personal quarters, the familiar scent of sage, and oils wafting through the air. It wasn't uncommon for him to invite someone to his room, just to keep him warm or entertained, not that it was frequent, but it wasn't like it never happened. To say that this wasn't what you had expected upon first entering, would be an understatement.

You had introduced yourself to him, bowing at his feet as you began stating your name and how long you'd been a member, only for him to interrupt you, listing information you didn't even know he knew about you, information you didn't even know about you. You sat there on your hands and knees, mouth agape in surprise, until he placed a hand under your chin, gently closing your mouth and guiding you to your feet. You didn't think to question it, of course your lord and master knew everything about you.

He pulled you deeper into the room, going into detail about how you had caught his eye the moment you had begun worshiping him and his ideals. He explained his plan for you to lead alongside him, become his bride and second in command, only if you wanted to, of course. It was a big responsibility, hundreds of people suddenly bending to your every whim. Not to mention his two wonderful daughters.

But why would you ever say no? How could you possibly deny the prospect of being his wife- Geto-Sama's wife!? So here you are, your own robes just as loose as his as you carefully stroke his long, inky locks. You're so beautiful, he's truly blessed to have such an obedient, loving little lamb in his flock, finally, all to himself.

~

Choso - No Smut, Wc: 282

He's happy he has you here. Sat in his lap, the glow TV illuminating your pretty face, his hands up your shirt. The only thing that could make this better would be if his brothers were here, though, perhaps it's better if they aren't. He does appreciate the intimacy of it just being you and him.

He can't help himself from looking up at you, paying attention to the way you mindlessly chew on your lip. It makes his own lips part with desire. "Can-can you kiss me again?" He lightly squeezes your chest, his fingers tightening around the black lace bra under your shirt.

His curious, pleading eyes are too hard to ignore. He moans into your mouth, one hand groping your breast, the other gently holding your tummy. He rests his head on your shoulder when you finally pull away, a nervous smile on his face, he's still learning how to do it right, he hopes you don't mind. Actually, he knows you don't.

If anything, you love it. He can tell by the way you hold his cheeks when he does it, the way you giggle and kiss him more and more just to see it widen. He wants to do that for you. He wants to hold your cheeks and giggle when you smile and kiss you to see you do it more.

His heart erratically beats in his chest as he impulsively reaches out, turning your face and holding you still while he presses messy kisses to your lips. He doesn't stop the barrage of pecks when you ask him what he's doing. He just smiles. And that makes you smile. And that makes him smile more.

~

Sukuna - Implied Smut, Wc: 266

If you were to ask him about it, he'd laugh in your face. Sukana cares for no one, he does not love, he does not enjoy anyone's presence, he does not feel warmth in his chest when you kiss his cheek. Absolutely not. Never. You'd be foolish to think otherwise.

You may be his favorite concubine, who he always lets lay with him in bed after he's had his fill. Who he lets run her fingers through his hair during bathtime. Who he makes sure is seated on his lap at all times. But that does not mean he likes you. It just means he finds you tolerable. Yes, that's it.

He finds you tolerable, at most, and that's generous, even, so there you go, there's your answer. Only, you didn't even ask to begin with. You said "Good morning, my lord," and here he is, going on a rant in his head about how much he doesn't love you. Shit. He's in deep. Far too deep for anyone of his standing, and it's too late for him to pull himself out of this eternal abyss.

Curse you, wench, for having such control over him, unwittingly at that. Who do you think you are? With your adorable face, and your soft hair, and your nice smell-Wench! Mark his words, he may be steadfast in making you his bride, and disposing of any other concubines that expresses too much jealousy, and keeping his palace decorated in a way that you would find flattering, but he is not in love with you by any stretch of the imagination.

[illdowhatiwantthanks]

Coming Out

Emily Prentiss x fem!reader Warnings: some explicit language, mention of an unsub hurting Emily 😱, vague insinuations of homophobia, mostly fluff on fluff, feat. loyal himbo Derek Morgan Word Count: 2k

Summary: Emily gets injured on the job, and all she really wants is you, her girlfriend. But she's not out to the rest of the team yet. Can she be vulnerable enough to share that part of herself with the team? Can she be vulnerable enough to let you take care of her? Takes place at the end of S3.E2.

Emily dabbed at her head and winced, checking her watch to see if it had been long enough to take more pain medication. But despite getting clocked with a plank of wood, she was glad to be on the jet, glad to be back with her team because they really were starting to feel like her team. Who was she kidding? She loved her job.

According to the pilot, the team would be landing at Quantico in a little over an hour. Emily grabbed her phone, discreetly shoving it into her pocket, before heading to the back of the plane. She needed to call you, but the rest of the team didn't know about you yet. Hell, the rest of the team didn't even know she was gay. It felt too personal, and she'd been hurt by people's reactions–people she loved and trusted deeply–too many times. She played her relationships and her sexuality close to the vest.

Reid tapped Emily's arm as she passed by.

"Oh! Are you going all the way to the back?"

Emily tensed. "Yep."

"Could you bring me a Sprite?"

She felt her shoulders relax, and she patted Reid on the arm. "Sure."

After knocking on the bathroom door to make sure that truly no one was around, she called you, her voice hushed as she rifled through tiny airplane soda cans, looking for Reid's Sprite.

"Hey, Em," you said, your voice bright.

"Hey," she said, a goofy smile spreading across her face. "What are you up to?"

"Nothing much. Saw a street rat earlier. I named him Guillermo. I think he's on the prowl for a girlfriend."

Emily laughed, covering her mouth.

"How was Milwaukee?" you asked.

"Good. Really good. We got the guy. We're on the plane now."

She could nearly hear how smug you were through the phone.

"You're glad you went back," you snickered, relishing in being right. She'd sworn that it wasn't a big deal, that it'd be easy to get another good job, but you knew her heart was with the BAU.

Emily sighed. "I am. You were right."

"You're gonna stay?"

"Looks that way."

"I knew it!" you crowed. "I'm glad. You're too good at your job to quit it."

"Thanks, love. Listen, Y/N, can I ask you a favor?"

"Of course! Anything."

Emily winced, touching the swollen bump on her head. "We land in about an hour. Can you pick me up and stay at my place tonight?"

"Wow." You drew out the vowel, milking the fact that Emily needed you for once. "You missed me that much, huh?"

"Well, yes, of course, but... I, uh... I kind of have a concussion?"

Your tone shifted immediately from smug to concerned. "What?! Why?! What happened!?"

"Unsub hit me with a plank of wood," she admitted reluctantly.

"Jesus Christ, Em! Are you okay!?"

"I'm fine, baby, I promise," she reassured you. "I just got a little banged up, that's all. But I'll need you to wake me up every few hours and make sure I'm cognizant."

"I think I have some soup in the freezer," you observed, your voice far away. You'd put her on speakerphone to rifle through the cabinets. "And I have a thermometer. I don't know, do concussions cause fevers? I've never had one."

Emily shook her head, smiling. She loved that your first response, always, was to take care of her. Emily was not used to being taken care of, and she didn't let many people do it. She certainly wouldn't let many people see it either. But she let you.

"No thermometers needed. Just you and your car and more you when we get home."

"You got it. When did you say you land?"

"In about an hour."

"Okay. I'll leave in a few."

"Oh," Emily added quickly. "And you're cleared to drive into Quantico. They know the car you drive and they've got your ID on file. Just show it to them at the gate."

You paused. "Well, that's a little Big Brother of them."

"I gave it to them a few months ago. Just in case you ever needed to come by. Sorry, I should've told you."

"It's okay," you decided, pulling on a jacket and a beanie. "It feels kind of badass to be on Quantico's list."

Emily laughed, almost excited to have a concussion because it meant you'd be snuggled right up to next to her for however long it took to get better. 48 hours at least.

"Alright, baby," she finished, Reid's Sprite in hand. "I'll see you in a bit."

"Bye, love."

Emily wiped the grin off her face before returning to the cabin with Reid's Sprite–it'd look suspicious if she was too happy coming back.

An hour later, the team was going their separate ways in the parking lot, waving goodbyes and slamming car doors under the buzzing lights.

Emily leaned on the wall outside the building entrance, relishing the crisp night air.

"You need a ride, Prentiss?" Morgan asked as he walked out, used go-bag slung over his shoulder. "You shouldn't be driving" He pointed to her head.

"No, that's okay," Emily waved him off. "I've got– uh... someone's... picking me up."

Fuck, she thought. The concussion was not helping her ability to lie well.

Morgan stared at her suspiciously.

"What?" Emily laughed, trying to act normal.

"Why are you acting shifty?"

"I'm not!" she protested.

Morgan smirked and waggled his eyebrows. "Do you have a secret boyfriend?"

"What?" Emily said, laughing a little too forcefully. "No!"

He crossed his arms and waited. "You're seriously not gonna tell me?"

Emily leaned against the brick wall, rubbing her forehead. On the one hand, she was tired of keeping you–and herself–a secret. And if anyone was going to be supportive of someone on the team getting laid, it would be Morgan. But on the other, did she really know that much about him? She didn't know his religious background. Sure, he'd defend a gay victim, but that was his job. This was personal.

Emily sighed before replying. "I have... I have a secret girlfriend."

The silence felt like it lasted hours, stretching between them until Emily was sure the chasm would never close again, and that with just a few words, just by being herself, she'd ruined any chance of a friendship with Derek Morgan. It wouldn't be the first time. It probably wouldn't be the last.

Morgan seemed to think deeply before leaning against the wall next to Emily, turning to look her in the eye.

"Prentiss, why didn't you tell us you were gay?"

Emily was afraid to look at him, but when she did, her heart soared. He looked at her with nothing but love and respect and appreciation, no hint of hatred or disgust. If anything, he looked sad that she'd waited so long to tell him.

"I don't know," she shrugged. "I don't always get a good reaction."

"Well, you know nobody on this team would have a problem with that, right? Hell, Garcia'd probably hang pride flags everywhere."

"I know," Emily nodded. "I just... I don't think I'm ready yet. For everyone to know. Soon, though."

Morgan nodded, then thought for a few minutes before asking, "Is it serious?"

Emily chuckled. "Being gay? Yeah, I'd say so."

Morgan shoved her shoulder gently, mindful of the day's injuries. "No! The girl! How long have you been seeing her?"

"A little over six months."

"So, it's serious."

Emily grinned. She was glad to have someone to talk to about this. She'd held it so close for so long. She wasn't used to having anyone to tell about you. Maybe Morgan could be that person.

"Promise not to tell the others?"

Morgan put his hand over his heart. "Promise."

"I'd marry her tomorrow if she'd let me."

"Wow." Morgan raised his eyebrows, smiling lightly. "Prentiss is in love," he said, teasing her.

Emily fought a wide smile, but lost in the end. "Oh, shut up. And don't tell anyone. Especially her."

"Your secret's safe with me," Morgan reassured her. And she could tell he meant it. Emily trusted him, she realized. She trusted him to be a good friend, to keep her secrets. She trusted him not to out her to the rest of the team. He'd let her go at her own pace when it came to telling the others.

"She better be amazing," Morgan added. "I don't know how anyone could be good enough for you."

Just at that moment, a pair of headlights crept slowly into the parking lot, hesitant and unsure. It had to be you. Emily stepped forward and waved a bit, then turned to Morgan.

"Well, I'll see you tomorrow?" she said.

"Not with that head, you won't," Morgan observed.

You put the car in park next to the curb and leapt out of the driver's seat, hurrying over to Emily.

"Oh my god!" you exclaimed, anger and concern washing over you. "I thought you you said you were fine!"

You gingerly touched Emily's face and pulled her head down to examine the butterfly bandage above her eyebrow.

"Look at this," you grumbled, more to yourself than anyone else. "It's already bruising." You glared at the butterfly bandage. "Did a doctor do this or you? If it was you, I think we should clean it with rubbing alcohol at home."

Morgan looked absolutely delighted, both because you seemed like a delightful person and because Emily was beet red at being observed with you.

"Y/N, I'm fine," Emily said firmly, grasping your fingers in hers and removing them from her face. "This is my colleague Derek Morgan. Morgan, my girlfriend, Y/N."

You looked Morgan over and immediately decided you liked him. Mostly because you could tell that he really cared about Emily. But also because he looked mischievous, like he'd tease her. And if there was anything you loved, it was teasing Emily. You shook his hand enthusiastically. "It's really nice to meet you," you said. And you meant it.

But you didn't have time to chat with Morgan tonight. You were too worried about Emily.

"You don't look fine," you argued, looking to Morgan for backup. "Does she look fine to you?"

Morgan grinned at Emily, raising his eyebrows. "She definitely looks like she could use some TLC."

"Oh, and she'll get it alright," you assured him, opening the passenger door for Emily. "Shall we?"

Emily bent gingerly to get into the car, and you were careful to guard her head from the ceiling.

"Derek, it was really nice to meet you," you said, shaking his hand one more time for good measure as Emily rolled down the window, staring bullets at Morgan.

"You too, Y/N," he said, looking over your shoulder at Emily. "I hope you all have a very marry evening."

Emily pointed at him aggressively behind your back, mouthing, "SHUT. UP."

"See you, Prentiss," he called as you pulled away. He laughed and called out, "I hope it's a real honeymoon from work!"

Emily's hand shot out the window, flipping him off.

Later that night, your alarm buzzed and you blinked awake. You forgot for a moment that you were at Emily's, but her strong arms wrapped protectively around your waist were enough to remind you where you were.

You turned slowly to face a sleeping Emily, brushing her hair out of her face.

"Em. Hey. You gotta wake up, honey."

She groaned, placing a hand on her head.

"Sorry," you grimaced. "Gotta make sure your brain's alright."

"My brain is fine," she growled.

"Oh, yeah?" you joked, checking the time before shaking a few pills into your hand from the pill bottle on the nightstand. "Who am I, then?"

"The love of my life, Whitney Houston."

You laughed, which made Emily laugh, too. But she quickly doubled over in pain, groaning.

"Here, take these," you said gently, handing her the pills and a glass of water. "It'll help."

She took the pills obediently and lay back down.

"You know," you said, pulling up the blankets to make sure they covered Emily's shoulders. "I may not be Whitney Houston..." You wrapped your arms around her and drew her to you, and she burrowed her head into the space between your neck and your collarbone.

"But I think I'm a close second," you finished, running your fingers rhythmically through Emily's hair.

She sighed contentedly, pressing into you, then moving one of your arms to wrap it more tightly around her.

"Why are you so good to me?" she asked, quiet. You couldn't quite tell if it was a joke or serious, but you'd reply the same either way.

"Because I love you, you nerd."

She leaned up, planting a kiss underneath your chin. "I love you, too."

Within minutes she was conked out again, and you were setting another alarm, ready to do it all over again in a few hours.

[ellieslittleburrow]

What it's like being Jack Reacher's girlfriend.

Pairings : Reacher x girlfriend!reader

Warnings : none

Jack Reacher-the man you've been traveling with for a while-also dating and umm..you know, jumping whenever you get the chance. He's not an easy man to be around, neither is he too high maintenance. And he's a lot of things, one of them being annoyingly vigilant.

His face is so peaceful when he's sleeping. Although the scars etched across his skin tell all the horrific things, his eyes tell so much more, always blank and never serene. His ability to remain emotionless and seemingly calm always gets to you but- there's not much to do in those moments, other than live with i-

"Will you quit staring at me while i'm sleeping?"

His hoarse and sleepy voice snatches you from your thoughts and you find yourself biting your lip in irritation-This man-

"Would you-shut up?" You retort and lean in to place a tiny a kiss on his lips.

There's the outside Reacher and the Reacher only YOU know.

The more time you spend with him, the more he softens around you and the more demeanor changes. You'd watch him as he walks over to you from time to time, relaxing as the distance between you closes. A slow kiss to his cheek and all of a sudden, his eyebrows rest and his shoulders almost unnoticibly slouch. And he is no longer the cognizant warrior he forces himself to be.

There's also the Reacher who only speaks through actions!

"What's this?" You inspect the box, a thrill running through you when you realize what was inside, a mobile game controller. "Reacher-where'd you get this?" You ask him, cocking your head to the side when another question pops into your head. "Do you even know what this is?" You squint your eyes at him and he just rolls his eyes.

"I know that would help you!? Plus-It'll keep you intertained while we're travelling. You're stupidly addicted to those games of yours."

A smile tugs at your lips and you watch him from afar, the man who'd never had it in him to be emotional. But there he is, doing just that-drowning in emotions to the point where he'd shyly need avert his eyes and look away.

You walk up to him and wrap your arms around his waist. He doesn't stop tidying up the bed but you wouldn't want to embarrass him anyway. "Thank you.."

And finally, the sassy Reacher

"I remember the way she looked at us-i've never seen someone more horrified in my life."

Laughter pierces the room but- what's making YOU smile is that rare sight of the man's teeth. He's being normal-he's laughing.

"What?"

You supress a smirk. "Nothing.." You teasingly shrug. "It's just that-I didn't know you even knew how to smile."

You tease him and he nodds. "Oh you're lacking the sight of smiles? You wanna see a smile? You wanna see some teeth?"

Reacher hovers around you and you-you're not sure what to expect, suspense kills you when he stops behind you. His hands playfully trail down your body, causing a warm sensation to tickle at your lower stomach-until he stops at your waist and suddenly, your body is bouncing on the bed and your feet are locked in place.

"REACHER NO-"

You beg him when the realization hits you but he's already be-begun as his fingers dance at the soles of your feet, you jerk and squeal.

"You wanted a smile-ooh-There's a smile-well-here it is-oh look at that-"

"Jack-J-Jack-Please-Stoop" You gasp between your fits and when he finally let you of you, you collapse onto the bed and your roll your body away from him. "Oh my god-fuck you-that was-" you're wheezing and he's smiling-and despite the abdominal pain, you can't help but smile as well.

Reacher may never say the words but his actions are clear enough. And for now, that's all you need.

----------

@nerdynarrator28

I had to force myself to post it ahahaha but its here ❤️❤️❤️🥀🥀🥀

[seospicybin]

TASTE.

CHAPTER VI: ZESTY.

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. (20,8k words)

Author's note: Thank you for patiently waiting a whole week for the new chapter. Hope you enjoy this one too. Don't forget to share what you think about it ♡

Zesty. /��zes.ti/ (adj) 1. Full of flavor 2. Full of energy and enthusiasm

In English, they say people wear their hearts on their sleeves. But in Italian, there’s another phrase: avere il cuore in mano—to hold your heart in your hand. It’s a raw, vulnerable act, offering up everything you are for others to see. And that’s exactly what Minho is doing now, standing there in the middle of the kitchen, holding his heart out in his hand for everyone to see.

His eyes don’t leave yours, steady and unwavering, even as tears begin to pool in your own. You stand rooted in place, disbelieving, as his confession echoes in your ears, as if the world has slowed to a crawl.

The silence that follows is deafening. Around you, the team struggles to process what they’ve just heard. Chris is still in the doorway, his expression stricken, as though he’s watching a tragedy unfold in slow motion. Sara bites her lip, trying to keep herself composed, though the heartbreak on her face is clear. Felix looks back and forth between you and Minho, stunned, while Hyunwoo’s hands tighten around the edge of his station.

Then Yura moves. Her heels click sharply against the floor as she strides toward Minho, her fury palpable. Grabbing his chef necktie, she yanks it hard, forcing him to meet her glare.

“What did you say would happen if someone was caught dating in the kitchen?” she demands, her voice laced with venom as she tugs Minho’s chef necktie, “You're fired!”

Minho doesn’t flinch. Calmly, he reaches up, prying her hand from his tie. Straightening his chef coat, Minho turns back to face the kitchen. There’s tension in the set of his shoulders, a heaviness in the air, but his voice remains steady as he speaks.

“I acknowledge that I’ve behaved in a way that could lose your trust in me as a chef,” he says, his words carrying the weight of a man laying himself bare. “But I will not apologize for loving her.”

Your breath catches in your throat. The words seem to echo, sharp and unrelenting, as the silence stretches on.

Minho inhales deeply, his gaze moving over the room, taking in every stunned expression before it lands back on you. “I have no right to continue leading this kitchen,” he continues, softer now, as though the fight has drained from him. “And with that, I will leave this kitchen on my own cognizance.”

Reaching up, Minho unties his chef necktie. The motion is slow, deliberate, and final. He pulls it free and holds it in his hand, his grip firm, as if it carries the weight of everything he’s giving up.

His eyes return to you, locking onto yours with an intensity that makes your chest ache. And then he does it—he smiles. A small, triumphant curve of his lips, like he’s proud, like despite everything, this is the moment he’s chosen to show the world what his heart holds.

You’re trembling now, tears streaming freely down your face. You want to speak, to stop him, to do something—anything—but the weight of what he’s done keeps the words stuck in your throat.

Minho steps back, his movements calm and measured, though his gaze never wavers from yours. He’s still holding his heart in his hand, unashamed, unflinching, even as he turns and walks away.

The door swings shut behind him, the sound echoing through the silent kitchen like the final act of a play. Around you, the others remain frozen, their shock reflected in every wide-eyed stare. Chris exhales heavily, his shoulders slumping in defeat. Sara lets out a quiet sob, muffled by her hand, while Felix looks down at his station, unable to meet your eyes.

And you—your heart feels like it’s breaking into pieces.

But as you stand there, shaking, you realize something: Minho walked out of that kitchen with no regrets. He held his heart in his hand for all to see, daring them to judge him, daring them to understand.

Because for Minho, loving you was worth it all. And that thought makes the ache in your chest cut even deeper.

-

Minho calmly places another stack of papers into the box on his desk, the sound of rustling filling the otherwise silent room. He’s methodical, efficient—just as he’s always been in everything he does. Yet, with every item he packs, there’s an ache that burrows deeper into his chest, one he refuses to acknowledge.

The door slams open. Minho doesn’t need to look up to know who it is. The hurried, uneven steps give Sara away before she even speaks.

Her eyes dart between him and the box. “Are you seriously leaving?” she asks, her voice breathless and disbelieving.

Minho doesn’t pause. “Just like I said.”

Chris follows close behind her, the usual calmness in his demeanor replaced with a frustration that radiates off him in waves. He steps forward, his voice sharp. “Chef, how can you be so irresponsible? What will happen to our kitchen if you leave us with no backup plans?”

Minho places a few books into the box, then calmly closes it. “I wouldn’t have done this if I were the only chef,” he says, his tone even. His eyes flick to Sara. “You have Chef Sara, so you will be fine even if I leave now.”

Sara’s mouth opens to protest, but Minho cuts her off. “It didn't feel right to have two head chefs in the kitchen anyway,” he adds, his gaze steady on hers. “This is a good thing for you, Sara. You can finally have this room all to yourself. Change things the way you want to in the kitchen. Make it yours.”

Sara lets out a long sigh, the fight in her draining as she lowers her gaze. Minho doesn’t miss the slight tremor in her hands, the way her shoulders sag in reluctant acceptance.

Chris, however, isn’t done. He steps closer, his voice pressing. “And what about her?”

Minho picks up the box, holding it securely in his arms. He glances at Chris and smirks faintly, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m curious about that myself.”

With that, he walks out of the office. The silence behind him feels heavier with every step, but Minho doesn’t let himself stop.

The restaurant is eerily quiet as he makes his way through it. He can feel the weight of the stares from his team, but he keeps his head high, his expression calm.

