#disappointed by the lack of flavor

[reallyverynormal]

i'm not vegetarian anymore but i was raised by a woman who has spent a good chunk of her life vegan, then shifting to vegetarian. the difference between her and most vegetarians i've come across, however, is that she spent a long, LONG time living in el paso, completely entrenched in the culture of the area, learning exactly how to make delicious homemade mexican food from her then boyfriend's mom, using delicious spices, and when she became vegan/vegetarian after that, she carried all of that with her to make some seriously delicious vegan and vegetarian mexican and mexican-inspired meals, and let me tell you.

not only can vegan and vegetarian food be incredibly delicious, it doesn't even have to be healthy if you don't feel like it. all vegan and vegetarian food is, is food without meat (and animal products). that is quite literally all it has to be.

you're a vegetarian, doesn't have to mean that every meal you eat is healthy and/or boring. get some beyond beef steak tips and fry them and some potatoes in fuckloads of olive oil with some steak seasoning, onion powder, garlic powder, salt, pepper and paprika, and maybe put some gravy or cheese on it and you have a great vegan/vegetarian version of some classic southern comfort food.

for the love of god start experimenting with cumino, garlic salt, onion powder, paprika, turmeric, cayenne pepper, steak seasoning, brisket rub, taco seasoning, ginger, chinese five spice, cinnamon, brown sugar, vinegar, etc. if you like a specific pre-mixed seasoning, take a look at the ingredients to see what's actually in it, and experiment on your own.

look at the way chefs prepare and season their meat and try experimenting with the same using tofu, seitan, ground vegetables, whatever the fuck, just do it. look at the way certain kinds of veggie burger patties are made and experiment with that at home. i promise all of this is so much easier and so much more delicious than you can imagine.

plain tofu is good, but mashed up tofu with turmeric, garlic salt, pepper and some cheese and cholula hot sauce thrown on there and stuffed into a tortilla is even more delicious.

I know this is a tiny part of the wider problems born of diet culture, fatphobia, classicism, and racism but like god the idea that "healthy" food must inherently taste bad has completely ruined us as a society.

[dear-ao3]

sometimes you mildly forget that you live in 1. a college town and 2. a college town with approximately 10 bars and 3. that it is in fact halloween night (on a thursday!!!) at 11:30pm and you really really want a slushee so you and your roommate decide to walk to 7/11 at 11:30 pm on halloween night (a thursday) through the middle of your down town (which has 10 bars) and are accosted by the smell of every flavor vape in existence, weed, and quite possibly every band of cigarettes and that is not even including the absolute hoards of drunk college students dressed as everything under the sun (because it is halloween) (a thursday) and you have no choice but to put your head down and say well this is no worse than times square and wander through the crowds (of drunk college students) (in costume) (because it is halloween) (a thursday) until you find the 7/11 which just happens to be closed because there was an Incident that occurred inside of it (because it is halloween) (and there are drunk college students) (and its thursday) and so you walk away, slightly disappointed in your lack of slushee only to have another drunk college student, dressed in a spider man onesie, who may or may not actually have been your co worker's boyfriend, yell at you from an open apartment window that "hey my girlfriend has that shirt!" because you were wearing your eras tour shirt because you forgot that it was halloween (a thursday) and then in your wandering you encounter a gas station that is miraculously open but unmiraculously does not have slushees and you have to settle for an arizona mucho mango tea and an ice cream bar.

happy halloween?

[seospicybin]

TASTE.

FINAL CHAPTER: TASTE.

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. (10,2k words)

Author's note: Can't believe it's the end already. Thank you so much to each and everyone of you for following Taste series ♡

Taste. /teɪst/ (n) 1. the sensation of flavor perceived in the mouth 2. a brief experience of something, conveying its basic character.

The first thing Minho ever learns about taste is balance.

A dish can be technically perfect—each ingredient measured with precision, each technique executed flawlessly—but if it lacks harmony, it falls apart. Too much sweetness, and it becomes cloying. Too much salt, and it overwhelms. Too much bitterness, and it alienates the palate.

The key, Chef once told him, is knowing when to lean into one over the other. To understand how the sour sharpens, how the sweet soothes, how the bitter lingers, grounding everything in something real.

Minho spends years mastering that balance in food. He doesn’t realize, until now, that he has never quite mastered it in himself.

The sharpness of ambition pushes him forward, the bitterness of disappointment keeps him guarded, the salt of hard work keeps him steady—but he has never truly let himself indulge in sweetness. Not until you.

And now, as he watches everyone in the kitchen, his chest feels both light and anchored.

For the first time, he isn’t just chasing balance. Minho has found it.

He moves through the kitchen with sharp eyes and precise steps, watching every station like a hawk. The air is thick with heat, the clang of pans and the rhythmic chopping of knives forming a symphony of controlled chaos.

A new order spits out from the machine, and Minho grabs the slip without missing a beat. He barely glances at it before his voice cuts through the noise.

"Two risottos, one sea bass, one osso buco—fire it now!"

A chorus of Yes, Chef! echoes back as he moves.

"Hyunwoo, take the risottos. Seungwan, the sea bass is yours. Seojun, on the osso buco. Felix, where’s my agnolotti?"

"Coming up now, Chef!"

Minho barely nods before his gaze lands on you. "Hurry up with that basil pesto."

"Yes, Chef!"

The kitchen hums, bodies moving in perfect rhythm, but Minho doesn’t let up. He paces through the space, watching every detail, catching the smallest missteps before they happen.

“Are you all tired yet?” he asks, voice loud enough to cut through the frenzy.

No one answers. They know better. A slow smirk tugs at Minho’s lips. He stops between Hyunwoo and Felix, arms crossed. “This is all your fault.”

Hyunwoo glances at him, amused. “Yes, Chef?”

Minho nods toward the packed dining area beyond the kitchen doors. “All of you. It’s your fault the restaurant is bursting with customers.” He shifts his weight. “It’s your fault that expectations are through the roof.”

Hyunwoo grins. “Yes, Chef.”

Minho continues his path to the entrée line, sharp gaze flickering over the plates in progress. “If anyone screws up, you're all dead.”

Instead of intimidation, the response is instant, almost teasing. "Yes, Chef!"

Minho strides back to his table just as Seojun, Seungwan, and Hyunwoo present their dishes for final inspection. He leans in, taking in the plates, the precise plating, the balance of color and texture. He picks up a fork, slicing into the tender osso buco before taking a bite. A smirk tugs at his lips.

“First-place winners, indeed,” he mutters. Then, louder— “Pass!”

The three of them beam before rushing back to their stations, pride radiating off them.

Minho exhales, just slightly. The chaos, the heat, the relentless push for perfection—this is what a kitchen is supposed to feel like.

It’s exhilarating. Exhausting. Satisfying.

Because this kitchen? It’s his now.

-

Minho steps out of the restaurant, inhaling the crisp night air. The warmth of the kitchen still clings to his skin, the adrenaline from dinner service not yet fully faded.

He glances up at the restaurant’s facade, eyes landing on the banner draped proudly across the entrance—Congratulations to Farfalle’s Seojun, Park Hyunwoo and Choi Seungwan. Winners of the New Chef Culinary Challenge!

A quiet chuckle escapes him. It's ridiculous, really, but he can't deny the swell of pride in his chest. They earned it.

Shaking his head, Minho turns toward the parking lot, his pace unhurried. He doesn't expect to see anyone waiting, but the moment his eyes land on you, leaning against his car with that familiar, knowing smile, he feels his pulse stutter for a fraction of a second.

You were waiting for him. Your lips curve just a little more as he approaches, the kind of smile that tells him you’ve already decided how this night is going to go. Minho stops right in front of you, gaze flicking down as you reach for the front of his jacket. Your fingers curl into the fabric, tugging him closer—close enough that he can feel the warmth of your breath when you finally speak.

"The contest is over," you murmur, voice low, teasing. "You're done helping the team."

Minho tilts his head slightly, watching you, feeling the heat of anticipation coil low in his stomach.

"Which means…" Your fingers tighten ever so slightly against his jacket. "Tonight, I'm taking back what's mine."

A smirk ghosts over his lips. The thrill of competition, the rush of victory—none of it compares to the way you look at him now.

Minho isn’t sure what’s going to happen next. But he can’t wait to find out.

-

The second the door clicks shut behind you, Minho barely has time to react before you shove him backward. His back hits the sofa, a low chuckle escaping his lips as he watches you climb onto his lap, your eyes dark with intent.

You waste no time, crashing your lips against his, the kiss hungry, urgent. Your hands are already working open the buttons of his shirt, fingers quick, almost impatient, as if you've waited too long for this moment. Minho lets you take control, but his own hands aren't idle—they move instinctively, sliding over your waist, your back, gripping and tracing every inch of you he can reach.

It’s been weeks. Weeks of late nights at the restaurant, weeks of stolen glances, of tension thick enough to cut with a knife. And now, finally, there's no more waiting.

Minho exhales sharply against your lips, tilting his head to deepen the kiss as his fingers tighten on your hips. He can feel the heat radiating off you, the way your body presses so perfectly against his.

God, he missed this. Missed you. And now, he’s not holding back.

Minho groans into the kiss as your fingers finally push his shirt open, sliding over the exposed skin of his chest. His hands tighten on your waist before gliding up your back, pulling you even closer until there’s no space left between you.

Your lips move hungrily against his, tongues tangling, breaths mingling. He tilts his head, deepening the kiss, his fingers trailing down your spine, reveling in the way you shiver under his touch. His grip grows firmer as he shifts beneath you, the heat between you both rising with every second.

You break away just enough to catch your breath, your forehead resting against his as your fingers lazily trace patterns on his chest. Minho smirks, his hands slipping under your shirt, fingertips teasing over your skin.

“You’ve been waiting for this, huh?” he murmurs, voice husky, his breath warm against your lips.

“Tell that to yourself,” You teasingly respond before pressing another kiss, slower this time, but just as intense. Minho groans softly, his hands exploring, savoring the feeling of you, the way you melt into him so effortlessly.

The night is just beginning but Minho’s hands are impatient now, his fingers slipping beneath your clothes, rough and eager. You gasp against his lips as he tugs at your shirt, pulling it up and over your head in one swift motion before tossing it aside. His eyes darken as he takes you in, a smirk curling on his lips.

“God, you're perfect,” he murmurs, voice thick with want, but you don’t give him a chance to say more—you crash your lips back onto his as your hips beginning to move, grinding on his growing bulge.

Minho groans as your hands explore his chest, nails scraping lightly over his skin. His own hands travel down your back, gripping you tight as he shifts beneath you, his body pressing insistently against yours.

You grip his shoulder as you grin harder, your heating core making friction with his crotch. The heat between you is undeniable, every touch electric, every kiss more desperate than the last.

You slow down as you drag your lips down his neck and before he knows it, you get up from his lap. You stand in between his spreading legs, your eyes locked in a steady gaze as you unzip the zipper of your skirt and then letting it drops, pooling around your ankle before you kick it aside.

You bend down and put your hands on each of his knees, leaning in until your lips meet his in a rapturous open kiss. You let go of his lips only to continue making a trail of hot kisses down his body and then, before he knows it, you drop to your knees.

You look through your lashes as your fingers move to his belt, tugging it free with a satisfying snap. Minho flashes you a sly smirk as you slowly pull the zipper down and then roughly pulls the front of his jeans.

“Impatient, are we?” he teases, though his own hand is just as eager as he grabs you by the neck.

You pull his cock out of its confine, you gasp at how hot, how stiff he is in your hand. You slowly stroking it, once in a while, your gently rub the head with your thumb before giving it the gentlest of kitten lick but it's enough to make Minho gets hot all over. His ear, his chest, parts of his body reddening as desire makes his skin flushed.

His other hand reaches for your jaw, he tilts your head toward him and then shoves his thumb into your mouth. Your lips automatically wrapped around it, sucking and twirling your tongue around it. It gives him an idea what your mouth feels like and it gets him impatient.

Minho roughly pulls his thumb out of your mouth, sending a string of saliva dripping down your chin but instead of wiping it off, you grin at him and open your mouth wider. Then slowly, you bring your head lower as you aim his cock into your mouth.

“Think you can take it, mmh?” his voice is dripping with condescension.

You take him little by little. You take a second to adjust yourself before taking more of him. You pull away when it gets too much and doing it all over again.

Minho can’t decide which one is hotter: Watching you pleasing him with your mouth or how eager you are to please him.

He grabs the stray hairs covering your face and gathering it at the back of your head, one hand holds firmly holds it, forming a makeshift ponytail. That way, he can watches your lips wrapped so beautifully around his cock.

“Come on, you can take a little more,” his voice is low, husky and assertive.

You tilt your head a little to the side and take him up on his challenge, taking more of him until Minho feels nothing but the back of your throat. Your hand compensate the rest you can't take.

“Now, let's see what that pretty mouth can do,” he sighs, tugging at your hair a little harder.

You sync your mouth and hand movements and eventually finds the rhythm that makes Minho’s eyea fluttering shut, intoxicated by the way your mouth feels around him. Low grunts spilling out of his slightly parted open mouth. He must admits that you're too good at it.

You stop when he's close enough to the edge and gasp for air, you don't bother with the saliva dribble down your chin so Minho wipes it for you. Then without hesitation, he plants a kiss on your open mouth.

He pulls away but he keeps cradling your head in both hands and mutters, “You look pretty like this.”

He helps you get on your feet and wastes no time tugging his fingers on the elastic band of your underwear. He looks up at you but his hands are pulling your underwear down your legs. He then lifts your leg, resting the sole of your feet next to his thigh.

He begins by placing fluttering kisses on your inner thighs and not stopping until his mouth meets the source of heat. Gosh, you taste so sweet, so intoxicating that Minho buries his mouth deeper in your wetness.

You moan with your head lolling to the side, your hand is tangled in his dark locks while the other is gripping at his shoulder. In no time, Minho succeed on making your legs trembling that you end up on his lap again.

You prop your knees on the sofa, giving you the space to align his cock with your entrance before you slowly lower yourself on him.

“Oh...” your moan is low and sultry, it goes on until you take all of him.

Minho plants a haste kiss on your neck and then presses his mouth close to your ear. “You feel so fucking good,” his voice strained, as if overwhelmed by what he's feeling physically.

He slumps lower on the sofa, allowing you to drop your hands on his knees and plant your feet on the sofa. That way, you're free to move against him, bouncing on his cock and at the same time, giving him the best view of his cock slipping in and out of you.

“Keep going,” he sighs in between his breathless grunts, “You’re fucking me so good. Don't stop.”

You keep going for a few moments until you tire yourself out and you're settling down onto his back. Minho immediately wrapped his arms around you tightly as he starts bucking his hips down from under you.

The world narrows down to just the two of you—skin against skin, breath mingling in the space between kisses. Minho’s hands grip your waist, guiding you, his touch firm yet reverent, like he’s memorizing every part of you. The rhythm is unspoken but understood, each movement drawing you closer, deepening the connection between you.

And then, in the midst of it all, something shifts. A sudden rush of emotion wells up in your chest, raw and overwhelming. Your hands find his face, cupping his cheeks as you slow down, locking eyes with him. Minho’s gaze softens, the heat in them replaced with something deeper, something that steals the breath from your lungs.

"I love you," you whisper, voice barely audible but carrying all the weight of your feelings.

For a moment, Minho stills. His expression changes—something flickers behind his eyes, something unguarded, completely open. Then, his lips part, his voice hushed yet firm. "I love you."

His hands tighten on your hips, not possessive, but grounding, as if anchoring himself in this moment. He pulls you down into a kiss that’s different from the ones before—not rushed, not desperate, but filled with something far more intimate.

The movements between you grow softer, slower, every touch lingering, every breath shared. It’s no longer just about the heat or the need—it’s about this, about the way you fit together, about the way your hearts seem to beat in sync.

And as Minho presses his forehead against yours, whispering your name like a prayer, you know—this moment, this feeling, is something neither of you will ever forget.

There’s no space between you now, nothing but heat and breathless laughter, the two of you tangled together, lost in the moment as the world outside ceases to exist.

-

The warmth of Minho’s body lingers against yours as you lie tangled together on the sofa, skin still burning from the passion of moments before. His lips trace lazy, playful kisses along your neck and chest, his soft laughter vibrating against your skin as he intentionally tickles you with them.

You giggle, half-heartedly pushing him away. “Minho, stop,” you murmur, breathless.

He only chuckles before relenting, his eyes gleaming with mischief. You take a moment to simply look at him—his tousled hair, the sharp yet delicate angles of his face, the way his lips curve into the slightest smirk even when he isn’t trying. Every detail of him is unfairly beautiful. You’ve always thought so, but in moments like this, when he’s bare before you, when his body is still marked by the traces of your touch, you can’t help but admire him more.

