#culinary disaster

[aventurineswife]

Lmaooooo the one with Yor Forger!Reader 😆 Any chance we could get that with Sushang, Feixiao and Qingque? 🤣

Just imagine…someone daring to take a bite—

And then straight keeling over dead to the world. ☠️

“When Love Cooks... but the Kitchen Revolts” | Part 2

Tags: Sushang x Reader, Feixiao x Reader, Qingque x Reader, Crack Fic, Humor/Comedy, Food Gone Wrong, Culinary Disaster, Over-the-Top Reactions, Slight Angst (if you squint), Unintentional Poisoning, Bad Cooking.

Warnings: Food Horror, Exaggerated Reactions, Implied Food Poisoning.

A/N: MY GIRLS ARE GETTING RECOGNITION‼️🗣️🔥✨

[Part 1] | [Part 3]

[Header credits]

Sushang was eager. Very eager. Her wide grin could almost be mistaken for excitement—or was it fear? Either way, she was excited to try what you had prepared for your meal. After all, she was always willing to test her strength against challenges, even culinary ones.

Sitting at the table with her chopsticks poised, Sushang watched you carefully lift the lid from the steaming dish. Her eyes widened with hope, but as the lid was removed, a heavy, ominous cloud of smoke wafted up. Sushang’s eye twitched uncomfortably, but she pushed forward, determined to taste the dish.

A single bite.

The moment it hit her tongue, her entire face went pale. Her hand quivered as she swallowed—if you could even call it swallowing. Her stomach churned in rebellion, but her pride prevented her from showing weakness. For a few moments, Sushang managed to sit still. And then…

BAM!

Her eyes rolled back in her head, her chopsticks dropped, and she slumped forward onto the table with a loud thud.

"Th-the flavor... it’s... it’s like… poison, but worse." Her voice came in a dazed, muffled tone from beneath her arms.

You winced and muttered an apology, unsure whether Sushang had actually fainted or was simply overwhelmed by the sheer force of the meal. Either way, it was clear that your cooking had struck a blow greater than any battle wound.

Feixiao always thought she could handle anything. She’d survived a life of violence, fought against abominations and enemies alike—how bad could a home-cooked meal really be?

When you called her over to try your cooking, she arrived with a casual, confident stride, expecting a delightful meal to complement her otherwise personality. But then the smell hit her—overpowering, strange, and almost wrong.

She eyed the dish warily, an unusual shudder running down her spine. "You... want me to eat this?"

Her heart told her she could handle anything. Her pride as a general told her she had no fear.

But as she took that first bite, her world shifted in a way it never had before. The moment the food touched her tongue, the fury of Moon Rage coursed through her. Not because of her affliction, but because her body rebelled against the impossible texture and the flavor so harsh that it nearly shredded her soul. Feixiao's eyes widened, her hand shot to her mouth, and before she could control herself, she vomited onto the floor.

“That,” she coughed, gasping for breath, “is a weapon of mass destruction.”

Her ears drooped, a rare moment of vulnerability seeping through her usual battle-hardened demeanor. You stared, horrified.

“Don’t worry,” Feixiao said, wiping her mouth and struggling to stay upright, “I’ll... I’ll survive.”

But just as she attempted to regain her composure, the general’s knees buckled, and she crumpled into the nearest chair. “Moon Rage... is kinder than this...” she muttered, slumping down in defeat.

[Header credits]

Qingque had heard the rumors. The food that could make even the toughest warrior faint. She was curious but, above all else, intrigued by the possibility of surviving the meal. After all, as a fan of all things quirky, she wasn’t one to shy away from a challenge—no matter how lethal it seemed.

She sat across from you with a small grin on her lips, as if savoring the potential disaster. When the plate was set before her, the aroma was enough to make her eyes water. It wasn’t that it smelled good; no, it was suspicious. But Qingque was brave, so she lifted the chopsticks and took a tiny bite.

At first, it wasn’t so bad. There was an odd, almost humorous flavor to it. Like burnt something with an aftertaste of... did she detect metal? But she kept chewing, determined to understand this creation. The more she chewed, however, the worse it became.

It wasn’t food anymore—it was a force of nature, rising within her, threatening to take over her senses. Her cheeks flushed, her hand clutched the table, and her usually bright eyes narrowed.

“...No... no, this is—”

And then, with the most dramatic flair, Qingque flopped backward in her chair, one hand pressed dramatically to her forehead.

“Please... if there is an Aeon of Hunger, I beg of you... spare me,” she gasped, “I’m... dying.”

You were horrified, muttering frantically as you checked to make sure Qingque was still breathing. “Wait, no! You’re not—”

"I’m alive," Qingque groaned, lifting a hand. "But this... this is beyond death. I'm too alive. I don't know what's happening, but this... is not food. It’s a curse."

[pratignya18]

Getting future ready

What are you most excited about for the future? Mum was a vegetarian and we grew up on a healthy diet of vegetarian food. Dad introduced us to eating non-vegetarian by taking us to restaurants that prepared them. During those days, chicken tikka with toothpicks sticking out of them was all the rage. I remember gorging on them. We used to polish off 2 or 3 plates in one sitting and then used to…

[stealingyourbones]

Bologna, peas, and orange soda has been purchased. Culinary crimes commence

[fieriframes]

[I give it all up in laughter. The sign of the cross awaiting disaster. Dove flew to me like a vision of paranoia. Dove flew to me like a vision of paranoia.]

[chirp-a-chirp]

Court of Darkness: Satisfaction

A gift to @aide-falls 😊🎂

Fandom: Court of Darkness

Couple: Guy x MC

Word Count + Rating: ~550, PG-13 at the end

Description: Guy’s gift to MC does not go according to plan. Not that he and MC mind 😈

…

MC looked at the cake presented before her. It was clearly expensive, topped with crimson sugar roses on three tiers that cascaded down smooth black fondant. The smell of dark chocolate and freshly cooked sugar tickled MC’s nose.

Guy’s face revealed none of his thoughts, except for a brief eye flicker towards the back kitchen area of his quarters. MC faintly touched Guy’s sleeve as she said, “I really appreciate this Guy, I can’t wait to—“. MC paused, her nose twitching at another smell—this one acrid, lingering in the back of her nostrils.

“It’s not worth your time. Don’t investigate it further.” Guy’s voice brooked no argument. Which meant, naturally, MC had to investigate. MC followed her nose and opened the kitchen door. Before her was a scene of what could only be called culinary carnage.

Scorch marks from a pan blazed the black and white kitchen floor tiles. Gobs of cake batter were be-speckled across the counter, walls, and countless bowls. The windows, normally closed to ensure Guy’s privacy, were wide open; a pleasant breeze flowed that blew away most, but not all, of the smell of burnt sugar and smoke.