As he approaches the entrance, his gaze falls on Yura standing in the hallway. She doesn’t say a word, but her narrowed eyes and tightly folded arms speak volumes. Minho lets his lips curl into a faint, nonchalant smirk, one that silently says, This is not enough to bring me down.

Pushing open the door, Minho steps outside. He sees Felix and Taesoo are already waiting, their faces a mix of panic and confusion.

Felix rushes toward him the moment Minho emerges. “Chef! How could you leave like this? This is ridiculous!”

“Don't leave, Chef!” Taesoo begs as he steps forward, his voice tight. “I know you said there's to be no romance in this kitchen but that doesn't mean you have to leave. If you leave, what will happen to her?”

Minho exhales deeply, his grip tightening around the box in his arms. “You should be happy,” he says, his voice quiet but firm. “There will no longer be hardship and harsh words in the kitchen.”

Felix’s shoulders stiffen as he hisses in frustration, his desperation clear. “Chef...”

Minho looks at both of them, his gaze softening slightly. “Just because I'm not here that doesn't mean you can quit or give Chef Sara a hard time, understood?”

They don’t respond, their silence heavy with unspoken protests. But Minho doesn’t wait for them to find the words to stop him. He adjusts his hold on the box and starts walking toward the parking lot.

Their voices follow him, calling out, pleading, but Minho doesn’t look back.

And then he sees you.

You’re standing at the base of the steps, your hands clasped in front of you, your eyes red and watery. You look like you’re on the verge of falling apart, but you hold yourself together just enough to face him.

Minho stops in front of you, his heart clenching painfully at the sight. You’re both silent for a long moment, locked in each other’s gaze, until tears spill down your cheeks again.

Gently, he reaches out, his knuckles brushing against your skin as he wipes your tears away. His hand cups your cheek, his touch soft, grounding. Your lip trembles, but you don’t say anything. You don’t have to.

Minho offers you a small, bittersweet smile. “For now, finish dinner service, mmh? I’ll see you after work.”

The weight of the moment presses down on both of you as he steps back, letting his hand fall to his side. With one last glance, Minho turns and walks to his car.

He places the box in the backseat before sliding into the driver’s seat. The engine hums to life, but Minho lingers, his hands resting on the wheel as his eyes remain on you through the windshield.

This was the right decision. He tells himself that over and over, forcing himself to believe it. Finally, with a deep breath, Minho shifts the car into gear and drives away, leaving the restaurant—and you—behind.

-

The kitchen hums with activity, the clang of pans and the hiss of burners filling the space, yet there’s a strange stillness in the air. An absence.

Minho’s absence.

The entrée line seems to be in unusually high spirits. Quiet chuckles pass between them, their movements more relaxed than usual. One of them even dares to hum softly, as if a weight has been lifted. But at the corner of your vision, Felix stands stiffly at his station, his jaw tight. His usually warm and cheerful demeanor has dissolved into something cold and unyielding, a stark contrast to the others.

For a moment, he just watches them, his sharp gaze cutting through their newfound ease like a knife.

The kitchen door swings open, and Sara steps in, her presence commanding immediate attention. She moves toward the chef’s table, resting her hands on the edge as she surveys the room. Her voice is steady, calm, but firm.

“Just like Chef Lee said,” she begins, her gaze sweeping over everyone, “the guests don’t know what happens in the kitchen. What matters is that we give it our best, as we always do.”

The line goes quiet, their earlier lightheartedness dimming slightly. No one responds, their silence stretching awkwardly.

Sara straightens, her eyes narrowing. “Aren’t you going to answer me?”

A few scattered voices answer her with a reluctant, “Yes, Chef.”

Felix doesn’t say a word. Instead, he lets out a heavy sigh, loud enough to make the others glance his way.

Despite the strange atmosphere hanging over the kitchen, the service continues. Plates are passed, dishes plated, and the rhythm of the kitchen gradually settles into a mechanical flow.

At your station, you focus on your work, trying to ignore the tension. You hear Seungwan’s voice next to your station, his tone casual but cutting. “It’s amazing, isn’t it? How one person’s absence can make such a big difference.”

You don’t respond, but the words dig into you like a thorn.

Grabbing the plate you’ve just finished, you carry it to the chef’s table for Sara to inspect. She leans over it, her critical eye scanning the presentation. She picks up a cloth to wipe a smudge on the rim of the plate before looking up at you.

“Bring me the celeriac purée,” she says curtly.

You nod quickly and hurry back to retrieve it. As you place it before her, Sara dips a spoon into the purée and tastes it.

“Who made this?” she asks, her tone sharp but not accusatory.

“I did,” you answer.

Her expression doesn’t change. “And who taught you to boil the milk with the celeriac?”

You hesitate before gesturing toward Seungwan.

Sara turns her attention to him, her voice steady but pointed. “There’s a better way to boil the milk with the celeriac. Please show her how to do it right.”

Seungwan, eager to please, nods enthusiastically. “Of course, Chef!” He grins, then adds, “Honestly, if this is how you tell someone off, I’d happily get corrected like this every day. You’re so different compared to... someone.”

His voice trails off, but the implication hangs in the air, heavy and sharp.

Felix, who has been silent until now, suddenly cuts in. His voice is low but firm, carrying an edge of frustration. “That’s nonsense.”

The kitchen stills.

Felix turns to Seungwan, his eyes narrowing. “You don’t need someone to coddle you. You need to be berated to learn. That’s how you get better.”

He shifts his gaze to Sara, his tone growing sharper. “Can’t anyone tell the difference between someone who’s willing to push you to improve and someone who just sucks up to you?”

The words hang in the air like a bomb about to explode. Felix scoffs, muttering under his breath, “How could anyone ever get better like this?”

Seungwan bristles, his face reddening. He picks up a frying pan, holding it in his hand as if to challenge Felix. “You want to say that to my face again?”

Before things can escalate, Sara raises her voice, sharp and commanding. “Enough! Both of you.”

Seungwan hesitates, his grip tightening on the pan before he slowly sets it back down.

The tension simmers, thick and suffocating.

You glance around, your eyes drifting back to the chef’s table. It’s almost instinctual, but your chest tightens when you realize, again, that Minho isn’t there. His absence feels like a void, a missing heartbeat in the pulse of the kitchen.

The dinner service continues, but nothing feels the same.

-

Minho paces back and forth in the quiet lobby, his hands buried deep in his jacket pockets. The space feels too sterile, too still, and it does little to ease the restlessness gnawing at him. He glances toward the entrance every few seconds, waiting for you.

The moment he sees you, he stops mid-step. Relief washes over him, but his anticipation falters when he catches the look on your face. You’re not smiling or relieved like he’d hoped. Instead, your expression is sour, your brows furrowed, your mouth set in a hard line.

He tilts his head, his lips curling into a faint smirk despite your mood. “What’s with that face? I’m the one without a job here.”

You don’t even hesitate. “How can you just leave like that?” you snap, your voice sharp and accusing. “Do you only think about yourself?”

Minho blinks, taken aback. “What?”

You press on, your words tumbling out in rapid succession. “How can you run away like that without even thinking about me? You just up and quit, and I’m supposed to—what? Pretend that’s fine?”

He lets out a scoff, shaking his head in disbelief. “Run away? When did I ever run away from you?”

You ignore his question entirely, your voice growing softer, though no less frustrated. “It’s only been one dinner shift, but the kitchen felt so empty without you. Do you know that?”

He stands there, frozen, as you glance away, your eyes distant.

“I want to be with you,” you admit, your voice quieter now. “I like it when you’re standing at the chef’s table. You... you look the best when you’re there.”

There’s a weight in your words that hangs between you, thick and heavy. Then your gaze meets his again, sadness pooling in your eyes. “But you had to leave the kitchen. You had to lose your job. All because of me.”

Minho’s jaw tightens as you continue.

“Did you really think I’d congratulate you?” you ask, your voice trembling. “Did you think I’d tell you that you did a good job?”

“Yes,” he answers immediately, his tone almost defensive. “I was hoping you’d pat me on the back and tell me I did the right thing.”

Your expression twists in frustration, and your voice rises again. “Why do you always act as you please? Why can’t you just stop and think for a second? You yell, you get angry, and you cause trouble without ever considering the consequences!”

Minho feels his patience snap. “How long did you expect me to stay there?” he retorts, his voice raised. “Sneaking around like that, pretending nothing’s going on?”

“Do you think I like sneaking around?” you fire back, your tone laced with annoyance.

Before he can respond, you spin on your heel and start walking away, heading toward the elevator.

“Hey!” Minho shouts after you, his voice echoing in the empty lobby. “You better stop right there!”

But you don’t. You keep walking, your back to him, leaving him standing there, frustration boiling in his chest. His hands clench into fists at his sides as he watches you disappear into the elevator. He immediately chases after you and manages to slip inside the elevator before it closes.

The elevator ride up is suffocating. Minho leans back against the cold wall of the elevator, the weight of the day pressing down on his chest. He runs a hand through his hair, frustration bubbling under his skin. As the elevator dings and the doors slide open, you immediately step out, not even sparing him a glance.

He follows after you, his voice sharp and echoing in the empty hallway. “Hey! Stop walking away from me!”

You pause, but your shoulders remain tense. Minho closes the distance between you, his tone low and biting. “What did I do wrong this time? Don’t you know I did this for you?”

You spin on your heel, glaring at him. “For me? How can you say that when you left because everyone knows about us? You think it’s that simple?”

Minho scoffs, crossing his arms. “Then why don’t you just quit too?”

Your eyes widen slightly before narrowing again. “Let's say I quit and then what?”

His patience is wearing thin, and he can feel his irritation rising. “Is Farfalle the only kitchen in the world?” he snaps. “Why do you act like it’s the only place you can work?”

You shake your head, exhaling sharply. “You don’t get it. You have the skills, the experience. You’ll find a new job anywhere. But for me, it’s different. I’m not you.”

Minho sighs, running a hand down his face. “So, what, you’ll stay there until you become their kitchen ghost?” He waves his hand dismissively. “You’ve got the manager wrapped around your finger. Meanwhile, I left on my own terms, and you’re still mad at me. You must be happy. Good for you.”

His words hit a nerve. Your expression tightens, and you take a step back, as if you’re ready to walk away again. Minho quickly grabs your elbow, his grip firm but not harsh.

You whirl back to face him, your voice lower now but no less intense. “Even if I left Farfalle and followed you to some new kitchen, do you really think people would accept us? Anywhere we go, they’ll talk. They’ll judge. How uncomfortable would that be for you? And even if you got another job, you know I wouldn’t be able to follow you there.”

Minho’s grip on your arm slackens slightly, but he doesn’t let go.

“The best kitchen for me,” you continue softly, your voice trembling, “isn’t necessarily Farfalle. It’s wherever I can be with you. But wherever you go, I’ll only be a liability. There’s no other place where we can be together. Not like this.”

He lets out a frustrated sigh, rubbing the back of his neck as his gaze drops to the floor. “So what?” he mutters.

You meet his eyes, your voice breaking slightly as you say, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry this had to happen. I’m sorry for everything that happened today.”

Minho studies you in silence, his jaw tight. He knows you’re still upset, still trying to process his absence in the kitchen. But he doesn’t know how to handle you when you’re like this—when your emotions is all over the place and leave him feeling exposed.

He exhales deeply, his voice resigned. “So, what now?”

“I’ll stay,” you say quietly. “In the Farfalle kitchen.”

His chest tightens, but he forces himself to ask, “Even without me?”

You nod, the answer cutting through him like a knife.

You take his hand, your fingers trembling slightly as they curl around his. “Please come back,” you say softly, your voice almost pleading.

For a moment, Minho just stares at you, unable to process the request. After everything he did, after walking away from that kitchen, you’re asking him to go back?

He shakes his head, his voice firm. “No.”

You flinch at the finality in his tone, but before you can say anything else, Minho turns on his heel and walks away, leaving you standing alone in the hallway. His steps echo down the corridor, the weight of his decision settling heavily in the silence.

-

The crisp morning air brushing against your skin as you ring the doorbell to Minho’s apartment. Your stomach churns, but you steady yourself, knowing what you have to say.

A few moments later, the door swings open, revealing Minho. His hair is messy, and his hoodie hangs loosely on his frame. He lingers in the doorway, his expression unreadable, a hint of frustration flickering in his tired eyes.

He doesn’t say anything at first, so you break the silence. “I’m going to work.”

Minho exhales sharply, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Why don’t you just quit?”

You shake your head firmly, your voice unwavering. “I’m going to work.”

Minho steps forward, out of the doorway, and stops directly in front of you. His tone hardens. “Do you think I quit for no good reason? Do you have any idea what they’re going to do to you now? They’re going to make your life miserable. They’ll give you a harder time than ever before. They’ll harass you, push you to your limit, and you won’t be able to handle it alone so just quit now.”

His words weigh heavily in the air, and for a moment, you almost falter. But then you lift your gaze to meet his and offer him a faint, determined smile. “I’ll see you later,” you say softly, before stepping around him and heading toward the elevator.

“Hey!” Minho’s voice rises, sharp and urgent. “I’m telling you to quit!”

You don’t stop, your steps steady as you push the elevator button. The doors slide open, and you step inside, feeling his gaze boring into your back. As the elevator doors close, his voice echoes faintly, but you don’t look back.

The weight in your chest grows heavier, but you clench your fists and remind yourself—this is your choice. You have to keep going.

The restaurant is eerily quiet when you arrive. The clattering of pans, the rush of footsteps, and the sharp bark of instructions are absent, leaving only the hum of the air conditioning to fill the void. You head straight to the locker room, your steps echoing softly against the tiled floor.

Your eyes instinctively dart toward Minho’s locker. You hesitate, then reach out to open it, only to find it completely empty. The sight of the bare, lifeless space sends a pang through your chest. For a long moment, you simply sit on the bench across from it, staring at the void inside.

Your thoughts begin to drift, the quiet settling heavily around you, when the creak of the door breaks through the silence.

Chris’s head pops in, his wide grin instantly breaking through the heaviness. “You’re early,” he says cheerfully as he steps into the room and makes his way over to you.

He plops down on the bench beside you, his relaxed presence somehow comforting. “I was worried that you and Chef would both leave the restaurant,” he admits.

You manage a soft smile at that. “I have to be here,” you say quietly, your voice steady despite the weight in your chest. “So Chef can come back.”

The room falls silent for a moment, the air between you filled with unspoken understanding. Then, almost hesitantly, you ask, “Chris... is Chef really fired just because he left?”

Chris furrows his brow in thought before answering, “Not necessarily.”

You gasp softly, a flicker of hope igniting in your chest. “So that means Chef isn’t really fired unless you say so?”

Chris nods firmly. “Yes.”

You nod back, turning to face him. “How do you feel about all of this?”

He meets your gaze, his expression thoughtful. “Do you want me to be honest,” he asks, “or should I sugarcoat it?”

“Honest,” you reply immediately.

Chris pouts playfully. “You might be disappointed in me if I’m honest.”

You shake your head, smiling faintly. “I’d hate it more if you weren’t honest.”

Chris sighs, leaning back slightly. “Alright, then. You obviously know that I like you already, so... it’s a little disadvantageous for me if Chef works with you in the kitchen.”

You scoff lightly, folding your arms. “And what about it?”

Chris continues, his voice sincere. “It’s also true that I was afraid you’d leave the restaurant to be with him somewhere else. I wasn’t sure which would be better yesterday... but seeing you here now, I know it’s better to have both of you here. Whether I like it or not.” He smiles warmly, dimples sinking into his cheeks. “That’s the truth.”

You can’t help but feel a flicker of admiration for his maturity and honesty. “You’re a much better person than I thought, Chris.”

He chuckles shyly, his cheeks tinged pink as he scratches the back of his neck.

Grinning, you tease, “Why did I reject you again?”

Chris’s grin grows, his confidence returning. “It’s not too late for you to change your mind.”

You laugh softly, the tension in your chest easing just a little. Sitting there with Chris, you feel a small piece of the emptiness inside you start to fill. His candid honesty and lightheartedness are something you didn’t know you needed, and for that, you’re quietly grateful.

-

Minho is about to grind his coffee beans when the sharp chime of the doorbell interrupts the quiet morning. He sighs, muttering under his breath, and drags himself to the door. As he swings it open, he’s greeted by the sight of Felix and Taesoo grinning at him like a pair of mischievous kids caught red-handed.

“What are you two doing here?” Minho asks, raising an eyebrow.

Felix clears his throat dramatically before stepping forward. “Taesoo and I... left work. Starting today,” he announces, his tone oddly proud.

Minho stares at them, dumbfounded. “What?”

Taesoo nods eagerly, backing up Felix’s claim. “We decided if you’re not working at Farfalle anymore, we’re not either.”

Felix adds with a determined gleam in his eyes, “If you decide to work somewhere else, you’re not going alone. You’re taking us with you, Chef.”

For a moment, Minho is speechless, and a flicker of emotion flashes through him—maybe it’s gratitude or surprise—but whatever it is, it’s quickly buried under exasperation.

“Are you both out of your minds?” he snaps, his voice cutting through their grins like a knife.

Felix and Taesoo exchange nervous glances as Minho takes a threatening step forward. “Who’s going to cook in the kitchen today? There’s a double order at the restaurant, and lunch is going to be a madhouse without you two.”

Taesoo stutters, his confidence crumbling. “Uh... should we... go back now?”

Before he can finish, Felix slaps a hand against Taesoo’s chest, trying to maintain their resolve. But Minho is faster, swatting the back of their heads in one swift motion.

“Go back to work. Now,” Minho orders, his voice low but filled with authority.

Felix and Taesoo flinch, scrambling to respond. “Y-Yes, Chef!” they stammer in unison, clearly regretting their bold decision.

Minho doesn’t waste a second, stepping out into the hallway to start pushing them toward the exit. “Hurry up. The restaurant is going to burn down without you idiots.”

Felix, panicking, reaches for the elevator button, but Minho barks, “Take the stairs!”

They freeze for a split second before sprinting toward the emergency stairwell, their footsteps echoing in the narrow hallway.

Minho stands there, arms crossed, watching them scramble out of sight. A sigh escapes him as he rubs the back of his neck. He can’t tell if he should be touched by their loyalty or worried about their recklessness.

Shaking his head, he mutters, “those little brats,” and heads back inside.

-

The kitchen feels unnervingly empty, the usual hum of voices replaced by an uneasy quiet. Only half the stations are occupied, with Felix and Taesoo noticeably absent. You take a deep breath, trying to focus, but the atmosphere is heavy with tension.

The silence breaks as Seungwan’s voice cuts through the stillness like a knife. “You really are something,” he sneers, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

You glance at him briefly but say nothing.

“How can you just stand there like nothing happened when Chef gave up his job for you?” he presses, the jab clearly meant to provoke you.

You keep your focus on your station, ignoring him, but Seungwan doesn’t stop. “This is why women are scarier than men,” he says with a mocking chuckle. “You can’t tell what’s really going on with them just by looking. They’ll smile at you while stabbing you in the back.”

His eyes drift to the empty stations, and he sneers. “And loyalty is a man’s quality. Look at Felix and Taesoo—quitting out of loyalty. But you?” He shakes his head dramatically, as if to say you’re the opposite.

You clench your jaw, trying to stay calm, but the irritation boils over. “Shut it!” you snap, your voice sharp but controlled.

He smirks, unbothered by your tone. “Ooh, how scary,” he mutters mockingly, as if your reaction proves his point.

Before the tension can escalate further, the door to the kitchen swings open, and Sara strides in. Her sharp gaze takes in the scene—the half-empty kitchen and the tense air, then she lets out a heavy sigh.

Her voice snaps everyone to attention as she scans the room. “We’re short-staffed, but we don’t have time to waste. We’ll make do.”

Two service staff step hesitantly into the kitchen behind her, offering their help. Sara immediately takes charge, pointing at them. “You, assist in the kitchen. And you,” she gestures to the other, “stand at the chef’s table and read every order loud and clear. No mistakes.”

The service staff nod quickly, stepping into their new roles.

Sara starts delegating tasks with brisk efficiency. “I’ll take the tomato sauce and triple-flavored pasta orders,” she announces, already rolling up her sleeves. “Hyunwoo, you’re on cream sauce and risotto.”

Hyunwoo nods, moving toward his station.

Sara’s gaze lands on you. “Back to the pasta line. You’ll handle the rest of the pasta orders.”

“Yes, Chef,” you reply without hesitation, stepping toward the pasta station and tying your apron tighter around your waist.

Sara pivots to the sous chef. “Sous chef, you handle all the main dishes.”

“Understood, Chef,” he responds firmly, already prepping his station.

Finally, Sara steps back, her sharp eyes scanning the room as she raises her voice to address everyone. “Listen up! We’re running with half the usual staff but double the orders. No one has time to slack off today. Stay on your toes, work fast, and don’t forget what’s at stake. For the sake of the restaurant, we push through. Clear?”

The team collectively straightens, determination flashing in everyone’s eyes as they shout back in unison, “Yes, Chef!”

The tension in the room shifts, transforming into a focused energy. You grip the edge of your station, steeling yourself for the chaos to come. It’s going to be a grueling day, but as you glance around at the team, you know one thing for sure—no matter what, you’ll endure this. For the restaurant. For Minho. For the chance to see him come back.

-

The kitchen is quiet now, the chaos of the day finally giving way to the rhythmic sound of mops swiping across the floor. You and the others are scattered across the space, each of you focused on the last task of the night—cleaning up. Sara is busy wiping down the chef's table with meticulous care, her usual sharpness softened after a long day.

The silence is interrupted when one of the service staff walks in, his brows furrowed in confusion. “Does anyone know how to make a ginseng pasta?”

The question catches everyone off guard. Hyunwoo pauses mid-swipe, frowning. “Ginseng pasta? That’s not even on the menu.”

The service staff shrugs. “I know, but some old guy came in and ordered it.”

At the mention of the dish, Sara’s head snaps up. Her eyes widen slightly, and before anyone can react, she bolts out of the kitchen.

Hyunwoo snorts and mutters, “What’s with her? It’s not like we’re about to whip up some off-menu dish now.” He shakes his head and resumes mopping, clearly not interested in whatever just happened.

You stay silent, but your thoughts begin to stir. Ginseng pasta... Something about it feels familiar, like a whisper from the back of your mind.

A few minutes later, Sara returns, her expression unreadable but her steps hurried. “Did the old man leave already?” she asks the service staff.

“Yeah, he left after placing the order,” the staff replies, slightly confused by her urgency.

Sara presses on. “Did he say anything else?”

The service staff nods slowly. “He made a reservation and that he’d be coming back in two days.”

Sara’s reaction is subtle, but you catch it—a flicker of recognition in her eyes, a twitch of her lips like she knows exactly who this man is.

But while Sara’s behavior is curious, your attention is elsewhere. Ginseng pasta. The name keeps tugging at you, teasing the edge of your memory. It’s not just familiar—it’s significant.

Once the cleaning is done, you waste no time. The moment you’re free, you dash to the locker room, your heart pounding with anticipation. You make a beeline for your locker, flipping open the recipe book he gave to you. Your fingers skim through the pages until you find it.

Ginseng Pasta.

There it is, written in Minho’s precise handwriting, the recipe detailed with care. The sight of it sends a jolt through you, as if the missing puzzle piece has just fallen into place.

You stare at the recipe, your mind racing. Who is this old man, and why does he know about this dish? And more importantly, why does this feel like a thread that could lead you back to Minho?