Minho is sculpted like something divine, every line and ridge of muscle seamlessly carved into perfection. The sharp planes of his collarbones, the expanse of his chest, the flex of his abdomen as he shifts beside you—it’s mesmerizing. And his face… god, his face. Even when he’s teasing you, even when he’s looking at you like he knows exactly how much power he holds over you, you can’t bring yourself to look away.

You reach up, running your fingers along his jaw, and suggest, “Wine?”

Minho pecks your lips before pulling away. “I’ll get it,” he offers, and without a second thought, he gets up, not bothering to cover himself.

Your gaze follows him, utterly shameless as he walks toward the kitchen. You could watch him for hours—the way the light catches his skin, the strong lines of his back, the easy confidence in every step he takes. He is a masterpiece, and you drink him in like he’s the finest piece of art you’ve ever seen.

Minho glances back and catches you staring. His lips curl into a knowing smirk. “Stop staring, you perv!”

You grin, shaking your head in defiance. “Never.”

He scoffs and turns away, busying himself with picking a bottle of wine from his collection. You sit up, pulling the quilt from the other end of the sofa to wrap around yourself, and in the process, your elbow knocks something off the coffee table. A soft thud follows, and when you glance down, your eyes land on a large brown envelope. Your stomach drops.

Italy. The address on the front is unmistakable.

A sinking feeling settles in your chest as you reach for it, your fingers trembling slightly. You don’t need to read much to understand what it is. A contract. Minho’s name in bold. An offer from Paolo’s, the world renowned Italian restaurant.

Which only means that Minho is leaving.

Your heart clenches painfully, but you quickly put the papers back into the envelope just as Minho returns, a bottle of wine in one hand, two glasses in the other. His eyes flicker to you immediately, and for a second, the room feels heavier. He sees you putting the envelope back, and you know that he knows.

Forcing a smile, you reach to take the glasses from him. He says nothing, just watches you as he removes the cork, the rich scent of wine filling the air. But it’s not enough to distract you.

As he pours the deep red liquid into your glass, you keep your voice light, casual. “Paolo scouted you, huh?”

Minho doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah, he wants me in his kitchen.”

You take a sip before asking, “Does that mean you’re going to Italy?”

Minho brings his own glass to his lips, pausing before replying. “Do you want me to go?”

The weight pressing against your chest is suffocating. You inhale slowly, steadying yourself. “As your girlfriend, I wish you wouldn’t,” you admit softly, keeping your grip on the glass firm. “But as a chef… you should go.”

Minho smirks, lips curving just enough to taunt. “Ah... You want it both ways.”

A breathy, shaky chuckle escapes you. “I guess I do.” Then, barely above a whisper, you ask, “So… that means you’re going?”

Minho takes another slow sip before nodding.

You knew this was coming. You expected this. But still, the confirmation stings like an open wound. You force a smile, hoping it hides the ache beneath. “If I were you, I’d go too.”

He watches you carefully, his gaze unreadable.

You swallow hard and meet his eyes. “You have to be good to me until then.”

His smirk returns, but there’s something softer in his expression. You add quickly, “And I’ll be good to you too.”

He nods, but as you look at him, the weight of it all—the inevitable goodbye, the time slipping away—becomes too much. Your eyes sting before you can stop them, and the first tear escapes, sliding down your cheek. You quickly brush it away, rough and careless, but more follow.

Minho moves closer, his hands reaching for you with the gentleness that always undoes you. He tilts your face up, his thumbs sweeping away the tears with careful strokes. His voice is quiet when he says, “Don’t cry.”

You nod quickly, even as more tears slip free. You offer a small, trembling smile. “I’m just happy for you.”

And you are.

But your heart… your heart is breaking.

-

Minho sets the last plate down on the dining table, the smell of freshly cooked breakfast filling the kitchen. Everything is ready—the only thing left to do is wake you up.

He walks toward the bedroom, but as he reaches the doorway, he stops. You’re still curled up on the bed, bundled in the duvet, your breathing soft and steady in sleep.

Last night’s conversation replays in his mind, the weight of it settling heavy in his chest. The next second, his jaw tightens when he remembered the one thing that nags at him.

“She didn’t even try to stop me from going,” he mutters under his breath, voice low and bitter.

A scoff leaves his lips before he strides toward the bed. He grabs your foot, giving it a firm tug, just enough to jolt you from your sleep. Your head slumps down against the pillow, and a sleepy murmur escapes you as you stir. Slowly, you blink your eyes open, meeting his gaze.

Minho’s voice is cold. “Wake up. Breakfast is ready.”

Without another word, he turns on his heel and leaves the bedroom, heading back to the kitchen. The moment he steps away from you, he exhales sharply, as if the air in that room had been suffocating him. He pours two mugs of coffee, the steam curling up in delicate wisps, but his expression remains tense.

It’s only after a short moment that he hears your footsteps. You emerge from the room, wearing his shirt, the fabric hanging loosely around you. Minho doesn’t react, even as you step close and press a quick kiss to his cheek before murmuring a soft, “Good morning.”

You take a seat at the dining table, and the sight of the breakfast spread makes you gasp. “Wow,” you say teasingly, picking up your coffee. “What’s the occasion?”

Minho settles into the chair across from you, leaning back slightly. His tone is casual, but there’s an edge of something unreadable in his eyes. “You asked me to be good to you,” he says simply.

You chuckle at that, taking a careful sip of your coffee before setting the mug down. As you pick up your fork, you glance at him and say, “I just remembered that I have to go somewhere today.”

Minho lifts an eyebrow but doesn’t let his curiosity show. Instead, he keeps his tone indifferent. “Eat your breakfast before you go.”

You take a moment to chew, then look at him again. “Why don’t you come with me?”

Minho tilts his head slightly, pretending to be disinterested. “Where?”

“I’m looking for apartments.”

His fingers tighten around the handle of his coffee mug. He still doesn’t look at you. “Why?”

“Chef Sara is moving out soon,” you explain, setting your fork down. “And I can’t afford the rent by myself.”

Minho’s next words come out without much thought, his voice calm, almost nonchalant. “You don’t have to worry about the rent if you come with me to Italy.”

Silence lingers between you. Then, you smile—small, knowing, a little sly. “Come on. Just come with me,” you say softly.

Minho exhales through his nose, eyes flicking up to meet yours. He doesn’t have anything better to do today anyway. “Fine.”

Minho lets himself be dragged through yet another apartment viewing, barely paying attention as the property agent talks through the details. He already knows you’re not going to take it—your face gives everything away. The moment you saw the kitchen, your enthusiasm faded, your disappointment barely masked by the polite nods you kept giving.

Then, the property agent, oblivious to the way Minho is barely tolerating this whole ordeal, suddenly comments, “It’s a little small for two people.”

Minho barely has time to react before you loop your arm around his, leaning into him with a sweet, practiced smile. “It’s fine,” you say smoothly. “We’re in love, so the small space doesn’t matter.”

Minho stiffens slightly, caught off guard by the sudden declaration, but the property agent only smiles bashfully, nodding in agreement. “Ah, of course. Love makes everything easier.”

Minho resists the urge to roll his eyes.

When the agent asks if you’re interested in any of the places he showed you, you respond with yet another polite smile. “We’ll take our time considering it.”

Minho bites back a sigh of relief when you finally part ways with the property agent, the two of you walking back toward where his car is parked. As you keep your arm linked with his, Minho glances at you, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. “You’re dragging me around so I’ll lend you money, aren’t you?”

Your eyes widen in exaggerated surprise. “How did you know?”

Minho scoffs, shaking his head. “Unbelievable.”

You hum, as if you’re genuinely considering it. “Should I look around Taesoo’s neighborhood instead?”

“It’s all the same,” Minho mutters.

You suddenly stop walking and let out a dramatic pout. “Then I don’t think I can afford anywhere else.”

Then, just as Minho is about to remind you again that you don’t have to, you turn to him, your voice casual—too casual.

“I think I’ll go to Italy with you.”

Minho freezes. His breath catches slightly, but his expression remains neutral. He blinks at you, processing what you just said before responding. “What?”

You give him a small, knowing smile. “At least in Italy, I can stay with you. Right, Chef?”

Minho’s heart stutters in his chest. He doesn’t want to react too quickly, doesn’t want to get ahead of himself—so he asks, voice steady but probing, “Do you really mean that?”

You hold his gaze for a second, then, without a word, you slowly let go of his arm. Then you shrug, nonchalant as ever, and turn away, walking off as if you hadn’t just dropped a bomb on him.

Minho’s eye twitches. “You—stop right there.”

You don’t. Instead, you keep walking, laughing under your breath.

Minho doesn’t think. He just starts chasing after you. “Why do you keep changing your mind?” he shouts, exasperated.

You don’t answer, just laugh again, quickening your pace.

Minho curses under his breath but can’t stop the small smirk forming on his lips as he picks up his speed, determined to catch you.

-

Once the dining hall is finally empty, you allow yourself a moment to relax. Sitting at the coffee station, you stack your hands together and rest your head on top of them, sighing deeply as you let the exhaustion of the day seep out of you.

A while later, Minho joins you, settling on a stool just one seat away. You lift your head, smiling despite your fatigue, and in your most professional tone, you tell him, “You did a good job today, Chef.”

Minho scoffs, eyes flicking away from you. His voice carries a quiet bitterness as he mutters, “I’m going to leave, and you don’t even seem to care.”

You bite back the urge to tease him, watching him sulk like a child. Instead, you soften your expression and say, “I do care about you.”

Minho looks at you for a second, as if assessing the sincerity of your words, before looking away again, unconvinced. You lean forward against the counter, tilting your head as you ask, “Do you know when I first started caring about you?”

Minho’s curiosity piques. He turns his head slightly toward you. “When?”

For the first time ever, you decide to reveal it. Meeting his gaze, you say, “It was back in culinary school, during one of our earlier classes. You helped me French trim a lamb rack.”

Minho frowns, visibly confused.

You smile at his reaction and continue, “That’s how I fell for you.”

Minho's eyes widen slightly, but he says nothing.

You lean your elbow on the counter, propping your chin in your palm. “All the other guys kept telling me I was doing it wrong, but you were the only one who actually showed me how.” A small, nostalgic laugh escapes you. “I was so nervous, I couldn’t even look you in the eyes.”

Minho’s lips twitch, the corners threatening to curl upward. He props a hand under his chin and asks, “So… was it love at first sight for you?”

You nod, smiling.

Minho's smirk deepens, the amusement clear in his gaze. “Really?” he presses, as if trying to tease a different answer out of you.

“Yes.” You nod again, this time more confidently. “That’s when I started caring about you.”

You pout slightly, feigning disappointment. “But you don’t even remember that day. You only started caring about me recently.”

Minho opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, a new voice enters the conversation.

Chris slides onto the empty stool between you and Minho, effectively cutting off your moment. He swivels to face you, giving Minho his back. “So,” Chris starts, his tone light and playful, “should we do something fun this weekend?”

Behind him, you hear Minho scoff, but Chris ignores it. “Is there anything you want to do?”

You think for a moment, then shake your head. “Uhm... not really.”

Chris hums, unfazed. “Then, maybe there’s somewhere you want to go?”

Minho lets out a sharp breath before finally breaking his silence. “Hey, Chris—Manager Bang,” he calls coldly.

Chris finally turns to face him.

Minho stares at him, unimpressed. “You seem rather pleased that I’m going to Italy.”

Chris shrugs. “You’re going to work at one of the best Italian restaurants. Of course, I’m pleased.” Then, with a grin, he adds, “And while you’re gone, I’ll take care of her for you.”

Minho’s expression darkens, irritation clear in his posture. Without another word, he gets up from his stool. “You two go ahead and talk. Do whatever you want,” he mutters. “Leave me out of it.”

Then, just before leaving, he shoots you a glare, as if blaming you for the entire conversation.

Once he’s gone, Chris leans back slightly, exhaling through his nose. “It’s not like him to leave us alone.”

You let out a dry chuckle and rest your hands on the counter again.

Chris watches you for a moment before sighing. “You’re right, though. I like that we don’t feel awkward around each other… but it must be different for you.”

You shake your head, quickly denying it. “It’s not that. It's just... I don’t get Minho sometimes.”

Chris gestures for you to lean in closer. Without questioning it, you do. Lowering his voice, Chris says, “I bet he’s not actually going to Italy.”

You blink, pulling back slightly. “Huh?”

Chris nods toward the direction Minho walked off in. “He hasn’t been acting like himself. It’s obvious to me.”

Your forehead wrinkles in confusion. “He doesn’t seem that way to me.”

Chris lets out a small chuckle before draping his arm around your shoulder, pulling you close until your heads are touching. “If it were me, I wouldn’t want to go either,” he murmurs. “I wouldn’t want to be far away from someone I love.”

The way he says it makes sense, but at the same time, it’s Minho. Who knows how his mind works?

Chris suddenly grins and holds his hand out toward you. “Come on. Let’s bet on it.”

You roll your eyes but ultimately shrug and take his hand, sealing the bet.

-

You don’t notice Minho carrying anything until the two of you step out of the car, and you see a paper bag in his hand. He doesn’t mention it, and you don’t ask, leading the way to your dad’s house instead. Letting yourself in, you call out for your dad from the foyer. When no response comes, you sigh and drag Minho inside with you.

Turns out, your dad is in the kitchen, busy preparing food. “Dad?”You call for him again, and this time, he finally looks up—first at you, then at Minho.

Minho quickly straightens, offering a polite nod and a greeting. “Hello, sir. How are you?”

Your dad doesn’t bother replying, only narrowing his eyes at you before grumbling, “Why are you just standing there? Make yourself useful.”

You roll your eyes but move to help, expecting Minho to follow. Before he can, though, your dad gestures for him to sit instead. You suppress a laugh at the way Minho hesitates, clearly uncertain, before reluctantly taking a seat at the dining table.

While you work, you sneak glances at them. Minho shifts uncomfortably in his seat before finally handing your dad the paper bag. “I brought this for you, sir,” he says. “It’s supposed to be good for your health.”

Your dad eyes the gift before scoffing. “I heard you're going somewhere?”

Minho’s gaze flickers to you, just for a second, but it’s enough to make you feel guilty. You never told him you mentioned Italy to your dad. He nods politely. “Yes, sir.”

Your dad sets the bag aside, uninterested. “And what about the two of you?”

You cut in, setting the first dish on the table. “We’re still working together in Farfalle, dad,” you say quickly.

Your dad ignores you, keeping his focus on Minho. “So, you’re breaking up?”

You and Minho exchange an uneasy glance, but before either of you can answer, your dad presses further. “If you’re breaking up, why’d you come here?”

Minho clears his throat and forces a polite smile. “We aren’t completely breaking up, sir,” he answers carefully.

Not liking where this conversation is heading, you hurry to set the rest of the food on the table and put an end to it. “Let’s have dinner first,” you say firmly, patting Minho’s thigh under the table as a silent reassurance. He softens slightly, but his posture remains stiff, and you have to bite back a laugh.

Your dad nods. “Let’s eat.”

Minho, still tense, mutters a quick, “Thank you for the food, sir.”

Your dad doesn’t respond. Instead, he watches Minho intently as he takes his first bite. Minho chews carefully, clearly aware of the scrutiny.

Your dad leans back in his chair. “Should I cook it again?”

Minho’s eyes widen slightly, and he swallows quickly. “No, sir. It’s fine.”

Your dad clicks his tongue. “You can just say it.”

Minho shakes his head, taking another bite. “No, really, it’s good.”

Your dad smirks. “You can say no, but you can’t say it’s delicious.”

Minho chews faster, then swallows hard. “It’s delicious, sir.”

Your dad raises a brow. “So, did I pass your test?”

You groan, reaching over to squeeze your dad’s arm. “Dad! Can you stop?”

Desperate to shift the mood, you grab the wine and fill everyone’s glass, hoping it’ll help things settle. But of course, your dad isn’t done yet.

Halfway through dinner, he turns to Minho again. “What’s better about you than my daughter?” he asks bluntly. “Besides being a chef.”

Minho straightens slightly but doesn’t answer right away.

Your dad continues, “She’s going to be a chef too, eventually. And when that happens, you’re out.”

You sigh, rubbing your temple. “Dad, please—”

Minho speaks up before you can stop him. “Not everyone can be a chef, sir.”

Your dad scoffs. “If everyone else can, why can’t she?”

Silence.

Your dad clicks his tongue. “I sent her to Italy to become a classical pianist, and what did she do? Went to culinary school behind my back. And now, after all that, she still can’t be a chef?” He shakes his head. “Pathetic.”

You stiffen, barely daring to look at Minho. You clasp your hands together under the table, feeling embarrassed with what your dad has just revealed to Minho.