But the crowing jewel of it all oozed before MC. Beside the oven on a crystal platter was a pile of cake bits that was somehow burnt yet raw. Charred mounds of sugar vaguely resembling rose petals fell from crumbling cake tiers. Copious amounts of red icing were splattered across the dessert in a furious attempt to lend some sort of artistic flourish. If the attempt was to make the cake look like a crime scene, it succeeded.

MC could not contain her laughter. “Did Sherry help you create this?”

“Do not compare me to Roy’s little sister.” Guy glowered, his voice rumbling with displeasure.

“Yeah, you’re right. I can actually eat your cake…I think.” MC took a spoon to the mangled dessert and brought it to her lips. “It’s very good, and suited perfectly to my tastes!” With a smirk, she added, “Well, the parts that are fully cooked, that is.”

“Are you quite finished? I am not in the habit of making a spectacle of myself.”

“Oh yes, quite a spectacle; it’s so unusual. It’s why I’m enjoying this moment.” MC sauntered towards Guy and wrapped an arm around his waist. “Did you buy the second cake in case this one was a bust?”

“I had no intention of disappointing you.” Guy grumbled, displaying a rare look of vulnerability. “You said you wanted something made from my hands. But I wanted to ensure your satisfaction in case things took a wrong turn.” The soot and smoke covered ceiling proved just how great a turn things had taken.

With a mischievous smile, MC swiped a finger across a pile of red icing, dragging it across her neck. “There ARE other ways to use your hands, you know.”

“Heh, how bold of you.” Guy took a few steps forward until MC was pinned against his body and a nearby wall. His palms skated across MC’s curves, luxuriating in their softness and warmth. Guy buried his head against the crook of MC’s neck, his tongue licking the icing off her skin. “Prepare yourself for what’s to come.”

“Guy…”

“It’s just as I said before,” Guy paused, his breath ghosting across MC’s skin. “I intend to ensure your…

satisfaction.”

[lukida-c]

Collection of my favorite tags in the reblogs

I am in tears

[cynthiabertelsen]

Cake of Bitterness: Children Cooking

Batter beginning As the old adage goes, ” it takes the cake.” None of us likes to recall our culinary disasters, and each of us — no matter how good we may be as cooks — can claim at least one major culinary disaster to our credit. Julia had her broken omelette. With me, it was a cake. Every time I make a cake, I am reminded of my first “from-scratch” cake, in the days when Jiffy cake mixes were…

[fanficrocks]

Robbie’s incinerated cheese pasta-bake!

We’ve already explored Lewis’s domestic challenges, but can we discuss Dr. Laura’s face here? I think the last time she looked this horrified she was being buried alive.

[spartanmemesmedical]

"Sweet Disaster: The Epic Gulab Jamun Fail"

Write about your most epic baking or cooking fail. It was a balmy evening in Delhi, and you were feeling particularly inspired to try your hand at cooking a classic Indian dessert: Gulab Jamun. Armed with a recipe you found online and a list of ingredients, you embarked on what would soon become an unforgettable culinary adventure. With great enthusiasm, you mixed together the khoya (milk…

[pebblegalaxy]

A Culinary Catastrophe: My Epic Baking Fail Turned Triumph

Write about your most epic baking or cooking fail. In the annals of my culinary escapades, there exists a tale that transcends mere kitchen mishaps. It is a saga of epic proportions, where the delicate art of baking collided with the forces of chaos, resulting in a spectacle of culinary failure that still echoes in the halls of my memory. It was a day brimming with ambition, a day when my…

[levynite]

His views on the matter were shaped early by Robert Egger, the founder of DC Central Kitchen, a non-profit based in the nation's capital, where Andrés lives. Egger's group not only rescues imperfect produce from farmers to reduce food waste, but also salvages human beings that society has left behind, providing culinary training to the formerly incarcerated and other overlooked populations. "He taught me one of the most valuable lessons of my life," says Andrés. "Too often charity is about the redemption of the giver, when in fact it should be about the liberation of the receiver."

[sunderwight]

love how the MXTX protagonists have gotten progressively worse at cooking over time

it's like

Shen Yuan: not terrible. his biggest struggle is that he wasn't really culinary before he transmigrated, and since transmigrating he has very little idea of how an ancient kitchen works, so any disasters can mostly be attributed to that. would be perfectly fine making simple dishes in a modern kitchen.

Wei Wuxian: a capable cook, except for when it comes to seasonings. absolutely loses his mind at that point. if you do not hide the chili oil ALL OF IT will be going into the pot. has no ability to moderate spice levels for the preferences of others.

Xie Lian: almost lethally bad. just terrible. completely allergic to following a recipe. only one other person can eat his cooking without suffering and that guy's already dead.

Prediction for Book 4 Protagonist: actively just serves people poison on purpose.

[heich0e]

ever since you were young, you've fallen victim to at least one terrible cold per year.

it's not your fault—your almost laughably fallible immune system is seemingly genetic, as your family was always the same growing up—but even that biological truth does little to make you feel better when you're in the thick of cough and cold season, waiting for illness to inevitably strike. one faint, meagre consolation from your predictably lacklustre immune response means that you at the very least have a fairly well-practiced routine for when you fall ill. you know the brands of medication that work best, the fever patches with the most reliable adhesion, which teas seem to help decongest you better than others. you've got soup recipes, and hot water bottles, and fuzzy socks tucked away at the ready for when you need them, because you know that you eventually will.

but this season, there's a wild card in the mix. a variable you haven't had the opportunity to plan for in years past.

shouto.

you met shouto last summer at a going away party to which you were a plus one of someone who didn't even know the person who was going away particularly well. you'd been beyond shocked when you turned up to the gathering only to see half the top pro-hero ranking list gathered before your very eyes. even more shocked when the most handsome one in the room—in the world?—bothered to speak to you.

your relationship with shouto built slowly. you were casually dating last cold season, so he hadn't had to witness you at your lowest, but this year you're living together—having moved in rather suddenly just shy of your one year anniversary since your lease was ending and shouto's apartment was more than suitable for two.

so now here you are, languishing in the bed you share with your still unfairly handsome pro-hero boyfriend, drifting in and out of consciousness in a decongestant fuelled haze, with a (now tepid) fever patch stuck to your forehead.

and there is a god awful racket coming from outside your bedroom door.

peeling yourself up from the loving embrace of your mattress is a nearly herculean task, but once you're upright it's not so hard to stuff your feet into your slippers and stumble your way to the the door. your head feels heavy and your cough is still in the nasty hacking stage, but you suspect your fever's dropping, which means the worst of your illness is likely over. any relief you may feel is decidedly shortlived as you turn the corner to the kitchen and freeze in place.