You don’t have the answers yet, but one thing is clear—you have to try this recipe.

-

As you're enjoying your cup of morning coffee, you sit at your kitchen counter with Minho's recipe book sprawled open in front of you, its pages filled with his neat handwriting and meticulous notes. You've spent hours studying the ginseng pasta recipe, committing every detail to memory, but his words from before linger in your mind: "All the recipes in that notebook are failures."

You chew on the inside of your cheek, staring at the list of ingredients. Was he telling the truth, or was that just Minho being his usual, enigmatic self? The doubt gnaws at you until you can’t resist anymore.

Grabbing your phone, you scroll to his number and hit call. The line rings once. Twice.

“What do you want?” Minho’s annoyed voice greets you as soon as he picks up, skipping any pleasantries.

Straight to the point, you ask, “Are you good at making ginseng pasta? And if I follow the recipe in your notebook, will I really fail?”

There’s a pause, followed by an exasperated sigh. “If you don’t believe me, just try it out and see for yourself,” he snaps.

You can’t help but smirk a little. “You have so much free time now. Can’t you just tell me instead?”

Silence follows, but you hear faint background noise—the hum of traffic. Your brows furrow, and you ask, “Are you driving? Where are you going?”

Minho doesn’t answer your question. Instead, he takes a jab at you. “You’re awfully curious for someone still working at the place where your boyfriend quit his job for you.”

You roll your eyes, choosing to ignore his sharp words. “So... are there any successful recipes in the notebook or not?”

His tone sharpens. “Why should I tell you that?”

“Chef—” you start, but before you can finish, he cuts you off.

“I’m hanging up now,” he says curtly, and the line goes dead before you can argue.

You stare at your phone, frustrated, before looking back at the recipe in the book. The question remains: Is this really a failure?

And if it is, you wonder to yourself, Can I make it a success?

-

Minho steps into the luxurious suite, unsurprised to find Sara already sitting on the couch, her posture unnervingly calm as always. However, his attention shifts to the older man standing by the window, sipping espresso from a delicate porcelain cup. Chef Rossi—the man Minho once idolized during culinary school—is a name that carries weight in the culinary world. His presence here, however, is a mystery.

Minho shrugs off his coat, folding it in a quick, habitual motion before tossing it onto the armrest of the sofa. He takes a seat across from Rossi and, without preamble, asks, "So, what brings you here? Finally missed your students?"

Rossi snorts, setting his cup down with an audible clink. "Missed you? Hardly. I was asked to be the head judge for the New Chef Culinary Challenge."

Minho smirks. "Judging new chefs? Shouldn’t they have called someone young and fresh, not an old fart like you? This competition is doomed from the start."

Rossi’s expression hardens, his sharp glare cutting through Minho’s teasing. “And yet, it’s not you sitting in that chair as a judge, is it? Because you're not competent, someone else have already taken your spot.”

Minho opens his mouth to retort, but Rossi turns sharply toward Sara, who has been uncharacteristically quiet. “I saw your name on the list of judges,” he says. His voice carries an edge that immediately shifts the atmosphere in the room. “Let me ask you one thing. Do you think you have the right to judge others?”

Sara meets his gaze with wide, innocent eyes. Her voice is soft but steady. “I know the mistake I made was a huge one, Chef Rossi. It’s the biggest mistake a chef could ever make. I’ve spent the last few years living with regret and trying to atone—for you and for Minho.”

Rossi sneers. “And you expect me to believe that? That you’ve changed?”

Sara doesn’t flinch. “I don’t expect you to believe it. But I’ll continue proving it until you do.”

Rossi’s attention flickers back to Minho, his tone cutting as he says, “I heard you two were working together again. I thought that meant you’d patched things up. But I come here only to find out she’s kicked you out of your own kitchen.”

Minho bristles, leaning forward defensively. “That’s not what happened! I dug my own grave this time.”

Rossi shakes his head, his disappointment palpable. “I don’t understand what the two of you are doing, but at least show me you’re capable of cooking better than before.” His voice sharpens. “Two days from now, I expect to try your ginseng pasta. Both of you.”

Minho groans, leaning back into the couch. “You came all the way here just to check on my pasta? Forget it. I’m not making it.”

Rossi raises an eyebrow. “And why not?”

Minho shrugs, his tone laced with defiance. “It’s not like you’re still my teacher. And it’s not like you’d give me a good grade even if I did.”

Rossi hisses in frustration, his disbelief evident in his narrowed eyes.

Before the tension can escalate, Sara stands, smoothing her skirt with careful precision. “It would be an honor to cook for you, Chef Rossi,” she says politely. “But I need to get back to the restaurant.” She glances briefly at Minho before adding, “Excuse me.”

Minho watches her leave, the door clicking shut behind her. Rossi turns back to him, crossing his arms. “And what about you? Anything else to do?”

Minho chuckles darkly. “Not really. I’m out of a job, remember?”

Rossi glares at him but says nothing.

After a beat of silence, Minho leans forward, smirking. “Did you at least bring some good wine with you?”

Rossi scoffs, his annoyance spilling over. “What wine? There's nothing for you.”

Minho shrugs, feigning indifference, but the weight of Rossi’s presence lingers, heavier than ever.

-

The bottle of red wine sits between them, its deep crimson liquid catching the soft afternoon light. Chef Rossi fills Minho’s glass with the precision of a man who’s done this countless times before, his face betraying no emotion. Beside the wine, a freshly delivered charcuterie board waits on the table, its array of cured meats, cheeses, and olives a casual yet decadent offering.

Rossi snorts, pouring himself a glass. “Now, tell me the truth—Sara didn’t kick you out?”

Minho shakes his head, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “She didn’t kick me out.”

Rossi narrows his eyes, skeptical. “Then what? Is it because your temper? You only pick up my bad habits.”

Minho’s smirk falters, and he takes a long sip of his wine to buy himself time. The truth sits heavy in his chest, a confession he’s not eager to make. But Rossi’s piercing gaze leaves no room for escape.

With a sigh, Minho sets his glass down and straightens in his seat. “It wasn’t my temper.” He hesitates, his fingers drumming against the table. “It’s because... I told everyone in the kitchen—no romance. Fired someone for it, too. Then I went and broke my own rule. I fell in love.”

Rossi clicks his tongue, the sound sharp and disapproving. “Come here!” He gestures for Minho to lean closer.

Minho groans, sinking back in his chair. “Come on. I’m older now. Do you really have to—”

Rossi cuts him off with a sharp wave of his hand. “Closer.”

With a resigned sigh, Minho leans forward, his head tilted slightly. Rossi wastes no time grabbing a handful of his hair, tugging hard.

“How could you be so foolish?” Rossi scolds, his voice low and biting. “You sure are a person of principle. How can you fall in love again after all you went through?”

“Alright, alright!” Minho winces, his hands darting up to shield his head as Rossi lands a firm slap on the back of it.

Rossi isn’t done. “You were burned so badly before that you’ve clearly lost all sense of judgment. Falling in love again? In the kitchen, no less?” Another slap follows, and Minho jerks back with a glare.

“Will you stop hitting me?” Minho protests, rubbing the sore spot. “And for your information, this time it’s different. She’s... she’s a good one.”

Rossi scoffs, leaning back in his chair. “You say that now. Let’s see how long it lasts.”

The tension eases as Rossi picks up his glass again, taking a measured sip. After a moment of silence, he speaks. “Paolo called me when he heard I was coming here.”

Minho perks up, his brows knitting together in curiosity. “Paolo?”

Rossi nods. “He wants you in his restaurant. Said he’d take you in a heartbeat.”

Minho blinks, the words taking a moment to sink in. “Wait... me? Paolo actually wants me?”

Rossi rolls his eyes. “Don’t act so surprised. People know what happened between you and Sara, but they also know you’re one of the best. Paolo included.”

Minho leans back, a slow smile spreading across his face. The idea of working in Paolo’s restaurant—the dream he’d chased for so long—fills him with a surge of excitement. But just as quickly, doubt creeps in.

“Should I go, though?” Minho murmurs, his voice quieter now. “I mean, I really want to work there, but...”

Rossi sets his glass down, his expression turning serious. “This is why I came here. To bring you back. If all you’re doing here is fooling around, wasting your time, then come home. You’ve got nothing to prove to anyone anymore.”

Minho rubs the sore spot on his head, muttering under his breath. “Still hurts, you know. You haven’t changed a bit.”

“And you haven’t grown any wiser,” Rossi retorts, though his tone is lighter now.

Minho chuckles, but his thoughts are far from carefree. The offer is everything he’s ever wanted, everything he’s worked for. Yet, as much as he wants to say yes, there’s something—or someone—keeping him from making the decision.

-

The plate of ginseng pasta feels heavier in your hands as you stand outside Minho’s door. The soft glow of the hallway lights casts a gentle sheen on the sauce, the deep red of the Barolo wine clinging to the strands of pasta. You shift your weight, anticipation curling in your chest as you ring the doorbell.

A moment later, the door swings open. Minho stands there, his sharp eyes scanning you before flickering down to the plate in your hands. His expression is unreadable.

“Can you taste this for me, Chef?” you ask, offering him a small, hopeful smile.

He exhales through his nose—half sigh, half amusement—before stepping aside and opening the door wider. Without a word, he lets you in.

You set the plate down on his dining table and take the seat next to him, watching as he picks up a fork. He glances at you before digging in, as if gauging your reaction. You nod encouragingly, the corners of your lips lifting in anticipation.

Minho lets out a low sigh and twirls the pasta around his fork, taking a bite. You study his face intently, searching for any sign of approval. Instead, his hand reaches for your head. He gives it a gentle pat, just for a second—before flicking you on the forehead.

“Ow!” You wince, rubbing the sore spot.

“It’s bitter,” he states flatly, setting his fork down. His sharp gaze lands on you, unimpressed. “I told you already—every recipe in that book was a failure, yet you still went ahead and made it the same way.”

You pout, still massaging your forehead. “You said one or two of them might’ve been good. I thought this could be the one.”

Minho scoffs. “Not a single recipe in that book was a success.”

You purse your lips, feigning innocence. “Then… can you tell me how to fix the bitterness, Chef?”

Minho doesn’t answer. Instead, he gestures for you to come closer. You hesitate, wary, but obey—only for him to flick your forehead again.

“Ow!” you yelp, jerking back.

“Figure it out yourself,” he scolds, turning his chair toward you. His gaze sharpens as he leans in slightly. “And while we’re at it—you made me jobless. The least you could do is spend time with me, but all you ever do is work.”

You blink at him. “How long are you planning to stay out of work?”

Minho scoffs. “It’s only been a day. One single day. You can't even stand to see me play for one day?”

Before you can respond, he takes your hands and pulls you onto his lap, making you straddle him. Your breath catches as he cups your jaw, bringing your face close. His lips brush yours—just barely—before he presses in, slow but firm, sending a shiver down your spine. The weight of the day melts away, replaced by the warmth of his kiss.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, matching his eagerness, letting the kiss linger longer than intended. You don’t want to pull away—you’ve missed him too much—but a thought flickers through your mind, forcing you to break the kiss.

You pull back slightly, looking down at him. “Where did you go today?”

Minho hums, trying to close the distance again. “Met a friend.”

You place a hand against his chest, stopping him. “What friend?” There’s a slight edge of jealousy in your tone.

Minho shrugs. “Just an old friend.”

He leans in again, but this time, he doesn’t let you stop him. His lips crash onto yours, deeper, harder, stealing your breath. His teeth graze your lower lip before his hands start to wander—one slipping beneath your shirt, fingertips skimming the skin of your back, the other gently squeezing your thigh. The sensation sends a rush through you, a heat blooming beneath your skin.

Just as you think you might get lost in him, he finally pulls away, leaving you gasping for air. But he’s not done—his lips trail down your jaw, then your neck, pressing hot, lingering kisses against your skin. A giggle escapes you, breathy and unintentional.

Minho smirks against your skin before moving to your ear. He nips at the shell lightly, making you yelp in surprise. You push at his chest, but he leans back in his chair, smug satisfaction written all over his face.

Tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, he softens just slightly. “How was your day?”

Your smile falters. The weight of the kitchen, the tension in the air, the way everyone whispered behind your back—it all rushes back in.

Minho notices immediately. His brows pull together. “Why aren’t you answering me?”

You exhale, finally admitting, “It felt like walking on glass.” You tell him about Felix and Taesoo leaving, how the remaining staff scrambled to keep the kitchen afloat.

Minho scoffs. “They deserved it.”

You grumble, “And on top of everything, the staff won’t stop gossiping about me.”

Minho’s expression darkens. “And you still want to stay there?”

You shoot him a look. “Why don’t you come back?”

He exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “You need to quit.”

Your eyes widen. “If I leave, will you come back?”

Minho’s gaze is steady as he cups your face. “It’s either both of us, or nothing. I don’t want us to be separated.”

You groan, dropping your forehead against his shoulder. His hand comes up to gently cradle the nape of your neck, his thumb stroking your skin.

Then, he murmurs, “I’ll teach you how to make all my recipes the right way… if you leave the restaurant.”

Your head snaps up. You pout. “What kind of teacher makes their student quit?”

Minho glares. “It’s an order. Leave the restaurant.”

You stare at him, stunned. You thought—maybe—just maybe, he’d understand. That he’d come back. But no. Instead of giving you what you wanted, he’s making you walk away from everything you’ve worked for.

Frustration bubbles up inside you. Without another word, you slide off his lap and take a step back.

Minho watches you, expression unreadable. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

You keep glaring at him in silence, turning toward the door.

“Hey.” His voice sharpens. “Where are you going?”

You don’t answer.

“Why aren’t you listening to me?” he snaps.

But you keep walking. Out the door. Away from him.

-

To avoid the eyes and the whisperings from everyone in the restaurant, you spend most of your time in the locker room. You sit on the small couch, your phone balanced on your knee as you scroll through Minho’s notebook, your other hand flipping between tabs on your screen.

The bitterness of ginseng. The right technique to mellow it out. Your head is buried deep in research, cross-referencing techniques from chefs who have tackled the same problem, when something catches your eye—an article about Sara.

Your finger hovers over the link, but before you can tap it, the door swings open, followed by the sound of hurried footsteps.

The entrée line.

You stay quiet, instinctively keeping your head low as Hyunwoo’s voice cuts through the air. “Have you heard? About the New Chef Culinary Challenge?”

Seungwan lets out an exaggerated sigh. “Of course! And guess what? Sara’s going to be one of the judges. Can you believe how lucky we are?”

You glance up from your phone, eyes narrowing slightly. New Chef Culinary Challenge? You quickly type the name into the search bar, skimming the details as they continue talking.

A competition for rising chefs. The winning team gets a sponsorship to study at a culinary school in Italy.

The door swings open again. This time, it’s Seojun, the sous-chef. His face looks strained, his usual confidence missing. Hyunwoo notices immediately. “What’s going on sous-chef? You look like you've just heard bad news.”

Seojun exhales heavily, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know if it’s true, but there’s a rumor going around about Chef Sara.”

That gets everyone’s attention. Even you, though you keep your expression neutral as you listen.

“She cheated.” Seojun leans against the lockers, lowering his voice slightly. “Apparently, back when she was competing in a contest, she tricked her rival so she could win the grand prize in Italy.”

Hyunwoo and Seungwan gasp dramatically. “What? That can't be!”

Seojun presses his lips into a thin line before adding, “And the rival was Lee Minho.”

Silence.

For a second, no one speaks. The weight of his words hangs thick in the air. Even Hyunwoo and Seungwan, always quick with a reaction, seem stunned.

Seungwan groans. “You’re kidding me. That means we have no one to be our managing chef for the challenge.”

From your corner, you barely breathe.

So, this is how it finally comes to light.

The whispers, the rumors, the betrayal Minho never talks about—all of it, spilling out right here in this locker room. You wonder if it stings for him, knowing that the truth is only coming out now, years too late. If it would even matter to him.

But for you, it does.

-

The café is warm, the scent of roasted coffee beans and fresh pastries lingering in the air, but Minho barely registers it. His gaze sweeps across the room, and it doesn't take long to spot Chris. Even in a place filled with businessmen and professionals, Chris stands out—his sharp suit pristine, his posture straight, his pale skin contrasting starkly against the dim lighting.

Minho clicks his tongue. If it weren’t for work, I wouldn’t be here, looking at his annoying face.

Still, he strides over, pulling out the chair opposite Chris before dropping into it with a lazy slouch. Chris doesn’t waste time on pleasantries.

“What happened with you and Sara in Italy?”

Minho stills for a split second. So, everyone knows now. It was only a matter of time before the past caught up with him.

He leans back, playing it coy. “And here I thought you were just here to persuade your runaway chef to come back.”

Chris doesn’t rise to the bait. His expression remains unreadable as he calmly asks, “Then why don’t you come back, Chef?”

Minho quirks a brow, tilting his head. “What if I do?”

Chris’s lips press into a firm line, unimpressed. “Come back to work, Chef.”

A scoff leaves Minho’s lips. He crosses his arms, legs stretching out under the table. “And if I do, does that mean I can date all I want in the kitchen?”

Chris’s jaw tightens ever so slightly, and Minho smirks. Got him.

But Chris recovers quickly, exhaling through his nose before speaking in a calm, steady tone. “Whether you start a war or a fight in the kitchen, that’s up to you. But come back.” His voice is unwavering now. “Help Sara.”

Minho’s smirk fades and for the first time, he sees it—Chris isn't demanding, isn't ordering. He’s genuinely asking.

“I’m not a chef,” Chris continues, his voice quieter but firm. “I can only do so much in the kitchen and I can’t stand by and watch the quality of food drop every day.”

Minho doesn’t respond. He watches as Chris straightens his shoulders, his expression turning serious.

“You know if you quit like this, you’re breaking our contract.”

Silence stretches between them.

Their eyes lock, neither willing to back down. The air between them is thick with unspoken words, an unyielding battle of wills.

Minho exhales slowly, fingers tapping against the table, debating if this is really the time to not be selfish.

-

The kitchen is empty, save for the faint hum of the ventilation system and the soft bubbling of milk in your pots. Everyone else has gone home, but you're still here, determined to perfect the celeriac purée Sara requested.

Not that you had much choice—Seungwan conveniently "forgot" his promise to teach you, leaving you to figure it out on your own.

You're stirring two pots at once, carefully keeping the milk from burning, when footsteps echo through the quiet space. You glance up to see Chris entering the kitchen, his sharp eyes scanning the room before landing on you.

“Do you need help?” he asks.

You let out a breath of relief, nodding. “Yeah, can you stir this one for me.”

Chris shrugs off his suit jacket, folding it neatly before placing it on the chef’s table and then he rolls the sleeves of his dark shirt to his elbows, exposing the evident veins on his arms.

The sight makes you raise an eyebrow. “Is it really okay to make the manager work?” you ask.

Chris waves off your concern, taking the spatula from your hand and beginning to stir. “If it means you won’t burn down the kitchen, then yes.”

You roll your eyes but focus on your task. The rhythm of stirring is almost calming, but then—

“The milk’s all gone,” Chris announces, peering into his pot. “Should I turn off the stove now?”

Your head snaps up. “No—wait—” You rush to grab the spatula from him, stirring both pots in a frantic attempt to salvage them. “Get more milk from the fridge, now!”

Chris blinks at the urgency but moves quickly, returning with a carton of cold milk. You nod at his efficiency. “Pour it in, slowly.”

As he does, the pot hisses upon contact, steam curling into the air. Chris watches as he continues stirring, then asks, “Why not just add more milk from the start?”

You shoot him a look while your hand stirring the pot non-stop. “You trying to make soup?”

Chris huffs but follows your instructions. The two of you stir in silence for a while until you sigh, voicing your frustration. “I don’t get it. Seungwan’s celeriac purée tasted sweeter, but mine always comes out bitter. And he won’t tell me why.”

Chris stops stirring to look at you, his expression incredulous. “He won’t share, even though you work together?”

You nod and pout as he mutters, “That’s mean.”

His deadpan comment makes you smile, the tension in your shoulders easing. “Yeah, tell me about it.”

You hand him a wooden spatula. “Mash the celeriac up,” you instruct.

Chris follows without protest, pressing down with ease until the softened celeriac turns into a smooth paste, blending with the milk. You do the same, then take a taste.

Your shoulders slump. Still bitter.

Chris tastes his and frowns. “Mine’s sweet.”

You scoff. “Yeah, sure. Like I trust your taste buds.”

Chris gestures to his pot, offering his spatula. “I swear, it's good. Try it.”

Skeptical, you dip your pinky finger into his purée and bring it to your tongue. Your eyes widen. It really is sweet.

You gasp, looking between both pots, baffled. “How—?”

Chris frowns, echoing your thoughts. “We used the same ingredients and method. How come one’s sweeter than the other?”

Your mind races, retracing every step. And then—it clicks.

“The milk,” you blurt out.

Chris tilts his head. “What about it?”

Excitement surges through you like you've discovered a divinie revelation. “Mine used room-temperature milk. Yours was cold from the fridge.”

Understanding dawns in his expression, but before he can say anything, you jump on your feet, triumphant. “I finally found the secret formula!”

Chris laughs, watching your excitement with amusement. “I’d like to remind you that I played a big role in this discovery.”

Still grinning, you turn to him and, in a rush of happiness, throw your arms around him in a quick hug. Chris stiffens for a second before relaxing.

Pulling back, you look him in the eyes and say, “Thank you.”

And you have so many things you're thankful for—Chris’s presence, his unwavering support and how he genuinely cares for you despite knowing that you only can reciprocate his feelings with a sincere gratitude, so you say it again, “Thank you, Chris.”

For once, Chris doesn’t have a witty comeback. He just nods, a small smile tugging at his lips.

-

The moment the doorbell rings, Minho knows it’s you.

There’s something about the way you knock or ring, like you’re trying to suppress excitement but failing miserably. With a sigh and a faint smirk, he opens the door. And there you are—standing with another plate of ginseng pasta, eyes bright with anticipation.

“Can you taste it for me, chef?” you ask sweetly, holding the plate out like an offering.

Minho studies you for a second before stepping aside. “Come in.”

You set the plate on the table in the living room, settling onto the sofa. Minho joins you, stretching out comfortably before casting you a sideways glance. ���Just so you know, I’m going to be busy starting tomorrow,” he says. “No more time to play with you.”

You blink at him, surprised. “Did you get a new job, Chef? Where?”

Minho leans back, feigning nonchalance. “That’s a secret.” He picks up the fork, twirling it between his fingers before adding, “I might go back to Italy.”

Then, almost as an afterthought, he looks at you and asks, “Do you want to come with me?”

Without missing a beat, you reply, “I can’t.”

Minho’s hand stills. He hadn’t even taken a bite yet, but suddenly, he’s lost his appetite. He glares at you. “Why not?”

You pout and meekly answer, “I have my job... my dad.”

Minho clicks his tongue. “But you have me,” he counters, his tone sharp. “You really don’t want to come?”

You hesitate, then quietly say, “I’d rather learn from you in the kitchen.”

Minho scoffs and persists. “I'm going and you can go ahead and bury your bones in Farfalle.”

You huff in frustration, crossing your arms. Silence stretches between you both, heavy and unyielding. After a moment, you break it with a question.

“…Does that mean we’re breaking up?”

Minho’s grip on the fork tightens. “You said you don’t want to come,” he snaps, exhaling sharply. He shakes his head. “You’re not willing to give up anything for me.”