Your dad chuckles humorlessly. “She didn’t have a problem not contacting me for years. I doubt she’ll have a problem being away from you.”

You glare at him, but when you finally sneak a glance at Minho, he’s already looking at you—sharp, unreadable.

Your dad sighs dramatically and gestures toward the liquor cabinet. “Bring me the bottle of liquor.”

You cross your arms. “You shouldn't be drinking, dad. It's—”

Your dad scowls. “Just do what I said.”

Not wanting to argue, you push yourself up from your seat and make your way to the cabinet, grateful for the excuse to hide—for just a little while.

-

It’s only been—what, five glasses? Maybe six? Minho isn’t counting, but he knows he’s one drink away from crossing the line into being properly drunk. Before that happens, he pushes himself up from his seat and mutters, “Bathroom.”

You glance at him before pointing down the hall. “End of the hall to the left.”

Minho nods and makes his way there, feeling the slight unsteadiness in his steps. Inside, he leans over the sink, twisting the tap and letting the cold water run over his fingers before splashing it onto his face. He exhales sharply, gripping the edges of the sink as he stares at his reflection. His head is buzzing, and he needs to clear it.

A few minutes pass before he leaves the bathroom, but just as he’s about to step into the living room, he hears your voice—low and sharp.

“You shouldn’t be drinking that much.”

Your dad scoffs. “Why do you care?”

Minho freezes in the hallway. He doesn’t mean to eavesdrop, but then your dad’s voice lowers, his words slurring slightly.

“If you love him so much,” he mutters, “why are you letting him go?”

Minho’s fingers twitch at his sides. He should walk in. He should make his presence known. But he stays put.

There’s a pause before you reply, your voice quieter now. “Why? Do you not want me to lose him? Is that it, dad?”

Your dad lets out a dry, humorless chuckle. “You’re not exactly a great catch.”

Minho frowns.

Your dad sighs heavily. “Someone has to take care of you when I’m gone. Who else would do that? Who else but Minho?”

Silence.

Then, your voice—soft, wounded. “Why would you say that, dad?”

Your dad exhales, long and tired. “I don’t know,” he finally admits. “I just… I miss your mother so much.”

Minho swallows, his chest suddenly tight. If he steps out now, he’ll be interrupting something—something raw, something unspoken between you and your father. So he lingers a moment longer before quietly making his way back to the living room.

The moment you see him, you straighten, forcing a small smile. “I’ll get my dad to bed,” you say.

Minho glances at your dad—head slumped, completely knocked out—and shakes his head. “I’ll do it.”

He carefully lifts your dad, guiding him to his room. By the time he returns, you’re already clearing the table, stacking plates onto the counter. Without a word, Minho joins you, gathering the empty glasses and wiping down the dining table.

You move on to the dishes while he puts the leftovers into containers. The kitchen is quiet except for the sound of running water and the occasional clink of plates. There’s an understanding between you, a rhythm in the way you move together, no words needed. But Minho speaks anyway.

“So...” he murmurs, mostly to himself. “You weren’t exactly slacking off.”

You don’t turn to him, but he catches the small smile on your lips. “Yeah,” you say. “I was juggling between music school and culinary school back then.”

Minho exhales, leaning against the counter. “And the guys everyone thought you were dating?”

You shake your head. “Friends from music school who helped me practice for recitals.”

Minho nods slowly, taking in the weight of these small revelations, these pieces of you he didn’t have before. He slides these pieces into place and it's all clear to him now.

Once the food is stored away, he steps closer. Without thinking, he slides his arms around you, pressing himself against your back. He dips his head, pressing a soft kiss to the side of your head before murmuring, “Are you okay?”

You don’t answer right away. You just nod. But Minho knows better. Your silence says more than words could, so he tightens his arms around you, lowering his head to place another kiss on your neck.

You stop washing the dishes abruptly. The water continues running, but your hands are still. Then, in a voice so quiet he almost misses it, you whisper, “I can’t leave my dad... again.”

Minho doesn’t say anything. He just holds you. And in that moment, he finally understands.

-

Minho stirs awake, his eyes still heavy with sleep. The room is dim, the early light barely slipping through the curtains. He blinks up at the ceiling, exhaustion weighing on him—not just from lack of sleep, but from the thoughts that kept him awake through the night.

You’re curled up beside him, lost in dreams, breathing softly against his arm. He watches you, taking in the peaceful rise and fall of your chest, the way your fingers are lightly curled against his sheets. And then, like every night before, the same question echoes in his mind.

Am I really going to leave this?

Just the thought of it makes his chest tighten. His arm moves before he even thinks, wrapping around you, pulling you close as if holding you tighter will somehow anchor him here, keep him from drifting away. The idea of losing you—it’s unbearable.

Minho exhales, pressing a soft kiss to your lips and in that quiet moment, he makes up his mind.

With another lingering kiss to your bare shoulder, he carefully untangles himself from you, slipping out of bed. He pulls on a shirt and pads barefoot into the living room. His eyes land on the envelope lying untouched on the coffee table, the same one he’s been avoiding. He picks it up, running his thumb over the edge before taking a deep breath and stepping outside.

He stops at a door next and presses the doorbell. It takes a moment, but soon, the door swings open, revealing Sara. She blinks at him, then offers a soft, knowing smile. “If you’re looking for her, she didn’t come home last night.”

Minho smirks. “I know. She’s with me.”

Sara flashes him a knowing smile and Minho doesn’t give her time to tease him before handing her the envelope. “Here. You should go instead of me. You'll be better at it,” he says simply.

Sara glances down, recognizing the weight of what he’s holding out to her. Her brows furrow, and when she meets his eyes, there’s disbelief in hers. “Paolo’s? Haven't you always wanted to work there?”

Minho shrugs. “Not anymore. I think I like Farfalle better than world-famous restaurants.”

Sara exhales a short chuckle, tilting her head. “Because of her?”

Minho’s answer is immediate. “It’s far more than just her.”

Sara shakes her head slightly, pressing the envelope to her chest. “Minho, I don’t think it’s a good time for me right now. Not when I'm... like this.”

His brows knit together. “What do you mean? Like this?”

Sara’s fingers tighten on the envelope. “Like this. All broken up.”

Minho scoffs. “What’s broken? Your hands? Your tongue?” He nods toward the envelope. “As long as your hands and tongue are fine, what more do you need as a chef?”

Sara lets out a quiet laugh, but it’s tinged with something fragile. “I should at least be better than what I am right now.”

Minho gestures toward the envelope. “Then be quick about it. This spot won’t open and wait for you forever.” He holds her gaze for a beat longer, a silent challenge in his expression, before turning and heading back to his apartment.

Minho feels a lot lighter because it's all up to her now. Whether Sara takes it or not, he believes she'll make the right decision.

The moment he returns to his apartment, warmth settles in his chest. He walks into the bedroom and finds you exactly as he left you—still curled up, still lost in dreams. A small smile tugs at his lips as he sits on the edge of the bed, brushing a few strands of hair away from your face.

He tenderly cups your jaw, his thumb gently rubbing your cheek and suddenly, your eyes flutter open. The moment you see him, that familiar softness fills them, the warmth that makes everything else fade away.

“Morning,” you mumble, voice thick with sleep. You lean into his touch and close your eyes for a brief moment.

Minho only smirks in response, but he keeps cradling your face like it's a fragile object.

You stretch slightly, then give him a lazy smile. “Breakfast?”

Minho raises a brow. “Are you asking me to cook breakfast?”

You shamelessly nod and grin, your fingers lightly tracing the evident vein on his forearm.

He scoffs. “Are you saying you'll never cook for your boyfriend?”

Still drowsy, you playfully reply, “Why should I cook when I have a boyfriend who's a chef?”

Minho huffs, amused, but the smirk on his lips softens as he leans down. He kisses you—slow, deep, lingering. A kiss that says everything he hasn’t put into words yet.

Then, with a sleepy smile, you murmur, “Not just a chef. My boyfriend is the best chef in the world.”

You don’t even seem to notice the way he falters. You just keep looking at him, all warmth and certainty, like calling him the best chef in the world is the simplest truth.

He exhales sharply, shaking his head as if trying to brush it off. “Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, but there’s no real bite to it.

You grin up at him. “I mean it. The best chef.”

Minho doesn’t know why that gets to him the way it does. Maybe it’s because he’s spent his whole life proving himself in the kitchen, fighting for recognition, never feeling like it’s enough. But you—you say it so easily, so sincerely, like you’ve never once doubted it.

He swallows, unable to stop the way his body softens against you. Instead of a snarky remark, instead of brushing it off with an eye roll, he just looks at you, something unbearably tender in his gaze.

And then he kisses you again. Slower this time, deeper. Like he’s sealing this moment, like he’s trying to make you understand that he’s here, he’s staying, he’s yours.

When he finally pulls away, he lingers, his lips ghosting over yours as he whispers, “I’ll cook breakfast.”

And just like that, he knows—there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

-

Minho raps his knuckles against Chris’s office door before pushing it open, stepping inside without waiting for an answer. Chris barely glances up, finishing the last strokes of his signature on a document before setting his pen down and gesturing toward the chair across from his desk.

"Have a seat, Chef," Chris says, standing as Minho lowers himself into the chair. Instead of staying behind his desk, Chris moves to the single sofa facing him, his posture more relaxed than usual.

"I was just about to bring this up with you," Chris begins. "We need to start looking for new cooks."

Minho nods, his voice calm. "I’ll take care of it."

Chris tilts his head slightly, a sly smile creeping onto his lips as he leans back against the cushions. "Are you only going to hire men this time, Chef?"

Minho barely reacts, only giving a dismissive glance. "I told you, I’ll take care of it."

Chris hums, but there’s something sharper in his expression now, something more observant. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he studies Minho. "Does this mean you've decided not to go to Italy?"

Minho doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he lets a smirk play on his lips—subtle, but just enough.

Chris catches it immediately. His grin widens, and he leans back again with a muttered, "I win the bet."

Minho’s eyebrows pull together slightly. Of all the reactions he expected, Chris being happy wasn’t one of them. He tilts his head. "Did you just say something?"

Chris waves him off with a flick of his hand. "Nothing."

Minho eyes him for a second longer, but Chris shifts gears, settling back into his usual professional demeanor. "Chef, I know you have the authority to make the hiring decisions," Chris says. "I trust you with that. But I’d like you to keep me updated now and then."

Minho raises an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue.

Chris exhales, resting an ankle over his knee. "I know the kitchen is yours, and I have no intention of interfering or challenging you. This is purely for the sake of the restaurant. From now on, let's be open about what kind of strategy you're running back there."

Minho narrows his eyes, arms crossing over his chest. "Since when did you get so interested in what happens in the kitchen?"

Chris smiles—not his usual smug smirk, but something softer. "Since it became clear to me that people are more important than money."

Minho watches him for a long moment, weighing his words. He finds, much to his own surprise, that he doesn’t immediately feel the usual irritation toward Chris.

Instead, he nods, just once and maybe, just maybe, Chris is not as annoying as he thought.

-

The kitchen is alive with movement, the clang of metal against metal, the sizzle of hot oil, the rhythmic chopping of knives. Heat radiates from the stoves, from the bodies moving in sync, from the sheer force of effort that everyone is putting into the final push of the night. Minho reads the orders, his voice sharp and clear above the chaos, but beneath it, there's something deeper—something that makes his chest tighten as he shouts encouragements, urging them to finish strong.

The last dishes land on the chef’s table. Minho stabs the final ticket onto the board. The printer hums softly for a second, and then he turns it off. Silence washes over the kitchen—not complete, but significant. He looks around, at the people who have worked beside him, sweated through long hours, fought through exhaustion, and created something brilliant night after night.

"This is it," Minho announces, his voice carrying through the space. "This is our last order of the day—and the last in this kitchen for some of us."

His eyes find the entrée line—Seojun, Seungwan, Hyunwoo. Soon, they'll be gone, off to Italy to study, to chase something bigger. Minho lets that reality settle for a moment before continuing.

"Before we close for good tonight, I want everyone to prepare their final dish for our VIP guests." He looks at each of them, his gaze firm but full of meaning. "Make it your best."

A chorus of voices rises in response. "Yes, Chef!"

The energy shifts—not somber, not sad, but determined. Minho calls out the orders, listing the best of what they can offer, then gives the signal. "You may start!"

And just like that, the kitchen comes alive again.

This time, as Minho walks through the stations, it feels different. It’s not about control or perfection—it’s about seeing them, about feeling the weight of everything they’ve built together.

He stops by Felix’s station, watching as he twirls fresh pasta in a pan with practiced ease. "Looking good," Minho comments.

Felix grins, focused but pleased. "Thank you, Chef."

At your station, he watches you work, the effortless way you shake the frying pans, flipping the ingredients with precision. You meet his gaze, and he gives you an impressed smile. Before he can say anything, Taesoo, watching you in awe, blurts out, "Chef, can you teach me to shake frying pans like that?"

Minho raises an eyebrow at him. "That depends on you."

Taesoo groans. "Just say yes or no!"

Minho flicks his forehead hard enough that Taesoo yelps in pain.

You chuckle at Taesoo’s pout, murmuring, "Don’t worry, I’ll teach you."

Minho moves on, observing Seungwan carefully garnishing a tuna salad, Hyunwoo pouring clear soup with the kind of care most people reserve for handling delicate glass. At Seojun’s station, he pauses. "I’ll help."

Seojun shakes his head. "I got it, Chef."

Minho doesn’t budge. "Let’s do it together."

For a second, Seojun hesitates—then he shifts, making room. Side by side, they cook in unspoken understanding.

Seojun murmurs, "The beef is good today."

Minho smirks, seasoning his own cut of meat. "It is."

And just like that, the dishes are sent out. The kitchen exhales, the weight of the night lifting. The finality settles in.

Minho lets out a breath. "We’re officially closed for business today."

Taesoo starts clapping, and soon, the entire kitchen follows. It’s not just for the hard work tonight—it’s for everything.

People scatter, exchanging hugs, handshakes, pats on the back. The air is thick with something bittersweet, something profound. It’s an ending, but it’s also a beginning. The entrée line will leave. Minho won’t work with them in this kitchen again. But they’re going toward something greater, toward dreams they’ve worked for.

As the kitchen quiets, Minho turns to them. "Good luck on your studies."

Seojun steps forward first, surprising him. He extends his hand. Without hesitation, Minho grips it firmly.

"Thank you, Chef," Seojun says.

Minho nods, a rare softness in his expression. "You’ll do well."

He moves to Seungwan and Hyunwoo next, shaking their hands, exchanging quiet words of encouragement. When he lifts his head, he sees you watching him from across the room, a fond smile playing on your lips.

And for the first time, as he stands here, surrounded by the people who have built this kitchen with him, Minho feels it—this is where he belongs.

-

You step into the locker room, not expecting anyone to still be there. But there he is—Seojun, standing by his locker, his fingers grazing the nameplate on the door with a wistful look in his eyes. He doesn’t notice you at first, lost in thought, but when he hears your footsteps, he turns and smiles.

You hesitate for only a moment before stepping closer. You didn’t get a proper chance to say goodbye earlier, and now that you have him alone, you take the opportunity. “Good luck on your studies, Sous-chef,” you say sincerely.

Seojun turns fully to face you, his smile widening.

“You should travel a lot while you’re there,” you continue. “Don’t just stay at school. Go beyond the fancy restaurants—find the small pasta shops tucked away in alleyways. There’s so much to learn from the locals, from the people who’ve been making pasta their whole lives.”

His eyes brighten, as if he’s already imagining it. “I’ll remember that. Thanks.”

Then, as if something just occurs to him, he reaches up and tugs at his sous-chef necktie. In one swift motion, he pulls it free and extends it toward you.

You blink in surprise, staring at the fabric in his outstretched hand. It takes a moment to register what this means. When you finally take it from him, your fingers curl around it carefully, reverently.

“Chef will decide on the new sous-chef,” Seojun says, “but I’m giving my vote to you.”

Your heart swells. You’re proud of him, proud of everything he’s accomplished, but you’re also deeply grateful. The weight of his support, of his belief in you, settles warmly in your chest. You look up at him, smiling brightly. “Thank you so much, Sous-chef.”

Seojun waves you off lightly. “You deserve it.”

He turns back to his locker, reaching for the door handle—but then he pauses. A second later, he pivots to face you again, something unreadable in his expression.

“And oh, you must be happy.”

The words catch you off guard. You frown slightly. “About what?”

His lips curve into a knowing smile. “That Chef is staying in Farfalle.”

Your breath stills.

It’s news to you. And what’s even more surprising is that you’re hearing it from Seojun rather than from Minho himself.

You manage a small nod, masking the mix of emotions swirling inside you. “Please, tcare of yourself, Sous-chef,” you say, shifting the conversation back to him.