"shouto—" your voice is so raspy it sounds foreign to you "—what are you doing?"

in the kitchen, standing in the eye of what can only be described as a culinary hurricane, is your apron-clad boyfriend. he has one of your barrettes clipping his two-toned bangs up off his forehead, and a smudge of something (presumably edible) across his cheek. his eyes are wide as he turns to face you in the centre of this disaster, a carrot in one hand and a potato masher in the other.

"i," shouto pauses, and though you know it's not for dramatic effect it sure sounds like it is, "am cooking."

you start coughing, and rush to cover your mouth—turning away and bending a little at the waist from the force of it. you see shouto step towards you in your peripheral vision, but with the hand not covering your mouth you wave him away—you should have gotten a mask before you left your bedroom, but in your haste you'd forgotten to grab one.

"you sound terrible," shouto remarks and then follows up his own commentary with another, somewhat reproachful, "that's not very nice."

you look at him curiously, confused as to what he's just said and he points to his ear where he has one wireless earbud in.

"that was bakugou," he explains, and you realize he was only relaying the comment of his friend on the phone. "i'll call you back," he says again, and this time you don't need to wonder who he's speaking to before he plucks his headphone out of his ear and sets it (and the carrot and potato masher) down in the very limited counter space left.

shouto fidgets with his hands now that they're empty, inching a bit closer to you—slowly, like he know's you're going to wave him off again and is trying to avoid it.

"how are you feeling?" he asks.

"a bit better," you say, even though you don't sound it.

"why are you out of bed?" he follows up his first question with another, concern in his gaze.

"i heard... something," your eyes scan the room as you take in the very something you speak of. "why are you cooking?"

"i'm making you soup," shouto says, and then looks around the room at the scene you'd just surveyed. then he looks back at you again with a somewhat grim expression. "i'm trying to make you soup," he corrects himself.

and maybe it's the fever, or the decongestants, or the fact that he's possibly the sweetest man you've ever met in your life (on top of being the most handsome), but suddenly you feel like you might cry. or laugh, maybe. you aren't entirely sure either of them is off the table.

"what kind of soup?" you ask him, and this time your voice is croaky for an entirely unrelated reason.

"chicken soup," he answers, and he's suddenly closer than he'd been at first—having continued creeping closer to you when your guard was lowered. "with ginger. you said you like that."

"i do," you answer, and when shouto reaches out to wrap his arms around you, you have no will left in you to push him away. you tuck your face against his chest and relax against the firm, familiar shape of his body pressing into yours.

shouto peels the old fever patch from your forehead and tosses it aside, replacing it with the delightfully cool palm of his hand. he's been doing this since you fell ill, and was more than a little affronted the first time he came home from work and saw that you'd put a cooling patch on in his absence—as though jealous that it wasn't his touch that you were turning to for relief.

"was bakugou helping you make soup?" you ask, leaning into his hand.

shouto hums, and you feel the sound reverberate through his broad chest. "i don't know if helping is the right word."

"why did you have a potato masher out for chicken soup?" you then ask, remembering the utensil he'd been holding when you first walked into the kitchen.

"potato masher..." shouto says, realization heavy in his tone. he'd clearly had no idea what it was to begin with. "i was looking for a slotted spoon."

you laugh, and then cough a little.

"you should get back to bed," shouto insists.

"just another minute," you sigh, reaching up to hold his wrist and keep his hand in place. shouto freezes, and you feel his eyes on your face, peeking up at him through your lashes.

"what?" you ask him curiously.

in place of an answer, shouto wraps his arm (the one you don't have in your clutches) around your waist and hoists you up, balancing you against his hip like an overgrown toddler.

"sho-shouto! wait!"

he doesn't wait. in fact, he barely acknowledges you've said anything at all as he trots back in the direction of your shared bedroom. before you even manage to get your bearings, shouto's placed you gently back into bed, shucked his apron, and crawled in alongside you under the covers. you hardly have time to miss the cool weight of his hand before it's returned to its rightful place against your brow.

"what about your soup?" you ask him, but even in spite of your own words—and the fact that you've been keeping him at arm's length for days out of concern for his own health—you find yourself curling up against his side in bed, snuggling closer.

"i don't think it was going to taste very good anyway," shouto remarks somberly. he pouts a little. "bakugou said he'd drop some off for you later, because he was worried my soup was going to kill you."

you laugh, and then cough, and then rest your cheek against his chest.

shouto's heartbeat thumps steadily beneath your ear. his hand stays cool against your skin.

you may not have planned for him, but you think you might keep him around.

[blaire-apricity]

Kitchen

ʟᴀᴅs ʙᴏʏs x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ᯓ❅ ┆ synopsis┆ : How does the LADS boys handle themselves in the kitchen?

ᯓ❅ ┆ tags┆ : prompt, soft, fluff & possible OOC

──────────────── ˗ˏˋ ❅｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽ ˎˊ˗ ────────────────

𝐗𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐫

Xavier in the kitchen was almost a disaster waiting to happen—no exaggeration. He had a knack for forgetting to turn off the stove or neglecting to set a timer, leaving his meals charred and inedible more often than not. While eliminating Wanderers with effortless precision was second nature to him, cooking seemed to be his weakness. Typically, Xavier gravitated toward quick, easy meals—cup noodles, ready-to-eat options—and never fussed over what he ate.

Despite his mishaps, he genuinely put in the effort to learn, committing to recipes and working to improve. With time, practice, and a few burned pans later, he eventually became efficient in the kitchen. Once he mastered the basics, he started preparing large meals, focusing on quantity so you’d never be short of options, making sure you had plenty of your favorites to choose from.

. . ────────────── ❅ ⁺.

𝐙𝐚𝐲𝐧𝐞

Zayne embodied the perfect image of husband material. Though his job as a Linkon doctor kept him busy with back-to-back surgeries and long hours at the hospital, he never failed to make time for you—especially if you were craving his cooking. Despite his demanding schedule, he made it a priority to prepare meals whenever he came home, often late into the night, just to see your face lit up with each bite.

Zayne was meticulous in the kitchen, his precise nature extending from surgery to the ingredients he handled. Aside from his disdain for carrots, he had an impressive knowledge of different vegetables and how to bring out their natural flavors in every dish. Whether he was baking or cooking, he always followed the recipes to a tee, ensuring every detail was perfect, particularly when trying something new. His care and precision in the kitchen mirrored the way he treated you—attentive, thoughtful, and deeply considerate.