You bristle at that. “How can you leave in the middle of a relationship?”

Something in Minho cracks. He lets out a humorless laugh. “Do you even have a right to say that?”

You flinch. Minho’s voice drops lower, rough with frustration. “You don’t want to quit with me. You don’t want to come with me. Then what do you want to do with me?”

Your silence only fuels his irritation. He lets out another sigh, running a hand through his hair. Maybe he’s approaching this wrong. He scoots closer, voice softer now.

“Convince me not to go then,” he says, watching you carefully.

Still, nothing.

Minho isn’t good at being gentle. He doesn’t have the patience for quiet battles. With a small sigh, he reaches out, patting your head endearingly. “I’m scared to go anywhere because of you,” he mutters, then nudges your knee playfully. “Come on, say it. Don’t go, chef.”

But you don’t say anything.

Instead, you stand. Minho watches as you move toward the door, something unreadable in your expression. His stomach twists.

“Why are you leaving?” he calls after you, scoffing when you don’t answer. You just keep walking, the door clicking shut behind you.

Minho leans back, exhaling sharply. He just doesn’t get you sometimes. It’s like everything he does is wrong to you.

Frustrated, he stabs his fork into the pasta, twirling it aggressively before shoving a bite into his mouth.

And then—he stops.

The bitterness is gone. The ginseng pasta actually tastes good.

Minho blinks, chewing slowly. He takes another bite, testing it. A huff of laughter escapes him. You did it. You figured it out.

Without realizing it, he’s smiling. Pride flickers in his chest as he takes another forkful. Maybe he still doesn’t understand you. But at least one thing is clear—you’re a damn good chef.

-

The kitchen hums with energy, the usual pre-dinner service rush thick in the air. Pots clang, knives chop, and the scent of simmering sauces lingers in the air. But tonight, something feels different.

Two hours before service, Chef Sara is at her station, preparing a special pasta dish. You’ve noticed the extra care she’s putting into it—more than usual. The curiosity gnaws at you, especially when you hear whispers from the service staff about the customer who requested it. He asked for Chef Sara, and only Chef Sara.

You slip out of the kitchen, making your way up the stairs to the second-floor balcony, where you can get a good look at the dining room below. Peering over the railing, your breath catches in your throat.

Chef Rossi.

The shock almost makes you gasp. What is he doing here?

Even from a distance, you recognize him immediately—the sharp, assessing eyes, the air of authority he carries like a second skin. He was one of the most respected instructors at your culinary school, a man whose approval was both feared and revered. More than that, he was Minho and Sara’s mentor, taking them under his wing like prized protégés. Seeing him now, it’s impossible not to notice just how much Minho has taken after him.

Your back straightens as Sara herself enters the dining room, carrying a plate of pasta. The service staff stand nearby, watching just as intently as you are. Even Chris is among them, his usual casual demeanor replaced with quiet observation.

Sara sets the plate in front of Chef Rossi. He looks at the dish. Then at her. Silence stretches between them.

And then—his voice explodes through the restaurant. “I ordered two plates of pasta, not one.”

The words lash through the room, sharp and unforgiving.

“Are you incapable of delivering an order placed not one, but two days ago? Is this the best you can do?”

Chef Rossi lifts the plate. For a second, you think—no, he wouldn’t—But he does.

He drops it. The ceramic shatters against the floor, the carefully plated pasta scattering in a mess of sauce and noodles. A sharp breath hisses through the room.

“I will only taste it when you bring me two plates,” Chef Rossi declares.

Sara stands still, her face unreadable. Then, she nods—just slightly—before turning and walking away. The moment she’s out of sight, she breaks into a run and heads towards the chef’s office.

You don’t wait to see what happens next. If you linger any longer, Chef Rossi might spot you, and the last thing you need is a scolding from him. You hurry back to the kitchen, gripping your knife and focusing on your station.

But then—

Sara bursts in, slightly out of breath. “Can you please make Chef Lee’s ginseng pasta?”

The kitchen falls silent. Every pair of eyes turns toward you while you freeze in place.

You blink at her, as if making sure you heard correctly. “You… want me to make Chef Lee’s ginseng pasta?”

Sara nods and your first thought is Minho. It has to be him. He must have told her to prepare it in his place.

You exhale. Well, if this is the only way to deal with Chef Rossi, so be it. Also, you'd feel bad for Sara if you refused. You reach for a pan, your fingers tightening around the handle. Beside you, Sara moves back to her station, already preparing the second dish.

Still— You can’t help but wonder. Why did Minho ask for me to cook it instead of him?

-

Chef Sara strides ahead, her presence composed as ever, while you follow closely behind, carefully balancing your plate of ginseng pasta in both hands. The nerves settle low in your stomach, a quiet anxiety growing with each step. It’s not just about presenting the dish—it’s about who is sitting at the table.

Chef Rossi.

Even back in culinary school, his name carried weight. He was a man whose approval was both terrifying and rewarding, and now, here you are, about to serve him your dish. You’ve seen how he treats failures. You remember how Minho looked up to him. And now you’re about to face him, carrying a plate of Minho’s recipe—except, it isn’t quite Minho’s anymore.

Sara reaches the table first, setting down her dish with practiced ease. You follow suit, carefully placing your plate beside hers before taking a hurried step back, as if distance might shield you from whatever sharp words Chef Rossi has in store.

It doesn’t work. His eyes flick to you, narrowing slightly. “Do I know you?”

You freeze. Slowly, you lift your head, forcing a polite, practiced smile onto your face. “It’s nice to meet you again, Chef Rossi.”

His gaze sharpens. Then— He hisses.

“You,” he says, unimpressed. “Are you still slacking off like you did back in culinary school?”

Your smile stiffens. Right. You expected this. Before you can answer, Chef Rossi hisses again, his eyes narrowing even further. “And you—are you the one dating Minho?”

You swallow hard. There’s no good way to answer that, so you just nod meekly.

Thankfully, he moves on. Chef Rossi picks up his fork and digs into Sara’s pasta first. The moment the bite touches his tongue, you see his expression shift, just slightly—a small nod of acknowledgment.

“I see you’ve done more tests,” he comments.

Sara lifts her chin. “Back in Italy, I used to blanch the ginseng in water to remove the bitterness,” she eloquently explains the process. “But I found that baking it in the oven with a potato keeps the nutrients while reducing the bitter taste.”

Chef Rossi nods, clearly pleased. “That’s just what I expected from you.” He places the fork down, voice firm. “Your pasta is the best as usual.”

Sara remains composed, accepting the praise with grace. Then, Chef Rossi turns to your plate.

You suck in a breath as he picks up his fork again. Watches as he twirls the pasta. As he takes a bite.

There’s a pause. Then—surprise flashes across his face.

“Whose recipe is this?” he asks.

Your fingers twitch. “It’s Chef Lee’s recipe.”

Chef Rossi’s eyes narrow. “All of it?”

You hesitate—then quickly shake your head. “I changed something.”

Chef Rossi leans forward slightly. “What is it?”

Your voice feels small under his scrutiny, but you force yourself to answer. “When I followed Chef Lee’s recipe, the bitter taste of the ginseng threw off the balance. So I tried blanching the ginseng in milk instead.” You glance at Sara. “It softened the bitterness and turned it into sweetness.”

Sara’s brows shoot up. “You used the good wine and the bitterness was still there?”

You nod. “I thought the Barolo wine would do the trick, but it didn’t fully remove the bitterness.”

Sara’s face drops. A muttered, quiet realization: “So it wasn’t the wine…”

You hesitate and clasp your hands together in front of you. “Chef Lee told me it was a failed recipe, so I changed it a little.”

For the first time, Sara’s expression cracks. She turns to Chef Rossi, her eyes wide. “You always knew, didn’t you?”

Chef Rossi doesn’t look surprised by the question. He meets her gaze evenly. “You didn’t need to ruin Minho’s wine to win,” he states, matter-of-fact. “Because his recipe was never complete to begin with.”

The weight of his words settles over the table. Chef Rossi continues, voice firm. “Even if Minho had used the best wine, his method back then was incomplete.” He pauses. Then, the final blow: “You didn’t ruin Minho. You ruined yourself.”

Sara visibly stiffens. Her fingers curl into her apron, gripping so tightly her knuckles turn white. A long silence follows. Then—softly, almost brokenly—she mutters, “I’m so sorry, Chef.”

She turns and walks away. Chris makes a move to stop her, but she doesn’t look back. She keeps walking—out of the dining hall, out of sight.

You exhale, the tension in your shoulders lingering. This should feel like a victory, but the weight of the truth—the way it broke Sara—leaves a strange bitterness in your chest.

Before you can dwell on it, Chef Rossi’s voice pulls you back. He calls your name. Almost the same way Minho does. Then, he lifts a hand and points a finger straight at you.

“How dare you change your chef’s recipe?”

“I—I’m sorry, Chef,” you mutter, looking down.

Chef Rossi clicks his tongue. “If you want to be great, keep changing recipes.” His eyes glint, voice sharp. “And keep changing them again. And again.”

Your head snaps up and for a second, you almost—almost—laugh. But you manage to hold it back, straightening instead.

“Yes, Chef.”

Chef Rossi huffs. “And stop slacking off.”

You snap a quick, “Yes, Chef.”

As he leans back in his chair, you finally allow yourself a small breath. This feels like a triumph. But remembering what the truth did to Sara— You can’t help but feel bittersweet.

-

Minho has been waiting for this.

He’s been expecting the sound of the doorbell, anticipating it for a while now. And when it finally rings, a slow smile tugs at his lips.

There you are.

He takes his time walking toward the door, savoring the moment, letting the anticipation settle just a little longer before he finally opens it.

And there you stand, grinning from ear to ear.

“Hi, Chef,” you greet, eyes shining, excitement practically radiating off of you.

Minho’s heart does a little leap—annoyingly so—but he keeps his expression coy, lingering in the doorway. “I’m guessing you met the old man today,” he says, tilting his head.

Your enthusiasm is instant—you nod eagerly. “You denied it, but you were exactly like Chef Rossi.”

Minho scoffs, face contorting in denial. “How am I like him?” He crosses his arms, lips twitching. “I’m way better than Chef Rossi. At least by a bit.”

Your grin grows wider at that, amused. You take a step closer. “Chef Rossi was waiting for you to come. But why did you make me cook your ginseng pasta instead?” you ask, tilting your head at him.

This time, Minho moves aside, letting the door close behind him. He stands in front of you, his gaze steady, before he simply states—

“The ginseng pasta doesn’t belong to Chef Lee Minho anymore. It belongs to you.”

He watches as realization dawns on your face. Before you can speak, he continues, voice even, certain.

“My recipe was a failure. Yours came out a success.” He leans in just slightly, his gaze locking onto yours. “So now, it’s yours.”

For a moment, you just stare at him, as if processing his words. Then— Your smile grows impossibly wide, beaming with pure joy. And Minho’s heart tightens in the best way.

He exhales, playing it off with a smirk. “You’re a little bit better than me at making ginseng pasta.”

You raise a brow. “Just a little?”

Minho grins, shrugging. “Yeah. Just a little.”

You laugh, the sound bursting out of you—bright, unfiltered, happiness etched across your face. It’s contagious, and Minho finds himself laughing along with you, warmth settling deep in his chest.

Then, he asks, “Are you happy?”

You nod eagerly. Then, without warning, you surge forward, throwing your arms around him and kissing him.

Minho barely has time to register the softness of your lips before you pull away again, giggling against him. But he’s not done with you yet.

His hands find your waist, pulling you back in, and this time, he leans in—slowly, deliberately—capturing your lips in a kiss that lingers, deep and unspoken, conveying everything he feels for you.

Pride. Happiness. You.

-

Stepping into Minho’s apartment, the door barely clicks shut before his hands are on you, pulling you in for a kiss. It starts slow—teasing, exploring—but quickly deepens, growing hot and desperate as his fingers tighten on your waist. You press into him, hands tangling in his hair, and he groans softly against your lips, his body already thrumming with heat.

Without breaking the kiss, Minho’s hands slide down to your thighs, gripping firmly before hoisting you up against him. Instinctively, you wrap your legs around his waist, feeling the strength in his hold as he carries you toward the bedroom. His lips never leave yours, only pausing for a second to murmur, “I’ve got you,” before reclaiming your mouth with a hunger that sends a shiver through you.

The world blurs until your back meets the bed, and Minho looms over you, his dark eyes searching yours as his hands begin their slow, deliberate exploration of your body. His mouth follows, tracing heated kisses down your neck, along your collarbone, leaving you breathless beneath him.

Your warmth envelopes him as he holds you close, planting kisses on every inch of skin he can land his lips on. He drags his mouth lower, going to the warmest part of you and you lowly gasp the second he makes contact with your heating core. Using his thumb, he teases your clit, rubbing it in circular motions, he’s doing it gently but it's enough to make you squirm under him.

As if that isn't enough, he replaces his thumb with his tongue next, slick and hot against your sensitive spot, making you arching your back, asking for more. He gives it to you by taking all of you in his mouth, sucking, licking, drinking in your essence that slowly intoxicating him.

Minho lets go and with his hands on your hips, he's maneuvering you to turn over on the bed, lying on your stomach. You slightly jutting your rear up in the air, allowing him to reach between your legs and touches you there, making you drenched.

One cheek pressed against the pillow while your hands gripping the sheet as you moan, enjoying the way his fingers pumping in and out of you, searching for that spot that makes you—

“Oh!” You loudly moan and it's echoing in the dark room.

As you stay laying on the bed on your stomach, you hear Minho shifting on the bed and soon, you feel the heat his body radiates as he hovers above you. His hand grips the nape of your neck before gliding it down your spine and then shifts to the side, gripping you by the waist as he positioning himself.

His cock, stiff and hot, poking the back of your thigh before he aligns it towards your entrance. As he enters you, you arch your back and jutting your ass higher in the air for him. You're moaning into the pillow as you're taking more and more of him until he's fully buried inside you.

Minho drops his head into the crook of your neck, spilling out a raw groan and he stays like that, giving each other a moment to adjust. He presses his mouth close to your ear and murmurs, “How are you always this good, mmh?”

You look over your shoulder at him and smile, but he captures your lips in a haste kiss that takes all of your breath away. You gasp for air when he lets go but it's not enough, it will never be enough.

You pull him by the neck and bring his head close, this time you kiss him, letting all of your feelings pouring out of you and into the kiss, as if committing this moment to memory.

-

When Minho finally starts thrusting you from behind, his hands mapping every curve of your body, he brushes your hair aside, exposing the bare skin of your shoulder. His lips find the spot just below your ear, pressing soft, lingering kisses before trailing lower. One of his hands slides upward, wrapping gently around your throat—not to restrain, but to guide. He tilts your head back, angling it just enough so he can claim your lips again, this time deep and consuming.

When he finally pulls away, his dark eyes meet yours, clouded with heat. His thumb brushes over your pulse point as he murmurs, “Harder?” His voice is low, full of restrained intensity.

You swallow, breath uneven, before shaking your head slightly. Instead, you place your hand over his, squeezing gently. Your gaze meets his, steady and sure. “This is good,” you whisper, voice laced with warmth. “This is perfect.”

Minho’s lips curl into a small, knowing smirk before he leans in again, pressing another lingering kiss to your skin as he maintains the slow, steady pace. He takes your hand and lacing it together against the mattress and you're right, this is perfect.

Minho pauses just as you’re on the brink of climax, he slowly pulls away and you sigh at the sudden emptiness. He shifts, his hands firm yet careful as he turns you onto your back. His touch lingers, warm and steady, as he settles between your legs and enters you once again. His eyes focusing on the way his cock slipping in and out of you for a while before locking onto yours

There’s something different in his eyes now—softer, deeper—like he’s seeing all of you, not just your body, but everything that makes you you.

He leans down, pressing a slow, tender kiss to your lips before moving lower, his touch reverent, as if memorizing every inch of your skin. His pace remains unhurried, every movement deliberate, drawing out every sensation until you feel like you’re unraveling beneath him. He murmurs soft words against your skin, praises mixed with quiet sighs, his hands never stopping their slow, loving exploration.

By the time you both reach your highs, your body is trembling, overwhelmed not just by pleasure, but by the sheer intimacy of it all. Minho watches you carefully, his breathing still heavy, and it’s only when he leans in to press another kiss to your lips that he notices the tears trailing down your cheek.

His expression softens, and he brings his knuckles up, gently wiping the tear away. “Hey,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. “Are you okay?” There’s no teasing in his tone—only warmth, only care.

You blink up at him, your heart swelling at the tenderness in his eyes. Before you can answer, he leans in, capturing your lips in a long, lingering kiss, one that holds everything words can’t express.

When he pulls away, the faintest smirk tugs at the corner of his lips as his eyes dart toward the mess he made on your thigh, the pearly white of his seed glistening under the dim of light.

“So,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb over your cheek one last time. “Still perfect?”

You let out a breathy laugh, your chest still rising and falling with the remnants of your release. Meeting his gaze, you smile and nod.

“Perfect,” you whisper, reaching up to tuck a damp strand of hair away from his forehead.

Minho exhales, a satisfied hum escaping him as he shifts to pull you into his arms, holding you close like he never wants to let go.

-

Minho lies beside you, the warmth of your bare skin pressed against his, his fingers idly combing through your hair as he gazes into your eyes. The world outside feels distant, insignificant—because in this moment, with you lying so close, nothing else matters.

His hand cups your jaw, thumb grazing over your cheek as he murmurs, “I’m glad you’re doing well in the kitchen without me.”

Your eyes widen slightly, filled with something soft and unguarded. “I don’t want to be doing well all by myself,” you say, voice quiet but firm. “I want to do a good job when you’re there with me.”

Minho’s brows pull together slightly. “Why not?”

You take his wrist, cradling his hand against your cheek, your lips curling into a small, knowing smile. “Do you know how many times I thought of you today?”

His smirk appears without hesitation, curiosity flickering in his eyes. “How many?”

“Twelve times,” you answer without missing a beat.

Minho scoffs. “That’s it?” he teases, tilting his head slightly. “I expected more.”

You hold his gaze, and for a moment, the air shifts between you. “Twelve times,” you repeat, voice quieter this time, “that I thought… it should have been me, not you, that left the restaurant.”

His teasing smirk fades, his expression unreadable as he listens.

“I never imagined you would give up your job for me,” you continue, not in disbelief, but with something closer to awe, like the reality of it is finally settling in. Your voice takes on a wistful tone, laced with a quiet regret. “I never realized how special it was—just being together—until now. We wasted so much time worrying about getting caught, about what everyone else thought.”

Your fingers tighten slightly around his wrist, your eyes flickering with something raw and vulnerable as you plead, “If you come back, I’ll be really good to you.” Your voice drops lower, almost desperate. “So please… come back.”

Minho watches you carefully, heart tightening in his chest. He doesn’t react immediately, doesn’t let you see the way your words settle deep inside him. Instead, he exhales softly and tilts his head.

“You done talking?” he asks, his tone light, teasing, masking the weight of his thoughts.

You nod, and he shifts, opening his arm to you. Without hesitation, you move into his embrace, nuzzling into his chest. He presses a lingering kiss to your forehead, then your lips, slow and deep, something that aches in the best way.

“Let’s just sleep,” he mutters, pulling the duvet higher over both of you.

Minho holds you close, his fingers resting at the small of your back, and as your breathing evens out, he stares at the ceiling, lost in thought. You make it sound so simple, as if all he has to do is walk back through the restaurant doors and everything will fall into place.

He wants to give you everything. But as he lies there, feeling your warmth against him, he wonders—can he?

-

Minho is wiping down the counter when his phone buzzes with a new message. A smirk tugs at his lips, knowing it’s from you. You were just here, eating breakfast together in the kitchen, lingering longer than necessary in his arms.

But his smirk fades as he reads your text. Sara didn’t come home until now, and I’m worried about her.

Minho’s first instinct is to let someone else handle it—Chris, perhaps, or Felix—but the knot tightening in his chest convinces him otherwise. After what happened yesterday, he knows he should check on her himself.

Just as he’s about to call, another message pops up. This time, it’s from Sara.

Come meet me here. She’s attached the address to a small café.

It takes him fifteen minutes to get there, the ride filled with thoughts of what he should say or not say. When he arrives, he spots Sara instantly, tucked away in a corner, her chin resting in her hand as she stares vacantly out the window.

He doesn’t announce his arrival, just slides into the seat across from her. When she notices him, a faint, melancholic smile graces her lips. She cradles her cup of coffee, but makes no move to drink from it.

Silence lingers between them, heavy and suffocating.

“Minho, I don’t think I can ever cook again,” Sara begins, her voice thin and worn. “I’m too ashamed to even face you.”

Minho remains quiet, his eyes fixed on her, giving her the space to unravel her thoughts.

“I'm so disappointed in myself,” she admits, the words tumbling out like a confession. “First, I'm disappointed for not believing in myself. I could have taken first place on my own merit.”

Her grip tightens on the cup, knuckles paling as she presses on. “And then…I'm disappointed for hurting you, betraying you, just to get ahead. If only I had believed in myself from the start…”

The quiver in her voice gives Minho pause, and he takes this opportunity to respond. “Chef Rossi always favored you,” he says softly, choosing his words with care. “He had higher expectations for you than for anyone else. That’s why he was so disappointed.”

He leans back, folding his arms as he continues, “Don’t worry about it too much. I wasn’t all that gracious either.”

Sara offers a fragile smile, one that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I wanted to show you how good I was,” she confesses, the honesty of it striking something deep within him. “I was the one who recommended you to Farfalle, you know. I wanted to work with you again.”

Minho’s expression remains unreadable, absorbing the weight of her words. Another stretch of silence settles between them, only broken by the muted clinks of cups and chatter from other tables.

Finally, Sara looks at him directly, her eyes glassy but determined. “Minho,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

He meets her gaze, giving her his full attention.

“For the sake of Farfalle’s kitchen…for my sake,” she pleads, her vulnerability laid bare. “Can you come back and be the chef again?”

Minho’s breath catches, and he watches her as she forces a trembling smile. “It’s the last request I’ll make of you.”

Minho’s gaze softens, his fingers tapping lightly against the table. He’s torn between the bitterness of the past and the hope for something different—a chance to rebuild, not just for the kitchen, but for the people in it.

A decision hangs in the balance, the echoes of past betrayals and lingering affections coloring the silence between them.

-

The kitchen is eerily quiet, and it shouldn’t be—not when lunch service is only ten minutes away. Instead of the usual buzz of last-minute preparations, there’s a heavy sense of unease. Everyone looks more discouraged than nervous. At least yesterday, the kitchen still had its head chef. But today…

Hyunwoo shifts uncomfortably before breaking the silence. “Sous-chef, do you think we can handle the service on our own?”

Seojun exhales slowly. His usual confident demeanor is absent, and his shoulders slump slightly. He doesn’t even need to answer—the doubt is clear in his expression. Three cooks against a full lunch service? It’s impossible.

Unless—

The kitchen door swings open.

Minho strides in, tying his apron around his waist, the weight of his presence settling over the kitchen like a breath of fresh air. Behind him, Felix and Taesoo follow, both dressed and ready for service. Felix catches your eye and flirtatiously winks.

You immediately pinch your forearm, just in case you’re dreaming. It hurts. So that means—

Minho takes his place at the chef’s table and surveys the room. “Chef Sara will not be returning to the kitchen for a while,” he announces. His voice is steady, authoritative. “And as head chef, I owe you all an apology for putting you through all this confusion. It wasn’t my intention, but our personal circumstances got in the way.”