Seojun smiles, giving you a final nod before turning back to his locker.

You move to the other side of the room, gripping the sous-chef tie a little tighter as your thoughts drift elsewhere. Minho isn’t going to Italy.

You should be upset that he didn’t tell you first. But that feeling is eclipsed by something else—something impossible to ignore.

Minho is staying.

-

The dining hall is packed, the room filled with chatter and laughter as the cooks and staff gather around long tables. The scent of freshly prepared food lingers in the air, plates and bowls scattered across the tables in a feast prepared with care. Tonight is a farewell party for Seojun, Hyunwoo, and Seungwan—the three chefs who will soon be leaving for Italy.

They sit together at a table near the front, joined by Minho and Chris. You’re seated nearby with Felix and Taesoo, the three of you sharing quiet conversation between bites of food. In the crowd, you spot familiar faces—Minji and Yura, who must have been invited for a reason.

A sharp clink rings through the air as Minho taps his wine glass with a spoon. The noise settles as everyone turns their attention to him. He remains seated, but his voice carries through the room with ease.

“Before we begin the party, I’d like to propose a toast,” Minho announces. “To the people who made this feast with their utmost care and skill.”

A round of applause erupts as everyone cheers for the three departing chefs. Seojun, Hyunwoo, and Seungwan nod in acknowledgment, their expressions a mix of pride and gratitude.

Minho shifts his gaze to them, his tone steady yet sincere. “Good luck. Take care of yourselves. Let’s all meet again in better shape, okay?”

“Yes, Chef,” the three of them reply in unison.

Satisfied, Minho sits back down, and Chris takes his turn to speak.

“I have another announcement to make,” Chris begins, his voice brimming with anticipation. “Since a part of our kitchen family is leaving for Italy, it’s time to welcome new members who will be filling those empty spots.”

At his words, he gestures toward Minji and Yura. “Stand up, you two.”

Minji and Yura exchange confused glances before slowly rising from their seats.

Chris continues, “After careful consideration—and after consulting with Chef—we’ve decided that no one would be better suited for these roles than you two.” He smiles, then extends his hand toward them in invitation. “So, Minji, Yura—please accept our offer to work at Farfalle, starting next week.”

All eyes shift to the sisters. Minho raises his glass slightly, watching them expectantly.

Minji and Yura share another look—this one filled with silent understanding—before Yura breaks into a wide smile. “We’ll be ready next week, Chef!”

A satisfied nod from Minho while Chris grins in reaction. “Then it’s settled. Now, let’s enjoy the feast.”

Cheers rise again as glasses clink, laughter spilling into the air. The party resumes, but as you glance back at Minho, you catch a flicker of something rare in his expression—contentment. Maybe even pride.

-

Minho has been searching for you all over the restaurant. The locker room, the kitchen, the back entrance, even the steps where he always finds you when you need a moment alone—you’re nowhere to be seen. He exhales sharply, pressing his tongue against the inside of his cheek in mild frustration.

It’s only when he’s walking toward his car that his phone buzzes in his pocket. A message from you.

Meet me at the bar.

Minho doesn’t need to ask which one. He already knows. It’s the same bar where he first met you.

When he arrives, he spots you immediately—sitting in the exact same seat as that night. The memory surfaces effortlessly, but Minho pushes it aside, stepping forward, approaching you from behind. He leans in close, just enough for his breath to ghost over your ear, and murmurs, “That’s my seat.”

Slowly, you glance over your shoulder, meeting his gaze. “So what if it is?”

Minho smirks, sliding onto the stool next to you. He gestures to the bartender and quickly order a drink. But as he waits, he reaches for your drink instead, taking a slow sip before setting it back down.

You watch him with amusement. Then, without a word, you pull something out of your bag, holding your hand out to him.

The sous-chef tie.

Minho’s eyes flick to it for a second before he looks away, feigning indifference. “What’s that?”

You bump his shoulder, playful yet insistent. “You know what it is.”

Taking back your drink, you sip from it before tilting your head toward him. “Now that I’m a sous-chef, I want to go back to the pasta line.”

Minho lifts his own glass, taking a sip—and immediately gasps at the aftertaste. He glances at you. “Who says you’re a sous-chef now?”

You pout at that, eyebrows knitting together in protest. “Sous-chef Seojun gave me his vote. Now I want yours, too.”

Minho clicks his tongue and daringly gaze into your eyes. “How dare you argue with your chef?”

You narrow your eyes at him, boldly. “How much more do I have to prove to you, hug? What else do I have to do?”

He leans back slightly, meeting your gaze with that unreadable expression he always wears when he’s making you work for something. “Be good at everything.”

You groan. “And when do I get to be good at everything?”

Minho shrugs. “Why are you asking me? That’s up to you.”

You huff, pressing further by grabbing his arm and make him looks at you. “So what’s it gonna be?”

Minho watches you for a moment before he simply says, “You’ll find out tomorrow.”

Your lips part, ready to argue again, but this time, Minho smirks. The way you’re whining, the way you’re pressing him for answers—it reminds him of how he met you. How things have unfolded ever since.

So he leans in, close enough for your noses to almost brush. “Let’s do it.” His voice drops slightly, lower, more deliberate. “Go out with me. Date.”

For a moment, there’s silence. Then, instead of answering, you take him by surprise—pressing your lips against his in a kiss so sudden that he barely has time to react.

Minho is still for only a second before instinct takes over, and his hand comes up to cup your jaw. The first kiss is hurried, almost clumsy, but when you start to pull away, he stops you. Fingers curling against your skin, he brings you in for another kiss—this time, slow and deep. Proper.

When he finally pulls back, he lingers there, eyes fondly gazing into yours, flickering with something unreadable, something softer than before. The years of tension, the push and pull, the battles fought in the kitchen and beyond—they all led here, to this moment. A quiet certainty settles in his chest.

Minho has always believed that food tells a story. Every dish holds a memory, every flavor carries a feeling. And if love were a taste, he thinks it would be something like this—bold yet familiar, unexpected yet deeply satisfying. Something that lingers long after the last bite.

His lips brush against yours as he mutters. “You know, I think you might be my favorite dish after all.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes, but he catches the smile you try to hide. “That’s the worst line I’ve ever heard.”

“Stay. Have another drink.” His thumb grazes over your cheek, his smirk unmistakable. “Let’s see where this goes.”

Instead of answering, you smile before leaning in for a gentle kiss and then reach for his hand. Your fingers brush against his, a quiet gesture, warm and certain.

For once, Minho doesn’t have anything clever to say. He just laces his fingers with yours, holds on, and lets the moment settle.

Tomorrow, the kitchen will still be loud. The work will still be demanding. The challenges will still come. But tonight, there is just this.

A beginning wrapped in an ending. A promise folded into a touch.

And for Minho, that is more than enough.

-

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[sterifels-blog]

creepypasta characters – how they’d react to you being upset over a small inconvenience 🤏

BEN drowned

•mocking sarcasm: “oh no, did the big scary printer jam again? total apocalypse. truly.” what became clear in his death, was he did, in fact, take his childish personality with him. he is no better than jeff when it comes down to teasing you for your dismays.

•playful teaser. he glitches around the room, mimicking your upset tone in a distorted voice, just to annoy you. it's spiteful, a little ignorant, but it's something you've come to grow used to. some things were just inevitable with BEN, and his torment was one of those things.

•offers digital comfort. BEN hacks a random game to create a hidden message for you, like “cheer up, loser.” if you don't reciprocate any sort of reaction back- you best believe he will be petty enough to rig a match for you. not so you can win, no. so you lose. just to agitate you again.

•awkward, awkward softness: if you’re seriously upset, he stammers, “hey, uh, don’t cry. i… don’t know how to deal with that.” very likely, he panics and goes to grab someone like jack or jane.

•weird with distractions. he'll float around, humming the zelda theme song until you laugh or throw something at him. if it works, it works. either way, you're too focused on smiling, or trying to hit him.

•over-the-top suggestion: “want me to corrupt their computer files? that’ll show them.”

•king of small gestures. leaves a pixelated heart drawn in a game you’re playing, then pretends it wasn’t him.

bloody painter:

•he observes quietly. sits in eerie silence, studying your emotions like he’s painting a mental portrait.

•when he is finished staring (although, admittedly, he does quite like the sight of you), he will offer some deadpan advice:

•“if it doesn’t matter in five years, it’s not worth ruining your eyeliner over.”

•if verbal reassurance doesn't do it for you, willingly, he'll engage in a paint-based gesture for his angel. he draws something comforting or silly (alternatively, absolutely crude) on a scrap of paper and hands it to you without a word, hoping it makes some difference.

•dark humor (where it is, and isn't appropriate.) “want me to take care of whoever pissed you off?” half-joking. maybe. if you say no, there is some genuine disappointment left lingering in his eyes. a missed opportunity to stock-up.

•unexpected comfort. gently touches your face and says some cheesy bullshit like, “the colors of sadness suit you, but i’d rather see you smile". he knows he's succeeded in making you feel something other than upset, when you are pressing your palm against his face and pushing him away with a groan of annoyance.

•will go extreme measures to make you a distracting gift. offers to paint you something. it’s his way of saying sorry.

•serious effort: if you’re really upset, he’ll spend hours creating something meaningful to cheer you up. although you'd clearly specified you didn't want him to maul the poor man who'd taken the last pint of your favorite ice cream flavor; the red coating of the little house he'd made you (in respect to the small abode you will "most definitely have" together), spoke otherwise to him listening.

•it's fucking disgusting, but don't discard it. it's the.. 'sweetest' way he shows that he cares.

clockwork:

•chaotic comfort. immediately threatens to stab whatever inconvenienced you. “who do i need to ‘fix’ for this?”

•pactical help (or a lack thereof): she does actually try to solve the problem for you, but gets frustrated if it’s not instant.

•(unhelpful) teasing: “aww, does my little clock need winding? let’s fix your mood.”

•joking aggression: “you’re upset? try getting stabbed in the eye and tell me how you feel". she soon after realizes this probably wasn't the best way to get through to you, and instead resorts to gently carding her fingers through your hair, sitting in an awkward silence after.

•when the silence gets to be too much, the most rational conclusion she could come up with was a random distraction. tosses something shiny or makes a loud noise to snap you out of it, almost, most definitely getting a sick kick of amusement when you jump in a startle.

•clumsy affection: roughly pulls you into a hug afterwards and says, “you’ll be fine. i’ve seen you handle worse.”

•this is shortly after followed by a soft admission. “i don’t like seeing you like this. it’s weird.” no sympathy on her face, just her nose being scrunched up in discomfort. but you can tell she means her words.. more for her sake.

eyeless jack

•jack is a quiet observer. he always has been, and will be. he notices you’re upset but waits for you to bring it up, not wanting to push you down a further slope than you were already on.

•when you finally begin to talk to him, for the most part, he simply listens. but if he notices it's getting to be too much, he'll offer some gentle reassurance: his voice is calm, almost nonchalant as he says, “it’s okay. you can talk to me.” he means it.

•words aren't easy for him. he's used to being silent, tucked away to the confines of his laboratory. it's why he chooses a more physical approach. cooking comfort. jack makes you a meal without being asked—though you might not want to know the ingredients. just eat it, and thank him.

•when he does speak, he offers the most practical advice out of the bunch: “you’ll survive. you’re stronger than whatever this is.”

•he's cold, but caring: “if it’s not life-threatening, it’s not worth worrying about. but... i get it.”

•soft-spoken comfort: stays close by, quietly grounding you with his presence. he'll offer you a spot in his laboratory for the time being, leaving you to watch as he hustles and bustles about. he isn't a fan of people in his space- in the slightest. but for you, he doesn't mind the company, so long as it helps. he won't directly admit it, but seeing you upset does something to his heart.

•it unfortunately, wouldn't be jack without some out of pocket, and highly untimed dark humor. he's working on his current 'patient', his scalpel against the lining of their abdomen when he would pause, as though an idea surfaced.

•“would harvesting an organ cheer you up? no? worth a shot.”

hoodie

•takes a more casual approach compared to the others. nudges your shoulder and says some nonchalant shit like; “what’s got you so down?”

•followed by some super-chill reassurance: “it’s not the end of the world. i’ve seen worse.”

•says it in a tone that makes him sound like he genuinely doesn't give a fuck, and is instead saying it in prayer god gives him a second chance for being 'kind'. he does, genuinely care however. he wouldn't have asked if he didn't.

•when he realizes it's something 'trivial' (in his mind), he'll give you some lighthearted distraction. hoodie offers to hang out or go on a random drive to take your mind off it. if you accept to hang out, you're both watching some rag-tag channel that your old, boxy ass television could pull up. it's absolutely shit. if you accept the drive, the radio is on, playing some old song that helps you clear your mind. the two of you definitely get going.

•if it's not the radio you're focused on, it's his singing. it's either god awful, and it makes you want to die more than whatever inconvenienced you at first, or he should have been a choir boy.

•snack attack: you two pull into a gas station along the way to fill up the old piece of rust. he goes in, comes back out with a pack of cigarettes and some chips in hand. he'll carelessly throw the bag of chips at you and say, “here. don’t say i never do anything for you.”

•soft teasing: “you’re cute when you’re mad, but let’s not make it a habit.”

•followed by some subtle care: puts his hoodie around your shoulders if you look especially down, or you're out late on your drive and it's getting cold.

jason the toymaker

•100% makes a toy bribe: instantly offers to make you a custom toy to cheer you up. “what’s your favorite color again?” it's cheesy, but it does have it's odd way of working it's magic.

•jason can get into quite an overprotective mode, often getting himself frustrated when he cant disect the root of your problem. “what caused this? tell me so I can fix it." .. "am i going to kill them..? what does it matter?"

•the answer is yes. yes, he is.

•soft-spoken comfort: “don’t worry. i’ll always take care of you.” he has a way of reassuring you even when you have your doubts, almost with an expertise that surprises you. if you were ever questioning his genuinity, he's answered for you.

•possessive guilt-tripper. “i don’t like seeing my favorite person like this. smile for me, will you?” he's sweet, in the worst of ways. jason knew all he had to do was flash you that charming smile of his, and you'd bend to his will. it was both a curse and a blessing.

•makes up some distracting hobby. he invites you to join him on a whim in making something to calm your nerves. (he definitely ends up taking over your craft.)

•encourages gentle insistence much like bloody painter. “you’re allowed to be upset, but not for long. it doesn’t suit you.”

•creepy but.. comforting? reassurance: “nothing bad can happen to you while i’m here. i'll make sure of it.” you aren't allowed out of his sights for a while.

jeff the killer

•mockery overload. “aww, you’re upset? should I call the waaah-mbulance?” he's a fucking asshole and he knows it, but his emotional boundaries hold no shame. if you knew any better, you would think he didn't care if he made you feel better or worse.

•teasing to comfort: purposefully annoys you until you either laugh or yell at him. he is 100%, more than likely aiming for the latter, getting a sick sense of satisfaction from knowing you're wound up now because of him. “see? you’re not upset anymore!”

•he's a twat with territorial anger: if it’s someone else’s fault, he’s immediately ready to fight, thinking of the most irrational ways to kill someone for your sake (though there is already nothing rational about him). “who do i need to carve a smile into?”

•though a selfish sod, he does have some genuinely surprising softness when it comes to you. if you’re genuinely upset, he awkwardly wraps his arm around your shoulder and says, “it’s fine. just... chill, okay?” he's rubbing your back until his hand is numb, or you become agitated.

•clumsy reassurance: “you’ve got me, so who cares about dumb stuff like that?”

•even throughout the comforting, his offer of violence still stands. “say the word, and i’ll make it disappear. permanently.”

•jeff is the absolute fucking worst for guilt deflection. if he caused the inconvenience, he’ll deny responsibility, but quietly try to make it better. he sees admitting to his faults as a weakness, but a few hours later, when he‐ again‐, sees your mood hasn't improved— he's begrudgingly coming over and taking your hand to apologize. his words are lazy sounding, but they are true. it pisses him off that he has to go such lengths to make you feel better, but in the end, it's you. so he'll cope.

jane the killer

•she is a direct comfort sort of woman: “what’s wrong? talk to me.”

•when she notices its an re-occuring issue bothering you more than usual, she'll go into problem-solving mode. jane listens carefully and offers solutions, even if you just want to vent. she loves listening to you talk, even if it's under more unfortunate circumstances.

•has a protective streak much like her male counterpart: “if it’s someone else’s fault, i’ll handle it.” and she means it

•queen of tough love. it's her kingdom. “you’re stronger than this. don’t let it get to you.” she's seen too many people react irrationally because of minor inconveniences (jeff), and she would hate to see you deliberately get into trouble because of something as 'simple' as frustration.