. . ────────────── ❅ ⁺.

𝐑𝐚𝐟𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐥

Rafayel may come off as bratty and spoiled, but beneath that exterior, he harbored surprising culinary talent. It wasn’t something he flaunted, considering that most of his meals were either prepared by Thomas, brought or ordered online. But when the mood struck him, Rafayel could whip up a dish with flair, though he often relied on instructions and recipes to guide him. His creativity shined through, however, as he loved experimenting and adding his personal touch to any recipe.

You were always his first taste-tester, the one he’d eagerly present his latest creation to—sometimes a surprisingly delicious innovation, other times an odd combination that left you questioning his choices.

. . ────────────── ❅ ⁺.

𝐒𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬

Sylus, much like Zayne, could easily be considered husband material, though he typically didn’t need to lift a finger in the kitchen thanks to his personal chef. Yet, when the occasion called for it, Sylus was more than capable of preparing a meal. Confident and knowledgeable, he rarely consulted recipes, instead relying on his sharp memory and expertise.

While patience wasn’t his strong suit, he made an exception when you were involved. If you were there to taste his dish, Sylus would put his full effort into crafting a meal that catered to your palate, making sure each seasoning and flavor hit the right notes. For someone who thrived on power and control, cooking was one of the few activities where he allowed himself to slow down, focusing intently on every detail. After all, he wanted it to be perfect for you.

──────────────── ˗ˏˋ ❅｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽ ˎˊ˗ ────────────────

╰｡ Author's Note: There's significant parts that are definitely inspired by Infold's Special Chapter; "Ways Of Making Chocolate" chibi report on this prompt.

I'll be working on some requests (specifically a continuation of Grief) by next week since preliminaries are approaching soon, I'll be off from writing for a few days.

[enhypencores]

Feed

Ni-ki X Y/N

Genre: Romance/Angst/ Fluff/ Hurt-comfort

Word Count: 4K+

Warning: suggestive, slightly angsty

Synopsis: relentless schedule and physical distance from his girlfriend has already strained his nerves. But when Ni-ki finally reunites with you after a long month, he is met with useless nagging instead of affection, pushing him over the edge. The harsh words he utters in the heat of the moment may cause severe consequences.

Or

where a childish argument sparks up your silent treatment and a clingy—jealous ni-ki will do anything for your forgiveness.

idol niki x culinary student y/n

The room, seemingly more like the inside of a coffin, dwells in darkness and reeks of ancient pizza, boxes scattered on the dust-covered floor as evidence. You can barely walk without stepping against something grimy and viscous trickling down your bare feet as if protesting against your invasion.

It’s not like you want to proceed inside this filthy den where the air is thick with the stench of rotting food but unfortunate for you, you happen to have a boyfriend who lives in this atrocious environment. Your eyes catch the faint light of his small device in the bleak darkness, and you sigh in frustration as you finally manage to make it to his bed after dodging lumps of dirt, food and empty cola bottles.

He’s rolled over on his stomach with his back to you, a Nintendo switch in his grasp as he’s fully immersed in the game, vigorously pressing his thumb on the buttons.

Your heart almost softens at the sight, but you’re soon reminded of your surroundings as you feel the wetness pooling at the edge of his bed. Your fists clench in frustration, and you reach out to grab his blanket, flinging it off.

Brows knitting up, he turns, preparing to spew insults, assuming Jake has returned to steal more of his clothes. His jaw clenches shut, eyes widening in disbelief as he sees beautiful eyes blink down at him. He almost knocks himself off the bed, blinking in a daze. His lips curve up, a familiar warmth grazing his previously scowling expression.

“Baby?” Ni-ki rasps. Contrasting from his sharp gaze, his gentle tone which he only uses to address you, sparks butterflies in your stomach.

He doesn’t notice the scowl contorting your features— maybe too excited about seeing you after a distraught month as he sits up on his knees and yanks you down in his arms. Your chest tingles at the familiar warmth as his scent washes over you.

Despite the absolute disaster of a room, Ni-ki smells of soap and faint cologne, his damp hair brushing against your cheeks as he holds you tight against his chest. You know he only applies hygienic efforts to himself and not his surroundings.

You want to melt into his embrace and cling to his frame, but the surrounding wreckage snaps you out of it. You push at his shoulders, forcing him away to stand upright.

Now, even the darkness doesn’t hide the absolute disappointment written across your features as you stare down at him. “I come to see you, thinking, finally, I’ll spend one free night with my boyfriend watching a movie, but you’re here snacking and playing video games,” you pointedly accuse, your gaze narrowed in anger.

Ni-ki winces, used to your gentle and sweet tone. Uncomfortable, he straightens up, and you hear his scapula release a crack as if crying in relief. Your anger flares up more at the sound.

“Have you hibernated since the tour? Jungwon and Sunoo said they haven’t even seen you in days and they literally live here.” You fold your arms over your chest, aggravated.

Ni-ki breathes harder through his nose as he stands up, grabbing your hand and intertwining your fingers. Yellow streaks gleam in the brown moss of hair, his gaze running over your face in silence. He hasn’t seen you in weeks, and the urge to drown you in hugs and kisses overrides your infuriated words.

“I missed you— come’re.” He tries to tug you close, but you block his embrace, turning away and trudging through the mess to flicker the lights on.

The abrupt flash of fluorescents makes Ni-ki squint, his lips pressing together and jaw tightening. You settle your eyes on Ni-ki.

Dressed in a grey hoodie and sweatpants, he appears incredibly frail and thin, jawline contorting as he watches you with narrowed eyes. You can’t help but grimace as you notice the eye bags weighing down his face.

Your gaze softens. He looks unhealthily thin and pale. Suddenly, you want to cook him his favourite yakitori, rice, miso soup and teriyaki sashimi.

Truthfully, you loved cooking for your boyfriend. Despite being tired after training, you always made sure to feed him since he called it the best Japanese cuisine, sprinkling in a ‘better than my mother but don’t tell her’ which always made you laugh.

As soon as his vision accommodates, he feels his heart stutter. You’re a sight for sore eyes, bangs falling against your fluttering lashes, plump lips downturned, and brows arched pointedly. Even when you’re irritated, you’re the prettiest.

Ni-ki begins to approach you, making sure to steer clear of the cans of energy drinks loitering on the floor.

“Stay where you are,” you huff as your gaze roams the expanse.

Now, you can clearly see the pizza boxes, tissues and ketchup packs scattered on the floor; clothes and baseball caps that should’ve been in the laundry basket ages ago balled up in the corner of his room; PlayStation wires hanging down the television trailing across the centre, looping over the listless cola bottles.