A beat of silence passes before he continues, his tone softer but firm. “I felt awful being away, and I know Chef Sara feels the same. But I also strongly believe she will come back soon.”

Minho’s gaze moves across the room, lingering on you for just a second longer than the others. You can’t help the way your lips tug into a bright smile, and you hope he knows how hard you’re resisting the urge to run up and hug him.

Minho smirks—his signature smirk, the one that sends warmth pooling in your chest. “I’m glad to be back in the kitchen with all of you.”

From the corner of your eye, you spot Chris quietly stepping into the kitchen, observing. But before anyone can react, Seojun raises his hand. “I have something to say.”

Minho nods, giving him permission to speak.

Seojun straightens. “I’ve never seen a kitchen run smoothly when the head chef is romantically involved with a cook,” he says evenly. “So tell me, how can you prove that this will be any different?”

Silence falls over the kitchen like a thick cloud. All eyes flick between you and Minho.

Seojun folds his arms, his voice calm but pointed. “This isn’t personal. But a kitchen operates on a strict hierarchy. If the head chef is involved with someone lower in rank, it will cause problems. The kitchen needs a leader who can make fair decisions without personal bias.”

His gaze sharpens as he looks at Minho directly. “Can you promise that your relationship won’t interfere with how you run this kitchen?”

You swallow, suddenly feeling exposed. You hadn’t considered how difficult this would be—not just for you and Minho, but for the entire team.

Seojun presses on, his voice unwavering. “If you can’t, then I want your word that if you ever lose your impartiality as a chef, you will fire her yourself.”

Your stomach twists.

Minho is quiet for a moment. His expression remains unreadable, but there’s no hesitation in his voice when he finally speaks.

“You have my word,” Minho says, his tone firm. “The minute I lose my impartiality, I will fire her myself.”

The words sting, but you nod in understanding. This is what it means to be in Minho’s kitchen. His integrity as a chef comes first, and if you’re going to stand beside him, you have to accept that too.

The tension lingers for a few seconds before Minho claps his hands. “Alright, let’s get to work. Lunch service is about to start.”

Just like that, the kitchen comes alive again. The energy shifts as Felix and Taesoo return to their stations, and Minho’s familiar yells fill the space, pulling everyone back into their rhythm.

Amidst the chaos, you slip into the walk-in freezer, pulling out your phone. Your fingers hover over the screen before typing out a text.

Welcome back from your wandering, my favorite chef in the world, and then hit send.

Through the circular window of the freezer door, you watch as Minho pulls out his phone. He reads the message, then lifts his head, scanning the room until his eyes find yours through the glass. He suppresses a smile—just barely—before making a throat slicing gesture at you.

You bite back a laugh as he tucks his phone away and continues walking through the kitchen like usual, as if nothing had changed.

But something had. Minho was back.

-

The knock on the door comes just as Minho expected.

“Come in.”

Felix and Hyunwoo step inside, standing side by side in front of him as he leans against Sara’s vacant desk. Felix is the first to speak.

“You called for us, Chef?”

Minho nods but turns his attention to Hyunwoo first. “Thank you for your hardwork for filling in for everyone on the pasta line.”

Hyunwoo scoffs, crossing his arms. “This is not the first time he ran off.” He throws a pointed look at Felix before muttering under his breath, “Not like he cares what happens to the rest of us anyway.”

Minho narrows his eyes. “Am I overhearing you, or are you talking to me?”

Hyunwoo shifts his weight, not meeting Minho’s gaze. “That’s up to the listener’s interpretation.”

Minho exhales sharply. “Felix left out of loyalty to me. If you have a complaint, say it to me directly.” His tone sharpens. “Go ahead.”

Hyunwoo hesitates, his lips pressing into a thin line. But then, with a flash of defiance, he speaks. “Now that you mentioned it. Aren’t you ashamed of going back on your word, Chef?”

Minho’s expression doesn’t change, he crosses his arms together and asks, “Do you hold a grudge against me, Hyunwoo?”

Hyunwoo tenses. “I’m just saying it because you told me to.”

Minho scoffs, shaking his head. “Yeah. You hold a grudge.” He lets the words linger for a second before shifting his attention to Felix. “Did you apologize to the sous-chef and the other cooks?”

Felix glances at Hyunwoo before quickly straightening. “No, Chef.”

Minho exhales. “Then fix it. Do it sincerely. Be nice to each other.”

“Yes, Chef.” Felix doesn’t hesitate, his usual loyalty evident.

Minho moves on. “Spring’s here. That means we need a new menu—something original and different from our existing pasta dishes.”

Before he can continue, another knock sounds at the door. The moment his eyes meet yours through the opening, he gives a small nod. You step inside and take a spot next to Hyunwoo.

Minho looks back at the group. “Starting tomorrow, we’ll introduce ginseng pasta as the new recommended dish.”

Felix blinks. “But only you and Chef Sara know how to make it.”

Hyunwoo immediately corrects him. “No, she made it yesterday.” He tilts his head toward you.

Felix’s eyes widen in surprise. “Really? You really know how to make it?”

Hyunwoo’s expression darkens again. “Just because you approved her recipe, does that mean she’s getting special treatment? You’re not pushing me out of the pasta line, are you, Chef?”

Minho scoffs, barely holding back his irritation. “You’re staying on pasta, and she’s staying in antipasto.” His gaze flickers to you. “Hand your recipe to the pasta line.”

Your answer comes out weak. “Yes, Chef.”

Minho studies your face for a second before turning to Felix. “Since ginseng pasta isn’t easy to make, you’ll make it. Take the recipe and start preparing.”

Felix, ever obedient, nods. “Yes, Chef.”

Minho straightens. “That’s all. You’re dismissed.”

Felix gestures between himself and Hyunwoo. “Just us?”

Minho glares. “Get out.”

Felix and Hyunwoo leave, Felix throwing a quick glance back as he shuts the door behind them.

Now that it’s just the two of you, Minho lets out a slow breath, relaxing slightly. His voice is softer when he speaks again. “Sorry for taking your recipe.”

You shake your head. “I understand, Chef. A big restaurant like this—you can’t keep everything to yourself.”

Minho watches you for a moment before taking a slow step forward. “Do you think I’m a thief?”

You chuckle. “Yes, Chef.” Then, quickly, “It wasn’t entirely my recipe anyway. It was ninety percent yours. I just added garnish.”

Minho clicks his tongue. “It wasn’t just garnish.” His voice lowers, more thoughtful now. “Garnish is for decoration. It doesn’t add to the taste. Your ideas are more than that.” He pauses. “Your ideas are like salt.”

He can see that you soften around him as you smile at that. He tilts his head as he asks, “Do you know how important salt is in a kitchen?”

You nod. “Yes, Chef.”

He steps closer, his hands resting lightly on your shoulders. His touch is firm, but there’s something reassuring about it. “Then be the salt in our kitchen.”

Your chuckle is soft, a little shy. “Yes, Chef.”

Minho can’t help but laugh, just a little. And in this moment, amidst all the stress and the weight of responsibility, everything feels a little lighter.

-

You take a deep breath, steadying yourself before stepping out of Minho’s office. If you walk out looking too pleased, it’ll only spark unnecessary suspicions, and the last thing you need is people whispering about you. Composed, you turn toward the kitchen, but before you can take more than a few steps, Felix suddenly appears in front of you, blocking your path.

His expression is serious, tone firm as he demands, “How did you know how to make ginseng pasta?”

For a split second, you think he’s about to accuse you of something terrible, but then you realize how ridiculous that is. You chuckle, shaking your head. “How else could I made such dish? From the recipe book Chef gave me.”

Felix’s eyes widen. “Really? Minho gave you his recipe book?”

You nod innocently.

Felix’s mouth drops open. He stares at you, stunned into silence, and for a moment, you wonder if you broke him. When he finally manages to speak, it’s barely more than a whisper. “No one has ever seen that book.”

Before you can respond, he suddenly steps closer, hand outstretched. “Hand it over.”

You blink. “What?”

“The book,” Felix insists, still holding his hand out. “Hand it over.”

You stare at him, baffled. He’s acting like you’re carrying some sort of holy relic.

Just as you open your mouth to protest, you catch movement behind him. Minho. Your eyes dart toward him, trying to warn Felix, but he’s too focused on demanding the recipe book to notice. Minho closes in behind him, raising his hand— Smack.

Felix yelps in pain as Minho’s palm collides with the back of his head. Before Felix can recover, Minho lands a sharp finger flick on his forehead.

“Ah—! Chef!” Felix grumbles, rubbing his forehead.

Minho steps around him, moving to your side like a silent shield. “Are you a thug now?” he asks dryly. “Why are you extorting a recipe book from her?”

Felix is too busy nursing his wounds to respond immediately.

Minho turns his attention to you. “I told you to give him your ginseng pasta recipe, not my book.” He emphasizes the distinction.

You nod. “Yes, chef.”

Felix finally regains his composure, shooting Minho an incredulous look. “Wait—why would you give her your recipe book and not me?” His voice drops into a mutter. “You can’t do this to me over a girl.”

Minho doesn’t even hesitate. “It’s my book. I can do whatever I want with it.”

Felix pouts, clearly displeased. “I’m honestly disappointed, Chef.”

Minho raises a brow. “And what’s so wrong about me giving my book to who I want?”

Felix doesn’t have an answer for that, but his pout deepens in silent protest.

Instead of softening, Minho levels him with a warning. “If you try to take it from her again, you’re dead meat.”

Felix groans in defeat. “Yes, chef.”

Satisfied, Minho grabs your hand. “Come with me.”

You barely have time to register the warmth of his grip before he starts leading you away. As you walk, he says, “Don’t worry about Felix. He’s just jealous.” A beat later, he corrects himself. “Loyal, but jealous.”

You glance at Minho. “I mean… I get it. He’s been by your side longer than I have. It makes sense that he’d feel disappointed.”

Minho doesn’t respond, but you can tell he hears you.

After a moment, you add, “I can share the recipes with him if that’ll make it better.”

Minho rejects the idea without hesitation. “No.”

You frown. “Why not?”

Minho stops in his tracks, and you halt beside him. His voice lowers as he mutters, “Felix thinks those recipes are all successful. Don’t share them.”

That makes you pause. Something clicks in your mind, and your stomach sinks slightly. “Wait… are you saying you gave me the book because all the recipes in it were failures?” You meet his gaze. “If they were successful, you would’ve given it to Felix instead.”

Minho glares at you. “Stand against the wall.”

You blink. “What—?”

“Against the wall.” His tone leaves no room for argument.

Not entirely sure why, you step back, pressing your shoulders against the wall. Minho eyes your head for a moment, then lifts his hand— Flick. His finger snaps against your temple, and you yelp, wincing at the sharp sting.

Minho grumbles, “First, it was Hyunwoo, then Felix and now, you. Why did everyone decide to talk back and rebel against me today?”

You rub your temple. “I’m not rebelling.”

He scoffs. “Then what is it? I’m trying to be considerate.”

You let out a short laugh. “Considerate?”

Minho crosses his arms and daringly stares into your eyes. “Yes.”

You shake your head, exhaling sharply. “Yeah, sure.” Without waiting for a response, you turn and walk away.

Behind you, you hear Minho call your name, his voice edging into a scolding tone, but you quicken your pace, slipping into the kitchen before he can stop you.

-

Minho leans against the counter at the coffee station, enjoying a brief moment of peace in his chaotic day. He doesn’t even have to ask for a cup—Taesoo slides one across the table with a smug grin.

“Specially made for you, chef.”

Minho smirks as he pulls the cup closer. “You’ve got more charm than my girlfriend, you know that?” He takes a lazy sip before adding, “She never makes coffee for me. All she does is work all day.”

Taesoo chuckles, pouring himself a cup and setting the pot back down. “Must be hard, being a chef’s girlfriend.”

The words hit Minho hard enough that he stills, cup hovering just before his lips. His gaze flicks to Taesoo. “What did you just say?”

Taesoo doesn’t waver. “I mean… don’t you see it? She’s always walking on thin ice, trying so hard to make sure you don’t look bad because of her.”

Minho clenches his jaw. He doesn’t like how easily Taesoo sees through it—but the truth is, he sees it too. You’ve always been cautious around him, but lately, it’s different. More controlled. More careful. And yet, you never complain. Not once.

Letting out a slow exhale, Minho leans back slightly. “You think she’s anxious?”

Taesoo tilts his head. “Isn’t it obvious?”

Minho snorts. “Then I’ve got news for you—I’m anxious too.”

That catches Taesoo off guard. “You?”

Minho nods. “And you’d better be anxious too.”

Taesoo hesitates, looking thrown off. “Uh—yes, chef?”

The moment lingers, uncomfortably quiet—until Minho’s phone vibrates in his pocket. He takes it out, relieved at the distraction. A new message from Felix.

We're all done. Can you do a taste test, Chef?

Minho finally takes a sip of his coffee before pushing off the counter. “Let’s go.”

As he heads for the kitchen, Taesoo scrambles to clean up the coffee cups before trailing behind him.

-

You and Felix set the two pans down on the chef’s table. You grab a few forks for Minho and glance at Felix, lowering your voice. “You think he’ll notice?”

Felix waves you off with a smirk. “We’ll see.”

A moment later, Minho walks into the kitchen, Taesoo trailing behind him like a shadow. He stops at his usual spot, eyes flicking between you and Felix. “Are you sure you taught him properly?”

You straighten up and nod. “Yes, chef.”

Felix hands Minho a fork, and without hesitation, Minho digs in. First, he tries the pasta in front of you, chewing thoughtfully. Then he moves to the other pan, tasting Felix’s version. As he chews, his gaze shifts between the two of you. A second later, you and Felix exchange a knowing look.

After a moment, Minho sets the fork down and nods. “Not bad. You learned the recipe well.”

Felix’s face lights up as Minho gives him the approval. “Get ready to cook this,” Minho announces. “I’m going to put it up as today's recommended dish.”

Felix beams. “Yes, chef!”

Minho turns on his heel, about to leave, when Felix suddenly blurts out, “Wait, Chef!”

Minho stops mid-step, his glare sharp. “What?”

Felix, knowing he’s pushing his luck, hurriedly asks, “Which one do you think is hers?”

Minho scoffs, tilting his head. “Come here,” he orders, his fingers making the gesture.

Felix, clueless, leans in—only to get a sharp flick to the forehead. He yelps, rubbing the spot. “Ow!”

“Who do you think you’re testing, huh?” Minho deadpans but his gaze is intense.

Then, with full confidence, he says, “She didn’t make either of these.”

Your mouth falls open in surprise and blurt out, “No way.”

Minho crosses his arms. “You’ve got over seven years of experience. He has half of that. The technique is different.” He gestures at the pans. “The wrist motion alone tells me it wasn’t yours. Someone at your level wouldn’t make pasta like this.”

You smile, impressed. “So you’re saying mine tasted better?”

“That’s correct!” Minho replies without missing a beat.

While still rubbing his forehead, Felix pouts and mumbles, “You didn’t have to say it that fast…”

Minho ignores him. Instead, he looks directly at you. “Hey, the ginseng pasta isn’t yours anymore. It belongs to the kitchen now.”

You nod. “Yes, chef.”

Satisfied, Minho orders, “Clean this up and get ready for dinner service. Got it?” Then he walks out of the kitchen.

Taesoo, curious, picks up a fork and tastes both pastas. He hums in thought before nodding. “Chef’s tongue is accurate. No way to fool him.”

Then, he turns to you and Felix. “That means Chef won’t lose his fair judgment over this.”

Felix turns to you, raising a brow. “Weren’t you worried about that comment sous-chef made earlier, right?”

Now that everyone knows about your relationship with Minho, it feels like you’re under a microscope, always under their scrutiny. You would be lying if it doesn’t make you the slightest bit nervous so you nod at Felix’s question.

Felix grins, puffing out his chest. He folds his arms and deepens his voice in a poor imitation of Minho. “You should be thankful to me that you found out how accurate Chef’s tongue is!”

You chuckle at his awful impression, shaking your head. But deep down, you really hope this proves that Minho’s judgment in the kitchen will always be fair.

-

Dinner service is in full swing, the kitchen buzzing with the clatter of pans, the sizzle of meats, and Minho’s sharp commands cutting through the noise. He’s been calling out orders non-stop, his voice steady and authoritative as he directs the team. His gaze flicks toward you.

“You make two grilled scallops. Make one extra for a taste test.”

“Yes, chef,” you respond immediately, grabbing what you need and moving with precision. You work fast, using two pans to finish the order on time. The scallops sear beautifully, their golden crust forming just as you’d intended. Once they’re plated, you bring them to the chef’s table, along with the extra one for Minho to taste.

You stand there, waiting, hands clasped behind your back. Minho doesn’t rush—he never does. He takes his time tasting, chewing carefully, analyzing every detail before nodding in approval.

“Okay, pass,” he says simply. Then he adds, “You don’t need to make testers from now on.”

A rush of relief floods through you, and for a brief second, a bright smile tugs at your lips. But you suppress it before anyone can see. “Yes, chef,” you reply, turning on your heel to head back to your station.

“We’re almost done for the night,” Minho announces. “So hurry, let's finish it up.”

“Yes, chef!” the kitchen responds in unison.

But just as the night is winding down, things take a sharp turn.

A dish gets sent back. The service staff informs Minho of the complaint—a customer says the scallops have an odor.

A heavy silence falls over the kitchen. Minho says nothing, but Felix steps in, grabbing a fork and tasting the dish himself. He frowns. “This kind of odor from the pan is common in all Italian restaurants.”

Felix turns to Sous-chef Seojun. “Please try this out, Sous-chef.”

Seojun sniffs the dish first, then takes a bite. He chews slowly before exhaling. “They’re not wrong about the smell.”

Before you can say anything, Hyunwoo interjects. “Seungwan never had complaints like this.” He folds his arms. “He always used the same pan but knew how to control the temperature.”

Minho finally moves. He takes the plate and tries it himself. A second later, his expression darkens.

He marches up to you. “What is this?” His voice is sharp, cutting through the tension like a knife. “Why is this different from the one you gave me to test?”

Your stomach twists in confusion. “I made them the same way, Chef,” you answer honestly with your voice slightly trembling.

You quickly run through what could have gone wrong. Then, it clicks. Your heart sinks.

“I... I used two different pans,” you say, voice small but steady.

Minho’s glare sharpens. “You cooked the one for me in a new frying pan and the one for the customers in an old one?”

You nod, already feeling the mistake weigh on you. “I’m sorry, chef.”

But your apology only fuels his anger. “Is that an excuse?” he demands. “You think that makes it okay?”

“No, I—” You swallow thickly. “I didn’t mean it like that, Chef.”

From the side, Seungwan mutters just loud enough to be heard, “Ooh, I guess she needs her own exclusive frying pan so customers won’t complain.”

Minho hears it, but he doesn’t acknowledge him. His attention is solely on you.

“A true chef,” he says coldly, “should be able to serve a perfect scallop dish even with a hundred-year-old frying pan.”

A lump forms in your throat, but you force yourself to swallow it down. You feel like crying. The entire kitchen is watching as Minho—the chef, but also your boyfriend—publicly tears you down.

You lower your gaze. “I’m sorry, chef.”

But Minho doesn’t let up. “Do it again,” he orders, his tone unwavering.

You clench your fists, push back the emotions threatening to overwhelm you, and nod. “Yes, chef.” Then you turn back to your station, forcing yourself to focus.

As you start over, you remind yourself that Minho is right. His judgment is fair. This is your fault. Not his.

-

Minho knows you must be at least a little upset about the way he scolded you earlier. He saw the way you clenched your fists, the way you swallowed down whatever you wanted to say. He saw the way your shoulders tensed as the entire kitchen watched.

But he also knows you understand why he did it. So he waits.

The locker room is quiet when he steps in, and as expected, you're there, putting on your jacket. At the sound of his footsteps, you turn swiftly to face him.

Minho watches you for a moment, then exhales. "You should know," he says, voice even, "that your one mistake is equivalent to another cook’s ten mistakes."

You nod, your expression neutral, but Minho knows you're listening carefully.

He folds his arms. "Let's not create a situation where everyone has their eyes on us. Again."

Again, you nod. "I understand. I’m sorry, chef."

The words make something twist uncomfortably in Minho’s chest. He should feel satisfied, should let it go now that you've acknowledged your mistake. But he doesn’t. He can’t.

Instead, he grabs your wrist and pulls you with him.

Minho takes you back to the kitchen. It’s empty now, quiet except for the low hum of the refrigerators. He lets go of your wrist. "Get some scallops."

You quickly retrieve a container of scallops marinated in olive oil and set them on the counter.

Minho looks at you, then gestures to the stove. "Watch closely."

He turns the burner on, lets the flames rise high before grabbing a frying pan. Pouring a small amount of olive oil in, he waits until it shimmers.

"Fire isn’t the only thing that cooks food," he says, then lowers the flame slightly. "There’s also heated oil."

Carefully, he places a scallop into the pan. The instant sizzle fills the room. "Use the heated oil to lightly cook the surface of the scallop."

You're watching him with full focus now, your eyes darting between his hands and the scallop. After a moment, you ask, "Will the temperature of the oil eventually go down?"

Minho smirks slightly, impressed by your attention to detail. "You have to keep the temperature of the oil the same while reducing the flame."

He finishes cooking and takes the scallop from the pan. You hand him a plate before he even asks. He places it down, then, instead of plating it properly, he picks it up and hands it directly to you. "Here. Try it."

You cut a small piece with a fork, bringing it to your lips. The moment you taste it, your eyes widen slightly in delight. "I can only taste the olive oil," you say. "No odor at all."

Minho smirks. "Enough with the compliments. Now, it’s your turn."

You grab a fresh pan, mimicking his actions. He watches from your side, his gaze sharp, taking in every detail.

"Stop battling with the frying pans," he murmurs. "Focus on controlling the fire."

You nod but then pause, turning to look at him. "Are you upset and frustrated because of me, Chef? Are you perhaps... anxious?"

Minho meets your gaze. He can’t lie to you—not when you’re the only other person who knows what it feels like. The weight of expectations. The pressure of perfection. On top of all that, his relationship with you is affecting everything. After a second of hesitation, he finally admits, "Yeah."

You don’t look surprised, but you don’t look offended either. You just hold his gaze, waiting for more.

Minho exhales, dragging a hand through his hair. "I don’t know why I’m being so hard on you," he finally says, his voice quieter now.

But he does know. And he’s sure you do too.

-

Dinner service is chaos. The heat, the noise, the endless string of orders—it’s all a blur, but you do your best to keep up. More than anything, you keep one thing in mind: no mistakes. Not today.

You move quickly but carefully, ensuring every movement is precise. Next to you, Seungwan shifts nervously, glancing at you as he works.

“How much longer on your scallop?” he asks, his voice tight.

You wipe your hands on a cloth before answering, “Two minutes.”

Seungwan groans. He can't start plating his dish until you’re done. “You’re taking too long,” he mutters.

You ignore him. You don't need the extra pressure. You just need to get this right.

A moment later, you're placing the garnish on your plate when Seungwan sighs again. “Done now?”

Without answering, you lift the plate and carefully walk it over to the chef’s table. Minho stands there, arms crossed. He doesn’t taste it. He simply picks up the plate, examines it with that unreadable gaze of his, and then—

“Do it again!”