•silent presence: if words won’t help, she stays with you until you feel better. if your room is a mess, she'll clean your clothes off the floor, fold, and carry your laundry to the washer while you relax on your bed. she won't let you leave until she's positive you're at least feeling a little better about your situation, and even then, she's by your side for most the day.

•though she can be just as stubborn as anyone else, jane does make a soft admission: “i hate seeing you so upset. tell me how to help.”

•makes some gentle distraction (unlike clockwork): she suggests watching a movie or doing something fun together to lift your spirits. she will likely end up doing your makeup, the two of you on the floor together until your spirits start to rise.

laughing Jack (i hate this motherfucker)

•over-the-top antics because he's just like that, unfortunately. he's a piece of shit, but tries to make you laugh with ridiculous jokes or obnoxious pranks. a for effort, i guess. he's giving it his best shot.

•much like jeff, being a complete dick, there is that aspect of mock concern: “oh no! we must alert the circus of your sorrow!” sarcastic cunt.

•there is some aspect of unexpected sweetness with him, i would think (hope). if you’re genuinely upset, he tones it down and says, “hey, I don’t like seeing you like this.”

•he's crouching down onto his knees as you sit on the edge of your bed, his large, ugly ass hands cupping your face the best he can without shanking you with his gross, long fingers. his thumbs 'gently' rub your cheeks as he let's you breathe your frustration out.

•clownish ass distractions: pulls out a random toy or silly object to cheer you up. from out of fuck-all nowhere, he pulls a doll out from behind its back. it's even more hideous than him, which is difficult. it's stuffing is gruesomely ripped out, instead, packed full with grotesque looking candies. he'll awkwardly discard it on the floor when he sees it's only made your mood worse. what an idiot.

•chaotic energy: “let’s go do something fun! or dangerous! or both!”

•you don't feel like doing anything

•gentle honesty: “i'm not good at this comforting stuff, but I’m here for you.”, even though you already knew that. though the semblance is appreciated.

kagekao

•you're still a victim of playful mockery. "you look adorable when you’re mad. like a tiny storm cloud". he's mocking you while you want to punch him into a smear.

•teasing distractions. he pokes at your cheeks or steals something of yours to make you chase him. he genuinely does not care that you feel murderous tendencies towards him at the moment. it's his life mission to torment you eternally.

•jovial comfort: “don’t worry, i’ll take care of everything. or, at least, pretend I did.”

•surprise gifts. when he knows he's pushed you too far, he will opt to leave you a random (sometimes unsettling) trinket to cheer you up. he knows he's the source of your agitation, so he tries his 'best' to make up for it.

•more lighthearted annoyance. “you know i can’t take you seriously when you’re pouting like that, right?”

•unexpected wisdom from someone who is such a cunt to deal with. “life’s too short to stress over these things. laugh it off.”

•silently lurks nearby until you calm down, offering his silent presence as comfort.

masky

•masky will often show a reluctant concern, not outright admitting he's worried about your fluctuating attitude, but instead inviting you to chat. “what’s wrong now?” his tone is gruff, but he genuinely cares.

•practical help: masky fixes the problem (if possible) without saying much about it; especially when it comes down to it being an issue with anything containing an engine. if you're frustrated by an issue you're having with your vehicle, calmly, he'll tell you to give him the keys, and if he's feeling nice enough, he'll invite you out to hold the flashlight for him. just make sure you keep it steady.

•vaguely annoyed, but supportive: “seriously? you’re upset over that? fine, let’s deal with it.” he's the type to teach you about fixing your own issues, so you'll know how to deal with it next time.

•protective side: “if you need help with this, come to me. you don't need to be going to.. random guys to fix your car."

•he's definitely jealous at the thought of you going to anyone else for help but him.

•silent comfort if it's anything else that physically, he cant fix. he sits near you, not saying a word but making it clear he’s there for you.

•backhanded affection: “you’re too stubborn to let this keep you down, right?” he knows you'll take it as he's doubting you; and that you'll smarten up quick.

•masky gives you grudging hugs. awkwardly, he pulls you into a hug if you’re really upset— often on the porch as he's having a smoke. you'll be sitting on the steps, tucked up to his side. if he feels nice enough- his jacket will end up slung over your shoulders.

slenderman

•i'm going to be flat with you, he does not care.

•but if he did, he would be calm and composed. it doesn’t affect him, so he has no reason to reacf but to calm you down. “you’re letting this get to you? that’s beneath you.” he sounds unamused.

•stoic support. slenderman offers silent reassurance with his unyielding presence. sometimes he's there, sometimes he isn't. but, you always have that lingering feeling of him being close by. it's both comforting and frightening.

•intimidation tactic: “shall i remove the source of your distress?” he’s deadly serious, for the most part.

•he's slightly patronizing. he doesn't really grasp a sense of confliction about this like you do. he doesn't really get why you're making such a fuss over something so blatant. “this is not worth your energy. focus on what truly matters.”

•both helps and frustrates you more. sometimes it's pointless to explain to him.

•..somewhat gentle understanding. if you’re truly distressed, he places a hand on your shoulder and will tell you to excuse yourself from any activities later in the day.

•eerie distraction: creates a serene yet unnerving environment to take your mind off things. the effort is.. there.

•cryptic advice: “all things are temporary. even this feeling.”

ticci toby

•dry sarcasm “wow, the world’s ending because of this. guess we should all panic.” his tone is teasing but not mean-spirited. he just doesn't understand that it's truly bothering you to that extent, until you breakdown to him.

•gentle understanding: “yeah, okay, I get it. sometimes the little stuff just… builds up.” he leans back and listens without pushing you. he knows you're already overwhelmed, and makes it a point to give you some space while still being there.

•subtle comfort. he offers you his jacket or quietly sits beside you, muttering, “you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. i'm not going anywhere.” like masky, he keeps you close to his side, whether sitting on a log or walking down the path. he'll encourage you to hold onto his arm.

•toby has a protective streak: “tell me who or what caused this. i’ll take care of it.” his voice is calm, but there’s an edge that means he’s serious. he doesn't like the idea of anyone pushing you around— only he can play around with you like that.

•gounding presence: if you’re spiraling, he places a hand on your shoulder or holds your hand. “breathe, okay? just focus on me for a minute.” too many times he's had to do this by himself. he understands the complications of losing yourself— and if you don't have to go through it alone, he won't allow you to.

•dull humor to lighten the mood. "if it makes you feel better, i've probably done something way stupider than whatever you’re upset about.”

•quiet reassurance: “you’ll get through this. you always do. it’s not as big as it feels right now, i promise.” he speaks softly but firmly, making sure you know he’s in your corner. he always is and will be. he's a bit more gentle than the rest.

[v3nomly]

MY SECRET TALENT — HSR EDITION

• characters — Jing Yuan ; Aventurine ; Dan Heng ; GN Reader

• synopsis — I made this post, stating I can describe any fictional characters cock in detail. As promised, here is the first batch of characters requested.

• tags & warnings — smut, blow jobs, penetrative sex, hand jobs.

• a/n — The first batch is done. Requests are open! I also cut some from Aventurine because I wrote like double the amount for him, but didn’t wanna show favoritism, haha. 

Writing Catalog

— JING YUAN

Long - Thick - and Veiny 

There isn’t much about Jing Yuan that is disappointing, certainly not his cock. Heavy and thick, he loves nothing more than watching you drag your tongue up the long vein on the underside of his manhood. 

His fingers lace in your hair as he guides your ministrations. When you finally take him into your mouth, you can’t help but moan as the salty flavor spreads across your taste buds. Jing Yuan’s eyes glow golden, enraptured by the sight. 

Your eyes water as you take as much of him as you can, your fingers coming to wrap around the rest you can’t fit. When he finally comes, it’s creamy and viscous filling your mouth and seeping from your lips, dripping down his length as you struggle to swallow around him.

— AVENTURINE

Average Sized - Curved Upward - Sensitive Tip

Size doesn't matter, and it's not that he’s lacking, but god he knows how to use what he has. Aventurine is a moderate size, but he still has you seeing stars. Together you come undone, as if he were made for you. It doesn’t matter how he takes you, his cock seemingly magic, hitting every spot just right, dragging orgasm after orgasm from your shaking body. The tip of his cock ruts against the swell of your g-spot, the curve allowing him to drag across it in a way that drives you delirious.

Aventurine loves to tease you, swapping his tip against your dripping entrance, sliding it in just enough to hear you moan before pulling out. He could cum just from this, his tip happily nestled within your walls, but he holds out, loving nothing more than hearing you whine for more. 

— DAN HENG

Long - Thick At The Base - Reactive Cock

Dan Heng could watch you play with his cock all day. Your fingers wrap around the thick base of his shaft, slowly gliding up until you incircle the tip with your thumb. A smile spreads across your face as you watch the sticky pre-cum life with your digit. Dan Heng was a silent lover, often suppressing his moans into a throaty whimper. 

It’s when he watches you lick your thumb—cleaning his essence with a satisfied hum—that his cock twitches in excitement. Even if he doesn’t utter his desires in the heat of the moment, it’s the way his breath hitches and his face flushes that has you realizing just how much he’s coming undone.

© 2024 v3nomly do not plagiarize, translate, or repost my writing to any other site.

[hmmm-shesucks]

Once the foxes become more comfortable with each other, they begin to nag. Mostly little things, usually humorous things. They nag on Nicky for being too forward sometimes. They nag on Neil for his horrible life habits. They nag on Dan for her mother henning. They nag on Kevin for everything. It's fun, it's what families do. They all just pick on each other for fun.

It takes a little longer for them to feel comfortable nagging Andrew though, which, is understandable, but one of the first things they start picking on him for is his lack of communication in general. He NEVER talks. They just want him to participate sometimes.

Renee and Neil find this funny because Andrew talks A LOT just not around the foxes. He's not comfortable.

See, Andrew is fucking weird. Everyone knows this, but the foxes think he's weird in a “mysterious, murder you in your sleep, was totally the kid everyone thought was going to shoot up the school” kind of weird.

Andrew is not that kind of weird. He's a different breed entirely. He plans out how he'd survive the apocalypse, any of them. He is constantly fighting back the most wild intrusive thoughts. He is 24/7 existential crisis. His head is a wild fucking place.

But he is trying. Making progress. Trying to be more open and approachable, as Bee says. So he talks. Out Loud.

And the foxes hate him.

In the most monotonous voice ever

“Do you ever feel like your bones are dirty? Like, I could totally strip my meat suit and just give my ribs a good bleaching.”

“If that light fell out of the ceiling it would kill at least three of you and seriously injure the rest of us.”

“Nothing is stopping me from buying five ice cream flavors at once, but I'm learning self-control and Bee would be disappointed.”

“Currently having a manic episode. Should I A.) call Bee, tell her I'm not doing too great, and talk about my symptoms and how to best cope? B.) find the nearest mall and spend every dime I have in less than thirty minutes. Or C.) go apeshit and try to fight anyone and everyone who looks at me in a less-than-kind way. Children included.

*stage whisper* there's a secret fourth option but I'm saving it for later ;) (pronounced Semicolon left facing open parentheses. Yes he says this out loud)”

disappears for less than five minutes and comes back with three furrbies and a corndog, one that is obviously not from the mall's food court.

He's so fucking weird. Like, weirder than Neil, and it's awful (so good dude, the foxes eat it up)

And it's not the manic Andrew on meds. It's just Andrew. He's still Andrew. He's still quiet most of the time and he is still grumpy and apathetic, but he's also comfortable enoughto just blurt random shit out and have fun watching everyone figure out how to respond. He's found safety in his new family and he can openly be who he is without fear of judgment or rejection. He's happy in a way he's never felt nor ever thought he'd get to experience. He's just Andrew.

[sleepynoons]

ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS IS YOU BY MARIAH CAREY– neuvillette (genshin) x afab!f!reader, nsfw / 18+

genre – fluff, smut word count – ~3,100 warnings – age gap, lingerie, oral (receiving), fingering synopsis – it's your first winter with neuvillette, and where you grew up, it's customary to celebrate by exchanging presents, eating delicious food, and spending quality time with loved ones. even though neuvillette is overwhelmed with work at the moment, you're excited to surprise him.

Neuvillette is known for his lack of personal greed, with the exception of his indisputable particular taste for certain flavors of water. Because of his asceticism, intentional or not, it had been difficult for the two of you to enter the relationship you now are in, but with the incredible aid and full support of the Melusines, the Chief Justice finally distinguished your feelings of likeness separate from others of friendliness and sociability.

To his end, though, you are known for your intensity, speech sharp with judgment, gaze watchful and vigilant, pen always in hand, scribbling away at a new manuscript or op-ed for The Steambird. Originating from Sumeru, you had been well aware of the turmoil brewing within the Akademiya, and managed to flee, even with such knowledge, to Fontaine. Here, you have been able to continue your studies from where you left off, as well as pursue your own endeavors in writing, which had long been restricted when you were a student. In fact, it was precisely due to one of your well-received yet controversial pieces in the newspaper that had landed you an opportunity to interview Neuvillette and ask him questions on questions regarding his thoughts on governance, the limitations of rule and government, and checks and balances.

You intended it to be a one-off instance, fully knowing that the Chief Justice is incredibly busy. However, you had a bad habit of losing track of time, and he is more than happy to speak in length, and your first conversation did not end on a fulfilling thought. As a result, for several months on end, you would spend two hours every three weeks with Neuvillette, which, by then, it was more than obvious you had developed intimate feelings for him.

Of course, even though you two are now a couple, the dynamics of your schedule have not differed by much. Neuvillette still has a limited amount of time to see you, though it is permissible for you to make more spontaneous visits to his office, if you are so inclined. But being the studious writer that you are, you still have not acted upon this privilege yet.

“You really should take up more of his time!”

You squint your eyes over the rim of the teacup that you are sipping from, taking several moments to think of a proper response. A part of you is still ruminating over the last draft of your manuscript, something you have been losing sleep over to make it in time for the deadline for The Streambird’s short story contest at the end of the month, but you know you should be more focused on the conversation at hand. After all, while Miss Furina is beloved by the people and is commonly seen out and about, it is still rare for her to request a private audience with someone as little of importance socially, politically, economically as you are.

“Miss Furina, I’m not sure I follow?” is the best you can manage. You take another sip as the celebrity huffs in disappointment.

“How trite! It has been so long since my last visit to the Palais Mermonia, yet even I’ve been made aware of Neuvillette’s situation! Please tell me you at least know of that!”

You open your mouth to release a hum of agreement. “Yes,” you say, “though I am not sure what his condition has to do with his schedule? Wouldn’t it be more advisable for him to go rest, instead of having me bother him?”

“You are incredibly dull, my friend.” 

You nod slowly, noting in your head that she is sassier than she lets on, easily overpowered by her stage presence and bright smile. Regardless, you are still not sure if you ae thinking on the same lines as she is.

Miss Furina gives you a few more seconds to think on your own, but seeing the lack of any recognition or realization on your face, she sighs before flinging three sugar cubes into her tea with exasperated movements. She then grumbles, “Neuvillette does not rest until the Melusines kowtow and beg. Could you not at least help save them some face and demand of him to rest a day or two?”

You watch as the sugar begins to dissolve into the tea. When instructed as such, there really is no harm in doing so. You nod again, and Furina yelps with delight, clapping her hands in a circle.

“I try my best to not get involved in his affairs anymore, but perhaps this is just my way of slowly repaying his efforts. Anyway, I need to carry on with the rest of my day. Good luck, friend, and cheers to your union!”

You realize you did not ask the more glaring questions of this conversation. You are not sure how Miss Furina knows of your relationship with the Chief Justice in the first place, or why you are the one settling the bill for lunch. You shrug as you wipe at your mouth with a tissue, thinking of ways to convince your partner on stepping away from his impending cases for at least a few hours.

The solution comes quite easily, frankly speaking. In part of your intense and serious attitude, you are also associated as being very independent, so when you send a note to Neuvillette requesting his assistance later in the evening, he replies immediately in complete compliance. That way, you did not have to risk interrupting him in the midst of his work, while still satisfying Miss Furina’s plea.

In reality, though, you only got lucky because you had happened to remember today’s date. You do not quite recall how you thought of it – it could have been a street sign or a poster that you spotted from your periphery –, but the whole point is that this day used to be very important to you as you grew up. Though you are not upset or even the slightest bit nostalgic, you think it is the perfect excuse to save your partner from undue stress and cacophony.

Thus, you make your way to several shops before returning home with two small boxes and a bag in your hands. There are a few more hours before Neuvillette is to arrive, so you shuffle all of the scattered loose leaf paper into haphazard stacks and stuff your ballpoint pens into your drawers to make room on your desk to wrap the presents you bought.

–

When your partner comes, it is already dark, overcast with dense clouds that pour incessantly. He knocks at your door just as you are stoking the flames in your fireplace, and you pace over to let him in.