“Ni-ki, this room is a disaster. Clean it up,” you command, your voice firm and unwavering.

His smile falters, fists clenching as he feels fury bubble up his throat.

After getting done with the hectic tour, Enhypen is finally awarded a break from activities— a two-week long break before he is pulled back into long practice sessions which last till night passes into dawn, till his muscles cry out in torment, till his body craves nothing but the softness of your curves. But of course, you had a job— much like him, and despite his desire to get you to himself, he knows you are a social butterfly, and your heart belongs in the culinary world. He hates this capitalist society and despises your company and his own for overworking you both.

Late-night calls and once-a-week encounters are his only getaway from the draining schedule.

But even these once-a-week encounters when he can recharge are now infected with your anger.

“Can’t you at least greet me with a kiss like a nice girlfriend before turning into my mother?” He snaps, glaring daggers as he watches you grab a few of his jackets from the floor to fold.

You roll your eyes, leaning down to pick up more of his clothes, folding them keenly before setting them on the edge of his bedding.

“I’m heading out to cook. Clean this place up,” you ignore his tantrums, speaking firmly before shifting away to leave.

As he watches you turn away, he feels his blood pressure rise, head pounding in disbelief at the sheer audacity of your actions.

You come to him after what seems like forever, and still, your love for him is less than your love for the arts. He’s certain even if you reunited with him after years, you’d prioritise your passions and leave him to master some fucking expensive caviar recipe you learned from a Russian chef in culinary school.

“Y/N, get back here right now,” he speaks through gritted teeth, and you pause in your tracks, taken aback by the sudden bitterness.

Chest heaving, he approaches you, heat pumping through his pale skin, painting his face red.

Closer than ever, he towers over you, making you feel so small. His eyes are narrower, sharp as a blade, cutting through you as he stares down. For a moment, you think he’ll knock you to the ground, but you see him shake his head, waves of fury coursing through his frame.

“Do you ever fucking miss me?” He utters with so much venom that he shakes with the bitterness of it.

You wince. Your lips part in horror. You want to say something, but the words have dissolved on your tongue.

He waits for a moment and then cracks a smile that doesn’t meet his eyes, running fingers through his strands in a frenzy. “Of course, you don’t. Ten days or ten months, why would you care?” He sarcastically rasps. His words reverberate against the walls and slice through you.

Pure rage fuels through your veins, and you edge closer. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“I finished up all my training to hurry to you, but I see you holed up in this stinky dorm room playing video games—” You choke up.

“Don’t show up then!” He shrieks with resolution, eyes widening purposefully. He turns away and kicks at the pile of bottles blocking his path, unleashing his wrath on the inanimate objects. “Get out! Leave me to rot in this stinky dorm!”

The room immediately goes eerily silent.

Except Ni-ki hears the shill thumping of a pulse above his ear, indicating an incoming migraine. His body feels like it’ll burst with how tumultuously the anger and frustration bubble inside his blood. He can feel the heat shoot through his arteries and collect at the back of his pupils. Distressed, he shuts his eyes and rubs a hand down his face as the ache begins to pound within his entire head.

And then, the walls mock him, reverberating the words spewed out of his mouth just a second ago. Like someone’s toppled a bucket of ice over his head, his breath hitches with realisation. He whips around, intending to fall to his knees and kiss your feet for forgiveness.

His jaw tightens.

He meets your absence.

In a fit of rage, he didn’t see your face crumble, lips tremble; he didn’t hear the sniffle and shuffling as you walked out— away from him.

He can count the times he’s unleashed his anger upon you on a single hand. Usually, he holds back, knowing that whatever was to come out in a fit of rage was absolute bullshit.

“Don’t show up then!”

“Get out! Leave me to rot in this stinky dorm!” 

He groans, fisting his hair in disbelief. How dare he use such words towards you? Ni-ki fumes and curses himself. He begins to frantically pace when he stumbles against the empty boxes and cans piling up. Suddenly, he feels the urge to throw himself off the Han River.

Of fucking course, you’re right.

It looks like a bunch of apes ransacked his room, dirt and clothes scattered with food and soft drinks spilt on the grimy floor. This isn’t liveable. How did he spend weeks cooped up in this nightmare— he’ll never know.

Ni-ki determinedly leans over and collects the clothing items, hanging his jackets on the rack while folding his shirts and jerseys to keep in a neat pile. He grabs a pack of tissues, dampens them from the bathroom sink and uses it to scrub off the dried juices from the floor.

While gathering the pizza boxes and tissues, he discovers Jake’s long-lost tie under his bed. He grabs the vacuum cleaner from his storage closet, plugs it in and runs it over the remaining crumbs and dust. The machine’s groaning only further riles up his migraine, pinching the nerves in torment; however, Ni-ki is determined to make this place spotless— worthy of your presence.

Two heads poke out from behind the door, lured by the blaring sounds of the machine. Sunoo’s eyes widen, and Jake’s jaw drops at the sight.

“Do you see what I see?” Jake whispers, scared the fantasy would shatter if he spoke any louder, staring in a daze, watching as the younger boy lay on his stomach to push the vacuum under the bed till it scraped the other end.

“Nishimura Ri-ki cleaning? I see it,” Sunoo confirms, blinking rapidly.

“Hell, this must be the end of the world,” another surprised voice joins the duo, and Jake and Sunoo look up, confused at the third intrusion. Heeseung stands towering behind Sunoo’s head, peaking inside with wonder.

Ni-ki simply ignores them, extra concerned with scrubbing the place clean to quickly find his way to you. Gradually, the lair becomes a civilised room with breathable air. Ni-ki lights up your favourite vanilla-scented candles and inhales deeply, observing the expanse.

Primarily, his room was pretty sleek with a tenebrous elegancy, grey curtains, light-toned carpet and a chic black couch custom-made from Japan, all chosen to his liking. The side table carries some figurines and a pile of his favourite manga collections. In the second drawer, he likes to store hair ties, skincare products, and plushies so he can convince you to have a sleepover every time you visit. Even his wardrobe lingers with your presence. Once, when Ni-ki caught Jake wearing a hoodie that still smelled of you, he pounced on him and ripped it off the petrified Australian. From then on, Ni-ki forbade any member from touching his things. For extra precaution, he still separated specific items you liked, sparing a section to all his hoodies you wore.

Ni-ki runs a hand over his messy hair, patting down his pants and hoodie for any dust before heading out of his room.

The hallway is now perturbingly empty, and the adjacent doors to his room are shut. Ni-ki hastens inside Sunoo’s room, usually finding you seated and binging shows. Instead, he discovers Sunoo on his PC, watching some romantic anime. He dashes off and checks Jake and Heeseung’s room, but you’re nowhere to be found.