Your shoulders sag. You did exactly what he taught you. You made sure everything was right. But maybe it’s your fault for expecting anything different. “…Yes, chef.”

Seungwan lets out an exasperated groan as you take the plate back. “Chef, seriously?” he protests.

Minho barely glances at him. “Then you do it again too.”

Before Seungwan can argue, Minho’s voice rings out across the kitchen. “Everyone, stop the course and wait six minutes until she’s done.”

Felix protests from the other side of the kitchen. “Chef, my pasta’s gonna bloat!”

“Then make it again.” Minho’s tone leaves no room for argument.

Seungwan grabs the rejected plate and takes a bite, his eyes widening in surprise. “Chef, this should be pass. It’s pretty good.” He turns to Sous-chef Seojun. “Try it, Sous-chef.”

Seojun takes a bite, chewing thoughtfully before looking at Minho. “She cooked it properly. All the dishes are being delayed because of this. Aren’t you being too strict, Chef?”

The air in the kitchen shifts. Minho’s eyes flick to Seojun, sharp and dangerous. “Too strict? Do I look like the kind of chef who picks and chooses which dish to be strict on?” Minho challenges. His voice is calm, but there’s an underlying edge.

He then exhales sharply. “Hors d’oeuvre is the first thing the customer tastes. We’re not serving whatever just because we’re in a rush.”

Seojun still looks unconvinced. “Then put her at the end of the line. Not the front.”

Seungwan nods. “Yeah, just have her do desserts. Doesn’t have to be on time.”

The conversation turns into background noise as you force yourself to focus. It doesn’t matter what they say. You just need to finish this dish while Minho’s words echoing in the back of your mind: Let's not create a situation where everyone has their eyes on us. Again.

You push through, ignoring the pressure, ignoring the way your hands shake slightly as you plate the dish.

“Hurry up!” Minho barks from across the kitchen.

When you bring it back to the chef’s table, Minho picks it up—only to let out a small sigh as he sets it back down. “Stop making scallops. Start making desserts.”

You hesitate for a fraction of a second. Then, meekly, you nod. “Yes, chef.”

You move to the dessert station, tucked in the corner of the kitchen. At least here, no one can see how upset you are

Felix, instinctively, takes the rejected dish and tastes it. A moment later, his voice cuts through the tension. “I don’t think the orders are backed up because of her,” Felix says, looking straight at Minho. “I don’t think it’s her fault at all. I think it’s... you.”

Silence.

Minho moves before anyone can react. He grabs Felix by the sleeve of his chef’s coat and pulls him toward the chef’s table. “Then why don’t you stand here and be the head chef then?” he challenges.

Felix looks down, guilt flashing across his face. “…I’m sorry, chef.” He then walks back to his station in defeat.

You keep your head down and focus on desserts, but doubt creeps in. You remember what Felix once said about Minho’s judgment always being fair. But now, you’re not so sure.

-

The restaurant is empty. Everyone has gone home, but you’re still here, still in your chef’s coat. Instead of heading to the locker room, you drag yourself to the coffee station and slump onto one of the stools.

You stack your hands together and rest your head on them, exhaling a long sigh, as if you could release all the weight of the day in one breath.

Minutes pass. You don’t bother looking at the clock. Then, the stool beside you creaks. You turn your head and find Chris sitting next to you, his warm smile greeting you before his voice does.

“So… how many scallop dishes got rejected today?”

His calm demeanor only makes you curious so you meekly ask, “As the owner, aren’t you upset about all the wasted ingredients?”

“Yeah,” Chris tilts his head slightly and adds, “But it’s not you I don’t like. It’s the chef.”

His words are meant to be comforting, but they don’t make you feel any better. Another sigh escapes your lips as you rub your temples. Chris places a hand on your shoulder, patting it gently. “You worked hard today.”

Before you can respond, a loud, exaggerated ahem sounds from behind. The suddenness of it makes you jolt upright, nearly falling off the stool.

You spin around. Minho. Immediately, you straighten your posture. “Thank you for your hard work today, Chef,” you say, keeping your tone formal.

Minho doesn’t acknowledge it. He simply takes the stool on your other side, leaving you sandwiched between him and Chris.

Chris, without even looking at Minho, asks, “So, when do you think she’ll finally get her scallops approved?”

Minho barely pauses before replying dryly, “Why don't you increase the budget for ingredients? I think she might deplete the entire country’s scallop supply.”

You groan, burying your head in your hands. Silence settles for a brief moment. Then—

“Is that you?”

You freeze. The voice is too familiar. Your head snaps up so fast your neck almost cramps.

“Dad?!” You gasp, scrambling to stand. “What are you doing here? Why didn’t you call me and tell me you were coming?”

Your dad doesn’t hesitate. “I came because you told me you were having a hard time choosing between two guys.”

Oh my god. Your dad says it so loud that you know Minho and Chris definitely heard it. Heat rushes to your face. “D-Dad, that’s not—”

Desperate to change the subject, you turn to Chris in a panic. “This is Chris! He’s the manager.”

Chris, ever polite, nods in acknowledgment. But your dad isn’t interested in introductions. He looks at you, then at Minho and Chris, before calmly saying, “Sit.”

You blink. “Huh?”

Your dad gestures at the stools. “Sit down.”

Chris and Minho immediately obey. You, however, rush to your dad’s side, hoping to end this nightmare before it gets worse. “The restaurant’s closed, Dad. Let’s just go somewhere else, yeah?”

“No,” he replies. “Sit and stay quiet.”

You groan in pure humiliation but obey, sinking back onto your stool.

Your dad studies the two men beside you. Then, with an almost too casual tone, he asks, “These two… are they the ones you’re confused about?”

“Dad!” You shriek then slap a hand over your face. Please stop talking. You continue the sentence inside your head. But, of course, he doesn’t.

He continues, “So which one is the rich, reasonable one? The one with the good personality who tells you everything you cook is nice?”

Silence. Then, without missing a beat, Minho says flatly, “I don’t think that's me, Sir.”

Of course, it isn’t. Your dad’s eyes immediately dart to Chris.

Chris stiffens, suddenly looking much more formal. He straightens his posture, clasps his hands together, and greets your dad politely.

“Nice to meet you, Sir.”

Satisfied, your dad then turns to Minho. “So you must be the other guy.”

Minho, somehow equally as polite, inclines his head slightly. “Yes, that would be me, sir.”

You groan again, this time covering your entire face with your hands. This is already mortifying. You try one more time to escape. “Dad, let’s just go somewhere and have dinner—”

“Sure,” your dad says easily. “Then we can go and eat together.”

You stare at him, horrified. “All of us?”

He scoffs. “No. One at a time.”

And then, without hesitation, he turns to Chris and points at him. Chris sits up straighter, his polite smile unwavering.

To everyone's surprise, your dad says, “You can go home.”

Chris blinks. “Huh?”

Before you can even process what’s happening, your dad points at Minho next and says, “You. Come with me.”

Minho doesn’t even question it. He just follows your dad as if this is a normal thing. You stare at their retreating figures, still frozen in disbelief. Your dad and Minho. Walking side by side.

Chris lets out a low whistle beside you. “Well… that was unexpected.”

You’re too stunned to react. You shift your gaze back to the where they're going, a strange sense of unease settling in your stomach.

Your dad has always been stubborn. He’s firm in his beliefs, never backing down once he’s made up his mind. He’s blunt, unrelenting, and terrifying when he wants to be.

And Minho? Minho is the exact same way.

They’re both headstrong. Both unforgiving. Both demanding perfection. You don’t know what’s worse—the idea of them getting along too well or the thought of them completely clashing.

Either way… You don’t want to be there when it happens.

-

Support my writings by kindly reblog, comment or consider tipping me on my ko-fi!

@svintsandghosts @abiaswreck @ppiri-bahng @drhsthl @biribarabiribbaem @skz-streamer @biancaness @idkluvutellme @elizalabs3 @laylasbunbunny @kpopformylife @caitlyn98s @hann1bee @mamieishere @is2cb97 @marvelous-llama @bluenights1899 @sherryblossom @toplinehyunjin @hanjisbeloved @sunnyseungup @skz4lifer @stellasays45 @severeanxietyissues @avyskai @imseungminsgf @silentreadersthings @army-stay-noel @rylea08 @simeonswhore @yubinism @devilsmatches @septicrebel @rairacha @ven-fic-recs @hyunjiinnnn @lostgirlinthewoodss @schniti-is-in-the-house @jisunglyricist @minh0scat @simplymoo @inlovewithstraykids @eastjonowhere @seochangbinnnnnnnnnnn @whosanaanyway @skzswife @nightmarenyx @vixensss @angstraykids @lenfilms

[zae-heeyyy]

Piquancy- II

Summary: You wake up in Arthur's room. Pairing: Arthur Morgan X Female Reader Word Count: 1,486 Tags: High honor Arthur, developing relationship, alcohol and intoxication, fluff, before the Blackwater Massacre

previous next

A/n: Well, I got carried away with the story, and now I don't know how many parts there'll be. I split some things to give you about 1,500 words instead of 5,000. I'm having a great time writing again, and I hope you enjoy!

piquancy: a sharp or stimulating quality that provokes a strong, often intriguing reaction.

For six seconds, waking up felt weightless. You'd forgotten where and who you were, your mind mercifully blank of heartache, running, and lawlessness. In that tenth of a minute, your lifestyle of living out of tents, squatting in abandoned houses, and sleeping under the stars felt far away, like some other poor girl's life and not yours. The logical, constantly worried part of your brain stayed asleep, and only half your senses stirred.

Despite the fireplace long gone cold, warmth enveloped you from all around. Sunlight beamed through the window, illuminating dancing dust particles and kissing your skin while plush blankets shielded you from the lingering morning chill. Most of the warmth, however, emanated from the colossus of a man beside you. Arthur's heavy arm anchored you close. You were spooned against him, his chest molded perfectly into your back, and his long legs loosely tangled in yours. And at seven seconds, you were fully conscious. Heaven's floodgates opened, and you were swept away in the deluge of your life.

Getting out of the bed was like breaking through the surface after being plunged deep into the ocean; you didn't even realize you were holding your breath until you surfaced and both feet landed on the dry land of floorboards. Standing now, you glanced back at Arthur, still sleepily adrift in the sea of blankets.

Cognizant of every creek and groan of the worn wooden planks beneath your feet, you walked nimbly across the room. The ark to save you from the flood, the door, was just within reach. Before boarding, you looked back at the sleeping man with a crinkle in his brow. Worry always seemed to plague him, even in his sleep. Part of you wondered what would happen if you stayed, how he'd react to waking with you in his arms, but you didn't even get to finish the thought.

Distracted by your own yearning, you got swept away in the debris of cowboy left by the previous night's tsunami of liquor. The heel of your boot caught on his gun belt, dragging the damn thing–– and everything attached to– it across the floor. 

The rouse was up then, the room filling with the racket of scrapping metal. Arthur's cattleman fell from its holster, striking the floor with a jarring clatter. The gunslinger jolted awake, and his hand instinctively shot to his side, searching for the very weapon that caused the racket in the first place.

His shoulders relaxed when it dawned on him that he wasn't in danger and was, in fact, looking at the one person who brought him a semblance of peace. He rubbed his face with both hands, wiping away the sleep and keeping out the morning sun. The room was silent now as the two of you marveled at each other.

"You stayed?" Disbelief and hangover thickened his already deep voice. 

"You asked me to," you answered quickly, "said you didn't want to do anything stupid."

Your words hung in the air, and you cursed yourself for acting so frantic. Arthur pretended not to notice, throwing the blankets off himself and walking around to your side of the bed. You didn't realize you were frozen all that time, an iceberg finally being thawed by the heat of him next to you. 

"Hope I didn't say anything more stupid than usual," he said, bending to retrieve his revolver. Seeing his belt still tangled around your feet, he offered a supporting hand while you fished yourself free.

"Youu get touchy and when you're drunk," you mused, feeling the awakeness dissipate with his hand in yours. "And sentimental." Upright again, you dangled the belt in front of him.

He chuckled nervously, buckled himself back in, and put the gun back in its holster, "Yeah, that sounds about right. M'sorry if I– "he scratched at his beard, frowning and internally fighting to find the right words.

"Whiskey does that to a man," You joked, trying to ease the new tension between you. Arthur nodded slowly, then shook his head and turned his back to you as the memories of last night came crashing back. 

"Ain't an excuse." Shame cast a dark veil over his handsome face. "Ain't an excuse for me to do what I did. Say what I said. I mean––talkin' like that, actin' like that—" he settled back down onto the bed, clasping his hands in front of him. His jaw was clenched like you'd seen after a job gone wrong or a disagreement with Dutch. "You're too good— too sweet for me to treat you like some —"

"Arthur..." you cut in on his self-deprecating monologue, sat beside him, and laid a hand on his knee. He seized that opportunity to lace his fingers in yours.

And his gorgeous blue eyes sucked you in. You were swimming again, more like floating away in them. His eyes were water, and his voice lulled you like waves.

"Want you to know I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable or self-impose, I just—" Then he stopped himself and tore his ocean eyes away from yours again. "I just let the liquor get the best of me."

Your face fell despite you willing it not to, and you started to retreat into yourself, a lump swelling in your throat. Of course, everything had been taken out of context with the effects of the liquor. You should've known better, should've known that's just how he is. He'd have danced with anybody; would've said the same things to the next woman helping him up the stairs. He didn't mean it; he never did when he was drunk.

And then his grip tightened a desperate urgency to keep your hands in his. He shook his head as if reading your mind and dispelled everything you'd thought to yourself.

"Wasn' too far gone though. Not gone enough that I don'tremember what I said—what I meant—it wasn't just the whiskey talkin'." How his rugged man could soften himself so much and take your breath away would remain beyond you. His thumb stroked your knuckles tenderly, his eyes bore into you, and he swallowed.

"I know better. If I want a lady, I gotta court her right. I might've been raised rough, but I got enough sense to know that much."

Your four hands seemed to have minds of their own, twisting together as if trying to close the distance between you.

"Oh, Arthur," it was barely a whisper. You didn't know what to say, but you scooted in closer to him.

"Ain't good at this kind of talk," he confessed, "but whatever I said, I meant it."

There was a look in his eyes, almost pleading, like he couldn't bear the thought of holding it in anymore, couldn't bear you not knowing how he felt. You placed your hand soft on his cheek.

"You are stupid," you teased, pressing your forehead to his. He returned a chuckle and locked his fingers around your wrist, needing desperately to feel your skin under the tips of his fingers. He had to make sure this was real––that you were real— that this was happening, and he wasn't still trapped in some drunken hallucination from the night before. Blood rushed to his head, turning his ears a bright vermilion. With his other hand, he caressed your cheek despite the self-doubt pumping through him. 

And then you were submerged again, his lips an undertow, dragging you beneath the waves as they cut the air from your mouth. Drowning wasn't so bad as long as you were drowning in him. 

And the kiss lingered, both of your hearts pounding in your chest. You could've just about melted into him, but you pulled away as the town clock struck eight, its chimes slicing through the moment. Your hand dropped from his face heavily into your lap.

"Should get back," you sighed. "Got chores to do and all. Don't want Grimshaw to lose her head. She ain't exactly a fairy godmother."

Arthur's shoulders lifted with amusement, and he brushed a piece of your hair out of your face with a contained smile.

"I'm sure they're handling things just fine without you. Take yer time getting back; get a meal, have bath, wash the night away. I'm sure that weren't too pleasent––sleeping beside me and all."

It was all too pleasant, and you wanted to do it again soon. But you were on your way. Arthur put his boots back on and walked you down the stairs to the hitching post. You tried not to squeal as he gripped your hips tight and lifted you onto your house.

"Come back tonight," he said, stroking the animal's muzzle. An edge of nervousness scratched at his voice once more. "Spend the night with me, for real this time."

You departed, the lingering warmth of a kiss he'd left on your hand still tracing your skin. And, of course, you'd return.

next

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

I think you mentioned you're cis, right? Many of my friends and acquaintances right now are cis women, some not even part of the lgbtq+ community. I'm a trans girl, and I'm very bad at standing up for myself. How should I talk about language they use that makes me uncomfortable? I don't know if I'm able to explain why "biological women" is a term I'm wary of because it's so often a dog whistle, or when they talk very sweepingly about the effects of male/female socialization, or espousing very cisnormative beliefs in general. I don't wanna be misunderstood and I don't think the words they are using are necessarily wrong or bad or hateful, I've just seen them so often in that context and am a bit shaken hearing them. I also don't think they want to hurt me or are cognizant of my discomfort. I'd love your input on this.

Thank you for reading this, mx batman.

hi anon,

I am so grateful that you trust me with this question and I am so sorry if you're looking for a way to do this gently. possibly you wee hoping that I would have some insights into how to gently call out cis women without upsetting them but the gag is that almost all my friends are trans and I'm an insane bitch who will unhinge my jaw and devour people at the first whiff of transphobia.

all you need to say is something to the effect of "you may not mean any harm by it, but the terms you're using spread transphobic ideas and hurt women like me and make me feel unsafe. please find other ways to express the thing you're trying to talk about." and that has to be sufficient for these people, or they aren't your friends.

listen to me right now. you Do Not need to justify why those things make you uncomfortable. you are not required to provide a dissertation to prove that your feelings deserve to be respected. if these women are your friends they are required to give a shit about your feelings, and that includes not requiring you to provide an entire powerpoint when you ask them to stop using terms that are transphobic. when a friend says "you're hurting me," you're supposed to just stop fucking hurting them.

if they want to educate themselves, which I strongly recommend the do, there are plenty of people who are writing books and articles and video essays and podcasts that will hold the hands of cis allies trying to learn Don't Be A Transphobe 101. you ARE NOT obligated to be that person for every person in your life, and they do not have the right to demand that of you.

recently I was listening to an episode of the podcast Vibe Check, which is excellent, and one of the hosts (I believe it was poet Saeed Jones, but don't quote me on that) offered some advice to the effect of "if you tell someone that they're hurting you and you tell them what they need to do to stop, and they do it again, they've told you everything they need to tell you." live that learn that love that. being fiercely protective of your needs and boundaries is an act of protection and self-preservation and it's what you deserve; cut a bitch OFF if she won't listen to you and be a better friend.

also hey as a cis woman. and specifically as a white cis woman. do NOT let them come at you with the cis lady tears, especially the white cis lady tears. anyone who starts whining and crying and acting like you're attacking them for just asking them not to say things that hurt your feelings, run. run so fast. those women do not love you.

[the-meme-monarch]

are there any tiny bits of info nobodys picked up on/ things you wanna say abt your dandys world animatic?

i rlly rlly like your animatic and all the characters look so malleable /POS

(link to it :]) thank yous !

but so hmmm a couple things no one's pointed out, as of my noticing,

-when the mains are looking at the newspaper about gardenview's shutdown, astro is looking at dandy, not the paper

-a lot of poeple noted the progression in the frames of delilah and the toons, but i don't think anyone's pointed out the sharp decline delilah has, like she got noticeably weak after creating finn, she's fallen down after making rodger, him trying to offer to help her(he was the only toon to notice something was wrong with her), the ichor stain on the floor when razzle and dazzle were made, (though it's plenty ambiguous, like maybe she spilled some ink/ichor my intention was that she threw up (threw up Before r&d were actually Made, it’s a stain she just hasn’t covered up yet)) and the stain is covered up with a rug when teagan is made. she's also wearing her glasses on her face more regularly as she makes them, and is sitting/leaning more often

-also some people thought shrimpo punched delilah here for no reason or just bc he’s angry/violent, but as the frames progress it goes from Immediately after the toon’s creation to Going to leave the room to introduce them to the others, he punched her bc he had Just been brought to life and she was in his face. scared him by accident <:]

-also arthur only got to be there for a small number of the toons creations, bc delilah was getting worse and she didn’t want him to see her like that

now a lot of delilah’s Deterioration comes from my own preconceived headcanons about toon creation from my ocverse that I’m just applying here for fun, but so: making a toon is extracting a fully formed and cognizant Thing from your heart and mind, your soul. a toon is generally going to be about as smart as you are, plus everything you intend for them to be. so that kinda takes a physical toll on you if you're making So Many and especially in a pretty short time frame. she's still making every toon on a different day but she's certainly not giving herself enough of a recovery period.

-i also don't think anyone's pointed out the first frame is a redraw of the secret page from the merch store :] imsogladtheyrefriends.com or imsohappytheyrefriends.com i don't remember the exact word

-in shelly's interaction with her twisted, she's trying to do the 'moving really slowly so it won't notice me moving at all' thing from like. all dinosaur media HDHSJSJ. she still has a bandage going back to the elevator though :( it noticed

-rodger also got hurt by his twisted, bro got beam attacked. did not get away fast enough after throwing the capsule back at it

-people technically Have noticed this but a lot of them misinterpreted what it was, vee is holding a seltzer prayer with the intention of spraying and short circuiting her twisted ! it does belong to looey though, which people did get right. she's giving it back to him going back to the elevator:]

-shrimpo and rodger are the last to the elevator (besides astro for narrative reasons) bc they’re the slowest toons in the game, rodger is pushing shrimpo ahead of himself to make sure he doesn’t fall behind :’] and toodles has bandages bc she helped patch their injuries

[elumish]

One of the reasons that I consistently push for critical engagement* with entertainment media (novels, TV shows, fanfiction) is that it is really easy to fall in the habit of only engaging critically with things being said or done by people you already disagree with. This can let rot grow and fester in your communities, with people refusing to recognize that their community members may be carrying out or perpetuating harmful behavior or systems.

At the risk of temporarily sounding contradictory, once you put some initial effort into it, lot of critical engagement doesn't need to be as active as you think. You don't need to go into every piece of entertainment media looking for flaws or issues or things to pick apart, and you don't need to sit there fifth-grade-English-class-style after each piece picking apart the meaning of all of it.

What you can do is start to recognize trends, tropes, and rhetoric that mimic, mirror, or resemble racist / sexist / ableist / antisemitic / imperialist / fascist / etc. viewpoints, so that you can spot them when they pop up.

Then, when something flags to you because it looks like a piece of rhetoric or a stereotype that you recognize, you can stop and think about it, without having to use all of your brain otherwise scanning the book for All Of The Things.

For example, I was recently reading the Tales of the High Court series by Megan Derr. I really enjoyed the books, and I thought the way that they handled gender and queerness was really interesting. But I also got to the end of the series and thought, huh, the way that these books handle imperialism felt a little more pro-imperialist than I expected. So I spent a bit of time thinking about why it felt that way. I still loved reading the books, and I would recommend them. But I would do so cognizant of the fact that they show some pro-imperialist leanings, even if (given how other parts of the series are framed) I don't think that was intentional.

Once you're used to spotting theses patterns in entertainment media, it will also make them easier to spot in non-entertainment media (e.g., speeches, lectures, news media), and vice versa.

I see white nationalist rhetoric, pro-imperialist rhetoric, anti-democratic, biological essentialist, racist, sexist, ableist, antisemitic, etc. rhetoric and tropes show up in all sorts of ostensibly progressive entertainment media all the time, and as long as we keep uncritically reproducing and continuing these patterns, we will never be able to break free of them as a society.