You open the door to a very concerned Chief Justice.

“Are you alright?” are his first words.

You cannot help but feel guilty at deceiving your partner.

You place a hand on his arm, which he returns with the same gesture, and you rub soothing circles into the fabric of his coat. “Yes, I managed to figure it out.”

“Are you sure you don’t need me to revise your draft? I am more than willing to, might you think my input may be necessary.”

With gentle tugs, you lead him to your rounded dining table for two, where there are already steaming mugs of tea settling on their matching saucers, and the two of you take your usual seats across from each other.

You feel no need to keep up your lie. “My sincere apologies, Neuvillette, but there’s actually no manuscript you need to help with. The Melusines had specifically asked of me to find a way to extract you from your work, lest you become glued to your chair.” You leave out any mentions of Miss Furina out of respect for her privacy.

“Ah, I see.”

You observe his face, careful for even the faintest of shifts or twitches to anticipate his reactions. But Neuvillette’s impartiality should never be underestimated, and his expression does not change at all.

“Are you upset?” you ask.

He glances at you, having previously been staring into his cup. “Uh, no, I… I suppose I have been dealing with a torrent of work. I apologize for having concerned all of you.”

You set your hands out, and Neuvillette holds them in his palms. You admire the feel of his gloves against your bare skin and watch as he thumbs over your calloused fingers.

You finally manage to hum, “No worries. Though, I have a few things I want to give you, so your visit’s not entirely a waste.”

His grip tightens. “It is never a waste. Forgive me, for neglecting us.”

You chuckle before slipping your hands out of his hold, and patter over to the wrapped presents that sit on the floor to the side of the fireplace.

“Here,” you say, as you set the gifts in front of him.

“What occasion are these for?” he asks, eyes glimmering with fascination. You have always loved Neuvillette’s eyes. While his face may be as set as stone, at times, you can tell fragments of his thoughts by the color and brightness in his eyes.

You have not told him much about your upbringing, and you do not feel inclined to dwell on it tonight either. So, in the briefest way possible, you explain, “When I was growing up, every year on this day, the community I was a part of would exchange gifts. There was also a large feast, with plenty to eat and drink.” You give a light shrug before finishing, “I just thought it would be nice to share a bit of my past with you.”

“I understand,” he replies, eyes and tone soft and gentle. “I’m afraid your presents will have to wait for next year.”

You know time means nothing to him, but his words still melt the rough, unromantic edges within you. You smile to yourself as you watch him unwrap the pen and bejeweled brooch you had bought him. Finally, when he moves onto the bag, you laugh as you see him tear away his gaze before shakily handing you the box from inside.

“This, um, seems to be yours.”

You release an intrigued noise before nudging the box back toward him. “It is still a present for you.”

“How so?” Neuvillette’s cheeks and ears are tinged with a warm red, and you are sure it is not solely because of the fire.

You get up from your chair, round over to his side, and stand beside him. “I forgot to mention,” you tease, “but this day’s particularly special for couples. They celebrate together, spend time together, and… need I say more?”

You and Neuvillette have slept together before, though the number does not exceed single digits despite the two of you having been together for a little less than a year. Such occurrences are usually a result of your or his feverish desires exceeding a certain boiling point, and you suppose this time, you are the insatiable one.

“Look inside,” you instruct with a flick of your chin. “Do you like it?”

Folded neatly inside the box is a red satin tank top and sleep shorts. The color shines brilliantly under the flickering of the flames, and you appreciate the contrast of it against the purple and indigo of Neuvillette’s eyes.

“Yes, o-of course. I’m sure it suits you well,” he mumbles, blush flushing deeper and deeper with every passing second.

You pat his shoulder. “Perfect. I’ll change in the bathroom, so wait for me on the bed.”

If it was really up to you, you would not even change in a separate room. But, for the sake of your easily flustered partner, you show him some mercy and grant him no more than two minutes of reprieve. As Neuvillette said, the set does fit you, in ways other than just size, and you are glad you decided to go the extra length to splurge on lingerie, as it is also a treat for yourself.

When you enter your bedroom, barely concealing the skip in your step, you see Neuvillette seated on the corner of your bed, unmoving. You doubt he has barely even breathed since you left him alone.

“Neuvillette?”

His head shoots up at your call of his name, but he fails to respond. His eyes, which were staring holes into the ground a mere second ago, are now drinking in the sight of you in your new clothes. They linger at the exposure of your neck and collarbones, the outline of your breasts, the flare of the top around your waist, and the contrast of the shorts’ red sheen against the suppleness of your thighs. You find yourself almost feeling shy at his undivided attention, and you rock on your feet, waiting for him to make a move.

Neuvillette only breaks out of his reverie once he has looked over your entirety. “You look mesmerizing,” he praises. He makes it sound like a truth, a new law he has amended into Fontaine’s books, something everyone should know and accept by now. It is your turn to shudder and lose your composure at his words, so you do not even try to respond, and instead, walk over to stand in front of him.

However, he quickly switches your positions, gliding you over to sit and him kneeling between your knees. He presses fleeting kisses on the inners of your knees, before slowly traversing up the length of your right thigh, nuzzling and pressing and licking. You squirm as he sucks on your skin, and gasp at every mark he leaves.

It is unbelievable, you think. Back in Sumeru, you were constantly teased, others mocking and prophesying that you will forever spend this special day alone. Yet, you are grown now, and being lavished and indulged by another, by your lover.

You try your best not to muss Neuvillette’s hair, so you clutch onto his shoulders. Digging your fingernails into the white silk of his shirt, you barely contain your whimpers as your partner begins to approach the heat emanating between your legs. You jump once you feel him press the pad of a finger against your hole, and cannot help but moan as he kisses your clit, the satin of the shorts doing nothing to dull the sensations.

Though Neuvillette’s actions are restrained, limited to only kitten licks and playful flicks with his fingertip, your pleasure compounds at an exceptional rate. By the time he lifts you up to slide your shorts off, you have already stained much of the fabric and are continuing to leak, wetness dripping down your inner thighs and the bottom of your ass.

“Absolutely decadent,” he mumbles, gazing with much adoration and intensity at the way your legs shake and your clit trembles.

Before you can say anything, he takes your breath away as his lips close around your sensitive bud. He taps and laves his tongue against the hood, pressure just enough to choke you from pleasurable stimulation. His hands are wrapped tightly around your thighs, to hold them in place, as well as bite his nails into your skin, although you have no idea when he took his gloves off.

“Neuvillette,” you breathe out. He hums around your clit with a more forceful suck, and you reel over, hunching over his head, hands sliding down his back and crumping his shirt within your grasp. Your partner understands your reaction as a subconscious plea to move on, and so, he licks his way down to your hole. He can feel it open and close around nothing, and it is only then that he is made aware of how painfully hard he is.

You grit out, “More – please.”

He knows he cannot further deny you. He laps at your entrance, entranced by your taste, before finally pushing his tongue in.

You are warm, sweet, incredibly tight. He pulls back, draws a large breath, and dives back in, pushing himself as far in as he can. Since the very beginning, you have been very sensitive, always reacting to even the lightest and briefest of touches, so Neuvillette knows your body must be overwhelmed by everything he is doing to you. He knows this is the case when he leans back on his heels for a quick rest, and sees your face, sweat tracing your hairline and eyes glazed over. For some reason, Neuvillette finds himself growing even larger, even harder, at the sight, and he distracts himself by returning to his place between your legs.

This time, he goes faster, accompanying his tonguing with circles of his finger around your clit. He can also hear you muffling your noises with the back of your hand.

“Please, let me hear you,” he says, between movements of his mouth and hand. “I need to know that you are feeling good.”

You are so used to practicing restraint and discipline, so you hesitate at first. But when Neuvillette presses your clit in that exact way you like and tongues you so deeply, you moan out loud, giving in regardless of your own wishes. And because he is incredible, precise, with analyzing your needs, he keeps doing it, giving you what you crave and desire over and over and over again, until you are brought over the edge.

Neuvillette groans as your hole flutters around his tongue, more of your taste filling his mouth, and he drinks in whatever he can. At this point, you are holding his head against your body, almost bucking your hips to close whatever distance is left, so that you can extend your high.

By the time the two of you peel apart from each other, you are about to unzip his pants before you notice a stain. You look at Neuvillette’s face, only to find him with a flushed, euphoric expression, and you feel surprise and delight wash over you.

“We will continue tomorrow morning, if that is alright with you,” he says, a little out of breath. You, too, are still heaving, so you nod in agreement.

Back at home, this day was spent with several people under a clear night. You would all be gossiping, dancing, discussing, and by the end of it, you would exchange gifts, though for most of it, you were left to your own devices, reading storybooks in whatever dimly lit corner you could find. This time around, though it is raining outside and there is no one else besides you and Neuvillette, you think this is the best celebration you could ever have. You would not wish for anything else, as long as you have him.

winter event masterlist

[ddarker-dreams]

I’m glad you’re back!! I miss Scaramouche brainrot moments!! Specially because he’s a special flavor of pathetic and hissy ❤️

I'VE GOTCHU i've missed him!!! the most beautiful boy <3333

when dealing with the little menace, you'll discover he's unexpectedly... chatty? you expected more brooding in silence. while that does happen occasionally (specifically when you give him the cold shoulder, he'll reciprocate with an even colder shoulder), more often than not, he's ready to yap. it somewhat sullies the regal, enigmatic impression he originally left.

for as long as he can remember, he's been alone. now that he has you to bother, he's certain he can't ever go back. there's a therapeutic quality to sharing his thoughts with you. the caveat here is that he doesn't reveal much about himself — that'd be too frightening, too vulnerable — he opts to voice his criticisms, of which he has many. ironically, this inadvertently reveal much about his character.

scaramouche comments on the hypocrisy of humans and spews general cynicism. he isn't a nihilist so much as he is jaded, having been disappointed many times in the past. this can range from petty jabs about his fellow harbingers to lengthy, in-depth chats where he expresses his disillusionment with the archons. you almost get the sense that he wants to be proven wrong. it's an improvable inkling, as he'd never admit to it, but you've been stuck with him long enough to note how intently he listens to your counterpoints.

being the weirdo he is, he looks forward to these 'prolonged bickering sessions', as his underlings have dubbed it. he actually makes a mental list of the topics he'll broach with you later. it's his main hobby at this point. if he were to pause and examine himself, he might realize this is ultimately a ploy to further monopolize your attention. however, that requires a level of self-awareness he greatly lacks.

[ssahotchnerr]

hotch keeping reader’s favourite tea in stock in his go-bag because he knows their stubborn ass can’t relax after a case without a nice cup of tea. reader is in a huff on the jet because they couldn’t find any in the kitchenette cupboard so Aaron goes digging in his bag, slinks off to the kitchen and returns with a steaming cup of tea for them 💓💓 basically pining!aaron being the sweetest most silently thoughtful boy ever

chamomile and honey

stop that's so 😭💛💞 cw; mention of food (if tea counts), comfort, aaron pining BIG TIME hehe he's so cute <3 wc; nearly 1k

after practically rearranging the entirety of the cupboard, you accepted defeat. but not without gently slamming it shut.

you sulked back to your seat, a huff escaping you as you slouched down within it, silently cursing yourself for not being proactive and buying more of your preferred tea. maybe it was your lack of sleep, but you could've sworn you hadn't been running low. not yet.

your exhale didn't go unnoticed; aaron's eyes lifted from the report he had already busied himself with, taking advantage of the long, late flight to silently work ahead. he noticed your pout, your clear displeasure, and that you were empty-handed.

everyone had their jet ride home rituals - morgan had his headphones, reid completed several books, jj phoned home, aaron had his paperwork and you had your tea.

it's been your thing since day one. the team all jokingly teased you about it, to which you rebutted right back, giggling away. but again, it was your thing. aaron couldn't recall a ride home where a mug wasn't nestled in your grasp, but he could recall numerous times where it eased your frustrated tears, helped you fall asleep, or simply relaxed you.

in addition, the smell of your tea was routine to him. the sweet aroma provided a lightness to the atmosphere; it kept the jet from feeling stuffy, seemingly cleansed any negativity dwelling from the case, and allowed aaron to maintain a clear head.

knowing you were calm, calmed him.

perhaps that's why when he was grocery shopping one day, and recognized your favorite brand and flavor of tea on one of the shelves, he tossed it into his cart without a second thought. and likewise, packed it into the side pocket of his go-bag the moment he was home.

and that's also why he didn't dare waste another second, depriving you of the comfort he knew you deeply and desperately craved.

closing the file in front of him, he swiftly got up in search of his bag, all while avoiding dave's prying and knowing eyes. once found and as expected, the tea was right where he left it - snug within the right side pocket.

he removed a tea bag and trailed to the kitchenette himself, grabbing ahold of a to-go cup and placing the small bag inside. next, he took hold of the already prepared kettle (his heart dropped a bit, knowing you had been the one to and ended up disappointed), pouring the water inside to the rim. after steeping the bag for a few minutes, he then mixed a teaspoon of honey inside, secured it with a lid to keep warm, and to prevent any hot water from scorching you if there was a bout of turbulence, before walking over to you.

you sensed him as he approached; your chin was resting on your hand as your peered out the window, watching the horizon pass, or as much as you could in the darkness. your eyebrows furrowed into a silent question as you noticed the cup in his hands, and then gazed up at him.

"chamomile, with an extra dash of honey. just how you like it."

it took you a second to internalize his words, and then your expression changed completely. your eyes lit up, your posture straightened in your chair, and the beautiful grin aaron loved so dearly took form on your face. "you better not be playing with me, hotchner."

"of course i'm not." aaron laughed lightly, handing the cup to your eager grabby hands before settling in the seat besides you.

you wholeheartedly believed him, but you still played it up. you playfully narrowed your eyes, while aaron cheekily shrugged his shoulders, as you took a timid sip. just as promised, you were met with your favorite delicate floral herbs, hints of apple and honey. and truthfully, it tasted so much better than the way you prepared it yourself.

the aaron hotchner touch, you supposed.

warmth filled you from head to toe, but it wasn't from the tea. you looked at aaron, utterly speechless and in complete awe.

aaron's ears turned slightly pink, a small, nervous chuckle escaping him, "what?"

"i'm just... in shock?" you laughed, an utmost fond glint for him in your eyes. "where'd you find it? am i just blind, i checked the cupboard three times at least."

his gaze averted from yours, an adorably boyish expression filling his face, "i can't reveal all my secrets, can i?"

"oh, that's right. you have to keep up your mysterious reputation, i almost forgot." you teased and took another sip, laughing gently against your cup.

aaron's lips tipped up into a smile, but quickly neutralized.

"but," he paused for a moment, finding your eyes, "i can say that i know how important it is for you to have this after a case. especially... after a case like that."

you sobered for a moment, silently nodding your head in agreement as your grip tightened slightly on your cup, holding it with both hands. the uneasiness you've felt the past few days threatened to return, but it couldn't. not now, not with the comfort and understanding deep in aaron's eyes, making your heart feel ten times too small.

you grabbed his hand, the squeeze you gave it in perfect timing with the flutter that produced in his heart. "thank you, really. i genuinely don't know what to say."

"you don't have to say anything. if it puts your mind at ease, that's... more than enough for me. truly."

[heartfullofleeches]

Cat hybrid reader trying to feed on cow yandere in public?

[This is the brattiest reader I've ever written. (Mentions of lactation)]

"Thirsty...."

You despised the city. Nosy, overcrowded, and most bothersome of all - prevented you from obtaining what you loved most. Your caretaker had to run into town to picking something up from a supplier and brought you with them on the count of you being their emotional support. You were nestled together at their side on an outside bench at a coffee as you waited - position increasing your suffering tenfold.

At the angle you laid your face was perfectly cushioned by their fatty chest. Your cheeks rubs against the pads tapped over their leaking tits as you stir - wallowing in your misery. With how scarcely your lips left their skin, the cow had fundamentally became a milk factory. Beneficial on your end as well as theirs in most scenes, but this was not one of those times.

Your caretaker gently nudges you to the crook of their arm as they go to take the tray from the approaching barista - the rich scent of their cream assaulting your senses as rub at your ears - simultaneously pressing you further against their pillowy flesh.

"I know, it's my fault for taking you out in this weather. I'm so sorry, sugar - sit up so you can drink."

You scoot up as they offer you a cup, taking the drink and relishing the condensation dripping down its container. You assumed that comfort would spread once you finally took a sip, but the experience was quite the opposite. You tasted hints of milk, but sugar and cold coffee were unfortunately the dominating flavors of the beverage. The milk lacked the natural sweetness and creamy texture of their milk. Disappointed, you push the offending drink out of range - bleching as the taste lingers.

Your caretaker strokes your back as you sputter. "You didn't like it? Forgive me, Sweetheart, it's a latte so I thought you might... Is there anything else you want?"