A surge of panic courses through him, thinking you’ve really left. He hastens down the hallway, stopping to check the guest bathroom (also empty) and dashing down the stairs.

As he hurries down the last step, his frantic gaze roams the expanse before pausing at the open kitchen. He freezes, his foot hanging over the previous step. His heart swells with relief.

Thank fuck, you’re exactly where you belong—right before his eyes.

With denim sleeves rolled up and hair clipped in a messy bun, you’re immersed in stirring the pot, looking absolutely ethereal in your element. Ni-ki’s breath stutters as he admires you in your own little world.

When you stepped into a kitchen, no amount of distractions could shift your focus. It was one of the things he loved about you: putting a little of your heart into everything you do. But it was also something he disliked about you. If everything in the world takes a little of your heart, what’s left for him?

He gulps down the burning sensation, reminding himself of his earlier stupidity. He kicked you out of his room.

God, he wants to smack himself so badly.

Carefully, Ni-ki takes calculated steps towards the kitchen. And like he predicts, you don’t notice, too consumed by whatever was in the pan. He sneaks up from behind and stands beside you, purposefully brushing his shoulder with yours to make you wary of his presence.

You freeze and spare him a glance. And then he notices the immediate grimace and frown weighing down your beautiful face. His heart drops further into his stomach as you look away, attending to your recipe.

He nibbles on his lower lip. He suddenly feels nervous. His palms itch, and his chest tightens with discomfort. His gaze lingers on your face, yearning for your attention. He internally begs for you to speak— shout— maybe even curse him out. You don’t do any such thing.

Instead, you wash the rice and toss some diced green vegetables in the pan with chicken bits, stir-frying it together. He leans forward, sniffing the steaming chicken, gulping down the tightness in his throat.

He finds his voice. “Teriyaki stir fry— for me?” He tries to sound optimistic, but his voice is weak with tension. His pretence is crystal clear.

Silence. Pin drop- deafening silence. It’s supposed to be good for his migraine, but your silence just makes the throbbing sensation concentrate even more, so much so that he feels a gruesome pain stir up in his neck.

His frustration mounts as he sees you turn away to wash the dirty dishes in the sink.

The silence begins to kill him. Agitated, he grabs at your shoulders, whirling you in his arms. You gasp as your palms flatten against his chest to steady yourself.

You glance up with wide eyes, and his gaze immediately softens. “Say something,” he urges, browns of his eyes drained with yearning.

His touch on your arms sends pleasurable ripples down your body, but you don’t make it known. Instead, you offer him a cold, obstinate expression, your mouth sealed shut in stubborn rage.

He feels pathetic as you look at him with steely eyes before pushing away and returning to wash the dishes. His gaze narrows in frustration. His fists tighten as a horrifying thought plagues his mind: the thought that you’ll give him the silent treatment till his last day in Korea, and he has to fly out before he gets to fix this.

Just the thought of leaving you makes him lose it.

Distressed, he bites his lip and fists his hair.

Think. Think. Think.

He spots the searing chicken, and suddenly, everything plays out before him. He envisions you coming to him with the food. You’ll have to talk to him when you give him his lunch.

He restrains a smile and waits for you to get done, arms folded over his chest as he leans against the kitchen counter, watching you intently.

Soon, you return to the stove and empty the pan on a clean plate. You scoop the rice from the cooker and serve it with sophisticated chef-like precision. You have a knack for presenting any dish—even something as simple as instant ramen—as if it belongs in a Michelin-star restaurant.

His mouth waters as he stares at the heat simmer. He can already taste the juices in his mouth. And then he patiently waits.

Your gaze roams the living room as you hold up the tray. His bashful smile widens as you approach him.

And then both his smile and heart drop when you walk past him towards the hallway— in the complete opposite fucking direction to his room. His jaw tightens as he rushes behind like a lost puppy, his confusion mounting as he sees you approach another room—Jungwon’s room.

The door is answered immediately as if he had been awaiting your arrival.

Jungwon’s smile widens, shaking the bangs out of his sight, his dimple peaking out charmingly. “I told you this wasn’t necessary, Y/N,” he chimes, but he stares at the scrumptious platter, licking his lips in excitement.

As you walked out of Ni-ki’s dorm, wiping tears from your eyes, you bumped heads with Jungwon, who instantly noticed how upset you appeared. He knew you were the most in your element whenever you cooked, so he brought up how badly he craved your stir fry. And that was all it took for you to work your magic.

God, Ni-ki was so lucky.

If Jungwon had a girlfriend as caring and talented in the kitchen, he’d probably lose his mind and devour everything you cooked like a ravenous beast.

“You said you were hungry, so I thought I’d cook you your favourite.” You give him an adorable smile, handing him the warm tray.

“Thank you, our lovely master chef!” Jungwon compliments, and you giggle softly at the nickname.

The sound makes Ni-ki sick. Your breathtaking smile directed towards someone who isn’t him makes him nauseous. The plate carrying flavours you created for someone else to devour makes him burn with resentment. The food that took so much effort to make intended for another member and not your fucking boyfriend makes Ni-ki violent. He’s never hated the sight of your food before today.

As you walk away, ignoring his presence, he hears a dull ringing in his ear. The bubbling frustration and anger have started to take a toll on his body.

It was questionable how ten hours of practice, sleepless nights and continuous shows didn’t make him this ill. But you have the power to bring him to his knees.

Jungwon notices Ni-ki standing motionless by the wall and meets his eyes with confusion.

Worst fucking mistake ever.

Predatory eyes, murderous—poisoning black holes stare him down. It doesn’t help that Ni-ki’s taller, and Jungwon shrinks, his mouth drying up in voiceless horror. Ni-ki steps forward, and Jungwon gulps, suddenly forgetting that he’s older.

Ni-ki grabs the chicken and stuffs it in his mouth. The threatening glare is enough for Jungwon to shut his mouth before Ni-ki marches away.

When Jungwon recovers, he notices only bits of capsicum and onion with plain rice remain.

Fucking Nishimura Ri-ki downed all the steaming chicken in one bite.

Jungwon withholds a groan and slams his door shut.

Meanwhile, you’re back in the living room, answering a phone call from a friend, fretting over the recent assignment. While you’re explaining it to her, you notice a towering presence behind you, his familiar cologne invading your senses even before you can turn to inspect the intrusion.

You ignore his presence, clarifying the assignment’s nuances. You assume he’ll tire out and leave to his room— the one he kicked you out of— eventually, but your breath gets caught in your throat when he grabs your wrist, jerking you close.