*This does not mean criticism, it means thinking critically about it

[justin-chapmanswers]

Sorry if this is a bit rude, but how do you consider yourself as he/they or they/he? I am questioning my sexuality and gender at the moment and seeing you (idk if ur lgbt) makes me find comfort, if you can, how did you realise you were not straight and how I can find mine! :3

Oh golly uh. Let's see if I can keep this short and then bury it under other answers. <3

Labels are fun cause they're so funky and ever-changing as you learn more about yourself. So, firstly, don't stress about finding something so perfect right away and bounding yourself to it. You're still you, any way you word it.

Gender-wise I'm in a state of def preferring they but being chill enough with he. Like whateverrrrr. It's hard to get around societal norms and perceptions, so my expectations are calibrated accordingly. I of course feel that for people who feel more strongly about a specific label, it's important to fight for it to be recognized whenever you're in a safe-enough environment to do-so. But for me, the concept of pushing for a specific label or, even more-so, of seeing other people pushing others to use a specific label for me is veryyyy anxiety-inducing. I tend to avoid spotlight when possible. But at the same time, a lot of it just comes down to not wanting to be grouped/perceived gender-ly at all. I tend to use the label agender. But I'm sure a lot of people have similar experiences with different labels. I just, ya'know, wanna be me.

Gender exploration is funnnn. There's no one right way to learning about yourself. Some people know from a young age, almost inherently, some people figure things out a lot later. It's never too late. Some people learn with outfits and styles, some with looking to people/characters who they want to be perceived more-like, some with experimenting through new names/pronouns and feeling-out how being called different things makes them feel. If you have friends you feel safe around with all of this, on or offline, can't hurt to say "hey would ya mind calling me x-name or y-pronoun for a bit?" And if you don't like it, you don't need to stick with it. But really be cognizant of it feels right to you.

Then on the romantic orientation side, that's been a much longer journey haha. I was calling myself straight through middle schooler, bi for a bit in early high school, gay starting in later high school, then for a long while. Nowadays I just say queer. Labels make things easier, until they don’t haha. For me, if you imagine a scale of feminity to masculinity with like little pegs running down the line from 0 to 10, with 5 in the middle, I tend to find myself attracted to people in like the 4 to 8 range? Something like that. But even that's not perfectly consistent! There's never going to be a perfect word for everything. That's why I like queer as an umbrella term. It's also just a cute word, I don't make the rules.

Hence earlier when I mentioned that you should just feel free to keep it open and not close yourself off. Maybe nothing'll change, but what if something does? But of course, I assume you're asking from more of a place of just starting this journey. I'm trying to get my mind back to where I started with that. I think the first time the not-straight realization hit was when a friend of mine didn't show up to an event and I was all like "why am I so miserably sad that he wasn't there?" And then a lightbulb appeared over my head and out-loud I said "aw damnit." And then things have been weird and confusing ever since.

But in terms of giving advice, it's hard to not just be like "uhh idk just hang out with people that makes you feel gooey." But obviously it's more complicated than that. A decade ago, I was taking random "am I gay" tests online. But they're kinda silly cause the questions on those would ask me to fill in information about how I feel, but how am you supposed to know how I feel without the test telling me how I feel??????? So realistically, I'd advise private journaling. Just take some time, even five minutes. Start now. Write out who you are drawn to, in any sense, and how they make you feel. Especially if you're like me and have trouble self-reflecting unless I force myself to. Like. In a Tumblr post.

There's so many ways to explore. It's also nice to look at relationships in life and media and seeing if you connect to any relationship or long to fit into someone's place within a relationship. That's why representation matters, baybeeeee! But also, ya'know, talking to people goes a long way to learning about yourself. Trial 'n error let's gooooo.

And above all: you got this.

[dropsnectar]

Pollen and Potions: Bee-men x Afab!reader

PART FOUR

So I know I said this part would have smut but it would just mess with the pacing, so the whole next section is where you will find your spice. This part is a little shorter for that reason. Anyway, I hope you like!

When you woke up, you felt incredibly warm. Your legs were tangled up with… someone elses? You would say it was someone else but human skin didn’t feel like this. It was firm and a bit fuzzy, but not like hair.  Your nose was being tickled by… fur? Whatever it was smelled amazing. 

You recognized this scent. You opened your eyes to Lyith’s round, sleeping face. His impossibly big eyes were closed, revealing his long blonde lashes. His expression was serene, and a bit of drool had escaped his half open mouth. Your sleep-addled brain vibrated with excitement. He was so cute you could just kiss him… 

Nope! Awake brain was working now, bringing some clarity to your head. Lyith and Rena had made a habit of covering your face in kisses but it had all been platonic. Excessive affection was a Bee-men trait. Probably? You thought back to yesterday, when he had kissed you and you had kissed him… was that truly platonic? 

There was a heat in your stomach, butterflies whenever he would hang off of you or tease… A part of you wanted to face these feelings but you weren’t ready yet. After all, how could a bee-men be with a human? You had heard of monster-human relations being something that could happen, but was their species even compatible with you? Was there a future there?

“You're thinking awfully hard for 8 in the morning.” Lyith breathed next to you. 

 Your awareness returned to you, and you were very cognizant of the fact that he had been holding you in his sleep. You pulled yourself back a bit so you couldn’t feel his breath on your face. He narrowed his eyes and his lip jutted out. A childish but cute pattern of his.

“W-What are you doing in my house?”

His mouth twitched. “You are a sick person. You should have someone to look after you. I’m  glad though, you only slept for a day this time.”

You looked at him, eyes squinting, “Are you okay though? Don’t you need to be at the hive for your… bee duties?”

Lyith sputtered at you, his body rocking with laughter. “And tell me, what are “bee duties”, Little witch?”

Your cheeks heated and you sat up, crossing arms over your chest.

“I just wanted to make sure you wouldn’t be in trouble, is all. What exactly is your duty in the hive anyway?”

Lyith stared up at you under his long lashes. “I am a forager. A scholar. An ambassador who goes to human town to get our supplies. Actually..”

He brought himself up and stretched out his wings. They seemed sturdy enough not to get too bothered by him laying on them all night.

“.. I used to know your grandmother. She used to let me forager her garden. Of course, she was a lot more sparing with her magic, so it was nothing like what you do.” He gave you a pointed look, “But she taught me how to speak human. An interesting person, your grandmother. We used to buy seeds for flower monsters off her. She must have had quite a life.”

You stared at him in surprise. Your grandmother had always been somewhat of a stereotypical grandmother. She’d spoil you and laugh at your jokes, leave little candies in your pocket when you weren’t looking. You had never imagined her to be the type of person to deal with Flower Monsters of all things. It also explained why Lyith seemed so trusting of you, off the bat.

“Hey Lyith?” You breathed out, trying not to think about how your legs were still touching.

“Yes?”

“Do you want some breakfast?”

***

After that, you saw Lyith almost everyday. He made a point of stopping to talk to you every time he visited your garden. Once a week he would take you to see Rena and you would work more magic over the plants. As the spring progressed into summer, the flowers changed. You learned that your magic, while creating magical nectar, only stayed within the plant and not the soil. You were right in your worry that a different approach was needed.

You met a lot more of the hive, as on their days off, some Bee-men would come and watch you work on the flowers. Not all of them were able to speak human, but they communicated their gratitude through sharing their emotions. As you experienced this more and more, you started to pick up on what could even be counted as them asking you questions. You’d try to answer in kind, putting a hand on their arm or shoulder and trying to push images or feelings at them. This worked only half the time, but when it did, the Be-men would look so pleased they would dance. 

Rena, had always seemed a bit jealous by this.

“Why don’t you speak to us like that? We speak human for your convenience you know. Aren’t I closer to you then some random creature?”

“Don’t call your hive mates ' creature’, that's rude.”

Rena would get up in your face, throwing her arms around your shoulders and touch her nose to yours. In your mind you would feel her jealousy. A possessiveness that you couldn’t help but feel a little giddy about. You tried to straighten out your feelings, giving her a kiss on the cheek. Then, you’d try to project some calm, warm energy at her. She just looked at you, sighing.

“You humans are a lot more dense than I thought.”

 Then she’d buzz off to deliver her nectar to the hive, leaving you behind in the company of her Hive mates. Lyith and Rena had been giving you more space lately when it came to your magic. You’d take more breaks, and often were given time to socialize. The Bee-mens youngest hive mate, Haven had grown especially fond of your company recently. He was your friend in gossip. 

Rena and Lyith had a habit of glossing over the issues of the hive, but Haven was very different. He would answer any question you could think of. You had learned that Rena and Lyith were actually pretty high up there in the social hierarchy, as they were both scholars who taught the rest of the hive in their free time. 

He was also very honest about the struggles of the hive.

“It's been about two decades since the last Queen died. We were having some issues with ambassadors from hives from the northern hive when a squirmish broke out. A lot of Bee-men died that day. Several of the Queen's favorite drones passed on and upon hearing the news her heart gave out.”

“Immediately? She wasn’t sick?”

“Do humans get sick before they die of heartbreak? For us it is impossible. Our bonds are our happiness. Without each other, our home isn’t a home, but an empty structure…” Haven trailed off, his expression wistful.

“But what was the squirmish about? I thought Bee-men were a friendly species.”

“You see, the two Queens had been sisters. The Northern Queen never liked our late matriarch and had been up to some mischief. She had convinced the Bunny Hybrids and the werewolves to move out of our territory. Eventually, the flower monsters left as well, and all the magic in the area just… disappeared. And Queens usually travel and make their own hives, or pick up abandoned ones. We’ve been waiting for so long!”

“Thats got to be hard. I mean, your guyses population can’t grow right?”

Haven looked at you weird.

“It’s more than that! Our Queens Pheromones give our magic structure! Without a Queen our magic grows weak and it's harder to communicate! Even making our honey properly becomes difficult because our grasp of our magic slips. We are so lucky we found you, little witch! Your magic is so easy to convert. I told you, you are a blessing!”

“But if you guys haven't been able to make honey properly for a while, how have you survived?”

“We haven’t. It's like your mana sickness. Sometimes our magic just eats us up.” You stared at Haven, your stomach turning. Haven looked at you sadly. “You should know this. Your Lyith and Rena have been sheltering you way too much. You're basically part of the hive at this point.”

You reached forward and hugged Haven. He trilled happily. 

“Honestly it could be so much worse!”

You spent the rest of the day in silence. You had known they were starving, but you hadn’t realized how badly. Something else didn’t sit right with you either. The fact that the monster races had left their territory had been something that had been bothering you. That had to be the reason why the soil wasn’t absorbing magic, right? That was the only thing that had changed?

Then it hit you. What was soil? It was broken down waste. No Monsters. No decay. No shit. And how did the Bee-men manage their own waste anyway? Could you do something with this? Could it really be that simple? 

You got so excited to tell Rena about it that it surprised you when you saw her at your door. Rena never made the trek to your house, saying that human civilization had a terrible smell to it. When you saw her face, she was crying.

“You have to come with me. Now.”

“Rena whats wrong, are you--”

“It's Lyith.”

All you could hear for a moment was the large thudding of your heart. Without another word you jumped into Rena’s arms and she held you, giving you a huge squeeze before buzzing off into the forest.

Part Five (Beware NSFW)

[mysteryshoptls]

SSR Riddle Rosehearts - Platinum Jacket Vignette

"Happy 100th Anniversary"

[Land of Dawning – National Museum of Art]

Riddle: Look at this massive collection of masterpieces… This museum truly is spectacular.

Riddle: Now then, I should be coming up on the exhibit displaying the Queen of Hearts soon… Aha!

Riddle: It's a painting depicting the scene where the Queen appears before her card soldiers… She looks so majestic.

???: Both her expression and the way her lithe fingers grasps her dress is utterly refined. Moreover, that red and black dress looks spectacular on her!

Rook: This work of art expresses just how charming the dignified Queen of Hearts was.

Riddle: Charming… you say? I shouldn't expect any less of an observation coming from you, Rook-senpai. I have to admit that I'd never thought of it that way.

Riddle: It's said that she would always make sure to wear this dress and her golden crown even during the most important of trials.

Rook: It must have been her regal formal attire, then. Heh, now I can't help but be curious what she wore in her own time.

Rook: I'm also curious as to what casual wear you partake in, as well, Roi des Roses.

Riddle: Eh, me? I wouldn't think it's anything that would catch the interest of the Pomefiore Vice Housewarden...

Riddle: As a rule, I don't tend to wear anything more lax than smart casual. My parents always said that I should never forego a tie, after all.

Rook: An elegant assortment that suits you well!

Riddle: Thank you. I am quite fond of the style, so it pleases me to hear you say that.

Riddle: However, there are times that my usual attire doesn't fit the situation…

Rook: Oh, is that so?

Riddle: Yes. Once, I and three others traveled to Foothill Town in order to purchase new equipment for my club activities from a store there.

Riddle: When I arrived at the appointed meeting place, everyone looked perplexed, asking if I planned on truly wearing what I had on to town.

Riddle: Since this was an errand for our club, and we would be carrying heavy objects, I had opted to wear my PE uniform.

Rook: Oh là là! True, it may be easier to move around in that uniform… But it may have been a tad impractical to wear out to town.

Riddle: Yes… I should have worn my normal clothes. Unfortunately, I didn't own a single casual outfit to wear while doing manual labor.

Riddle: So, I decided to ask Ace and Cater for help, since they're much more cognizant of fashion trends.

Riddle: Perhaps they could help me figure out what sort of attire I could wear when going shopping with my clubmates.

Rook: Those two do seem to have an eye for fashion, I agree. How did they react?

Riddle: They agreed that my normal attire was much too formal, and would look out-of-place while alongside my clubmates.

Riddle: However, it's uncertain when I may be required to join others for an errand again.

Riddle: It would be bad form to cause my compatriots to feel uncomfortable. So, I came to the conclusion that something must be done to rectify this situation.

Riddle: When I voiced that to those two, they gave me a few pointers that would allow for my current wardrobe to look slightly more casual.

Riddle: For example, I could wear my usual shirts with no tie, and with the top button open.

Rook: That makes sense, it would loosen up the stiff formal wear and make it seem more casual.

Riddle: Yes, I suppose… Although, it seems I just cannot get comfortable without my collar closed all the way, even if it to try for a more casual look.

Rook: Hm, so you're saying that change wasn't to your taste, then?

Riddle: Exactly that. I mentioned that to Ace and Cater, and after much discussion…

Riddle: Instead of changing how I wore my clothes, we decided to adjust the material and sizes of the clothes to help dress down more casually.

Rook: I see! Even a jacket can look more casual if it's made of linen or polyester.

Riddle: That's right. It was a thought that never would have occurred to me. …Heh! My card soldiers are quite excellent thinkers, aren't they?

Riddle: After that, I traveled to Foothill Town with those two and they helped me select a few new outfits…

Riddle: Next time I am to go into town with my schoolmates, I intend on wearing the clothes I bought then.

[Land of Dawning – National Museum of Art]

Rook: This is a painting depicting a tale of the Son of the God of Thunder, I see. It's quite awe-inspiring with how both he and the pegasus beside him strike such gallant poses.

Riddle: Indeed. It is said that whenever he went into battle, this pegasus fought right alongside him.

Riddle: Whenever I come across one of his historical anecdotes, I cannot help but bring to mind a good partner of mine, as well.

Rook: That partner of yours wouldn't happen to have a beautiful coat of hair, now, would it?

Rook: I heard that you achieved high marks at the most recent equestrian tournament.

Riddle: You heard correctly. I believe Vorpal and I have a deep, mutual trust between ourselves. However, it was quite difficult for us to reach this point, I must say.

Rook: Oh, really?

Riddle: Yes. A little while after I joined the club, the horse I was assigned to ride was Vorpal.

Riddle: However, Vorpal was extremely prideful and would be very particular of which humans could ride him.

Riddle: No one else was ever allowed to ride atop his back in the three years since the previous club captain graduated.

Riddle: For some time after I joined the club, he wouldn't allow me to even place a saddle on his back, let alone ride him.

Riddle: Not only was he a prideful horse, but he was also temperamental. I was often vexed that I couldn't tame him well…

Riddle: But nowadays whenever I visit the stables, he'll come up and nudge me as if he had been waiting for my arrival.

Rook: I suppose that means all those days you zealously spent getting to know him finally melted his icy heart.

Rook: Beauté! What a beautiful relationship.

Riddle: I-I feel as though calling it beautiful may be a slight exaggeration… But I will say I was very pleased when he finally accepted me as his rider.

Riddle: I only learned of it later, but I heard that I was given responsibility over Vorpal intentionally as some sort of hazing.

Riddle: It seems they hoped that I would complain about how difficult it was to tame him and quit the club.

Rook: That sort of harassment shouldn't be tolerated. I'm curious as to why that sort of situation occurred.

Riddle: From what I was told, it all came about because I would chide them whenever they would slack off on training or while cleaning the stables…

Riddle: I simply spoke frankly, there should not have been any ill-will between us.

Rook: Essentially, you overcame the challenges presented to you, and claimed victory over your opponents alongside your partner.

Rook: Fufu, how wonderfully dramatic. Almost as if you were the fated protagonist of a story, going the distance to seize his destiny!

Riddle: A-Another exaggeration…

Riddle: Although, I am very proud of the fact that Vorpal and I were able to become good partners.

Riddle: No form of hazing would ever prove to be an obstacle for me. This story simply proves that.

[Land of Dawning – National Museum of Art]

Riddle: This painting… It depicts the moment the Sorcerer of the Sands acquired that scarab.

Riddle: See the dark blue night sky and the bright golden light… This artwork is highly praised for the beautiful color play.

Rook: This scarab was a key that would lead the way to a magical cave when its two halves were made whole. Do I recall that legend correctly?

Riddle: That's right. It's said that the Sorcerer of the Sands granted a lavish reward to the person who brought one half of the scarab to him.

Rook: That must have meant it was something of great importance to him.

Rook: Once he had obtained such an important key, I'm sure he would have had to take great measures so as to not lose it.

Riddle: True, it is vital to keep keys safe.

Rook: Oh? Riddle-kun, do you have some treasure of your own you've kept hidden?

Riddle: I wouldn't consider it a treasure… But I do have something that I wouldn't wish for others to lay their eyes on.

Rook: Oh, my! Have I touched on a private matter? If so, I apologize profusely.

Riddle: It's nothing to fret over. I'm simply speaking of my Housewarden journal. It contains minutes from the Housewarden meetings and documentation of my duties as Housewarden, among other things…

Riddle: I also have recorded down certain information about my dorm's students, so I would not like it leaked to anyone outside of myself.

Rook: Fufu, I can see just how seriously you're fulfilling your duties as Housewarden, Riddle-kun.

Riddle: If I can keep records of even the most trivial note, I find that it allows me to understand and manage every situation that occurs within my dorm.

Riddle: Only, recently there are more things to write about. It's as if the number of incidents that require more description are increasing.

Rook: Well, that's fascinating. If it isn't asking too much, could I perhaps ask what sort of situations those are?

Riddle: That have been such incidents such as when an argument broke out between Ace and Deuce that I had to involve myself in…

Riddle: Or the time the two from Ramshackle caused a ruckus at one of our Unbirthday Parties…

Riddle: As the number of incidents that need to be recorded increase, the more effort it takes.

Riddle: My days have changed considerably from when I first assumed the duties of a Housewarden, almost unimaginably so…

Riddle: Now that I've had to report on more incidents per day, the number of notebooks I go through have also increased.

Rook: It's as though you're more keeping a diary than just keeping records! Wouldn't you say that the whole reason you've found more to write about is because…

Rook: Your daily life has become even more magnificent and satisfying compared to before?

Riddle: A diary…? I wonder if that's truly so.

Rook: Oui! I myself cannot stop the flowing composition of poems that spill from my hand whenever I am feeling inspired.

Rook: Oh, my, it seems I've kept you for far too long. I should take my leave. I'll talk to you later, Riddle-kun.

Riddle: Of course, Rook-senpai. Well then, I should head towards the next exhibit as well… Hm?

Riddle: This is a painting that shows the tea party scene from the stories of the Avidly Curious Girl.

Riddle: Not only did she invite herself to the tea party, she also drank some potions without permission. Her rude behavior is what leaves a lasting impression.

Riddle: It is said she was searching for a path home… But I'm sure at the rate she was going, she would not be able to find a path to redemption.

Riddle: Regardless of where she came from or where she wanted to go.

Requested by @farfalla049, @sakurakudo, and @a-s-k--g-a-b-i.

[charmandabear]

Office Hours - Chapter Four

Summary:

The next morning you wake up with a bang - literally. But something feels off about last night, and you can't quite put your finger on what exactly.

Pairing: Astarion/F!Reader Rating: E Word Count: 3.3k Tags/Warnings: dom!Astarion, praise kink, hair pulling, cunnilingus, shower sex, vampire bites, blood drinking, Astarion pulls some shady shit ngl

Listen. Listen. I'm taking your face in both of my hands and planting a little smooch on your forehead. This has been very light and silly up to this point, but it's going to start to get a little darker. Nothing major, and nothing that will go unresolved, I promise. But I want you to take care of yourselves and your hearts. If you'd like a warning more specific than what I've already provided, message me (not on anon, I won't publish it) and I'll be happy to tell you. [EDIT: I think I unintentionally evoked a darker image in this chapter than I wanted to, here's a little more context for it.)

In better news, can we TALK ABOUT THIS BEAUTIFUL RENDER THAT BEAKER MADE? I said the words "I wonder if anyone has rendered Astarion in a towel" and Beaker goes "I gotchu fam." Beautiful. Brilliant. Wonderful. Go follow her this INSTANT. And as always, Zaria for the betaing and the feedback 💖

Read on AO3 ~ Masterlist

You're barely awake when you feel Astarion’s hand resting on the bare skin of your hip. You sleepily snuggle back into him, and already he’s half hard. A barely voiced breath escapes your throat as he presses into you and plants a sultry kiss on your back. You squirm with the overwhelm of sensations before you've had a single cognizant thought. He continues peppering your back in sloppy kisses as you grind against him wantonly. His fingers dig into your waist and he pulls you into him hard, his now fully erect dick pressing into the dip of your lower back.

Good morning indeed.

You roll over and crush your lips into his, fingers tangling in his messy hair as you desperately try to taste him. He pulls your leg over his hip and you arch your back into his touch. He slips his tongue between your lips and you groan into his mouth, hungry for more.

You pull him so that he’s fully on top of you, his weight pressing down between your legs. He pushes the length of his cock up against your folds and you groan into his mouth, your pussy clenching in anticipation.

His lips leave yours and he plants a trail of kisses down your chest, pausing only briefly to suck on your nipple. Your hands grab at the satin sheets as he swirls his tongue around the sensitive bud and you cry out when he uses his dull front teeth to bite down lightly.

You slide your hands back into his curls, crushed and limp from the pillow, his usually neatly coiffed hair falling onto his brow. He looks up at you as he continues down your body, his eyes even more red and piercing when not obscured by his frames.

He reaches his destination between your legs and you whine, hips bucking into him as his cool breath tickles your folds. He parts them lightly with two fingers and flicks the tip of his tongue against the hood of your clit, pulling a deep moan out of you.

He reaches under you and pulls your legs up over his shoulders so he can get a better angle on your cunt. He licks a fat stripe up your slit and the sound of your needy keening curls his lips into a smile.

“Ggnn, ‘star-” you mumble incoherently, mouth still sticky from sleep. He slides a single slender finger into you and your ankles dig into his back.

“Mmm, so wet, and just for me?” he hums contentedly, and all you can do is mewl in response. He pumps his finger agonizingly slowly while his tongue lazily laps at your clit.