Pouring the latte into a decorative plant, you slump back down on their chest, fangs teasing their nipple as you sob. "Milk...."

Your caretaker shutters. Their fragile heart, and heavy tits ache as your soft cries. Small dots seep through their shirt as the adhesive of their bandages loses grip due to all the fluid their producing which you lap at quizzically. "I can see if they'll bring you some to hold you off until we get home..."

Hunger flickers in your eyes - coarse tongue circling their puffy nipple as you reiterate. "milk."

They suck air through tight lips - digging at your shirt as you purr at the familiar taste. "Alright... We'll go to the bathroom and you can have a drink. That sound good with you?"

Too far... At the misguided go ahead, you yank their shirt over their chest - ripping off the bandages as you lower your lips to their milky tits. Their shirt falls over your face as you use both hands to massage their flesh, pumping more milk into your greedy mouth as you suckle. Your fangs scrap their nipple as the overflow becomes too much for you to swallow and you choke attempting to force it all down. The cow swats at your hands with no real force behind the blow, wiping at your chin as they take control from you.

"What have I told you about doing that... You're gonna make yourself sick.." They whisper- muttering softly as they craddle the back of your head as you slow to the tune of their gently rocking. "That's it... Just like that... What am I going to do with a trouble starter like you."

Love you like no other is what they'll do. So clingu, but that neediness was just what they adored. They weren't sure what they'd do, if they came home to an empty house and their arms free of claw marks given as you begged on your knees for more milk. Enabling you was a small sacrifice to pay for having you in their arms no matter how spoiled you might turn out to be.

Your caretaker pulls their jacket over you as more eyes wander towards your table, shielding you between their plush body and the couch cushions as someone approaches. You had started to drift off from all the milk you had consumed, and the warm summer sun beating down on you - at peace at last.

"Um... hello, I assume you're the one who purchased the catnip?"

"Yea... wanted to get my sweetheart something to relax them since longer trips make them antsy - but I think I'll be canceling that order."

[thrillered]

idk if you are taking request, but if so

is it cool to request surprising spencer in lingerie? doesn't have to get smutty btw just feel like he deserves a lil something

Your Surprise | Spencer Agnew x reader

Slightly NSFW🚨

Pls enjoy ily

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Spencer was a great boyfriend. You loved him very dearly. He was the picture of perfection in your relationship. You had been living together for 3 years and had a comfortable routine.

Lately though, things were weird. 

Spencer had been working a lot more lately. You knew his job was demanding, especially since he got his promotion last year and that his company was working on a few big things right now. 

He was clearly overworking himself and your relationship was feeling the consequences. It was neither of your guys fault, you both were working hard– you worked as a game dev and just finished a large project. 

You used to get home around the same time, now he was getting home over an hour later than you, quiet, tense, and exhausted. You hadn’t been getting more than a kiss hello and goodbye from him in weeks. He was usually a very generous lover and you always tried to give back to him. 

—

Spencer had sent you a text around lunch letting you know that the project was getting pushed back by two weeks and he wasn’t sure when he would get home tonight. That was okay, of course, but you were disappointed. 

You had a half day and decided to try and do something extra nice for Spencer. You went to the grocery store and picked up a bunch of fresh ingredients so he would be able to come home to a hot home cooked meal. While you were driving home to begin food prepping you noticed a new clothing store in a strip mall. 

Curiosity got the best of you and you decided to stop in. Most of the clothing wasn’t exactly your style but there were a few pairs of jeans that fit you perfectly and you noticed they had a very nice lingerie section. 

Feeling confident, you tried on a few pairs. You thought a new pair of lingerie would make both you and Spencer feel excited. You both had been very tense, especially Spencer, and your lack of an intimate life lately wasn’t helping. You immediately bought your favorite three pairs, smiling to yourself at the thought of surprising your wonderful boyfriend. 

—

Spencer let you know he would be home around 8 pm. It was around 7:40 and your meal was simmering on the stove, filling the space with delicious aromatics. You had a plate of eclairs you made sitting on the counter as well. You went and changed into a pair of your new lingerie. It was a black matching set with silky bows and delicate lace. You felt very confident in it, admiring yourself in the mirror before throwing on a t-shirt and sweats. 

You were plating the meals when you heard his key in the door. 

“Hey babe.” He yelled through your home. 

You walked into the foyer to welcome him. “Hi love.” You greeted, giving him a hug and a kiss. “How was work?” 

“It was rough, I won't lie.” He sighed, taking off his shoes and jacket. “You cooking?” He asked, noticing the aroma in the air. 

“Yeah,” You shrugged, “I wanted to do something nice for you.” 

“Oh babe, you don’t have to do anything, just being here is everything I need.” 

“You’ve been working so hard though.” You said, leading him into the kitchen. “And I assume you haven’t eaten in a while. Come eat, it’s still hot.” 

He sat down with you, enjoying the food you made. This might have been the longest conversation you'd had with him in over a week. You both were laughing and having a great time. You felt incredibly relieved at how the night was going. Your heart felt so full of love. You missed this, you missed being around Spencer.

“Have room for dessert?” You asked, clearing his empty plate.

“You made dessert too?” He asked, a large smile on his face. 

“Of course I did.” You brought out the plate of eclairs, explaining the different flavors you had made. 

You and Spencer shared a few, watching as he taste tested the baked goods. 

“God you are incredible.” He praised. “Everything was delicious, thank you.” 

“Of course babe, you deserve it.” You smiled, wiping some whipped cream from the corner of his lip. “You’ve been so tense lately.” 

You walked around the table, wrapping your arms around his neck and hugging him before placing a soft kiss on his neck. “Like really tense, wow.” You remarked, feeling the tension in his back and neck. You began massaging away the knots, smiling when he sighed in relief. 

He turned around when you finished, standing and resting his hands on your hips. He moved his hands under your shirt, his eyebrows shooting up when he felt the soft lace. “What's this?” He asked. 

“One last little surprise?” You asked, a flirtatious glint in your eye. 

“Surprise away.” He said breathlessly. 

You grabbed his hand and brought him into your shared bedroom, pushing him to sit in the bed. He sat back, watching you intently. 

Facing away from your boyfriend you slowly stripped off your shirt, revealing the top half of the set, allowing your hair to flow down over your shoulders. You slowly turned around, noting the sharp inhale from Spencer. 

“Holy shit.” He breathed, his pupils dilating. 

“You like it? Wanna see the rest?” You purred. 

He nodded eagerly, brushing a hand over his blushing face. You sauntered up to him, biting your lip slightly. “Help me out?” You asked, gesturing for him to untie your sweats and pull them down. 

He did as you offered, almost salivating looking at you. He was enamored. You looked so beautiful and sexy he didn’t know what to do. “You are so fucking perfect.” He managed to get out, his mind going fuzzy at the sight of you. 

You stepped out of your sweats, doing a playful spin for him. You had barely made it back around to face him before he was on his feet, pulling you into a passionate kiss. You immediately reciprocated, excited by his eagerness. 

He ran his hands up and down your sides, groaning at the silk and lace beneath his fingertips. He had been so busy that he hadn’t really noticed the lack in your intimate life and now that you had lit a spark he felt like he was on fire. He couldn’t get enough of you, his hands were everywhere, heating every inch of you. 

He pushed you towards the bed, laying you on your back. He disconnected your lips, standing above you. You tried to pull him back into you, missing his touch immediately. “Just let me look at you.” He said, trying to memorize every detail of you with eyes full of lust. 

You were laying on your back, your hair splayed out behind you, the soft moonlight accentuating your soft skin and curves. Spencer wasn’t sure he had seen anything more beautiful. You were a work of art, the greatest renaissance painting. He felt so lucky to have you. 

You smiled up at him, blushing under his intense gaze. You ran your hand through your hair and down your torso, landing to rest gently on your hip. “Spencer, I need you, please.” You pleaded, your chest rising and falling with each breath. 

That was all the encouragement he needed, he quickly removed his shirt, revealing his broad chest. In an instant he was back on top of you, slotting his lips in yours. You ran your hands up and down his chest, tracing the line of hair that trailed down his abdomen before reaching his belt. 

With quick and precise fingers you unbuckled the metal, pulling the leather away from the loops in a swift motion. Spencer’s lips left yours, moving across your cheek and down your jaw. You sighed in pleasure as he made his way onto your neck, threading your fingers through his curls that you love so much, pulling on them slightly as he nipped at your pulse point, earning a satisfied groan from him. 

He continued his barrage of open mouth kisses down your body, paying extra attention to the areas covered in lace. With one of his hands holding himself above you he circled the other one under you, massaging the plush skin of your thigh and ass. 

Strained moans got caught in your throat with each touch you shared. Spencer had kissed down your torso, kneeling on the ground in front of where your hips laid. He hooked his fingers around the lacy bottoms of the lingerie set. 

“Wait,” You breathed, stopping Spencer before he could pull the cloth down. “You’re working so hard,” you began pulling him up by his chin and stopping a few inches from your face. “You’re so tense,” You rubbed down his strong shoulders. “Let me take care of you tonight.” 

“You’ve already done so much..” Spencer countered, placing a series of lengthening kisses on your lips. 

“Sh sh sh,” you shushed, shrugging him off. “I love you Spencer, let me make you feel good.” You persuaded, your eyes sparkling with love and passion. “Let me take all the stress away.”

[onceonafullmoon]

Meet Cute

Micheal Kaiser x GN! Reader

No warnings, just pure fluff! Reader is in college and from America. Reader is an anxious mess and a football fan. Apologies if the german is shit, I did my best. This fic is kinda scuffed but I wanted it to be done lol

“S–Sind Sie Michael Kaiser?” You blurt out, before mentally face palming at the stupidity of your own question. He laughs again, a slightly smug look on his face at being recognized before responding. “Ja, ich bin Michael Kaiser.”

A shiver runs down your spine as you peruse the selection of the ice cream tucked away in the freezer section, but you can’t help but smile to yourself at the welcome sight.

Yes, it was that time again, that familiar time in every college student’s life, the time to eat away your feelings after struggling your way through midterms.

Fuck midterms.

And fuck proper societal conventions as well.

Because here you are, in your pajamas, doing a late night grocery run and regretting it with every strange look served your way.

Sometimes you forget that you aren’t in America anymore, and your people-of-Walmart activities will inevitably lead to your downfall, but at least that day isn’t today.

Well, it was a small mercy that no matter where you were in the world, whether in Germany or America, that at least ice cream was a true constant that remained in your life.

You analyze the see-through fridges with slight disappointment as you realize the selection you have to work with is slightly smaller than what you’re used to, although maybe upon further inspection you’d find it refreshing not being swung at visually by 15 brands in one shelf, all desperately vying for your attention.

Either way, you find yourself drawn to the same flavor you always pick, a true creature of habit, and you pull open the fridge door to grasp at the item of your choosing.

At least you are until you find your hand colliding with another, a silent gasp parting your lips before you pull your hand back in surprise.

“Sorry!” You blurt out before realizing your mistake. “...err, I mean– entschuldigung!”

(Your German is hardly passable to be frank, but you figure you should at least try speaking the language of the country hosting you for the semester.)

Anyway, the sound of your stilted dialect is enough to bring out a light chuckle from the person, the man judging by the timbre of the voice, next to you and you finally look over to see…

Holy shit.

Is that Micheal fucking Kaiser?

You stare shell shocked at the blond superstar soccer (football, you correct in your head) player next to you, as he begins to speak.

“Kein Problem.” He says smoothly, and you have to make a conscious effort to shut your slightly parted mouth as you continue to stare at him with widened eyes.

At this point, the best thing you could do for yourself would be to grab your ice cream, pay and leave before you embarrassed yourself, but unfortunately for you, your mouth didn’t catch the memo.

“S–Sind Sie Michael Kaiser?” You blurt out, before mentally face palming at the stupidity of your own question.

He laughs again, a slightly smug look on his face at being recognized before responding. “Ja, ich bin Michael Kaiser.”

You feel your cheeks start to burn in embarrassment as the realization dawns on you that you’re standing in front of a world class athlete in the middle of a grocery store in a wrinkly, old, oversized t-shirt and shorts.

“Sie möchte ein Autogramm?” He asks amusedly, giving you a subtle once over that you normally would have missed had you not been so self conscious.

“Ja, bitte.” You say, fishing for a pen and paper in your bag.

“...I don’t normally look like this, I swear.” You can’t help but add as you find your paper and pen, switching over to English out of a combination of embarrassment and lack of language knowledge.

“You don’t?” He asks lightly, humoring you and switching over to English before taking the pen and paper out of your hands. “I would have thought you looked like this everyday.”

“What, messy?” You ask in a light tone despite being slightly offended as he scribbles his name on the paper.

“No.” He says with a smirk as he finishes, handing you the paper. “Gorgeous.”

You blink at him for a moment before you feel your cheeks warm up again, averting your eyes to the side to avoid his gaze as you try to process the fact that a celebrity, more importantly, an attractive celebrity is flirting with you.

“Ah– um, well I– uh, thank you.” You eventually get out before willing yourself to look back at him, your stomach doing a flip as you see the same smirk on his lips that you’re used to seeing on TV.

“Kein Problem.” He repeats again, that same amused lilt in his voice. 

“I mean–” You start again and you feel yourself regretting the fact that you decided to speak again. “For both uhm, the autograph and the compliment.”

You pause for a bit, unbelievably flustered, before you blurt out. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I’m so awkward, I’m just gonna leave now.”

He laughs at this, his eyes seeming to soften a bit before he speaks in a quieter tone, almost as if he’s afraid to scare you off. “No you’re fine… it’s cute.”

Your heart thumps in your chest rapidly, like you’ve just gotten done running a marathon, and you feel the heat rush to your face along with a fluttering feeling in your stomach. All these sensations combine to force a rather undignified sound from deep within yourself, sounding equivalent to a mouse caught in a glue trap.

You feel your face heat up further from the strangled sound that emitted from your very being and scrunch your eyes shut for just a moment away from Kaiser’s prying gaze.

When he laughs, you feel the embarrassment return tenfold, although the fluttering feeling in your heart might just be also because of the rich timbre of his chuckle.

“Hey, look at me.” He says after a few seconds, and despite your longing to keep your eyes closed you can’t help but obey his command.

So, slowly you open your eyes, taking in the sight of his handsome visage, his lips quirked up in a smile and it almost feels painful how your heart thuds.

“...what?” You question weakly.

“Just needed your eyes on me for a second while I do this.” He says before leaning over ever so slightly to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear, his hand lingering at the apex of where your ear meets your cheek before finally pulling away.

“...” You can’t help the way you gape at him, momentarily speechless as he takes in your facial expression with his signature smirk.

“Sorry Liebling, your hair was bothering me.” He offers up as an explanation, but you can tell from the delighted gleam in his eye that he’s lying.

“Y–yeah, right.” You stutter out despite your best efforts to remain unphased and straighten up. “Anyways, it was nice meeting you, I think I’ve taken up enough of your time.”

“No, it was a pleasure.” He says smoothly, and you can’t help the twinge of jealousy that runs through you at his composed demeanor. “Take care, would you?”

“Of course, y-you too.” You manage to get out, and he smirks at you one last time before confidently striding away from you, leaving you slightly shell shocked in the ice cream aisle.

It would be a while before you fully collected your thoughts after you paid and exited the store, and that’s why perhaps you didn’t notice three things in particular.

One, that you forgot to pick up the goddamn ice cream that you were so looking forward to getting. 

Two, that your beloved celebrity had also forgotten to get his ice cream that he was reaching for because he was also that flustered despite his confident demeanor.

And three, the little number written next to your autograph with the small written letters next to it “Ruf mich an <3”.

---

Taglist: @gigiiiiislife

[the-fandom-is-now-my-life]

Sugar kisses

People's memories can be linked to places, smells or textures, today you attempt to awaken Jiro's memories with sweets!

Wc: 1,1k

Note: wrote this kind of quickly to see if he would come home after getting a fic like Leo

Update: he didn't.

When you found out Jiro was able to eat normal food when you fed him, Nicolás would have guessed that he would show some sliver of emotion and be interested in tasting different things without his body rejecting it but it seems like you found it more fun than him.

“So you are saying the inspector asked you to bring more candy? Why is it weird? Halloween is approaching”

Bentai downed his whiskey before swiping the glass towards Rui and looking at him “but you had to see how funny they looked dragging one of your ghouls around ugh… the tall one with scars? What was his name…” his words slurring together after his third drink.

“Jiro? Mhh… they must want to make him try new flavors”

“How cute! Another couple on campus that will buy things for valentine's and white day! Let's cheer for that, Rui two on the rocks in my tab” and the blond just smiles and serves the drinks.

.✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦. .✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦.