Your words morph into a screech of horror as Ni-ki effortlessly hoists you up on his shoulder. You’re upside down, screaming and throwing a tantrum as the phone escapes your grasp, a shrill scream of defiance leaving your mouth. You try kicking him, but he takes determined steps towards the hallway.

In a frantic haze, you catch sight of Sunoo and Jake standing in their doorway, peering to inspect the commotion. You scream for help, and for a second, you think Sunoo’s about to jump in to save your ass, but as if he’s seen a ghost— he freezes in his tracks. His fearful gaze lingers on Ni-ki, and he edges back inside, offering you nothing but an empathetic smile.

You want to curse the cowards out, but by the time you find your voice, you’re already inside Ni-ki’s room, and he’s locked the door shut. He takes you to his bed, then gently sits you on the bedding.

With your blood boiling, you can’t even meet his eyes. You attempt to reach the door, but he clenches your wrist and pulls you back. Consumed by violent rage, you punch his chest.

He takes it—without even a change to his breathing and remains blocking your path like a wall.

One. Two.

Three. Four.

By the fifth one, your fist hurts. You look up in distress.

Finally. He breathes.

You finally spare him a glance.

He feels the burden on his chest lighten, his tense frame easing as you finally spare him your complete attention— unfavourable attention but better than feeling like the discrete air that passes by.

“Give me any bruise you want, curse me out— I beg you, just don’t do this to me,” he’s stuttering, his voice low and brittle as he tries to suppress his fears.

Whenever Ni-ki sulks, his small eyes go round, and his lips pucker unintentionally. You almost falter at the sight, but his earlier words itch your insides, and you rip your wrist from his grasp in resentment.

“I would rather be anywhere else than in your fucking room.” He winces at the cruel tone, his eyes flashing with hurt as you attempt to walk off. Panic-stricken, he pushes down on your shoulders until you’re dropping onto the sheets.

Immediately, he drops to his knees and grabs your hand, pressing his lips to the back in soft kisses.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” he whispers, and you feel his lips quiver against your skin. He trails kisses around until he’s peppering them in your palms.

“I’m a fucking moron— I’m sorry,” he chokes up and presses his entire face inside the warmth of your hands. You feel dampness.

Your heart throbs in torment.

“This is your room before it’s mine,” he mumbles and kisses your palms repeatedly. “You were just being your caring self—helping me get my shit together. I— I missed you so badly this month. I haven’t stopped thinking of you since the day I left,” his voice cracks.

Unknowingly, you’re also crying. You realise when wetness trails down your cheeks, and you tremble as emotions overwhelm you.

You lean down and caress his hair. “I missed you too, Riki.”

He feels a tug in his heart when you call him his real name, his chest suddenly tightening as he recalls just how terribly he missed you. And then how awfully he treated you.

He looks up with watery eyes, hair falling against his vision, and his insides shrivel in defeat. He hates your tears. Realising he’s made you cry over his stupidity, he wants to throw himself off the roof. A burning ache pools within his chest.

He releases a groan, wiping at your tears persistently.

“I’m sorry too,” you cry, and he wishes he could really burn himself alive.

“Why the fuck are you apologising?” His eyes burn with restrained anger.

He wishes you’d scold him and call it a day like any normal fucking girlfriend. But you’re his girl, insanely warm and disgustingly understanding—to him, always.

“I know I should’ve wrapped you in my arms before lashing out about how dirty the room is,” you admit, your lips pressing together with guilt. He’s watching you with confused anger as if he wants to refuse everything that escapes your mouth, but you eagerly complete your words.

“I just hate how badly overworked you are. I hate not seeing you for months. And I hate how you can’t be a normal nineteen-year-old like me. I know you aren’t some careless guy throwing a tantrum. You’re struggling to breathe in this rigorous world of stardom where one slip-up means the end of your career, where you cannot be anything less than perfect.”

As you talk about his struggles, he feels a tighter knot begin to clog his throat. Discomfort ceases his chest, and his eyes burn. His chest heaves with unspent tension.

You sniff and wipe at your cheeks. “And I guess walking into this room reminded me of your struggles. And then, I noticed how thin you’ve become— and wanted to cook you some—”

He gets off his knees, pouncing on top of you, his mouth clashing against yours in a passionate kiss. You tumble back with his body pressing down in desperate urgency.

Your breath is caught in your throat, lips frantically trying to match his intensity. His kiss dries your mouth; it’s so demanding and urgent like he’s getting to breathe air after ages. His tongue invades and intertwines with yours, sucking vehemently on your tongue for your taste. You’re a moaning, panting mess as his hands hold down your waist. He squeezes you in his hold, pushing his tongue deeper into your mouth like a depraved man.

You push at his neck defeatedly once you feel oxygen run out. He groans into your mouth, indicating his displeasure, but relents when your nails dig into his neck, forming painful crescents.

His face hovers over yours, heavy breath lingering against your gasping mouth. Impatiently, he stares into your eyes like he wants to transfer some of his energy and resilience to your body so you can let him kiss you however badly he wants. Magically, even his migraine has started to dispel— and his chest feels lighter. He also wants to smile and laugh like a lunatic and kiss you till your mouth bleeds.

The tension in your frame thickens as he rubs his nose against yours, still eyeing your heaving, flushed frame in yearning.

Warmth colours your cheeks, dried tears blinking along your lashes. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.” He drags his nose against your cheek and drops a noisy kiss on the corner of your mouth.

“But whatever it is, it doesn’t excuse feeding hyung before me.”

You’re confused and ready to argue, but he’s already latched his mouth onto yours, attempting to make up for all the past time. After all, he still needs to put his hands everywhere and remind you of his touch, sulk because you cooked for Jungwon, plead for ramen with tofu to stuff himself full, convince you to sleep over and feed him all night.

[grimmweepers]

— ☆ 𝐀 𝐃𝐀𝐒𝐇 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐀𝐑

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: alhaitham wants to cheer you up by giving you a cake but, much to his dismay, he discovers he’s not very good at baking

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬: alhaitham x gn!reader, modern au, established relationship, fluff, slice of life, comfort, baking, you call him baby, he might be a lil ooc 1.2k wc. | masterlist

a/n: important!! this piece is for the @pixelcafe-network’s secret santa exchange and it is my gift to @ariiadnes <3 surprise little elf, i am your santa >:) hehe that was me on anon. i welcome anybody to enjoy it but i’m just prefacing that i wrote this with my little elf in mind so this is personalised and will include some details specific to our kay ^_^ thank you to the pixel cafe for organising something so sweet <3 happy holidays!

p.s there is an extra surprise at the end 🤭

The sudden clang of the rolling pin meeting the floor made Alhaitham pause mid-motion. He regarded the rogue tool with a glare as though it had a personal vendetta against him. If baking was a dance of trial and error, it appeared Alhaitham was hopelessly out of step.