You fold your arms over your eyes, even the dim light in the room proving to be too much for your senses. Your hips instinctually roll into him, aching for more, but his touch remains frustratingly light.

“‘Starion, please,” you whine, and he rewards your neediness with a second digit. You groan around the stretch, pushing down on his hand up to his knuckles. The throbbing of your neglected clit is borderline overwhelming. You slide a hand to touch yourself but he smacks the back of it.

“Naughty,” he warns lightly and you growl at his continued teasing.

“Then fucking do your job,” you snap, and his fingers still. 

“Sorry, that was mean,” you say quietly, chagrin keeping you from looking at him. He huffs out a quiet laugh.

“Yes ma’am I will,” he purrs and dives into your cunt. Whereas his previous ministrations were slow almost to the point of painful, he now devours you like a starving man having his first meal in days. You cry out with the sudden change in pace and slap a hand over your mouth to muffle the sound. Astarion pulls away and in an instant his lips are next to your ear.

“But I want to hear every sound that comes out of that pretty little mouth of yours, darling,” he says in a low and dangerous voice. “I want my name dancing on your tongue when you come.” He grabs your chin and turns your head to face him. “Understood?”

You nod, your breath caught in your throat. His fingers tighten slightly and you know he wants a real answer.

“Yes,” you manage to squeak out in a small voice, your pussy aching to be touched again.

“Yes what?” he growls, and his tone sends a jolt of lightning directly to your core.

“Y-yes sir,” you stammer, and his lips stretch into a devilish grin.

“Good girl,” he coos and he finally releases your face from his tight grip. This is a new dynamic, but you're not complaining. If anything, his vaguely threatening tone is turning you on more.

He returns to his spot between your legs and continues to lasciviously lick you up like you're his little treat. He twists sounds out of you that are completely unfamiliar to your own ears. His fingers sliding in and out of your cunt, the feel of his tongue teasing your clit, the ever so faint scrape of his fangs along your inner lips, it's quickly proving to almost be too much.

“Astarion, ah-” you pant, and you're rewarded with a growl of approval from him. He increases the pace of his fingers, causing your toes to curl and your thighs to begin to squeeze around his ears.

“Look at me,” he snarls and your gaze snaps to his, his red eyes nearly black from lust. He curls his fingers just right and you crash over the edge, a string of swears and praises jumbled up with his name tumbling out of your mouth. 

He continues licking you through the waves of aftershock and you almost fear disintegrating on the spot. When you've finally made it to the other side, Astarion sits up and licks his fingers with a smug look on his face.

“Shut up,” you mumble and cover your face with your hands, embarrassed by just how hard he made you come.

“I haven't said a damn thing,” he says with a satisfied grin. He extends his hand to you to help you off the bed.

“Come shower with me,” he says, and you look at him skeptically.

“I don't think I have another one in me,” you admit sheepishly, and he barks out a surprised laugh.

“I had no expectations, although now that you mention it,” he says, giving you a salacious once-over that brings color into your cheeks, “I'm sure you do.” The way his voice drops immediately makes your pussy tingle, and you almost want to stubbornly say no. But your eyes trail down his lean body and onto his cock, which is starting to twitch lightly.

Gods, it's pathetic how down bad you are for him.

He returns to where you are on the bed and captures your lips in a soft but heated kiss. You melt into his arms and allow him to lead you to the bathroom. He breaks away from you to turn the water on and you need to grab the sink to steady yourself. 

He pulls you into the glass and porcelain box and kisses you deeply as the water soaks through to your scalp and runs down your back. He grabs what looks like a bottle of homemade shampoo from the shelf and squeezes some into his hand. It smells like him, the scent you associate so thoroughly with him. You shiver as he lathers it into your hair.

He massages your scalp and you close your eyes, leaning in to the gentle touch. You rest your hands on his hips, still dry, and lightly run your nails along the dip in his back. He shudders in response, and you open your eyes to see him looking down at you with a soft smile. You tilt your head back, letting the water rinse the suds out of your hair as you lean up to kiss him.

He repeats the process with conditioner, his touch impossibly gentle. Your hair slides through his fingers like silk and you practically nuzzle into his hands like a purring cat.

“Do you like that?” he hums under his breath. You can only answer with a pleased and sedated nod. He slides his hand down the side of your face and to your neck.

“How about… this?”

His hand suddenly tightens around your throat, not hard enough to constrict your breathing, but definitely enough to make you stand at attention. Your eyes snap open and his heated gaze boring into you causes an involuntary moan to slip through your lips. He pulls your face forward and presses his cheek to your temple. 

“You like it when I tell you what to do, don't you?” he hisses into your ear. You dig your nails into his hips as you make an incoherent noise of assent.

“Good girl. Open.”

Your mouth pops open obediently, and he roughly shoves his thumb between your lips, the rest of his hand cupping your face. You suck on it greedily, eager to please. Desperate for more praise.

What has this man done to you?

His eyes flutter closed momentarily while you work his thumb with your tongue. You claw at his lower back, pulling his hips into yours so you can feel his hardening cock, groaning when it makes contact with your thigh.

“Turn around,” he snarls and you comply, the water from the shower head splattering down your back. He grabs your waist and presses his erection into your crack, pulling a stuttered breath from your lungs.

He slides a hand up your back and into your hair, pulling your head back roughly. He lines himself up with your entrance which is already dripping for him again. He slides in easily, pushing your chest and cheek against the cool tile. You groan as he bottoms out and you push your hips back into his.

He bends over your back and lightly nips at the crook of your neck.

“Yes?” His voice is hoarse as he asks for permission. Your lips can't form words, so you pant out something in the vague shape of “uh-huh.”

The slicing pain of his fangs mingling with the sharp sting of his hand still pulling on your hair and the stretch of his cock inside you is deliciously torturous. You reach a hand up behind you and twist your fingers into his curls, keeping him latched to your neck as he drinks. He pumps in and out of you, each thrust timed with another swallow of your blood.

Your grip loosens as your life force ebbs away just a little too much and he pulls off you with a frustrated growl. He picks up his pace and takes your cries of pleasure with him.

“Say my name,” he says in a husky voice that absolutely sends you.

“Ah-starion,” you pant, the sound of your voice bouncing back to you off the tile. The grip on your hair tightens.

“Say you're mine.” His voice is starting to take on a note of hungry desperation.

“Nngh I’m- ah- I'm yours,” you manage to stammer out through your building climax and his driving pace. He pulls your head back and bites your shoulder roughly, licking the puncture wounds that form. You push against the tile into him, chasing your second orgasm of the morning.

His breathing grows ragged as his pace falters, and the throbbing of his cock as he comes brings you to your own finish.

“Fuck, Astarion!” You call out his name in the clearest voice you've been able to conjure since he woke you with tender kisses on your back. His hand tightens at the sound before his whole body relaxes around you and pulls out, lightly massaging your scalp where he had been tugging.

You're both panting as you turn around and rest your head against his chest, and he plants an exhausted kiss on the top of your head. You look up at him through hazy eyes and suddenly realize with a laugh that his hair is still dry.

“Do you want some help-” You begin to reach up to touch his white curls but he catches your hand midair.

“I- no, it's fine. I'm very particular. Why don't you towel off while I finish up here?” His voice is gentle but it has an edge to it that you can't quite identify. He sees your concerned expression and lightly kisses your lips.

“I’ll be right out, I promise. There's an extra robe in the closet across the hall.” His disarming smile is comforting, mostly. Part of you wonders if he regrets opening up last night.

You pad into the kitchen looking for a remnant of something to eat. His Majesty is sitting on the counter and assesses you with disdain. Your barely touched plate of risotto is still sitting on the table. You open the fridge to find it

empty?

Completely bare, save a few bottles with a red sloshy liquid, without even leftover ingredients from the dish he made. You furrow your brow in confusion as you look for any physical proof that he cooked for you. You snoop around, opening drawers and cabinets as His Majesty watches you with careful judgment.

No cooking implements, no pots and pans, just a few dishes and glassware.

What?

You finally open up a cabinet that houses the trash and you find a used scroll of Create Food and Water. You blink, bewildered as to why he would feel the need to lie about his ability to cook. It's almost a little cute. 

You're about to close the cabinet door when something else catches your eye. A potion bottle. You still, trying to hear if Astarion is still in the shower. It seems like he is, so you reach into the trash to pull it out.

It's an empty potion of Charm Person.

Your face grows hot as you realize what happened. And your confusion only grows, because nothing about your behavior has indicated anything but being completely smitten with him.

You rewind the mental tape of last night, that the food tasted even better the second time you tried it. You squirm with the discomfort of the knowledge.

But you only had a few bites before the two of you moved on to other activities. Your education in potion use is fairly limited, especially with one of these newer ones, but you're pretty sure that you'd need to consume more for it to have made a significant change in your faculties. The wine probably clouded your head more than the potion.

You hear the shower shut off and you freeze. Are you going to confront him about this now? Should you just grab your clothes and go? You glance at His Majesty, hoping for some sort of answer, but he just stares back at you coldly.

Before you get a chance to decide, Astarion comes into the kitchen with a towel around his waist, gently drying his hair with a cotton tee shirt.

He sees you with the potion bottle in your hand and he stops. His expression is unreadable as he looks at you over his glasses. He’s wearing the round frames again.

“Uh. Hey. You don't need to do this,” you say awkwardly, holding up the bottle. “I came here on my own accord, I don't need convincing. Or, you know.. charming.”

“Sorry, I- I don't know why I did it. Old habits, I suppose.” He shrinks back, and you're reminded of his uncertainty and vulnerability from last night. Is this… somehow related?

“Well… don't do that shit again. You can just talk to me, you know,” you say icily. Then, to lighten the mood, you add, “I don't bite.”

That makes him smile and you feel a sense of satisfaction. He walks over to you, takes the bottle out of your hand and trashes it. He punctuates the gesture with a kiss to the top of your head.

“I am truly sorry. It was out of line and you don't deserve that. It won't happen again.” He tucks a damp lock behind your ear and cups your cheek adoringly.

“It better fucking not,” you scowl playfully. Then, to show there are no hard feelings, you stand on your toes to bring your lips to his. He returns the kiss and it quickly becomes heated, his hands tangling into your hair.

You manage to pull away, breathing heavily.

“Okay, I really don't have a third, so let’s cool it,” you tease, and he responds with a sheepish grin.

***

You text Shadowheart on your way home.

-Are you still in my apartment?

-Yeah, I said I would be. How did it go? Considering the hour I'd say pretty well.

-Yeah, it was nice. Well, mostly.

-MOSTLY??? What happened. Do I need to call on Selûne for some revenge?

-Lol no, nothing so dramatic. I'll fill you in when I get home.

-Hurryyyyyyyy, you can't keep me waiting.

You wave to the doorman on your way into the building. He makes a noise in his throat and you turn.

“Yes?”

“Thou hast taken up a bosom companion,” he says in his characteristically stilted way of speaking. Your jaw drops.

“Withers!” you scold, completely scandalized. 

“Tread carefully. I would not care to see you get hurt.” He nods at you solemnly and you give him a genial smile.

“Thank you, Withers. I'll be careful, I promise.”

He responds with a judgemental “hmm,” and you laugh.

Back in your apartment, you regale Shadowheart with the night’s - and more importantly, morning’s - events. When you get to the part with the potion, you need to pull her back to keep her from reigning down violence on him. 

“I’ll destroy him. Did you tell him that? That you have someone who will commit murder for you?” she seethes and her protectiveness makes you laugh.

“I didn’t have to, I told him not to pull that shit. He seemed genuinely contrite afterwards. I don’t think he put it together just how gross it really is.”

Shadowheart gives you a look that says, “oh, honey,” but chooses to remain silent. You take a deep breath, still a little lightheaded from the morning’s activities. 

“Are you alright? You look like you’re about to pass out.” She grabs your wrist and looks at you with concern. You wave her off and cross to the kitchen to get water.

“I’m fine. Just a bit woozy. I think he drank more than usual this morning,” you say nonchalantly as you fill up a glass. Shadowheart’s silence behind you is deafening.

“You think he… what?” she spits, and you choke on your drink. You may not have told Shadowheart about the blood drinking. She knows he’s a vampire, but… oops.

“Um… nothing. It’s… it’s nothing,” you stammer, grinning sheepishly.

“Tav!” she exclaims and stalks over to you. “Te absolvo,” she incants, bapping you on the head in the process. You’re pretty sure that isn’t part of the spell.

But suddenly you feel better. The lightheadedness is gone, and you think the wound on your neck has even closed up.

“Wait, you can do that?” You stare at her, shocked. You can’t believe you hadn’t thought of this before.

“Don’t take this as permission to get your kinks in whenever you want. I can only do that so many times,” she warns, and you beam at her.

“But your spell slots refresh when you sleep,” you remind her mischievously.

“You’re about to become an absolute menace, aren’t you?” she complains. Your smile widens and she groans.

[theyapper0]

PART FOUR OF "DISHONORED GUESTS"

Charlie says how Sinners are not stagnant in the place they were when they died. They are still able to change! 

Sera: What makes you say that?

Charlie: If you truly believe the Winners here in Heaven are just as cognizant as you, me, or any other being existing between any of our realms, then I don't see any reason why you wouldn't extend that thinking towards the Sinners of Hell

The crowd begins to murmur…. The demon made a good couple points so far…

There's some back and forth but eventually the topic shifts to the Hazbin Hotel. 

The topic of discussion specifically is about their first patron, Anthony 

Sera: And how long has Anthony been in your care? Charlie: About 4 months at this point! And yes! We do!!!! He may not follow EVERY commandment EXACTLY but he’s still learning- and a lot at that!!!! 

Adam: Do we have any proof of all he's learned? 

So they get the Orb. 

The Orb shows Angel and Emily is leaning on her hands in awe, “Wow! A real Sinner! :D”

Adam is like “mmmmmmm…….*getting annoyed*

So I'm actually gonna keep everything that happens at the club with the Sinners. 

(Angel standing up to Valentino won't be ‘sticking it to the man’ it can just be considered ‘thou shalt not unto thee any graven image’ (putting Valentino’s importance/work above all else, not doing that anymore)

Sera: I don't believe it….

Emily is like… “Thou shalt not unto thee any graven image!’ Angel Dust’s boss was his graven image but standing up to him and not allowing him to speak ill of his friends paves the way for the potential of a new source of worship in above!” 

Charlie: Yes! Exactly! Angel Dust is capable of change, EVERY Sinner is with the right support! 

If they can be redeemed, WHEN? And HOW exactly can they reach the gates? Is it even physically POSSIBLE? 

Sera is completely speechless.

Sera: I…. 

Sera regains her composure, “A-And… And what, Miss Morningstar, would you say about the Commandments that a Sinner would be physically incapable of following? ‘Honor thy mother and father’ for example? 

Charlie: Well like you said, that would be impossible to follow if a Sinner’s parents are not dead yet or are in Heaven but uh….. but……

Charlie: But surely we, as Heaven and Hell, create some sort of middle ground! We could come up with a replacement for this commandment-! 

Adam: Replace one of the Ten Commandments?! 

Emily is like I don't see how else we'd be able to work around that if we didn't! It would just be for these cases of redemption-

Sera: Emily!

The whole Courtroom erupts into chaos.

EVERYONE'S shouting and NO ONE knows what's going on. Everybody's got their own ideas and opinions and it seems they all want to be heard at this very moment. 

Can a Sinner be redeemed? How could that HELL RAT date think to replace one of the Commandments! Would they have to deal with Sinners potentially ruining their Heavenly paradise? Could a WINNER get sent to Hell?

Sera shouts, “THAT'S ENOUGH!!” and a magic, angelic surge bursts through the room, quieting everybody.

Sera sighs, “This questioning stops now. We know when a soul arrives, we know when they pass divine judgment, it is our job to ensure these souls are safe”

Emily: But Sera! They CAN change!!! We JUST saw it!! 

Sera is looking down at Emily solemnly and conflicted…

Emily looks like she's lost some fight but then she glanced at Charlie, who's looking back up at her earnestly. 

They won't listen to Charlie, they don't even listen to EMILY! 

But they've heard each other… they UNDERSTOOD each other! 

Emily: NO! 

Emily: He had followed a Commandment! He's showing promise but we just decide to dismiss the whole thing?! How is that fair?! How is that the forgiving and merciful way of Heaven?! 

Charlie: Just because they're dead doesn't mean they can't change and you're not even giving it a chance! Sinners should have an option to escape Hell if they're deserving of Heaven! 

Adam is getting a little heated, “There's a reason for all this! Sinners of Hell were once human but they've made the choices that got them there and they must pay the price for all eternity!”

Charlie: But why?! 

Adam: Because that's just how it is! 

Emily: It shouldn't have to be! They're souls just like the ones up here in Heaven! 

Emily is taking Charlie's side. She's siding with a product of deviation from Heaven!! Just like-!

Adam: Sinners were humans who have done unspeakable things! VILE things! Humanity is tainted- tainted because of our-... MY foolishness. 

Adam shouts, “And it just keeps getting worse! More and more humans are turning towards sin! If you all could know how many are down there in Hell then you'd understand why we have to go down there for the Exterminations and-!

The Courtroom goes into a frenzy again

FUUUCKK!!!! Some people there knew about the Exterminations and were like “Well shit” while those who didn't know were like “The Extermi- WHAT?!”

So Emily is like “WHAT?!???” 

Basically the whole second half of “You Didn't Know” song :P

In the chaos and the shouting and stuff, Adam is still in total shock about what he had just exposed… What did he do? It was an accident! It was just the heat of the moment and he was so angry and frustrated and he didn't mean to admit anything! 

Lute looks across the Courtroom and her and Vaggie's eyes meet.

Lute: Don't think I've forgotten you”

Vaggie is tugging on Charlie's arm like, “We need to go, NOW, Charlie”

Charlie is like, “What??? Look!! We're finally getting somewhere!”

Emily agrees

Lute: Don't act so coy, HELLSPAWN! Your power grows at our disarray! You're just as bad as those disgusting Sinners, just as bad as…. HER! 

Charlie is pissed, “Take that BACK” 

Lute: Why should I? It's the truth! 

Lute looks at the crowd of people, “This nonsense has gone on for far too long!”

Lute: Why should we allow ourselves to listen to them?! 

Lute: To the Heir to Hell and a-!

“LUTE DON'T-!”

Lute: A FALLEN ANGEL! 

PART 1

PART 2

PART 3

PART 4

PART 5

[blindmagdalena]

thoughts on ep 4?

ohhhh man this is gonna be really long and disjointed because i just finished the episode. i'm just gonna be focused on the homelander stuff here bc i feel like that's what we're all here for lol

the energy he brought to that whole situation gave me the most intense anxiety. i feel like not even he was entirely sure how all of that was going to go down, but as soon as he was there, all these memories that he had repressed started flooding to the surface. obviously his relationship with Ryan is causing a lot of his trauma to come to the forefront, and this is the culmination of that.

i think what caught me the most off guard was how run down the place looked. a concrete basement with shoddy computers and post-its everywhere. a bunch of techs. it was so small, and yet it's like homelander said. it was a lot bigger when he was a child.

it was their day job. it was his whole world.

that very first moment when Marty calls him John, and he corrects "Homelander," in that boyish voice, i almost burst into tears.

the moment where he's staring at the incinerator made me feel ill for him. i already knew what was coming, and it didn't disappoint.

"I had nightmares about that exact moment, and you can't even remember it."

i had chills throughout this entire scene. it was such a succinct way to lay out how dehumanized he was his entire life. that so many people stood by and were so desensitized to his torture. they tuned out his screams entirely and played little games to pass the time. all while he watched.

this time, when Marty calls him John, there's no quiver in his voice. "Homelander," he corrects firmly, smile tight and closed. direct eye contact, waiting for a challenge. but they won't. he knows no one will stop him. not just because they can't... but because they simply won't. they wouldn't save a child. why would they save Frank?

"You're sorry? Now?"

this whole scene is such an interesting parallel to his conversation with Vogelbaum in s1, where he asks, "You want forgiveness? Now?"

something he rightfully denied Vogelbaum. in this instance, however, we see Homelander enacting his vengeance and giving that forgiveness... but only once they're dead. only once they'd paid his price. once they've suffered as he did. I forgive you.

the only time anyone expresses remorse for what they've done to him is when they're faced with it. when the regret eats away at them not for the harm they caused, but the damage done to the world, or to their own safety.

immediately following that, we see him call Marty over and not just apologize, but very specifically he asks, "Can you forgive me?"

it's perfect foreshadowing for what he's about to do to him. can he forgive the same thing Homelander is about to?

the scene that follows is so profoundly uncomfortable i had a lot of trouble watching. the reality of Homelander's life and teenage years is something that we as a fandom have always been very cognizant of, but seeing it addressed so plainly on screen was both nightmarish and vindicating.

i remember being really squicked out by his comment regarding Ryan getting Zoe pregnant, but it makes total sense that raising Ryan is bringing a lot of his own childhood sexual trauma to the surface. there's SO MUCH to be addressed here that it could be it's own post. but what's great is when Homelander calls an end to it: it's the moment Marty says he's sorry.

"I forgive you, Marty."

this is all about Homelander accepting what happened to him. facing it and the people who were part of it head on.

speaking of...

BARBARA. i know she's public enemy #1 right now, and rightfully so, but i found her so profoundly interesting. did she know Homelander was there? she didn't seem surprised at all. why would she come without backup? how did they even contact her with everything shut down? i don't know, but whatever the case, i really got the impression she already knew what she was walking into. she made a real attempt to get Homelander away from the other scientists, but he wasn't going to be swayed. they were already doomed.

she antagonized him. They were just doing what I told them. It's not their fault. It's mine. Leave them alone.

it's very apparent to me that among his fractured personalities, she represents the kinder motherly one. she, like Stan Edgar and Vogelbaum, are elevated above the other scientists. she's a figure of authority and she spoke to him as such.

"They were scared."

"I was a child."

"They were scared!"

and he does recoil at that. we KNOW Homelander hates being feared. it was his trigger with Madelyn, it's what kept him from lasering that crowd, and it's a blatant, desperate lie when he says to Starlight, "...being feared is a-one okie doke by me."

"Everyone was terrified of you from your first breath."

she breaks his heart a hundred times in this scene. from the reveal that he killed his mother in the same way Vogelbaum told him his son did—the source of that lie?—to the statement that their greatest success was making him obedient by withholding love. by turning his heart into a pit of need.

a sharp juxtaposition to Vogelbaum's You're my greatest failure.

and then she says to him no matter what you do, you will always be human.

here's the thing about Homelander's humanity. he doesn't associate it with kindness or love. he associates humanity with all the worst things that have ever happened to him. cruelty. selfishness. betrayal. his entire life he's been used and abused by the people who were supposed to protect him.

of course he doesn't want to be human. doesn't want his SON to be human. look at what humans have done to him. they're vile, they're vicious, they're dirty.

in another life, that desire could have been his drive to be good. if he'd only had a single fucking example of it.

"I'm not human. And neither is my son. And I'm gonna raise him so that he knows it."

in other words, he'll raise his son the way they failed to raise him. Homelander wants desperately to raise his son with the love he never had. he just doesn't know how to.

ultimately, like Vogelbaum and Stan, Homelander can't bring himself to kill her. he tears apart the people she tried to save, and he leaves her to stew in her own fucking mess.