“You seem to be really interested in this” Jiro says absentmindedly before chewing on the candy corn you were pushing against his lips, his tongue is soon drowned in sickly strong sugar caramel-like taste he quickly swallows.

“You just told me you never ate sweets, I-”

“I said I don't remember eating them since I woke up, it's likely I have eaten when I was younger but can't remember”

“Then maybe you could remember something if we try enough” he nods at your logic, there could be a probability he remembers something before his comma, even if it's unlikely. Twisting around to grab your notebook your eyes watch expectantly “so? Anything?” it's endearing how you got a whole new notebook just to record his reaction to the various sweets, writing earnestly his opinion even if it wasn't more than a word.

“It's too sweet for me” is all he says before returning to the microscope, examining tissue from an anomaly. It isn't until you whine in disappointment that he looks to the side and sees you pout “it's originated from America, I doubt I would have tasted it before. Maybe a more traditional sweet would be more likely” even if he had a pessimistic forecast for this, Yuri already attempted to at the time with no results, seeing your determined smile made a nice feeling of lightness settle between his ribs.

If candy corn was too sweet and he disliked how fudge stuck to his teeth, something about cavities and it being annoying to clean, then what could he like… After some thinking, Zenji’s voice booms in your head ‘and when Jiro was a baby his cheeks were as pink and full as strawberry dango!’ He even took his time following after you when you were buying candy, telling you all kinds of stories he remembers about Jiro that could be useful (even if he didn't remember him having a favorite food). Haku even seemed sad when you returned him his ghost.

“Let's try dango” luckily a Hotarubi student agreed to make you a batch of hanami dango even if he thought it was weird as it wasn't anywhere near Sakura watching season “open wide~”

And Jiro, ever so agreeable, turns around from his almost finished investigation and does as asked biting into the soft rice cake while gently holding your wrist between his thumb, pointer and middle finger. At first it was weird how he never had his full hand around you or refused to play wrestle ‘I don't want to hurt you accidentally’ he would say and you would smile, he couldn't possibly be strong to hurt you just having his hand around you, or so you though before seeing him snap an IV drip in half because he held it too tightly.

“Do you like it?” The question slips a few seconds after he starts chewing hoping he would have an opinion other than ‘too sweet’ or ‘fine’ but his expression -or lack of- tells you that he doesn't love it or even feel strongly about it, just like all the other candies you bought for the mini picnic date.

Still, hope is the last thing that gets lost, so you get him to try the other flavors he might possibly like more. Second flavor, no reaction “well, even if we don't find one you like I can see your cute face! Your cheeks are as round as mochi~!”

At the comment he stops chewing. Everyone would have guessed he caught his partner's compliment, but of course Jiro didn't and thought they wanted to eat “If you are hungry you can eat it, I don't mind”

“Eh? If you don't like it just tell me, I also got other types and-”

“My stomach won't really agree with it”

“Is it rejecting food again?? I will call Yuri”

“No… I'm just not used to eating so much yet” ah, it makes sense, he hasn't really eaten anything solid for a year without puking it out.

Defeated, you sit on the table beside Jiro, feet kicking the air while you pour the sweet soy sauce over the mitarashi dango. Having failed at both targets, making him remember Zenji and finding a food he likes, ruined your mood for the day

Without much hunger but not wishing to waste food you start eating until a deep voice breaks the silence.

“Why are you so insistent on this?”

“What do you mean?”

“insistent on getting my memories back”

“I just think it's sad” teeth dig into the rice cake drenched in syrup and tear it into small pieces that are easier to eat without much care for the string of liquid sliding down the corner of your mouth “If I were to forget my family and friends and all my experiences… It would be depressing”

Jiro mumbles something that is quite hard to make into a sentence because of the volume and how close the words are together “did you say something?”

getting your face closer to his in an attempt to understand his scarred hand grabs your chin and plants a kiss just where the candy was.

His eyes light up with impish joy and a boyish laugh escapes from his lips just like when he scares you or Yuri “you are really jumpy, how cute” his tongue collects the remnant sauce from his lips to the inside of his mouth.

Without a care about your warm cheeks he gets up from the chair and walks off to the door to deliver the paper but teases with a light smile “I don't truly mind not remembering anything before waking up, but if you care so much we can make new memories together”

[demonslayerunhinged]

hello! your post about Giyuu's and Sanemi's emotional needs in a romantic relationship is incredibly good and accurate! I would really appreciate it if you did a similar investigation on Rengoku. if you're interested.

Aw shucks, ☺️ thank so much!! I'm going to disappoint you though, Aside from Inosuke and Haganezuka, Rengoku is the only character that I can't see in a relationship of any kind. I truly believe that he's 100% aro/ace, and I think I know why.

Delusional, bullshit theory incoming!

What I'm about to yap may seem controversial, but I think I can talk about it since I too am neurodivergent, but I strongly believe that Rengoku is intellectually disabled, I'm not sure which flavor of disability, but the kind that makes him have the mind of a child.

I have an autistic family member - Let's call him Leo, that acts similarly, although he's not as loud as Rengoku, but the similarities are there. Here are some things that I noticed that led me to this theory.

His straightforward and literal type of thinking. His inability to clock complex speech patterns like sarcasm and such, which could come across as him being thick, as noted by other characters. I mean, blud didn't even realize that Akaza was straight up flirting with him 😭

His has a fixation with food, Rika's words and becoming a Hashira.

His wide-eyed, one thousand, almost catatonic stare.

His lack of interest in romantic or sexual relationships.

His direct fighting style which doesn't really have any strategy other than just spamming his breathing style attacks, at least compared to the other Hashira's like Tengen, Sanemi, Shinobu, and Mitsuri. Notice how we don't get to really hear his thought process while he fights. Even in the Gaiden, his solution to defeating that demon was to deafen his ears, it's so straightforward like; sound = ears = bad so, sound = ears = no bad.

His cracked core. That part of the story always confused me because if anything Kyojuro has one of the strongest of spirits, then I figured that the core doesn't just represent his soul but his mind as well. So it was cracked not because his soul was fragile or weak, but because his mind was.

But what really cemented my theory is his relationship with Rika and Shinjuro - I think they both knew that Rengoku was special.

For Rika, I clocked it from the way she spoke to him. It was slow and very...deliberate, as if she wanted to make sure he properly understood what she was saying.

Even the tears that she shed, it was like she knew that life was going to be difficult for them, especially for Kyojuro because we all know that the world isn't kind to people who are different, but she trusted him to be strong, and she believed in him regardless.

For Shinjuro, his animosity towards his son's could be read as him being embarrassed by them, Senjuro that has a weak body and Kyojuro that has a weak mind. That's probably the reason why he made these statements when Tanjiro came to their household.

That's probably also why he didn't want Rengoku to join the Corps because he was worried that he wouldn't be able to cope, and I think he didn't want the Corps to know that the new Flame Hashira was simple-minded. Think about it, The Rengoku's are a legacy family, they existed even before Yorichii joined the Corps and taught them the breathing techniques.

I'm sure that aside from demon slaying, they are an actual Samurai clan, which would explain Rengoku's 'UMAI' thing and how his actions and beliefs mirror those of the Samurai.

I think Shinjuro's pride as a Rengoku came before his duty as a father, and after Rika died, he just couldn't cope. I'm sure the thoughts of what others would think and how they would mock him overwhelmed him, 'Look at him, a descendant of the great Rengoku clan who lost his wife and is left with two sons that aren't normal.' I think Kyojuro and Senjuro know this too, they are aware of their shortcomings and how it embarrasses their father. Which is what makes Kyojuro's words to Senjuro even more heartbreaking.

So he turned to alcoholism to cope because it's better to be drunk than to face the painful reality that he failed as a Rengoku, a husband, a father and a man. I believe he actually loved his sons, but his pride and his fears about other people's opinions clouded his mind. For all his hostility, Rengoku and Senjuro were still taken care of; he didn't chase them away, or neglect them (physically anyway), which tells me that he cared for them in some way and that's why they couldn't hate him and why Rengoku loved him till the very end.

Even their last interaction reads like Shinjuro can't face Rengoku because when he looks at his son all he sees a literal spitting image of himself but a failed image, and it will especially hurt because Rengoku is the first son, like in my home country firstborn sons are a big deal in some tribes, and it's hard when the son happens to be different in some way, especially when the son is disabled. My family friend is treated the same way by his dad, sadly.

After Rengoku's death, he tried to drown himself in alcohol to numb the pain and instead focused on his Rengoku pride he probably thought 'that stupid boy, his dumbass got himself killed' but Tanjiro's visit and hearing Kyojuro's last words from Senjuro brought him back to reality. He lost a child, weak-minded or not, that was his baby boy.

That's when he decides to put down the bottle and face reality that he failed his first son and if he doesn't clean up soon he'll lose the second one. This might seem controversial, but I love that Gotogue-sensei shows us that parents are people too. They have their hopes, dreams, struggles and demons, and they are just as complex as any one of us. And I say this as a child abuse survivor, it's not easy to see it when you live with them, but when you're safely far away you can in a way sympathize with them as fellow human beings.

Sorry for the yap, just had to get this out of my system. I'm sorry I don't have any relationship analysis of Rengoku, but I will say this:

Rengoku's disability is what makes his character so brilliant, in other media characters with similar disabilities are often relegated to the sidelines and are only focused on for the audience and other characters to mock them but to make an intellectually disabled man the most impactful character in the story after the great Yorichii is nothing short of masterful on Gotogue-sensei's part. Rengoku was the heart of the Corps, he was THE Pillar of the Pillars, which was why his death was so impactful and why we can still feel his influence even up to the latest season.

Even though he's well-loved within the fandom, I still see some people who think Rengoku is overrated because he's a simple, straightforward character, but here's the thing - that's what makes him so great. The beauty of his character IS in his simplicity. He could have allowed the treatment by his dad to turn a bitter edge lord, but he didn't, instead he worked hard and tried his best to be a mentor, role model and a beacon of light people could look to when it gets dark.

I also love the fact that despite his cheerful demeanor, you could still see that Shinjuro's words still hurt him.

But despite his pain, he always put on a brave and cheery face with everyone, especially his brother, and worked hard to give Senjuro the encouragement and love that he never got. I don't think he knew how loved he was, which was probably why he was surprised by Tanjiros words at Akaza.

Even though I mourn his death, I'm glad that he died knowing that he made his colleagues, his friends and most of all his mother proud and got the validation needed and rightly deserved.

tldr: Kyojuro don't need no hoes! 🙏🏼

[fatkish]

JJK Boys x Mob Psycho Esper Reader

Since you’re an extremely powerful esper, you are classified as a special grade exorcist. You were originally discovered by Gojo when you used your powers to save a child from running into the street and getting hit by a car. Since you have always seen evil spirits and curses, you’ve never really questioned what you see, since it’s just natural to you. Gojo brought you to the academy and principal Yaga, after talking to the school’s directors, decided to have you live there. (because the clan elders are terrified and suspicious of your abilities)

Principal Yaga gave you a space for a garden since you explained how the emotional buildup from stress and extreme emotions can lead to a meltdown of your psychic powers. The garden acts as a sanctuary of sorts for you. When you aren’t answering calls or exorcising curses and spirits, you spend your time taking care of the plants. Eventually you meet the others and this is what they think of you.

Gojo:

Constantly asks you to show off your powers

Gets a kick out of seeing you use your power to exercise curses and spirits

Loves watching you explore what all your abilities can do

Thinks it’s perfectly fine that you choose when to and when not to use your powers

Tries to get you to show more emotion

When you accidentally bend spoons and other metal objects he offers to feed you like a child. “here comes the airplane” he’ll say that as he tries to feed you

When he saw you use your powers to grow plants he was interested in how the plants would taste only to be disappointed in the gross or bland flavor

Geto:

Thinks that you’re strong and that you should be his partner

Wants to see just how limitless your power is and what all you can do

Thinks that you are badass

Doesn’t understand why you don’t want to use your psychic abilities against people

Thinks it’s sad that you’ve locked away your emotions in order to keep from hurting people with your powers

He just gives you his spoon or unbends the one you bent

Loves seeing you grow plants especially flowers

Yuta:

Pure awe

Seeing your abilities is such an amazing experience for him

He thinks you’re incredibly talented and strong

Agrees that you shouldn’t use your psychic powers against people

He understands your fear of hurting people but is sad that you have difficulty showing emotion

Will offer to get you new cutlery if you bend them too bad

Thinks it’s amazing when he watches you bend the seeds to grow into plants

Inumaki:

Thinks your powers are pretty cool

Finds it interesting to see you use your abilities

He thinks your powers are strong and loves that you can somewhat read his mind or his emotions

Your powers make communication easier between you two

Understands your self imposed rule about not using your psychic powers against people

Understands and isn’t bothered by your seeming lack of emotions

Always carries wooden or plastic cutlery on him for you to eat with

Helps you with your personal garden and brings you new succulents and such to care for

Itadori:

What is this, is it magic, are you a wizard? Was his first reaction

Thinks it’s cool and loves when you use your powers to make him fly after he begs you to

Thinks there is no limit to what you can do and is always asking new questions and tries to make you do new things with them

Somewhat understands your rule about not using your powers on people but still what’s you to make him fly and such

Is somewhat bothered by the seemingly emotionless personality you developed by accident

Unbends the spoons and forks like it’s nothing

Is amazed at first and like Gojo, tries an apple he insisted you grow entirely by psychic power only to spit it out once he tasted how flavorless it was

Megumi:

Is probably the only person who understands why the line between the spirit world and living world is blurred for you since both are natural and normal to you

Is somewhat indifferent about your powers but is still amazed by your abilities

Thinks you’re very versatile in what you can do and admires your natural psychic and mental strength

Understands and agrees with your rule about not using your psychic powers on people

Doesn’t care about your seemingly emotionless personality because he knows why you developed it

When you accidentally bend spoons and such he’ll use his shadows to summon a new spoon for you

Also helps out in your garden at the school but mostly just wants to be in the peaceful atmosphere of the garden

[dragon-curse-au]

Been thinking about different cookie species within the AU and their differences/similarities a bunch lately, so I figured I'd share some cool facts!

While humanoid is the most common appearance a cookie can take, there are several subspecies across Earthbread that take on more animalistic traits, some ranging from minor details such as pointed ears and fangs to being a full-on centaur. It's how modern day dragons blend in amongst cookies in their smaller forms, given that reptilian cookies like Carameleon exist.

Coffee cookies will be the most prominent ones you'll see in this AU and they share many traits with other cookie species, such as flower cookies and moon imps. They're relatively humanoid with cat-like features, such as large pointed ears, fur patches, paws, thin tails, and slitted pupils, though not many of them remain from the original tribe in the Dark Cacao Kingdom. In fact, the only coffee cookies that remain to this day happen to be hybrids. Espresso and Affogato are siblings and are part cream wolf, though they present more coffee cookie than cream wolf - Affogato having thicker fur than Espresso an easier tell. Prune Juice is also half coffee cookie, though his other half is Parfaedian, which gives him less animal traits than others.

Coffee cookies are well known for their expertise and prowess with their own unique form of magic, but Prune Juice was born with that trait dormant, marking him as a disappointment in his family's eyes. Prune Juice often tries to hide his coffee cookie traits so that others don't view him as a freak.

Every larger region of Earthbread has their own coffee-adjacent cookies. The most well-known are flower cookies, sphinx cookies, and moon imps. Flower cookies are more elf-like in appearance, lacking the fur that coffee cookies have save for the tufts along their jawlines and their tails. Sphinx cookies are the most feline of all, though the only surviving members are Golden Cheese and her daughter, Rich Cheese. Moon imps are also unfortunately nearly completely extinct save for Shadow/Blueberry Milk and Eclipse Wizard. Moon imps used to occupy the City of Wizards and southern Beast Yeast, though evolution either snuffed them out of existence or caused them to evolve into something else.

Moon imps are relatively unique with their digitgrade hooved feet, barbed tails, and pointed ears. Most have horns as well, but there are a few who do not. Their primary flavor is blueberries, though the ones that occupy southern Beast Yeast have more milk in their dough than others.

I want to bring up Clotted Cream and Camellia since they're half flower cookie as well; Light Cream is vanillian while their father was a full-on flower cookie. Clotted Cream passes as purebred vanillian save for hair tufts on the jawline and tail, which he was raised to keep hidden under Elder Custard's orders and was told that they were mere genetic defects. No one can mistake his faint floral scent, however. Camellia is on the opposite end of the spectrum, presenting as a pure flower cookie.

Honorable creature-like cookies would be from the Licorice Tribe (aquatic traits), Spice Swarm (centaurs or almost entirely animal more than cookie), and whatever Mystic Flour is (insectoid).

If you have any questions feel free to ask! I like yapping about this stuff :]c