This shouldn’t be so difficult, he thought, bending down to retrieve it with a sigh.

What had started as a bold plan to cheer you up was devolving into a textbook case of kitchen disaster. His countertops bore signs of his struggle: a battlefield of flour, sticky smears of frosting, and a timer that had long since been silenced, marking the hours he had spent here. A slightly concerning scent wafted from the oven, where a deflated Snoopy cake mocked his attempts, its ears drooping in defeat.

All his brilliance yet his intellect failed him in the kitchen. The art of baking required nuances he hadn’t yet mastered—the understanding of texture, temperature, and timing. These were variables that no theorem or formula could solve. He glanced at the instructional video on his phone, the cheerful baker’s voice grating against his fraying patience.

‘Step one: don’t overfill the pan,’ he recited in his head, lips thinning as he stared at the mess in the oven. “A bit late for that.”

His phone buzzed, pulling him from his brooding. It was a message from you:

“Done for the day! Heading home soon. Love you <3.”

Alhaitham paused, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. He could easily picture the exhaustion in your face as you typed the message. You’d been weathering the storm of clinical rotations, coursework, and sleepless nights to reach the summit of your master’s program. He’d witness you lose sleep over exams, spend weekends buried in textbooks, and wake before dawn to attend hospital shifts.

He’d also notice the fatigue in your voice, how you napped more often to catch up on rest, and the stress you tried to hide when things got overwhelming.

Even in your exhaustion, you still managed to grace him with a smile. There was something admirable about how your heart endured, how you found space for joy despite the weight you carried. He knew he couldn’t ease your responsibilities, but he could remind you that you weren't facing it all alone.

His gaze shifted to the Snoopy figurine he’d bought for inspiration, perched on the counter like a silent overseer of this culinary misadventure. No turning back now.

Alhaitham began to roll up his sleeves and pick up the piping bag.

For you, he was willing to stumble through every misstep.

Drawing Snoopy’s outline with frosting proved no easier than taming the batter. Alhaitham leaned in close, expression sharpening, and the tip of his tongue peeked out in concentration (a face no one but you might ever see from him). As he worked, his mind whispered doubts, yet his hands persisted.

Steadfast, if imperfect.

———

By the time you stepped through the front door, the scent of burnt sugar lingered in the air. The apartment, to your surprise, looked untouched—eerily pristine, even. Nothing seemed to have moved ever since you left the house this morning. 

No hint of chaos. Yet.

“Haitham~?” you called out, kicking off your shoes. “What’s that smell? Did you… light a candle or something?”

“In the kitchen,” came his reply, his voice betraying none of his current predicament.

You rounded the corner, and the first thing you noticed upon entering was the stillness. Alhaitham stood near the counter, as composed as always, except for the flour dusting his hair and a smear of frosting on his cheek.

The second thing you noticed was the cake. Or what you assumed was meant to be a cake. Snoopy, your beloved Snoopy, lay immortalised in wobbly frosting on an uneven base. His ears drooped, and his face was just crooked enough to be endearing.

“Haitham?” you asked, placing your bag down carefully. “What… What happened here? Did Snoopy get caught in a blizzard?”

Alhaitham’s neutral expression didn’t falter, though his ears turned a light shade of pink. “It’s a cake,” he deadpanned. “Not a sculpture. Artistic liberties were necessary.”

That was all it took. You doubled over, laughter spilling from your lips like a bubbling brook. “You made this? For me?”

“Yes,” he said simply, the word softened by his sincerity. “You’ve been overworking yourself. I thought you might enjoy this.”

Your laughter melted into something warmer, and you stepped closer with a glow in your chest, inspecting the cake with a fond smile. “I didn’t know you could bake.”

“I can’t,” he admitted flatly. “And I don’t plan to pursue it further. The kitchen may never recover.”

"But you look so handsome covered in frosting." You reached up, gently touching the mess on his cheek. “You’ve got a little something here.”

Not wasting another second, you pressed a kiss to the smudge, tasting a bit of sugar on your tongue. His breath caught, just barely, and you pulled back with a grin.

“There,” you said playfully. “All cleaned up.”

His lips parted slightly as if to retort, but you didn’t give him the chance. You cupped his face, your thumbs tracing circles of flour on his skin. “Did my baby work hard on this cake?”

Alhaitham blinked, caught entirely off-guard by your tone. “I wouldn’t use the term hard,” he huffed slightly, a crack in his usual demeanor under your doting affection. 

“Oh, but you did,” you teased, brushing your nose against his. “Worked so hard, just for me. My thoughtful, talented boyfriend.”

He sighed, a long exhale that felt more like surrender than irritation. “If you keep that up, you might convince me it was worth the mess.”

You beamed, leaning up to kiss him properly this time, imprinting your gratitude on his lips. “I already know it was. You’re the sweetest, you know that?”

His ears darkened further, and he turned his attention to the counter as if it had become the most fascinating object in the room. “The cake might taste otherwise.”

“Stop being modest,” you said, grabbing the knife. “Come on. Let’s taste your masterpiece.”

His hand covered yours before you could cut into it. “Be gentle with it. It’s barely holding together.”

You chuckled, nudging him. “Sounds a bit like me during finals actually.” Alhaitham was clearly amused by your comparison, lips quirking as you looked at him.

When you cut into the cake, the sound of the knife meeting its layers fills the space. You served a piece, taking a bite before offering your verdict. “Hmm.” You hummed thoughtfully, watching his expression tighten.

“Well?” he asked, the question almost reluctant.

You grinned and reached for his hand, squeezing it. “It’s perfect. Just like you.”

He raised his brow at the sentiment but you caught the way his grip mirrored your squeezing. “I think your standards are too forgiving,” he replied.

“Not at all,” you said earnestly, setting your fork down and stepping closer. “It means everything to me, Alhaitham. Thank you.”

For once, words faltered and fell away, replaced by the gentle press of his forehead against yours. At that moment, the world seemed to pause, and the chaos of frosting, cake, and his flour-coated hands faded into nothingness. In their place was something simpler, something truer—his love for you that spoke volumes without a single syllable.

bonus gift: some silly visuals 🫶

a/n: i was a little nervous about this because kay, you already write so beautifully. i truly hope this was to your liking 🥺💖 congrats again on completing your masters program. i hope your certification exam goes/went well 💖

© 2024 grimmweepers — do not repost, copy, translate, modify my work on any platform.

divider: @/adornedwithlight